Daggers and Men's Smiles. Jill Downie
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by me.”
Moretti watched as Rick went through to his private office. He was aching for a cigarette. Instead he ordered another espresso, and exchanged a few words with Annette, who was dying of curiosity about the film people up at the manor. She was less curious about the murder than she was about whether Moretti had actually seen any of the stars, and disappointed that he had only spoken to Vittoria Salviati.
“What’s she like?”
“Beautiful.”
“I know, but what’s she like? Was she nice?”
“Yes, she was nice.”
Rick returned, and Annette scurried off to the kitchen with her scrap of insider information. Vittoria Salviati was nice.
“Did I say my mother’s brain was functioning fine? Understatement of the year. Firing on all cylinders, enough to continue to be a thorn in my side. I’ve got something.”
“She knows something?”
“Well, depends on whether you think it’s something. It may be coincidence.”
“Not sure I believe in coincidence, not in my business. Go on.”
“She says — after much hemming and hawing about what a negligent son I am, and how good a son-in-law Emidio was to his poor aged mother-in-law — that she seems to remember that if you had been a girl your name was going to be Sophia. Or Sophie. She’s not sure which, but of that much she is sure. Sophia or Sophie.”
“Well, well,” said Moretti.
As Liz Falla turned the police BMW into the courtyard of the Manoir Ste. Madeleine and found a parking space between an immaculate period Mercedes and a battered contemporary Honda, an agitated figure rushed out from among a gaggle of helmeted fascisti making their way across the courtyard. It was Gilbert Ensor. He was shouting as he approached.
“Thank Christ you’re back — where the hell have you been?”
“Having lunch, Mr. Ensor. How can we help you?”
“My wife has disappeared, and the security guards say it isn’t their business.” He was sweating profusely, his unseasonable linen jacket clinging to him.
“Disappeared? She has probably gone back to the hotel.”
“Don’t you think I’d have the sense to check that? She’s not there. We’ve had an attempt on my life and a murder — my God, you’re cool in the circumstances! If anything’s happened to her, I shall personally see you’re both hung out to dry.”
Since “keeping cool in the circumstances” appeared to be annoying the hell out of a sweating Gilbert Ensor, Moretti stifled the desire to retaliate in kind.
“Have you checked with the limousine drivers? She couldn’t have walked, and it’s unlikely she’d have taken the bus.”
“I got Bella to do that for me. She says no one has left in a limousine this morning — the only ones that returned to town were empty.”
Into Moretti’s mind drifted a vision of a donna mobile running lightly down the corridor in the manor, a humiliated young woman going out into the same corridor, the sound of someone passing, humming as she went by the door of the marchesa’s sitting room. He decided to jump to conclusions.
“I think,” he said, “she’s in good hands. Safer than here, I should think. I suggest you take a limo back to the hotel and wait for her.”
As a bewildered Gilbert Ensor turned to leave, Moretti allowed himself to add, “And stay off the patio, won’t you, sir?”
When he was out of earshot, Liz Falla looked at her senior officer. “Do you know where she is, Guv?”
“Not really. I’m going to look for Monty Lord. I want you to check whether anyone saw the Ducati leave — and whether it left with a passenger.”
“Brilliant!” said DC Falla. “Oh I hope so, Guv.”
Moretti was spared a hunt for the film producer by his appearance in the courtyard. He was coming from the direction of the stars’ trailers and he looked grim. As soon as he saw Moretti he said, “You questioned Vittoria, I hear.”
“Of course.” Moretti said no more.
“It’s all right, Detective Inspector. I knew about the little affair, but I made sure nothing was said to the marchesa. This was the last thing she needed — and not the first time such a thing had happened.”
“So Mr. Albarosa was a philanderer?”
“Yes, and a successful one. Donatella would never have told Anna, but I wanted to spare her the pain.”
“Maybe that’s why he was killed. From what I hear, Mr. Ensor is also a successful philanderer.”
“Detective Inspector Moretti — if someone is going around killing off philanderers on this film set, I’ll be lucky if I’m left with half my cast and crew.”
Moretti looked around the courtyard, which was now filling up with dozens of laughing, chattering extras dressed as peasants, contadini.
“Is there somewhere we could talk, sir? If we could get it over with today, then hopefully I won’t have to take too much of your time again.”
“My office,” said Monty Lord.
Monty Lord’s trailer office was close to the command bunker entrance by the ornamental lake. They left the path that followed the side of the manor, and walked around the grassy hillock that had grown over the concrete curve of the man-made construction beneath. A couple of mallards hastened their steps ahead of them and made for the shore of the lake, which was partly obscured at this point by a giant chestnut and some large elderberry bushes. As they walked past, Moretti could see a heavy iron grille set in a concrete wall which was almost concealed by two massive beech trees. The approach to the bunker was brick-lined, but the sides were now overgrown with ferns, brambles, ivy, and moss, giving the installation an almost bucolic appearance.
“I understand you’ll be using the command bunker during the filming of Rastrellamento, sir.” Moretti bent down and peered through the foliage.
“Yes, we intend to,” replied Monty Lord. “I’ve got the key on me, as it happens. Would you care to take a look?”
“Certainly I would. I’ve seen others, but this being on private property —”
“Sure.”
As Monty Lord led the way down the slope to the entrance, Moretti saw that the iron grille did not extend to the ground, but ran across the top of a heavy metal door. The producer pulled a keychain from his pocket, bent down, and turned the lock.
The door swung open easily, revealing a long tunnel with openings on each side, stretching away into the darkness. The chill of the place was immediate, the exposed skin of Moretti’s hands and face instantly damp with moisture.
“Do you have any lighting installed?” Moretti could hear his voice echoing ahead of him into the gloom.
“No. We’ll use our own lights for that, on cables, but we always keep something here by the door.”
Monty Lord bent down and picked up a powerful workman’s lamp and switched it on. The intense beam of light illuminated the curved ceiling above, which had a large badly rusted pipe running the length of it. Somewhere in the darkness a creature squeaked and scuttled.
“Mice?”
“Bats, I think. I’ve seen them in here before. There’s a humongous ventilation shaft farther into the chamber, and an escape shaft also. It goes deeper the farther we go away from the entrance here. We can go on in, but there’s not really much to see.” Monty Lord swung the light around, lighting up the entrances along the passage. Moretti felt a drop of moisture on his head. His heart thumped unpleasantly