Читать книгу Moretti and Falla Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Jill Downie - Страница 11

People have long memories.

But was it a long memory that Dan Mahy had? Or none at all? Was everything he said the product of delusion?

Torteval, on the south coast of the island, was a parish divided by another parish, St. Pierre du Bois. Dan Mahy lived in the western portion in one of the cottages once used by the families of the Hanois lighthouse-keepers, that had been his parents’ home. The cottages had fallen into disrepair during the German occupation, as every piece of timber had gradually been removed from the homes and used for fuel, and after the war there had been plans to rebuild them and make them fit for use again. This had not yet happened, and probably never would, but Dan Mahy had refused to leave.

Moretti’s route took him past the airport. As he drove past the Happy Landings Hotel a small private plane was coming in to land, and he made a mental note to himself to get someone to check the comings and goings of private planes over the past two or three days. He thought about his next move when he returned to the manor to meet Liz Falla. Should he see the marchesa and her son again, push a little harder. Dig a little deeper into the past?

No, he thought, leave them alone. Don’t tip your hand, not yet. He had little enough to go on, and at this stage he’d prefer the family to have no idea he suspected some past secret quite as much as some present indiscretion for the murder.

But if Toni Albarosa was not the intended victim, then who was? For it seemed much more likely that the murderer, knife in hand, was en route to a preplanned target rather than merely lurking about the manor on the off chance of finding someone to stick a dagger in. The most likely candidates were the marchesa or her son — if his theory about the murder were correct, that is.

And the most likely perpetrator? Well, if you took the usual elements of investigation into account — motive and opportunity — the list would include most family members, and some of the crew. Moretti felt reasonably safe at this stage ruling out the cast: they were chosen by the producer and the director, and thus were not proactive participants. Family motives would include jealousy and revenge — and it might still be a crime of passion in the usually accepted sense, after all. He must beware of getting too clever about the whole business. As for the crew, director Mario Bianchi was a prime suspect; he was responsible for the rewrites and he was Italian. And, for the moment, the most likely candidate was Italian. Which would be a great relief to Chief Officer Hanley.

If, that is, he was right about the war and past events being the motive for murder. As Sydney Tremaine had pointed out, there was a lot of volatility on a movie set. It could be that the art director, Piero Bonini, and the co-designer, Eddie Christy, hated Betty Chesler’s guts, and decided to sabotage the project. It could be that anyone hated Gilbert Ensor’s guts and decided to sabotage the project.

Ahead of him, shrouded in a misty grey drizzle, Moretti could see what remained of the Hanois cottages. The lighthouse itself could not be seen from this point, because of the towering granite slab around which the coastal road wound itself, but on that rocky platform, in the days before radio and telephone, the lighthouse keepers’ wives used to send messages to their husbands with flags. Now, the summit was empty, and only traces remained of the massive shelter and the tank traps erected by the occupation forces.

He brought the Triumph to a halt and got out. Because of the miserable weather, the place was deserted and silent, except for the sound of the sea on the rocks below the point. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries suddenly climaxing in a raucous cacophony, and Moretti could hear the piping shriek of an oystercatcher somewhere, looking for the winkles and barnacles exposed by the low tide. He experienced a moment of suspension in time, as a past embracing all those hundreds of ships lost on the Hanway rocks, the earthworks thrown up and the great guns and powder magazines mounted to fend off Buonaparte on this vulnerable coastline, the debris left behind by a more recent enemy, hung in the swirling fog, tangible as the pebbles beneath his feet. Which past, indeed, did Betty Chesler mean?

“Wharro! Lookin’ for me?”

A small gnome-like creature materialized through the mist in front of Moretti.

“Dan Mahy?”

“Don’t look so surprised, lad. I got second sight, me, but I also got a phone!”

The gnome cackled.

“Can we have a word?”

“Why you came, innit?”

On closer inspection, the gnome was not so small after all. His back was nearly bent double, and his broad-featured face was the colour of mahogany. The weathering of time and climate made it difficult to judge his age, but he appeared to be in his eighties. He took Moretti’s arrival with the calm of one who had faced enough of life’s calamities and contretemps not to find anything extraordinary.

“Mr. Le Page says you’re the one to talk to about the Vannonis at the Manoir Ste. Madeleine.”

“Did he now? That would be because of my missus, God rest her soul.”

“That’s right. She worked there.”

“So she did. Became very friendly with that poor old lady they brought with them.”

“What poor old lady?”

“Patrizia, she was called. Italian, of course, like them. Oh how she wanted to go back again, that one! Didn’t speak much English, but she used to cry about it to my missus, she did. Died here, poor woman. Never got back. Mind you, she told Aggie they could never.”

“Did she say why? I thought they did go back from time to time.”

“Oh, not to Italy, she didn’t mean. She meant to the house and the place where she was born. I know what that’s like.” Dan Mahy looked around him. “Always want to be here, me, and now I got a little windfall, I have.” The old man chuckled and rubbed his hands together with a sound like the rasp of sandpaper. “Put it away in my pied-du-cauche.”

“That’s nice,” said Moretti. “Wouldn’t it be safer in the bank than in the toe of your sock?”

“Huh!” Dan Mahy snorted and spat. “Not for me, and no St. Peter Port, or St. Andrew, no thanks. Social Services keep at me, to get me out. Here, where I was born, this is where I’ll die.”

“So,” said Moretti, gasping hold of the direction of the conversation and wrenching it back to the matter in hand, “Patrizia said they had to leave a house? A place?”

“Right. You’re Emidio and Vera’s boy, aren’t you?” Dan Mahy suddenly said, looking at Moretti as if he had seen him for the first time.

“I am. Now, about the Vannonis and the old lady —”

“But you should know, lad. Your father now — he couldn’t go back, neither, could he?”

“My father?”

Moretti felt as if he had trodden on one of the old fortifications and uncovered a rusty mine beneath the surface. It still happened, from time to time.

“Just like Patrizia used to say about the Vannonis. That she couldn’t talk to anyone about her old home because of the bad things. No one talked about it, the house.”

“What house?” Scramble through it, thought Moretti. Stick with his train of thought, or we’ll both get lost. And at the moment, he seems to know what he’s saying, though God knows what he’s saying.

“She said she always had to remember the bad things didn’t happen. Like they told her.”

“Did she ever tell your wife where this place was in Italy?”

“Don’t remember — like I said, she didn’t speak much English. But Aggie brought old Patrizia out here to visit many times, that I do remember. She’d sit and look at the sea and say the same thing, over and over again. Then one day my missus told them back at the manor. Told them what the old lady had said, asked them what it meant. She never came no more.”

“What was it she said — do you remember?”

Dan Mahy screwed up his eyes and mouth. After a moment he said, “Pretty it was. Stuck in my mind, it did. Let me think — ah, got it. Said she could smell the sea again, that it did her good. Bury the past, she said. Then she said, ‘Maledetta Maremma, maledetta Maremma.’ Chanting, she was, like it was a prayer, over and over.”

“Maledetta Maremma, maledetta Maremma?”

Dan Mahy cackled appreciatively. “That was just like her saying it, ma fé! Just like your dad, you.”

Moretti decided to risk changing direction. “Why, Dan, should I know how Patrizia felt? You say my father could not return to Italy. But he did, from time to time.”

Not often, thought Moretti.

“Well, mon viow, it was more the running away for him, eh? Mind you, lad, there was many of us as would’ve run a mile or two for your mother. Nobody blamed him.”

“Blamed him?”

Suddenly, the old man became a child. “I’m tired. I want my dinner. Fiche le camp, Emidio.”

“Eduardo.”

But Dan Mahy’s moment of sanity — if that indeed was what it had been — was over. He turned on his heel and walked away from Moretti back to the home of his childhood, his oversize boots dragging on the wet road.

“Your eyes betray you, Contessa — I know them so well by now. Tell me where he is. Do not go on with this dangerous game, I beg of you!”

Before the Panavision cameras in the principal reception room of the Manor Ste. Madeleine, Gunter Sachs was sweating heavily, and regretting the self-indulgences of a month in the south of France that had added body fat to burn beneath the great arc-lights that lit the set. Although it was still early in the afternoon, it had already been a long day. Outside, the sun shone on a rain-soaked landscape, but in the manor it was night, blinds and curtains closed over the windows set in the gold-brocaded walls. Mario Bianchi had decided against using available light and had opted to set one of the pivotal dramatic scenes of the book and the movie on a hot July night in 1944 so he could use the magnificent candelabra and chandeliers in the room.

After much discussion in two languages about light levels and other technical details between the cinematographer, an American called Mel Abrams, who often collaborated with Monty Lord, the art director, Cosimo del Grano, the director, Mario Bianchi, and the head cameraman, the actual shooting of the scene finally got underway.

“Ah, Ricardo, mio. This is no game we play.”

Behind the cameras and lights, in the dark recesses of the great room, Monty Lord and Mario Bianchi smiled at one another. In one sentence, with one inflection of that magnificent voice, Adriana Ferrini reminded both men why they had paid a king’s ransom to get her for Rastrellamento. Later, the rushes would give them further proof, if they needed it, of the soundness of their decision.

Adriana Ferrini was a legend in the world of cinema — not just in Italy, but anywhere there was a movie house and people saw film. From her poverty-stricken roots, through her rise to screen goddess, to her present incarnation as model mother, faithful wife, and generous colleague, she had moved into the realm of icon. Good genes, good habits, and great cosmetic surgery had maintained the beauty of her youth into her fifties. To watch an Adriana Ferrini close-up was to see the cliché, “the camera loves her,” become reality.

Gunter Sachs, perspiring in his German com-mandant’s uniform, was only too aware of her charisma. His role was a gift, a chance to portray a character usually shown as a bumblehead or a bully — or worse — as a sensitive, cultivated man caught in a moment of history not of his making. Gilbert Ensor’s creation of Commandant Reinhardt Ritter was one of the most admired and praised elements of the original book, and the integrity of the character had been maintained through the various rewrites of the script. Although the other actors grumbled that this made his task easier, what they overlooked was the effect that the changes in character of those around him had on the delivery of a line.

Take, for instance, the complete turnaround in the character of the housekeeper, who now stood in the shadows beyond the lights, waiting for her scene. Hers was not a big role, but many of his own scenes began with some sort of conversation between the two of them — in a sense, she was the go-between in the love affair of the commandant and the contessa. It made one hell of a difference to even “Good evening, Anna,” when he was greeted by the steely glare of a gaunt, black-clad harpy instead of the conspiratorial giggle of the rosy-cheeked rotund actress with whom he had originally exchanged such pleasantries.

Then there was the priest, with whom he had some major scenes. Overnight, the cadaverous skeleton of an actor who had been the very epitome of a brooding, Macchiavellian hound of God had disappeared to be replaced by a jolly, plump leprechaun of a man who played the role as a kind of cute, comic Friar Tuck.

At least Clifford Wesley’s head hasn’t rolled — yet — he thought, thankful for small mercies. The British actor was a studious, reserved type — what his countrymen called “a decent bloke” — and his acting talents came from some intellectual and intestinal Gordian knot deep inside him. He was the one sympathetic personality in the group, in Gunter Sachs’s opinion; he had even read Goethe, which was more than could be said of most Germans these days. The scenes the commandant had with the British prisoner of war, Tom Byers, were now mostly “in the can,” and they would be spared reshooting them all.

Presumably.

Nothing was for certain in the make-believe world of Rastrellamento, and even the luscious Vittoria Salviati had expressed her insecurities to him that morning, as they waited together for their call. Of course, it now appeared she had been carrying on a clandestine affair with the murdered Toni Albarosa, and was afraid she might be the next target. Gunter Sachs’s own insecurities made him uncharacteristically spiteful.

“Your fears are probably justified. Jealousy is, in my opinion, the most powerful of emotions. A primitive passion.”

He watched her dark eyes grow wider, and chided himself for his cheap victory. However, from her next remark it was clear he had misinterpreted her reaction.

“That’s how I saw it, first of all. But now I wonder, Gunter. The last time I was with Toni — just before he died — he was really upset because of something that happened over a location he suggested.”

“To whom? What location?”

“I don’t know — he wouldn’t say. But it was something to do with the family, that much I know.”

“Have you told the police?”

“No. What is there to tell? I’m scared enough already as it is, without giving anyone another reason to come after me.”

The conversation had stopped at this point, when they were called for their scene together, and the only thought Gunter Sachs gave subsequently to Vittoria Salviati’s dilemma was that fear and loss had greatly improved her acting abilities. Access to the emotions, he thought, as he watched her character, Maddalena, weep at the commandant’s cold anger. That’s what it’s all about. Though in real life, it can play havoc, God knows.

“Cut! Print!”

With relief, Gunter Sachs moved away from the heat of the lights and loosened his collar. The scene with Adriana Ferrini had gone well, and would require no more takes, thank heaven. One of the dressers was waiting for him to take his jacket and to hand him a bottle of mineral water, which he drank thirstily.

“Hot work, sir.”

Gunter Sachs’s eyes adjusted to the light and he saw it was the detective inspector with the good bone structure he had seen the day of Albarosa’s murder. They had not spoken before, because his statement had been taken by one of the other policemen.

“Detective Inspector Moretti, sir. I am in charge of this investigation. Could I have a word? I am told by your director you are not needed for a while.”

“Of course. We can go to my trailer.”

Gunter Sachs’s trailer was a comfortable haven of leather armchairs, thick rugs, a sofa bed, and a heavy teak table piled with books and magazines in German and English.

“A drink, Detective Inspector? No? Then I hope you won’t mind if I have a beer. Please, sit down.”

“You do a lot of reading, I see,” said Moretti, picking up a copy of Rastrellamento from among the books on the table.

“There’s always time to do that on a movie set, no matter how major your role.”

“So I am beginning to realize. You are not staying in the manor, I believe.”

“No. I am at the Héritage. I prefer my independence. I ordered room service late the night of Albarosa’s murder, but I have no real alibi for the time itself, I’m afraid.”

“Like many others. But I actually wanted to ask you about this.” Moretti held up the copy of Rastrellamento. “I see you are familiar with the original work, which is helpful, because I gather there are changes to the role played by Adriana Ferrini. From what I remember of the story, that should affect you — am I right?”

“Yes. Reinhardt Ritter is in charge of the prison camp set up in what was once an orphanage in the town, where the contessa’s family, the Cavallis, have ruled the roost for centuries. He is an educated, sensitive individual, ill-suited to the task expected of him — which is to run the camp after the departure of the Italian troops in 1943, and to recapture the prisoners who escaped at that time. What starts off as hostility between the contessa and the commandant develops into a warm friendship — she calls him ‘Ricardo’ — that could have changed to love. Only Hitler is defeated, and the commandant is arrested by the allies. Strangely enough, the changes to the contessa’s role have made little difference to my own. They have built up Adriana’s role in relation to the other characters — for instance, the housekeeper and the priest. And that’s where the problem lies for me — not in the size of their roles, but in the interpretation.”

“Can you think of any reason why they would have built up her role vis-à-vis rather minor characters?”

“You’d have to ask Mario that question, but I think the quick answer is that it’s Adriana Ferrini.” Gunter Sachs smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “She’s a huge box-office draw, as you probably know.”

“Of course. The time span of the original novel was about a year and a half, I believe — from just before the arrest and internment of Mussolini in July 1943 to just after the fall of Rome in 1944.”

“That much hasn’t changed. What has changed, it seems to me, is proportion. There is more emphasis on the contessa, her entourage, her relationship with the fascists and partisans in the town, and less on the love affair between the daughter of the family and the escaped British prisoner of war. Or else both elements have been balanced out, you might say.”

“If I remember the book correctly, one of its strengths was Ensor’s ability to convey the complexities of human nature — in other words, there was no clear-cut bad guy, or good guy. Has that changed at all, particularly with the rewrites?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it before but, now you ask me, I think so. How can I put this — things have become more black and white. Perhaps that is what cinema audiences want today, and certainly that is Monty Lord’s strength — giving them what they want. Mario is the genius, and Monty the facilitator.”

“Who does the rewrites? Not Gilbert Ensor now, I gather.”

Gunter Sachs laughed. “God, no! Mario does them.”

“The director? Is this usual?”

“If you’re Ingmar Bergmann or Woody Allen, yes — Kubrick would even rewrite a scene while the actors were before the cameras. Mario is that kind of director.”

“One more question, Mr. Sachs, and then I can leave you in peace. You say things are now more black and white. In your opinion, who is the bad guy?”

Gunter Sachs got up and fetched himself another beer from the small fridge. For a moment, Moretti wondered if it was a diversionary tactic; he wanted to see the expression on the actor’s face when he replied. However, Gunter Sachs turned back, the open bottle in his hand, and the only expression Moretti could read was one of uncertainty.

“Now, there’s the strange thing. The only bad guys I can see from all this rewriting are both women; the contessa and the housekeeper. Then there’s the priest — and here things become even stranger. He’s a caricature, and he’s so — cozy. But the way the script reads, you wouldn’t trust him to christen your children, let alone take your confession.”

“Because he doesn’t keep his mouth shut?”

“Exactly.”

“Does he betray partisans? Fascists?”

“He’s a turncoat. Many were, of course. At that time, in Italy, survival often depended on being in the right camp at the right time in the war — you must know that, you being a Guernseyman. The stories I have heard since I’ve been here! But you take the carabinieri, for instance. In Rastrellamento, when the Germans arrive in the town, they take their orders from them. It is a situation familiar to many of my own countrymen. I wouldn’t have agreed to take this role if there had not been an understanding of motivation, what makes people betray. What makes them evil.”

“So the contessa is now evil?”

“She is driven by a desire to preserve the status and position of her family into — yes — evil decisions.”

“Such as — ?”

“The betrayal of her own daughter.”

“In the book, the escaped prisoner of war, Tom Byers, survives to marry the daughter.”

“Not in the movie. They both die. But that change was in the original script. Mario has always liked unhappy endings.”

“Is that good box office?”

“If the survivor is Adriana Ferrini, probably. Besides, Detective Inspector, think of Romeo and Juliet. There won’t be a dry eye in the house.”

Moretti held up the copy of Rastrellamento. “May I borrow this?”

“With pleasure.”

Moretti stood up and held out his hand. “You’ve been very generous with your time. Thank you.”

“Tell me, Detective Inspector,” said Gunter Sachs as they shook hands, “do you think the murder and the other attacks are to do with the plot of Rastrellamento?”

“It is certainly one of the many angles we are exploring, sir,” said Moretti, falling back on convenient procedural cliché. “People have long memories.”

“Ah, that is so true.”

It was only after the policeman had left his trailer that Gunter Sachs remembered what Vittoria Salviati had told him. He thought of calling Moretti back, or contacting him, then dismissed it. For the life of him he couldn’t think how a movie location could be of any importance at all in the death of Toni Albarosa.

Liz Falla was sitting on a curved stone seat between two massive pots of hydrangeas writing in her notebook.

“This is a big place, Guv. Good thing you phoned on your mobile or we could have looked for each other the rest of the day. It’s got seven bathrooms, so they tell me. I found the security people and the feller who was covering this part of the premises —” Liz’s arm swept over the expanse of terrace, “— says there was no unexpected behaviour from the dogs that night. Everything was quiet.”

“Which is exactly why the behaviour is unexpected. Whoever stabbed Albarosa had to be on the grounds — as you say, this is a big place — and I’m presuming the security staff’s rounds would be frequent enough to coincide with the murderer, concealed in bushes or among trees. Were the dogs allowed to fraternize with any of the cast and crew?”

“Yes. Usually that’s not the case, but because this is a private home, the dogs had to know who they should expect to find in the grounds. They didn’t have to be big buddies with them, just had to be familiar with their smell, apparently. I got a list.” Liz Falla consulted her notebook. “The marchesa and her son, Mr. Albarosa, Monty Lord, Mario Bianchi, and three cast members who are staying here: Miss Salviati, Ms. Ferrini, and Mr. Wesley.”

“Good work, Falla.” It came naturally, to Moretti’s relief. “We’ll need to look more closely at all of them, but I want to start with Mario Bianchi.” Moretti went over his interview with Gunter Sachs, concluding with his theory about the rewriting of the script. Liz Falla raised her eyebrows.

“Really, Guv? Then I don’t have to be a genius to know why you want to check into Mr. Bianchi. He’s directing the film — and the plot.”

“Yes. It should be easy enough to run a background check on him, because he’s a celebrity. I’ll get records to run his name through the computer and give us everything they come up with — everything. I want all the gossip, all the dirt, even from unreliable sources, like the tabloids.”

“Do you know what you’re looking for?”

“I’m hoping to find something about his family. He’s too young to have been around at the end of the war, but at the back of my mind is a feeling I’ve read something about him that has something to do with the political situation in the thirties and forties.”

“What now, Guv?”

“Back to headquarters. I want to see if anything has come up about any kind of an incident involving the Vannonis.”

There was a sudden burst of noise, and a small but voluble army of technicians came round the corner. Moretti stood up.

“We’ve been displaced, Falla. The world of make-believe is taking over while we go back to reality.”

Back to reality. The phrase kept recurring in Moretti’s mind on the drive back to St. Peter Port. Back to the reality of the war years, when the uniforms and the dresses in Betty Chesler’s lodge and the military vehicles in the car park that looked so quaint and picturesque were part of an actual and threatening landscape in which real people lived, and lost, their lives.