IT WAS WELL AFTER TEN before Tullio showed up. He came out on to the terrace, wearing only black trunks and a pair of espadrilles and carrying his artist’s gear under his arm. His smooth brown body shone with health and he walked with the swaying, conscious grace of a preening peacock.
Ashley greeted him casually and waited until he had set up his easel and begun work on the unfinished canvas. Then, without haste, he got up and walked across to him. He said quietly:
“Keep working, Tullio. If anyone comes, I’m talking to you about the picture.”
“D’accordo!” Riccioli gave him a swift, sidelong look and went on with his work. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I want you to do a job for me—today.”
“Do I get paid?”
“Surely.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred dollars in advance and another five hundred at the end of it.”
“It sounds important.”
It is—to me.
“I want you to go down to Sorrento and deliver a message to the Englishman, George Harlequin.”
“What’s the message?”
“Just tell him I have what he wants and I’d like to see him here as soon as possible.”
Tullio stepped back from the easel and surveyed his work with theatrical care.
“Is there anything else?”
“No. Just deliver the message. Can you get away?”
“No reason why not. I’d like a change anyway. This place is like a museum.”
“How soon can you leave?”
“Before lunch. I’ll have to ask Orgagna for the car. I’m not going to tramp around in this heat. Er—when do I collect the advance?”
“Come to my room when you go in. I’ll give it to you then.”
“Very well.”
And that was the end of it. Tullio went back to work and Ashley strolled back to his chair under the big coloured umbrella. He would have preferred to go back to the beach and spend the morning bathing and baking in the sun, but he thought better of it. The folk of the peninsula were chancy and temperamental. There were too many chances of accident, when they went shooting quail out of season.
Tullio Riccioli was chancy, too, of course. Capricious, self-absorbed, venal, void of love and incapable of loyalty, he made a dangerous ally. He and his kind haunted the international resorts, picking up a modest living from foolish dowagers and wealthy inverts. They were up to all the tricks of their ancient trade—blackmail, minor cruelty and theft from those who lacked the courage to speak out against them. Their talents ran to early seed and, once their youth was over, their vices impoverished them quickly. But they were all susceptible to one lure—easy money, the crackle of hard currency in their slim pampered hands. Ashley hoped fervently that with five hundred dollars still to collect Tullio’s loyalty would last the short distance to Sorrento and back. But he knew that he could not be sure of it.
The next member of the household to come on to the terrace was Elena Carrese. In spite of the heat, she was dressed in a bright peasant skirt, an embroidered vest and a blouse buttoned to the wrists. Tullio gave her a curt nod and went on with his painting. Ashley called to her cheerfully, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she came over and sat beside him.
She was calmer this morning, he noticed. Her hands were steady and her face was composed. But resentment still smouldered in her dark eyes and the skin of her face was tight and strained under the make-up. Ashley offered her a cigarette and lit it for her. She smoked a few moments in silence, then, in a low voice, she said :
“Did you get what I sent you?”
“Yes, thank you. Do you want to talk about it now?”
“No. Just keep them safe. For your sake and mine.”
He looked at her sharply, but her face was turned away from him and she was staring out across the garden.
“Why do you say that? Are you afraid of something?”
“Afraid?” She gave a bitter laugh. “Not now! Not ever again.”
“What—what happened yesterday… after you left me?”
In a flat, expressionless voice, she told him.
“My father beat me. He beat me like a barefoot farm-girl from the mountains. That’s why I’m dressed like this, to hide the bruises. He called me a putana and worse, because he found me in your arms under the orange trees. He threatened to kill me if I ever came near you again. But I laughed in his face and he beat me again as he used to beat my mother—until he was tired and had to let me go. I wonder…” She puffed nervously at the cigarette. “… I wonder what he would say if he knew about Vittorio and me.”
Ashley gaped at her in amazement.
“Doesn’t he know already?”
She laughed again, a dry, unhappy little sound, incongruous from her young lips.
“How could he? We have never been together in this house. To him, Vittorio is the gran’ signore who has taken a little peasant girl and made her a signora out of the goodness of his heart; and who now completes the charity by marrying her to a suitable husband.”
“God Almighty!” Ashley swore in English.
Elena went on bitterly :
“My father is a simple man, as you see. He believes in God and the house of Orgagna. He believes that there are three sorts of women—virgins, wives and the others. He beats me to see that I stay in the class to which God and His Excellency have called me.”
“What would happen if he found out the truth?”
“I don’t know,” said Elena Carrese sombrely. “I think it would be the end of the world for him.”
“Do you love him?”
“No. I—I am fond of him in a certain way. But I have never loved him as I loved my mother. He never belonged to us, you see. He belonged to the house of Orgagna.”
“Do you know he tried to kill me in the garden yesterday?”
She nodded slowly.
“Yes. He told me that while he was beating me. He told me he had failed once and that he would not fail again. When he is angry, he is a little mad, I think.”
Then he put it to her, softly, soberly, the last damning question:
“Do you know he killed your brother?”
She swung round to face him. Her mouth drooped slackly. Her eyes were wide with shock. She got the words out with difficulty.
Ashley laid a firm hand on her wrist to steady her. He dared not risk a scene on the open terrace, in full view of the windows, with Tullio Riccioli only a dozen yards away. He spoke, swiftly and urgently.
“Try to control yourself. Don’t let anybody see that you are disturbed.”
Her whole body stiffened and she held herself rigid and tense, trying to steady herself. She said quickly:
“I—I won’t do anything stupid. Just tell me.”
Ashley hurried into his explanation. At any moment now, Orgagna or Cosima might come out on to the terrace and the opportunity would be lost to him.
“I can’t prove it, you understand, but I believe it’s true. I believe that Orgagna warned your father that Garofano had the photostats in his possession. Somebody from this house paid Roberto at the hotel to telephone my movements with Cosima. I believe that when your brother walked out, after our quarrel, he was met by someone who bundled him into a car and drove him up here to the villa. They probably searched him for the photostats. Then, when they didn’t find them, I think they took him to the edge of the cutting and waited until Cosima and I came back down the road. They could watch us a long way from there. They would know that everybody drives fast on that stretch. They had only to wait. Now, could anybody from this house have done a thing like that without your father knowing? Without his help?”
“No one,” said Elena tonelessly.
“That’s what I thought.”
The girl looked at him for a long time without speaking. He was wrenched with pity for her, young and defenceless in the tangle of passion and intrigue. Her brother was dead. Her lover and her father had conspired to kill him. The lover had cast her off and she was left rootless and alone to be sold to a man like Tullio Riccioli.
“Now,” he told her bluntly, “I think they may try to kill me.”
“I know.” She nodded wearily. “I heard my father talking to the men with the guns. If you try to leave the grounds they are to shoot you and say it was an accident. You should stay near the house. Do not go into the gardens or the olive groves.”
“I’d like you to stay near me.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I may need you. I think we may need each other.”
Then he gave her another cigarette and made her stretch out on the sun-lounge beside him, and they lay back, watching Tullio Riccioli paint the blue sky and the grey trees and the flaring flower-pots in the bold and dashing style that had charmed the eccentrics of Rome.
Half an hour later, Orgagna appeared, dressed for the beach, a big coloured towel slung over his arm. He nodded a brief greeting to Ashley and Elena, then stopped a moment to admire Tullio’s picture. They talked animatedly for a few moments. Then Tullio appeared to ask him a question. Orgagna cast a quick glance at Ashley and the girl, then turned back to Riccioli. After a moment, he patted him on the shoulder and walked quickly down through the olive trees in the direction of the cliffs. A moment later, Tullio turned round and made a quick gesture of triumph.
Ashley grinned and waved an acknowledgment. He was over the first hurdle. Tullio would take his message to George Harlequin in Sorrento.
Just before midday, Tullio packed up his gear and walked into the house. A few moments later, Ashley followed him, leaving Elena dozing wearily on the sun-lounge under the big umbrella.
When he reached his room, Tullio was waiting for him.
“Everything is fixed, my friend. I told him I wanted to go down to Sorrento and I asked him to let me have the car. Yes to both. He seemed happy to get rid of me. Told me I could stay the night if I wished.”
“What did you tell him?”
Tullio smiled and shrugged in deprecation.
“What could I tell him but the truth? I am bored with these glum people. I would like to get out for a while.”
“Fine.”
Ashley walked to the wardrobe and fished for his wallet in the breast-pocket of his coat. He counted out five hundred dollar notes and handed them to Riccioli, who kissed them lovingly and waved them in the air before thrusting them deep into his trouser pocket.
“And the other five hundred when I get back? Right?”
“Right. Now repeat the message for George Harlequin.”
“You have what he wants and you would like to see him as soon as possible. Anything else?”
“No. That’s all.”
Tullio giggled girlishly.
“Would you like to send a message to Captain Granforte as well?”
“No, no. George Harlequin will fix…” The words were half out before he had weighed their import. He saw Tullio’s eyes narrow shrewdly, and caught the small frown that was hidden by the swift, practised smile. He had made a mistake. He could only hope that for the five hundred dollars still to come, Tullio might be prepared to overlook it.
“Arrivederti, amico!” said Tullio blandly.
“See you later,” said Ashley tersely, and ushered him from the room.
Now he was really afraid. In the wooded confines of the Orgagna estate, between the tufa hills and the ancient sea, he was as surely imprisoned as in a dungeon or a police cell. The telephone was out of action. The high iron gates were locked. If he took to the orchards and the vineyards, the quail-hunters would flush him out and kill him, and swear that his death was an accident. If Riccioli failed him, then he was alone indeed.
He walked to the window and looked out. Elena was still there under the big umbrella. Cosima was standing talking to her. She was wearing a cotton sun-frock and a big straw hat and she carried a basket of flowers, fresh-cut from the garden. Far down the path between the orchard trees he could see Orgagna striding up, briskly, from his swim. Soon it would be lunch-time and, with Tullio gone, there would be only the four of them, a tense constrained little group, fearing and mistrusting each other, watched by the dour old steward who believed only in God and the house of Orgagna.
It was an unpleasant prospect, but somehow or other he would get through it. And afterwards, sooner or later in the day, Orgagna must make his next move. He couldn’t afford to wait too long. Captain Granforte must soon make a move to claim his prisoner—to charge him with culpable homicide, or release him to print the big story.
He was hot and sticky from the sun. If he couldn’t swim in safety, then at least he could shower before lunch. He stripped, laid out clean clothes on the bed and stood a long time under the jets, whistling a tuneless little song.
While he was dressing, he heard the sound of the car firing, revving up and moving down the long gravelled drive. It gave him confidence. It also gave him an appetite for lunch.
The meal was a much more elaborate affair than that of the day before. The servants had set up a large round table under a huge mushroom umbrella and beside it a long serving table at which Carlo Carrese presided. It was as if Orgagna had ordered a special display to make up for the absence of conversation.
The first course was an antipasto of astonishing variety and richness, matched with a bottle of dry white wine of the best Orgagna vintage. Then came the fish, small white fillets cooked individually over the spirit lamps and drenched with a rich red sauce of garlic and tomato and half a dozen exotic spices. Then the wine was changed to a rich red Barolo and the next course was brought on—spiedini in the Roman style—beef and ham and grated cheese and garlic and parsley, moulded into little shoe-shapes, skewered and fried in golden batter. Then, in drowsy succession, the pastry and the cheese and the fruit and the thick black coffee, with a good Napoleon to follow.
It was no meal for a summer’s noon, but it served its purpose, and when it was done the two women retired to doze, while Ashley and Orgagna lay out under the umbrellas, side by side.
‘Now,’ thought Ashley, ‘he will get down to business.’
But Orgagna seemed in no hurry to talk business. Instead he fished in his pocket, brought out five hundred dollar notes, folded them neatly in half and tossed them into Ashley’s lap. He smiled, contemptuously.
“There’s your money, Mr. Ashley. Tullio was wise. He decided that there was a better bargain to be made with me. You should be glad that I have saved your money.”
“Thanks,” said Ashley blankly.
Orgagna chuckled good-humouredly.
“For a man of your experience, Ashley, you are sometimes very naive. Do you think a fellow like Tullio Riccioli will sell a rich patron like me for five hundred dollars? He can pick up as much as that for squiring a dowager for the week-end. But what happens when the dowager goes and you go l He is back to me. He knows it, believe me. He has earned twice, three times as much for the information that you are trying to contact George Harlequin.”
Ashley said nothing. His head was swimming with the heat. His stomach was uneasy with the food and the wine and the brandy.
Orgagna said bluntly :
“Have you thought about my proposition?”
“The answer’s still the same—no deal.”
“You have the photostats, haven’t you?”
“Yes.” He could say it confidently now.
Orgagna heard the new note in his voice and looked up sharply. He said, deliberately:
“It’s your last opportunity, Ashley.”
“Go to hell!” said Ashley irritably.
Orgagna shrugged and lay back on the chair, hiding his eyes behind a wide span of glare-glasses. Ashley lay back, too. He felt dizzy and faintly sick. His palms were clammy and little beads of perspiration formed on his lip and on his forehead.
Then the pain hit him—a wrenching, griping agony in the pit of his belly that sent him lurching off the chair and staggering over to the balustrade of the terrace, where he stood, retching and gasping until the spasm passed.
“My poor fellow!” Orgagna was at his elbow, sympathetic and solicitous. “You’re ill. Let me get you upstairs and out of the sun.”
“Thanks… I—I don’t feel so good.”
Orgagna took his arm and steered him hurriedly across the terrace and upstairs to his room, where he lay, sweating and knotted, waiting for the next spasm and the next, while Orgagna stood by, calm-faced but attentive, to help him to the bathroom and back again. Each time the cramps were more violent and the pain greater. His body was bathed in sweat and the room swam in front of his eyes. He heard Orgagna’s voice coming from a long way off.
“How do you feel now, Ashley?”
He shook his head violently and the room slid back into focus. Orgagna was standing beside the bed, smiling down at him.
“I—I feel dreadful. Don’t know what’s the matter with me.”
“You’ve been poisoned, Ashley,” said Orgagna gently.
“Poisoned? I—I—” He tried to heave himself up on the bed, but the cramps seized him again and he staggered to the bathroom. This time Orgagna made no move to help but stood watching, a thin smile twitching the corners of his subtle mouth.
When Ashley came back, weak and tottering, to fling himself on the bed, Orgagna sat down on the edge of it and told him quietly:
“You’ve been poisoned, Mr. Ashley. The poison was in your dinner. It is a simple one, but very effective. The cramps are becoming more frequent, as you see. In an hour, two at most, you will die, painfully. There is an antidote, of course. Again quite simple. I am prepared to give it to you in return for the photostats—but not until they are safely in my hands. I suspect you may have left them at Sorrento. It is twenty minutes there and twenty back. It gives us time to administer the antidote, provided you are not too stubborn.”
Weak and feverish, waiting for the next attack of pain, Ashley lay on the bed and looked up into the face of Vittorio Orgagna. There was no pity in it and no remorse. Ashley knew that he would sit there, calm and relaxed, and watch him die. The pain took him again and the journey across the rose-petal floor was twice as long and the return twice as uncertain.
He closed his eyes and tried to summon up enough strength to heave himself up and wrestle Orgagna out of the room where at least he could call for help. Elena might hear or one of the servants. But when he tried to move, the nausea blinded him and the fever made his limbs as slack as string.
Orgagna’s soft voice admonished him.
“I will watch you die, Ashley, believe me. You have thrust me too far along the road for me to turn back now. One man is dead—another is a small matter. And in this, there is less danger than you think. You are weak now, aren’t’ you? You will be weaker yet and you will suffer more. I can give you the antidote any time you want, but I advise you not to leave it too long. Poison is subtle and unpredictable. Its effects vary with the subject.”
Ashley lay silent and shivering, listening to him. He had no strength to argue. He must save it all to fight against the recurrent pain and make the lengthening journey across the room and back again. He could feel the fight ebbing out of him and fear taking possession of his racked and weakened body.
Four times the agony came on him and after each time the strength was less and the fear was more and the voice of Orgagna was more and more insistent.
Then Orgagna made his master stroke.
“The newspaper will pay for your funeral, Ashley. They will give you a two-line obituary and perhaps a citation in the Saturday supplement. But they will kiss the girls you have never kissed and drink the wine you have never drunk and live out the years you have never enjoyed. You’re a fool, you know, a stubborn stupid fool. Where are the photostats?”
“Under… under the chest,” said Ashley weakly. “The far corner.”
Orgagna let out a long breath of relief and moved swiftly to the chest, lifting, as Ashley had done, with his shoulder. He picked up the envelope and let the corner of the chest fall with a thud. Swiftly he examined the photostats and then suddenly he threw back his head and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Ashley opened his eyes and said weakly:
“The—the antidote… for God’s sake!”
Orgagna walked to the bed and stood over him, still laughing and tapping the envelope against the palm of his hand. Then he stopped laughing and his eyes darkened again.
“You know what I’m going to do now, Ashley?”
“You… you made a bargain.”
“And I shall keep it. But then I shall telephone Captain Granforte and tell him that you are ill and troublesome, and that I can no longer take responsibility for you. I shall ask him to take you into custody and deal with you according to the law. Subornation, wasn’t it? And culpable homicide.”
“For God’s sake, man! You’ve got what you want. Can’t you…?”
Orgagna walked calmly to the mantel and pulled the big, plush bell-cord.
A few moments later a maidservant came in and stood goggling at Ashley lying on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest. Orgagna spoke to her in slow careful Italian:
“Lucia, bring the signore three measures of castor oil. His dinner has disagreed with him.” Then he grinned like a schoolboy and said in English, “It was the fish, Ashley. You got a bad piece. An old trick to play on the unwelcome guest. I must compliment Carlo on its success.”
He went out laughing and Ashley buried his face in the pillow and cursed and sobbed in a fury of anger, humiliation and belly-ache.