Kiss of Hot Sun (11 page)

“As a matter of fact, old man, I am rather up to my eyes in it at the moment. It would be a big help if you’d take her.”

Shunting me around like an awkward parcel! Philip obliging Giles by taking me home. And Giles being grateful.

I didn’t go for this one bit. Jumping up, I said stiffly: “You needn’t bother—either of you. I want to have a look round Taormina anyway. I’ll grab a taxi later on.”

Philip exposed my face-saver. “Won’t you want to be back for tea? I know Miss Harcourt likes having everyone around her then.”

Weakly, I looked at my watch. Twenty-five past four!

“Thanks,” I said ungraciously. “Maybe I had better come with you, then.” I’d certainly no intention of begging an unwilling Giles to take me back. In fact I’d think twice before accepting another invitation from that one.

He did find the courtesy to mutter an apology as I walked out. “You see, Kerry, I really am terribly busy, I’ve got to finish that damn thing I’m working on by tomorrow.”

On the drive back Philip and I talked in the clipped way of polite strangers thrown together in brief intimacy. For my part I wasn’t feeling particularly chatty right then.

“What do you think of Giles Yorke?” The question was shot at me suddenly.

I gave a grunt and left my opinion wide open.

Philip went on smoothly: “I must apologise if I put my foot in it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, by turning up when I did. But Yorke told me to look in any time, and I naturally didn’t expect...” He dried up.

“You didn’t expect what?”

“Well... I had no idea you knew him so...”

“Like you, I merely went there to look at his paintings,” I cut in hotly.

The story sounded pretty thin, I had to admit. Driving several miles in the blazing heat of afternoon just to see a collection of chocolate-boxy pictures.

“And what did you think of them?” Philip asked.

“Not much!” Annoyed at being trapped into criticising Giles, I went on to lash out at Philip. “I was surprised you were so interested, considering you’re supposed to be such an expert.”

Philip was entirely unruffled by the gibe. “I had to be polite, after all. And you must remember, the stuff he has on display is what he sells to the tourists. He’ll have something much better tucked away.”

“Giles told me he didn’t do any other sort of painting.”

Philip shrugged. “Most painters get sick of doing commercial potboilers. I expect he has a shot at something better now and then.”

“And that’s what you’re hoping to see tomorrow?”

“Yorke did say he might look something out for me.”

But not for me, I thought grimly. For Philip Rainsby, for a prospective buyer, Giles would get out some of his better work. But when
I’d
asked him the same thing it was too much trouble. Just as it was too much trouble to drive me back to the villa.

I scolded myself for minding so much. Why should I care two straws what Giles Yorke did—or what Philip did? I wasn’t interested in either of them. They were nothing more to me than casual acquaintances.

The best attitude, I decided, was not to react to anything more that Philip might have to say. To be neither hostile nor friendly; just plain indifferent.

I thought of some of the nice, uncomplicated men I’d known in London. For the first time I half regretted ever having left my home town.

Philip made several attempts to talk, but in my new mood I let each conversational opening fall flat on its back. I preferred to ponder my own thoughts.

I wondered again why I stayed in Sicily; there was absolutely nothing to keep me. It was true that Adeline had begged me to stay, with fear in her eyes as I’d thought. But Adeline was such a superb actress that I wondered whether any of her emotions were ever genuine. Yet for all my anger, for all my humiliation at the hands of Philip and Giles, I knew I wasn’t going to leave the
Villa Stella d’Oro
—not just yet. Some buried spark of stubbornness made me determined to hang around and see what the mystery was all about.

Back at the villa, I tossed Philip formal thanks for the lift. While he garaged the car I stalked on ahead.

Adeline came hurrying across the hall to meet me. She was in a state of high drama, her silver hair disarrayed, her fists clenched in distress. I could see she had been crying.

This time her emotional display was genuine. This time it was not an act. I knew it.

“Oh Kerry darling! Thank God you are back! I’ve been almost out of my mind ...”

“What is it, Miss Harcourt? What’s the matter?”

She took a deep, steadying breath and looked at me with eyes that were huge and shadowed. There was real fear in her face, fear in the way she clutched at me.

“Carlo,” she whispered hoarsely. “It is Carlo ...”

“What about Carlo?”

“He is dead!”

“Dead?” I gasped. “But how...?”

“Stabbed to death,” she sobbed wildly. “Oh, it is so dreadful, Kerry. What shall I do?”

Adeline leaned on me heavily as I led her through to the salon. Gently, I lowered the old lady into an easy chair, and fetched a glass of brandy.

After a few protesting sips her colour became more normal. But she still lay flopped back in the chair, utterly exhausted.

Zampini was already there in the room, standing over by one of the windows. He watched us in silence for a while. I sensed his impatience.

“Such a fuss!” he burst out. “It is unfortunate, of course. But in Sicily such things must be accepted.”

I was appalled. “But this is murder! You can’t say murder is normal.”

“It is not called murder,” he grunted. “A vendetta between two families, a matter of honour. Life is held cheaply here.”

“But Carlo had no family,” moaned Adeline, “Just his mother and poor Maria, his aunt. That is all...”

“It makes no difference. These feuds are carried on to the bitter end.”

“Where did it happen?” I asked. “Here at the villa?”

Adeline shuddered. “Oh no, thank God! Not here.”

“It was in some back alley at Asiago,” muttered Zampini. “It appears he was on his way to visit his mother. It was a custom of his to go every week.”

Adeline had heard of Carlo’s death by telephone—a call from the police. An hour later they turned up at the villa, two young officers and Inspector Vigorelli himself.

I was rather dismayed that, like Zampini, the police chief seemed to take little account of the killing.

“These things,” he said with an indifferent shrug, “they happen.”

His men made a brief examination of Carlo’s room, and interviewed Maria and Luciana. I doubted if they gleaned any useful information. Both the women were prostrated with grief, weeping noisily and murmuring in constant prayer.

Presumably the inspector had come to question Adeline and the guests. But he seemed to be treating the occasion rather as another social call. Like any staunch friend at such a time, he nodded his head sympathetically and encouraged Adeline to talk of other things.

It was a tiny incident that brought home how Carlo’s death would affect our daily lives. Zampini had gone to pour himself another drink and exclaimed impatiently at finding there were no more bottles of tonic water. He stared at Adeline accusingly. She looked lost.

“Don’t worry, Miss Harcourt,” I said quickly. “I’ll see to it right away.”

It would be up to me to see that life went on smoothly at the
Stella d’Oro.
This was a guest house and the guests had to be fed.

Nothing at all had been done in the kitchen. I don’t suppose poor Maria had even thought of dinner tonight, and she hardly seemed in any state to cook.

Hoping it was the kindest thing to do, I packed her and Luciana off to their rooms, and started knocking up a simple meal. I was in the middle of grilling lamb cutlets and preparing a huge tomato and cucumber salad, when Cesare Pastore appeared. He came strolling casually into the kitchen.

“You here too?” I greeted him.

“I came to ask you to dine with me,” he said calmly, “and then I find all this excitement at the villa.”

“Didn’t you know about Carlo already?” I asked, surprised. “Your chief is here himself.”

“As I discovered. Inspector Vigorelli does not always keep me informed, I’m afraid.”

“But you’re his assistant.”

Cesare shrugged. “Ah well...”

I’d no time to talk right then. But when I tried to shoo Cesare out of the kitchen, he offered instead to lend a hand.

“Perhaps I can attend to the grilling of the meat?”

“Well thanks. But don’t you Italians regard such things as strictly women’s work?”

He grinned at me. “A good policeman must be ready to tackle anything. Between ourselves, I quite enjoy cooking.”

I left him guarding the stove while I laid the tables and fetched wine from the cellar. He kept up a steady flow of chat, calmly picking up where he’d left off each time I dodged back into the kitchen.

“This Carlo... Miss Harcourt is upset about him?”

“Yes, she’s certainly taking it very hard. I think she must have been quite fond of him.” I was recalling the way she had championed Carlo and forbidden me to criticise his work.

“And what did
you
think of him?” Cesare asked.

“Me? Well, he was a good waiter.” I spoke with some caution, as I hurriedly made butter curls.

“But you did not like him, I think?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t very much. He was rather lazy and could be insolent when he chose.”

“Then is it not surprising that Signora Harcourt kept him in her employment?”

“I suppose so. But he was Maria’s nephew—perhaps that was why. Poor Maria! And poor Luciana too; they are both dreadfully upset.”

“Luciana?”

"She’s the housemaid. They were going to be married, I think.” I stopped working and looked at Cesare uneasily. “I simply can’t understand these vendettas. It all seems so pointless and beastly.”

“Who has suggested that this was a vendetta killing?”

“Signor Zampini is sure of it. And your chief seems to have the same idea. It’s awful to think they can take it so casually when a man is knifed like that. Do you reckon you’ll find the killer?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

Later, while I was setting out the cheese board, he asked : “When did you hear about Carlo’s death?”

“After I arrived back from Taormina. Round about a quarter to five.”

“Taormina is a beautiful old town, is it not? Did you go down to the bay?”

“No. I only went to Giles Yorke’s studio.”

“Oh, yes?”

“He had promised to show me some of his paintings.”

“I see... And then he drove you back here?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I came back with Philip Rainsby.”

Cesare glanced up from the cooking. I don’t know why I bothered to explain how the switch had happened, but he seemed interested. I avoided mentioning that I was mad at Giles as a result.

Cesare noticed the omission.

“A man takes a young lady out and does not insist upon driving her home again? Is this how the famous English gentleman behaves?”

Hurt pride made me argue. “But don’t you see, Philip was coming back here anyway. It would have been silly...”

Cesare regarded me gravely. “The world would be a poorer place if we were not sometimes ‘silly’.”

He hung around all evening, and I was glad enough to have some help. While I was serving coffee, he even got down to washing the dishes.

“I thought you were supposed to be very busy,” I observed when I discovered him with his sleeves rolled up.

“I found I could take a few hours off today. Naturally I came to see you.”

“And landed yourself a temporary job as assistant cook and dish washer!”

He stood busily drying plates, smiling into my eyes.

It was past ten before we’d finished. Then Cesare came through to the salon with me. Zampini was there with the Blunts. They told me Adeline had gone to bed. Philip was also upstairs, apparently.

George Blunt buttonholed me at once. “I’d better tell you now, love,” he boomed. “Rosie and I will be leaving tomorrow.”

“Oh dear!” I was shattered to be losing any of the few guests we had. “Is it because of this business about Carlo? Everything will soon settle down again, you’ll see...”

He put a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Nothing at all to do with that, love. Just that our plans have changed a bit, that’s all. Nowt for you to fret about.”

I couldn’t really believe him. There had been absolutely no hint of them going, right up to this moment. I tried to persuade him to stay.

“You do understand, Mr. Blunt, all this fuss with the police was not our doing. By tomorrow everything will be back to normal.”

Zampini cut across me rudely. “If the signora and signore wish to leave, that is their affair. You will please not try to detain them.”

I had to admire my own restraint in saying nothing to that. But my expression must have said enough. Zampini reddened under his swarthy tan, and muttered a curt apology.

Cesare left soon after eleven, and I made my unhappy way to bed. I’d had plenty and more for one day.

But the day wasn’t over after all. I opened my eyes in pitch darkness to a quite unfamiliar sound. I seemed to be hearing it for a long time through a daze of half sleep.

A telephone was ringing somewhere in the villa. I realised it was a sound I’d never heard here before.

I put on the bedside light and glanced at my watch, Two-forty-five! Who on earth could be phoning at this hour?

The bell went on and on; a steady, inexorable summons. I slipped into my dressing-gown and hurried downstairs.

At first I couldn’t even remember where the phone was. I thought hard as I hustled along. Of course, it was in the lobby near the salon, where I did the flowers.

All this while I expected the ringing to stop. The idea of missing the call worried me for some reason. I had to get there in time.

It seemed ages before I reached the phone and grabbed it up. “
Villa Stella d’Oro.”

An Italian voice gabbled much too fast for me to pick out even the odd word or two.