Kiss of Hot Sun (13 page)

The fear I’d been contemptuously dismissing got a sudden swift stranglehold. I shivered, beginning to understand why Adeline was so afraid. The squalid traffic in forged paintings had all at once become charged with sinister overtones.

“What do you mean about Carlo?” I faltered.

Huge tears trembled upon the old lady’s eyelids. They slid slowly down her cheeks and wet the white pillows with dark rings.

There was a long, heavy silence.

“I should never have told you so much,” she murmured sadly at last. “It was unfair of me.”

“What did you mean about Carlo?” I persisted. “The police said it was because of a vendetta, a family rivalry.”

Adeline was worn out. Her whispered words came very slowly. “Carlo also knew too much, and he was blackmailing me...”

“Blackmailing
you?” I grated out.

“I did not really mind that—it was only a little money. But Guido was furious when he found out this morning.”

“Are you really saying...?” I hesitated at the very brink. The idea was too fantastic. Adeline must have meant something quite different.

Seconds added together until they seemed like whole minutes before she summoned the energy to speak again.

“Yes, it was Guido. I do not know who did the actual knifing, but Guido was responsible for Carlo’s death, I am certain of it.”

I stayed the rest of the night in Adeline’s room. I had to. I dared not leave her alone with Zampini possibly still on the prowl.

Unfortunately, I had chosen a high-backed chair with hard nobbles which prodded my spine. By the time they were getting painful it was too late to do anything. Adeline was asleep, her fingers locked tight into mine.

Her slowly hissing breath punctuated heavy silence. The rhythm was hypnotic. My mind drifted, building a weird picture montage of the story she’d just told me. A walking nightmare. Overshadowing everything else was the climax of horror. A handsome young Sicilian being violently done to death!

I could see every sharp detail of that back alley drama, except for the murderer himself. He was a shapeless black blur in my mind. Had Zampini’s own hand held the knife? Or was it wielded by some cheaply-bought assassin?

I didn’t doubt the truth of what Adeline had told me. So much was explained now; so much had clicked into place—neatly, nastily, horribly. The elaborate plot and counter-plot, the double bluff. And all acted out with superb professional skill against the beautiful backcloth of the
Villa Stella d’Oro.

To Adeline it had been just a game, a harmless enough joke. And while she was laughing, Zampini counted his profits, ruthlessly exterminating an upstart waiter who had tried to get in on the act.

What about Giles? I brooded sadly. Just how deeply was he involved?

I understood now why he’d so eagerly abandoned me to Philip yesterday afternoon. He’d had a rush job on hand, going hell for leather covering George Blunt’s fake Raphael with a stock view of the bay. Once a deal was done, they’d want to get rid of the sucker, and fast.

To my surprise I found I wasn’t all that cut up about Giles. I’d been kidding myself about him, I realised—trying to
make
myself fall for him. But all along I’d known I couldn’t really do it. Never in a hundred years. Not while Philip Rainsby was on the same planet.

Yet I’d raised a tight guard against Philip; wanting to trust him, but not daring to. If only I could believe his every word, uncritically, without reservation. But I was faced with his own admission that he’d lied to me.

I still couldn’t decide if even now he was being honest with me. Why should a professional art buyer hang around at the
Stella d’Oro
if he expected to be offered forgeries? Was it because he was so infatuated with Rosalind Blunt?

The more I knew, the more I didn’t know. Philip, Giles, Adeline, Carlo. And Zampini...

Why had the vicious Italian been in such a tearing rage, ranting at Adeline in the middle of the night? She’d told me a lot, but she hadn’t explained that.

Unburdened, the old lady looked very peaceful. Now that her fear of Zampini was shared with me, she was able to let go and lose herself in sleep.

I wished I could do the same.

Sitting here beside her, my mind adrift, was sheer escapism. I was sidestepping the problem of what I was going to do in the morning. I needed advice. I needed help. And there was only one person I could conceivably go to. I’d got to trust Philip. I had to assume, whatever his game might be, that in the final analysis he was on the right side.

My watch pointed the improbable fact that it was already half past six. I couldn’t delay any longer.

Adeline still slept. Stiff from my long vigil, I got up without disturbing her. I opened the bedroom door and put a cautious ear into the corridor.

Silence! Everything was utterly quiet. Even the servants were not about yet.

I hated leaving Adeline. Zampini might come back while I was gone, to have another go at her.

I decided to lock her in. He’d hardly be likely to have a key to the door. And if he was mad enough to force it open, I’d be sure to hear him. Swiftly I shifted the key from inside to outside, and turned it.

Early sun blazed the length of the corridor. After the gloom of Adeline’s bedroom I was half blinded. Blinking, I made my way to Philip’s door, and tapped gently.

There was no reply.

I tapped again, rapping with my knuckles this time. I was afraid of making too much noise. Zampini’s room was not very far away.

At length I tried the handle. It turned, and I opened the door a few inches.

“Philip!” I called softly. “Are you awake?”

There was still no answer.

The bedroom was dark, the thick curtains drawn across. I slipped inside, shutting the door behind me before snapping on the light switch.

Philip was not there! The bed was rumpled, but empty.

My bitter disappointment told me just how much I’d been depending upon Philip. I knew now that I’d been banking on him to sort out the mess. I’d wanted him to decide what to do.

Had he just happened to get up early to go walking while it was fresh? Checking, I felt the bed sheets. They were cold, quite cold.

Philip had been gone for some time. What was he up to, out of his room at the crack of dawn?

At a loss, I went outside again. There was still no sound, no stirring of life in the big house.

I’d left Adeline locked in, so she would be safe enough while I investigated downstairs.

But Philip was nowhere around. Not in the salon or the dining-room. Nor, as far as I could see through the windows, was he outside on the loggia, or anywhere in the gardens.

Half-heartedly, I tried the kitchen regions. And then, on a sudden thought, I went round the back of the house to the old stables where his hired car was garaged.

It was gone.

The big Mercedes that Zampini used was also missing.

* * *

It was while I was dressing, miserably wondering what to do next, that I heard a car draw up outside. Just the faint scrunch of tyres as it braked.

Hastily I stepped into my dress and zipped it up. Giving my hair the merest flick of a comb, I ran out to see who had turned up.

Philip was just reaching the head of the staircase. For an instant he looked plain startled to see me. Then a masking smile fell upon his face.

“Hallo, Kerry...”

While he walked up to me, I waited in silence, held back by newly surging doubts. But again it came to me—who else dared I trust?

Cesare? But turning to Cesare for help would mean bringing him in officially, as a policeman. I couldn’t ask him not to report what I told him.

Was it fair, at this stage, to fetch the weight of law down on Adeline’s head? The old lady had got herself involved much deeper than she had ever intended, driven by Zampini into perpetrating more and more frauds. She wasn’t really a criminal. The whole of life was a stage play to Adeline Harcourt, every action studied, every emotion over-expressed. She had gone into this forgery business as nothing more than a piece of light comedy. She had meant no harm beyond burnt fingers for a few greedy amateur art collectors who could no doubt well afford the loss, anyway.

And I believed what she’d told me about her share of the profits going to the nuns of Santa Teresa. I could imagine that to Adeline this would seem to be squaring the account, a sort of moral tit-for-tat.

No, I couldn’t speak to Cesare; not until I knew more than I did now.

I realised that Philip was waiting for me to say something. I thought he looked a bit ill-at-ease, as though he’d been hoping to slip into his room unnoticed. But I couldn’t be sure of that. The low-slanting sun was shining straight into my eyes, and his face was half in shadow.

“What is it, Kerry?” he said at last.

Was I to confide in him, or not? Should I boldly take a chance and ask for Philip’s help, or timidly hold back and risk an even worse outcome?

There could only be one answer.

“Please, I want to talk to you. It’s important.” I threw open the door of my room again, and walked in. He followed me, slowly. I could tell he was very unwilling.

The moment the door was shut, I challenged him directly. “Where have you been?”

His silent stare asked me what business that was of mine.

“I mean,” I added weakly, “going off so early in the morning...”

He took his time about replying. His lips curled in a faint, unamused smile. “I just went out.”

He wasn’t going to tell me, and I couldn’t make him.

“What was it you wanted to say to me, Kerry?”

Doubt made a last-ditch stand. To overcome my reluctance to talk, I had to rush in. I flung the story at his head so wildly it must have been almost incoherent.

“Those forged paintings... you were right about them. Zampini’s the one... and Giles too—he does the actual work. And Adeline Harcourt’s in it as well...”

He listened impatiently as though I were talking gibberish. I had expected him to congratulate me, but the moment I took a pause for breath, he slid a damper in.

“You’ve got it all wrong, Kerry. You’re imagining things.”

I was staggered. “But it was you... What about that painting you showed me?”

He was frowning. “I suppose I am to blame. I shouldn’t have put fool ideas into your head.”

“Ideas!” I blazed at him. “Are you saying now the picture was
not
a fake?”

He looked like a man caught on the hop. “You see, Kerry, a thing is only a fake if it pretends to be something else. A painting might be very like a Raphael, but if nobody tries to make out it’s genuine, then it can’t possibly be called a forgery.”

“But you told me it was going to be offered to you as a genuine Raphael.”

“It seems I was mistaken. Nobody’s made any approach to me up to now.”

This was crazy! I was beginning to wonder if I’d been dreaming last night.

I tried hard to stay calm. “Don’t you understand? Adeline Harcourt actually confessed to me. She explained the whole set-up.”

Philip had turned away. He was fiddling with my hairbrush as if its exact position on the dressing table was important.

“Maybe the poor old girl’s getting a bit senile,” he suggested, “I’ve half suspected it before.”

“That’s absurd, and you know it,” I flared angrily. “She’s perfectly sane.”

Still with his back to me, he shrugged indifferently. “Well then, I can only suggest you misunderstood what she was saying.”

I couldn’t get through to Philip at all. He wasn’t just a stranger; he was more like an enemy.

I had to screw down my safety valve hard. In my indignation I’d have stalked out then and there, but I couldn’t very well leave him in my bedroom. Instead, I flung open the door and pointedly stood beside it.

“If you choose to believe I’ve imagined the whole thing, then you’d better just forget what I’ve said.”

He came across to me quickly, and pushed me aside so he could shut the door again. “That’s what you must do too, Kerry—forget it. Put it right out of your mind.”

I managed to look him straight in the eye. “Is that meant to be an order?”

As I’d intended, he was quite put out. “It’s just... well, you can’t go around accusing people...”

“But it’s perfectly all right when the accusations are made by Philip Rainsby, I suppose?”

“I only told you what I believed was true at the time.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, isn’t it? And I’ve
got a lot more to go on than you had.”

He
didn’t try to answer that one. Neither did he make any move to go. He stood with his back to the door, as if waiting for me to cool down.

It was no wonder; I was at boiling point. I’d been banking on Philip’s help in coping with something too big to handle alone. And he’d failed me!

I wanted to flop down on my bed in despair.

If only I could somehow go to the police without implicating Adeline—and Giles, too. If only I could somehow pin it on Zampini alone; he was the real villain.

I longed to be able to share my problem with Philip. But he stubbornly refused to admit there was any problem at
all.

He’d have to admit it if I told him what Adeline suspected about Carlo’s death—that Zampini had been behind it. He’d have to believe me then. Surely he couldn’t brush me off any longer?

But some deep-buried caution held me back, I looked right into Philip’s eyes, wondering again if I dared trust him that far. All my doubts about him were flickering to life once more.

I’d have to be getting back to Adeline’s room. Maybe talking to her again might give me an idea. Maybe she herself would be willing to act decisively this morning.

Philip was still standing there, his back square to the door.

“Please!” I said curtly. “You’re in my way.”

He shrugged and stepped to one side. I opened the door and stalked straight out.

“Kerry!” he called after me. “Please don’t do anything silly.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t even look back as I walked briskly away.

The key was clutched ready in my hand. As I jabbed it home I felt a slight resistance, and there was a soft thud on the bedroom carpet.