Sailing to Capri (34 page)

“Pitiful, selfish woman that I am, I’d never been able to admit to having a plain country bumpkin sister, and now I couldn’t just bring her home and say, ‘Here she is and she’s crippled and scarred and brain damaged.’

“I’ll hate myself for the rest of my days for what I did next, but I still couldn’t have her live with me. So I bought her a little house, right there near the hospital in Lyon, where she could get the help she still needed. I found an experienced
caregiver, a nurse who lived with her and took care of her needs. She had a little garden, a home of her own. And no sister there to say she loved her.” Diane stopped. She closed her eyes. “My shame is complete,” she said, and the tears fell down her face.

“After Bob divorced me, it became more and more difficult to pay for Alice’s care. I was forced to sell my jewelry, to borrow from loan sharks. And of course I gambled, always hoping for the big win that would solve all my problems, always worried that Alice would lose the only real home she’d ever known.”

She looked at her silent audience. “Anyhow,” she said finally, “that’s my story, and that’s what Bob wanted me to tell you. And you know what? I’m grateful to him for making me finally admit my guilt. And I’ll be forever grateful to him for the château. He’s taken me out of the despair I’ve been living in these past few years and given me a purpose in life. Bob’s given me that second chance I know I don’t deserve, but Alice does.”

There was silence as Montana took out the next sheet of yellow paper. A flash of lightning lit the room like a searchlight at a Hollywood premiere, and people shifted in their chairs, staring uneasily out of the windows.

“This one’s for Davis Farrell,” he said.

“
Well, Davis,”
Bob had written,

“did you ever think it would come to this—me speaking to you from across the great divide where you might stand accused of dispatching me? Did you kill me, Davis? Come now, let’s speak the truth. There’s nothing more to lose, is there?

“You hated me for what I did to you, shutting you out of the financial paradise you’d created, turning you out into the cold, cold world to ‘make something of yourself .’You’d had every chance, and you abused it in every way. You cheated, stole, lied, turned on your friends even … all because you worshiped that tired old despot—Money.

“Money ruled your life, and in a way it ruled mine, though I liked it only for the game I could play making it. It never controlled me the way it did you. I didn’t turn you in though, I didn’t let you stand trial, go to jail. I still saw something in you that made me set you free to do with your life what you would. By turning you away from Money, I thought I would save you from yourself. I thought I’d given you a second chance at life. How sad, then, if you are the one who took my life from me.

“Still, I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, unless Montana proves me wrong, that is. I’ve heard about your work. You’re doing an admirable job helping the ignorant and the disenfranchised. I commend you, Davis. And it’s for that reason I’m leaving you the sum of fifty million dollars to establish a foundation that will enable you to pursue your philanthropic dreams of a better life for others. I think I can say without hesitation that I know, this time around, the money will be well-spent.”

There was a stunned silence, then Davis got to his feet. Hands in his pockets, he looked casually around. “Sure, I thought about killing Bob,” he said. “But I’m a white-collar crook, not a murderer. Technically, I didn’t ‘steal,’ I just cleverly shifted monies around to suit my own ends, which were always, of course, to make money for me. I was heading on that long, slippery upward road to corporate stardom, on my way to becoming one of those billionaire heads of companies who line their own pockets using the workers’ pension funds and throwing million-dollar parties with money skimmed from shareholders. Bob caught me, and he forced me out of the world I belonged in. Bob Hardwick changed my life—and not for the
better. I’d already started to edge my way quietly back into the financial arena before Bob died, but then I had the freedom to pick up where I left off when he showed me the door.

“I sympathize with the disenfranchised. Let’s not forget that because of Bob for a few years I became one of them. But it’s not who I am, and a philanthropist is not who I aim to be. I don’t want Bob’s fifty million. And I don’t want to run a foundation. Oh no, what I want is to be the next Bob Hardwick, and trust me, my fellow suspects—and by the way, I wonder which one of you
did
murder Bob—I will get there. Forget Gordon Gekko. I’m no murderer, but like him I’m a killer on the Street, and it’s my name you’ll be seeing on a daily basis in
The Wall Street Journal
and the
Financial Times.
And I’ll use every ounce of my devious smarts to make sure I stay there.

“Bob called it wrong on this one, Montana,” he added. “He can keep his fifty million. Get someone else to head the foundation.

“And you know what else I have to say to Bob Hardwick? Forget it, Bob, I’m a guy who makes his own second chances. I don’t need yours.”

He sat down to a stunned silence.

“You have thirty days to rethink your decision,” Montana said.

Davis shrugged. “I don’t need it. I know what I want and this time nothing is going to stop me.”

Montana turned to Filomena. “And now it’s your turn,” he said.

She bit her lower lip nervously. Then, “I didn’t kill Bob,” she cried. “I’d never do anything bad like that—”

“Wait,” Montana said. “And listen to what Bob wrote to you.”

She sat on the edge of her seat, head down, twisting her hands together, a picture of guilt.

“Filomena, my lovely Filomena. How I wanted you to love me.
Really
love me. I was reflected in the glow of your beauty, poor ugly older man that I was, seeking something I never had and never would have had if it was not for my extraordinary ability to make great amounts of money.

“Of course it was asking too much. What we had was a simple form of exchange. You paid your price, I paid mine. Which doesn’t mean to say I didn’t love you. Of course I did, in my way. I loved the shortness of your upper lip, the curve of your mouth, that little pout. I loved the way you looked—-you might have noticed I couldn’t take my eyes off you. But I made a mistake, Filomena. You were a young girl, and I was an older, experienced man. I took advantage of your youth and I’ve been ashamed ever since. I tried to make it up to you, but enough never really seemed to be ‘enough,’ and you started to make my life hell.

“Thinking about it now, I’m forced to wonder what your life might have been like had you not met me. Would it simply have been some other rich man? Or would you have fought your way out of the ‘beauty trap’ and made something of yourself?

“I wonder, have you been asking yourself these same questions lately, dear little Filomena? Have you asked yourself what’s left in life for you? Why not ask instead ‘What’s life got in store for me?’ And you
can interpret that two ways. It’s either What’s yet to come? Or Why not a store?

“I’ve bought you a boutique on the best shopping street here in Capri. Along with it comes a small very pretty house—I’ve seen photographs—where you can finally make a proper home because, you see, I believe you are two things: a true merchant and an old-fashioned homemaker. I can just see you cooking pasta in your own proper Italian kitchen.

“There will be enough money to start up your business and keep you going, but just to make sure, the sum of ten million dollars has been placed in trust for you. The income from this will be paid annually into your account. You are set for life, Filomena, and I wish you luck. And of course you didn’t murder me. After all, it might have ruined your dress.”

A ripple of subdued laughter ran around the room as Filomena got to her feet.

“Bob was right,” she said, still twisting her hands nervously together. “I
am
a merchant at heart. Clothes and fashion are what I understand, and I know I’ll make my boutique a success.” She clapped her hands together, realizing it was a dream come true. “I can’t believe it, I just can’t believe it. Not only does Bob give me a shop, but he buys me a house! No more damp rented rooms in poor palazzos in Venice. I am to have my own home. I can invite my family and they can be proud of me. Bob has given me material things but he’s also given me my dignity back. And I’m very grateful for that, and for my second chance.”

She looked uncertainly around, then making up her mind, she said quickly, “I would have never admitted this before, but
now that Bob has put me in a position of trust, I too must make my confession. I stole things from the boutique where I work, small things, stuff that was returned or was going on sale. I lied and blamed it on shoplifters. We get them, you know, even in a smart store like that. But I promise I’ll return every cent they cost. I will not start my business with this on my conscience.”

A rumble of thunder drowned out her little speech. It wasn’t raining yet, but the black clouds had changed day into night and the garden was still silent; no birds sang, no crickets chirruped.

“Charles Clement, it’s your turn,” Montana said.

“Well, Charlie, I believe I have to call a failure on this one. I gave you your chance. I closed down your call-girl business but I didn’t have you put in jail as you deserved. However, you have not changed for the better. You are worse.”

Charlie leapt to his feet. “Stop this nonsense,” he yelled. “Stop it right now. I demand to have my lawyer present.”

“Sit down,” Montana said in an icy voice, and Charlie subsided, though he was still muttering.

“I gave you a chance, Charlie, even after you brought the poor little girl to Sneadley as a ‘gift’ for me, your usual method of touting for business I heard later. This time, though, you made a mistake. You made a serious misjudgment of my character. By closing you down, I gave you a chance and you betrayed that. It’s my belief you simply took your child pornography, your child selling, abroad—”

Charlie was on his feet again, his face mottled with anger. “Bob Hardwick is lying. He was a pedophile, he had me find girls for him, nine-or ten-year-olds, sometimes even younger…. You don’t know the true Hardwick, the liar and child pornographer—”

Montana was out from behind the desk. Hands clenched into tight fists, he stood in front of Charlie. “One more word and I’ll personally take great pleasure in giving you the beating of your life,” he said in a voice filled with quiet menace. “And let me tell you that, as we speak, the École de Nuit—charming name, isn’t it, for a bunch of poor kids sold into sexual slavery—is being closed down by the Paris vice squad. You’re finished, Charlie. It’s over for you.”

Charlie pushed back his chair. He turned to run, tripping over Reg and shoving Ginny out of his way. Reg had none of Montana’s compunctions; he smashed his fist into Charlie’s nose, sending him reeling, blood spurting. Montana grabbed Reg and held him back from plastering Charlie again.

“No bugger talks that way about Bob Hardwick,” Reg hissed.
“No
bugger, especially one like you.” He aimed a kick at Charlie’s knees, grunting with satisfaction as his foot connected.

Limping, and with blood still dripping all over his expensive shirt, Charlie lunged for the doors. Heads turned to look as Montana called after him. “By the way, Charlie, Bob thought it was quite possible you murdered him. ‘You never know with a man like that,’ is what he said.”

Ignoring him, Charlie eyed the guards warily, ready for more trouble. To his surprise they moved aside and even opened the doors for him.

He stepped outside, congratulating himself on being a free man. And walked right into the waiting arms of two very large Italian policemen. He was told they had an arrest warrant issued by the international police; then they handcuffed him, read him his rights, bundled him into the back of a police van, and drove him away.

“How dare he talk like that about Bob?” Ginny said angrily. “I always knew he was scum.” Reg rubbed his skinned knuckles, the look on his face expressing what he felt about Charlie, while the others whispered together, shocked.

Montana called their attention back to Bob’s will. This time it was Dopplemann’s turn to squirm.

“And now you, Dopplemann. I suppose I should call you Marius, though nobody ever does. Dopplemann you were and Dopplemann you remain, with occasionally the ‘Herr’ in front, to show due respect.

“I was your great admirer, Herr Dopplemann. I myself was merely a man who knew how to make money, while you are a genius. Did that excuse what happened? I think not. Of course I would willingly have given you money had you needed it, but there was no need. Only a reason. A woman. And that ‘reason’ has been a destroyer of many a man before you.

“I had my contacts in the corridors of power, I heard rumors. I tried to dismiss them but in my gut I knew they were true. Yet I did nothing because I had no proof. Then someone came to me with a couple of disturbing stories: about secret meetings in a Georgetown park; about messages passed in out-of-the-way cafés…. It didn’t take a genius, Dopplemann, to guess you were being recruited to sell out America, the country that had given you honor and access to its secrets. You were
about to hand them over to a foreign power. And all because of a woman.