Vanishing Point, page 16
part #7 of Birdcage Series
“Amico mio . . . this could be the moment when life begins to change for us. Once the world knows we are being patronized by Signor Andretti . . .” He rolled his eyes heavenward and closed them, the prospect as yet too dazzling to behold. He opened them and then said sternly, “Of course, you know who he is?” Maurice said, “I’ve heard of him. An industrialist, isn’t he?”
“That – and much more. And the paintings he has! Mamma mia! As we talked, there staring me in the face from the opposite wall was a marvellous Adorazione dei Magi which could only have been a Leonardo. I swear.”
Maurice smiled. “Then don’t do it too loudly – unless he has lifted it from the Uffizi Gallery and they have not yet missed it.” Aldo said indignantly, “There is no fake in his house, I swear. Leonardo was very prolific.”
Maurice laughed. “Come to the point, Aldo. All right, this man has some beautiful paintings – but he has to have more to make you so good-humoured and over-awed. What does he want from me?”
“Did I say that?”
“Do you have to – calling me over here like this? Carla twittering like a swallow, and you with the Chianti flask open at this hour of day. But most of all . . . your eyes. Ah, Aldo, your tiny little eyes. . . they are full of the love of lire light.”
“Maurice, I beg of you – when you go to see him – do not talk in this fashion. I warn you – he is a man who by lifting a little finger could put me and thousands of other honest business men in this country out of work tomorrow. Aie! – and more. Out of life were it necessary. Now when you go to see him – dress soberly and talk with respect.”
“Mafioso?”
“Maurice – keep such a word from your tongue and your mind. He is a gentleman and an upright man.”
“Like you. Like me. And if I do not wish to go?”
“Maurice – it is unthinkable! If he likes you and gives us work and his patronage, we are made for life.” He straightened himself in his chair, bulking out his fat chest, and went on soberly and with an incongruous dignity, “Just think – if his light shines on us – we can become honest men and, more important, prosperous too. Never, you know, have I liked this faking and cheating. It does not become our talents – mine for business and yours for your genius. Ah, perhaps now and again – if it is necessary – we relax a little. But on the whole if we can get Signor Andretti’s patronage we shall be men of worth and standing. And you, you will paint pictures under your own name so that people will walk into galleries and say at once – That is a Crillon. Can only be a Crillon. And should I be standing behind I would be forward enough to step up to them and say – It is a Crillon, and he is my brother-in-law and if you wish I will take you to see him in his studio. You will find him the most charming and delightful of men – senza orgoglio.”
“Many thanks.”
“So you will go?”
“Why not? The gates to a new world will open.”
Aldo was so overcome that he jumped up and embraced Maurice. Then stepped back and said, ‘He will see you at halfpast one today.”
“He takes no siesta?”
“He is a man who needs none. Already there is not enough time in his day for all his affairs. Be prompt and – Maurice – be polite.”
“I will.”
Maurice that afternoon drove up to Fiesole. A manservant led him through the house and out on to the terrace, which overlooked Florence, and then down a wide flight of balustraded steps, graced at intervals with figures of life-sized scantily draped goddesses, and so to a small enclosed arena. Close-clipped myrtle hedges fringed a maze-like arrangement of paths that held at their centre a sunken pool patterned with water lilies and the movement of white, silver, orange and gold-coloured carp. A fountain stood in the centre of the basin, water spouting from the mouths of three leaden dolphins. By the side of the fountain, at a marble-topped table, under the shade of a large beach umbrella, sat Signor Andretti reading a book. From this spot the garden and hillside fell away to give a magnificent view of Florence in the valley below.
When the manservant had gone and Signor Andretti had greeted him, the two men sat at the table and the Italian carefully placed a marker in his book and laid it down. It was somewhat worn with use, bound in tooled and embossed leather, and entitled – La Pittura Italiana dalle Origini al Novecento.
Seeing his eyes on the book, Signor Andretti asked, “Do you know it?”
“No, Signor.”
“It is not much to be regarded by today’s standards. It was published here in Florence in nineteen hundred and thirty. My father gave it to me when I was not yet twenty. I have a sentimental feeling for it since it started my love for paintings. Aldo Pandolfi tells me you have that same love – and more, that you are a painter of genius.”
Crillon smiled and shrugged his shoulders, saying, “Aldo exaggerates everything.”
“I wonder? However, perhaps to your disappointment, I have to tell you that I wish to speak to you of other things. After that – if you wish – I will show you around my little collection. You see I am very direct. It is my wish that you be the same with me.”
“But, of course, Signor Andretti.”
“Good – then I speak frankly. Your real home is in France?”
“Yes – at Cragnac.”
“I understand that from there not so long ago you made a visit to England. Why did you go?”
Crillon, covering his surprise, paused for a while. He had no idea where this line of questioning might go – so he decided not to commit himself until forced.
“My mother had recently died. I thought a holiday in new surroundings would . . . well, take my mind off things. My father is long dead – and I have no other family left.”
“Ah . . . so. I am sorry. I had no idea. To lose someone so dear . . . Forgive me.”
“How could you have known? There is nothing to forgive. I went back to the South of England where I had once studied English.” He paused for a moment, well aware now that Aldo in his simplicity had mis-read this man. What was to come he had no idea, but he decided to fall back on a mixture of truth and fancy. “I had been happy there and felt I might. . . well, come to my happiness again.”
“And did you?”
“In a way. I met a signorina who was kind to me and we went on excursions around the country. You must know how these things are, signore.”
“It is natural. Now tell me how you came to meet an English milord called Sir Andrew Starr.”
The question surprised Crillon, though he gave no sign of this. But at once he sensed that this man’s interests were far from solely concerned with paintings. He said, his voice casual, “My friend took me to his home. It is called Avoncourt Abbey and is open to the public on some days. He has a very fine collection of paintings which are also on view. By chance I met him in the gallery and we began to talk. I told him that one of the paintings was a fake. There were others, too – but I did not wish to overembarrass him. No collector likes that.”
Signor Andretti laughed. “When you look around mine I hope you will be completely honest.”
“Does it always pay, signor?”
“With me, yes. How has this gift come to you, to be able to tell?”
“I don’t know. It is just there. I suppose, signore, it is as if you sleep with a girl who is one of identical twins and one night in the dark her sister takes her place . . . Magari – you know at once.” Signor Andretti leaned back and laughed and then said, “But you say nothing and let her stay, eh?”
“With a woman, yes. A picture, no. With men also, no. It would be kind of you, therefore if you were to speak frankly to me. I know my dear friend – and brother-in-law to be, Aldo – is at heart a simple man. I am different. So, at the risk of annoying you, I say – why do you not be frank with me? You want something from me? Then ask me.”
Signor Andretti reached out a hand and fingered the leather-tooled cover of his art book, his face heavy and brooding for a moment or two – and then a warm smile took its place.
He said gently, “You are a good judge of character. And so am I. So, you ask me to be frank and I will be. Mamma mia – but you are wasted with Aldo. So let us be frank, and you will not suffer by it. You became friendly with this Sir Andrew Starr. And you worked for him?”
“For a little while. I cleaned some pictures for him. He took to me and quickly we became very friendly. Sometimes friendship is long coming, sometimes it flowers fast. You must have known this at times in your life, signore.”
“Possibly. But we speak of you. You know who and what I am?”
“Aldo told me.”
“It is no secret. But there are secrets which are not told until a man has proved himself. I can help you great deal. But first I want you to help me. It is known that before you left England Sir Andrew made you a present of any picture of your own choosing.”
“You are well-informed. That is so. He is a very generous man.”
“Why – when you had so much to choose from – did you take a not too good painting of him?”
“Search your own heart, signore. You would have done the same. It would have been unseemly and greedy to have taken a Rubens or a Canaletto. I am a simple man – what would I have done with such? I have no gallery. Only a cottage in France. So I chose to take a little painting of Sir Andrew Starr. Not a good painting. But one which would always remind me of my holiday and a man I came to call my friend.”
“And when you got back to France you took it out of its frame and cleaned it?”
“Yes, I did. It needed cleaning – which I have to say did something for it. The artist was —”
“I know, Augustus John. I met him once in the Camargue. But it is not the painting I am interested in.”
“Then what, signore?”
“In the back I am told – where Sir Andrew had hidden them – were some pages of a document in German. Do you read German?”
“No, signore. Italian, Spanish and a little Greek.”
“What did you do with this document?”
“I kept it.”
“Did you not think these papers might be important to Sir Andrew – since he had hidden them there? You could have sent them back to him.”
“He knew my address in France, signore. He had but to write. I would have sent them back.”
“So you kept them?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I was a little curious about them – and also because I wanted to make sure that they were of no importance. On my way back to Italy I left the document with a friend in Switzerland and asked her to translate it for me.”
“And has she done this yet?”
“Yes, signore. I had it a few days ago.”
“And you have read it?”
“Naturally, signore.”
“And what was it all about?”
“Well, I do not properly understand. It was old stuff about the last war, and something to do with a government that the Nazis would have set up in England if they had won the war. And then a list of names of people who would form the government.”
Signor Andretti smiled. “You do not remember the war, of course?”
Crillon shook his head. “I was only four or five years old when it ended. My father was killed in it. But, am I right in thinking now that, maybe, these papers are of some importance?”
“They could be to some people.”
Disingenuously Crillon, now well aware that the document had to be of real importance to someone, went on, “To Sir Andrew Starr?”
Signor Andretti shrugged his shoulders. “I doubt it. Or otherwise, as you have said, he would have got in touch with you and asked for it.”
“Yes, that’s true. But to you or someone you know it is important?”
“It’s possible. One cannot tell until one has read the document. I would like to see it.”
Deliberately, Crillon put on a doubtful look that masked the rise in him of a slow current of excitement. The papers were obviously of importance – and they belonged to Sir Andrew Starr, his father who had been good to him. This man had power and influence. When he wanted something he got it – by fair means or foul. He felt the biting edge of a challenge which he welcomed because he knew it was the spur to movement which his whole spirit had been waiting for. He realised that he was going to play with fire, but he could not deny his nature which instinctively prompted him to outwit this man – despite the fact that he had taken quite a liking to him, which was natural since they clearly had much in common. For all his wealth and outward respectability he was much the same as himself. And, anyway, the document belonged to his father – though why he had not asked for it back he could not understand – and to his father it should go. But, above and beyond all this was the knowledge that now he had no need voluntarily to burn his boats here in Florence. Now – and the prospect filled him with joy – he had to go a-wandering again, but this time he would be backed by a more than substantial bank balance in Zurich.
He said, “I will get them for you, Signor Andretti.”
“Good. You are being very helpful, Signor Crillon. You will not be unrewarded. But, of course, all that has passed here between us remains between us. Aldo, as you know, has a loose mouth.”
“As you say, signore. And now, is it permitted to look at your paintings?”
Signor Andretti hesitated for a moment and then smiled. “I think we will leave that to some other time.” He laughed. “If I am to be told that my II Ciarlatano by Giandomenico Tiepolo is a fake I would rather defer the disappointment.” He gave Maurice a sly smile.
Maurice laughed. “If you have it, Signor Andretti, then it must be a fake, since the original is at Venice in the Papadopoli collection.”
Signor Andretti grinned. “Ah, we are going to get on well, you and I. Though, mind you, it would be some time before I would buy anything from you and Aldo Pandolfi without being very, very careful. Some other time we will go round together.”
“I look forward to that, signore.”
Signor Andretti pressed a little electric call button on the table before him, and said, “You will be kind enough to take one of my men back with you and hand him the document and also the translation which has been done for you. He will get a taxi back.”
Without hesitation Crillon said, “But of course.”
Within a few moments a man – introduced to Crillon simply as Berini – soberly dressed, in his forties, running to fat, heavily jowled, but with a humorous glint in his dark, almost olive green eyes, arrived.
Signor Andretti said, “You will go to Florence with Signor Crillon and bring back some papers he will give to you. You will, of course, seal them first, Signor Crillon.”
“As you wish, signore.”
Berini laughed. “He is my uncle – and still he does not trust me. What would you do with an uncle like that, Signor Crillon?”
Crillon smiled. “Obey him, respect and love him, for uncles are always more forgiving and generous than fathers. I am myself to be very soon an uncle to Signore Pandolfi’s boy Marco.”
Signor Andretti nodded, pleased. “You are to marry Aldo’s daughter, Carla?”
“Yes – signore”
“Good. I will find you both a nice wedding present.”
Crillon drove Berini back to Florence and, when they were in his apartment, he waved the man to a seat and poured him a glass of marsala, saying, “Now I will get the papers your uncle wishes.”
When he came back it was to find Berini, glass in hand, standing by his window work table, looking at a painting which he had been cleaning.
Without turning Berini said, “This is surely a Sernesi?”
“Yes, a lovely little country scene.”
Berini sighed. “Un’ opera di sublime bellezza . . . The scene is Tuscany, is it not?”
“So you know about paintings?”
“Why not? My uncle loves them but knows nothing about them really. But with me . . . they are more than food, drink and women. You are cleaning it?”
“Yes. And now, Signor Berini – turn round very slowly and do everything exactly as I tell you – then no harm comes to you.”
Berini turned and a look of surprise spread slowly over his face. Crillon was facing him holding a pistol in his right hand and Berini – who knew as much about guns as he did of paintings – recognized it at once for what it was – a “Manurhin” Walther, Model P.P.K.
He said, “This is very unfriendly.”
“I have no choice.”
“I see. Perhaps later we shall be making you explain that. It will not be a happy occasion.”
Crillon smiled. “I like you. Under other circumstances we might have become friends. Now you will turn round and walk into my bedroom and do exactly as I shall tell you.”
“Since you say so – bene. I suppose it is no good offering you some good advice?”
“None whatever. I shall stand at the door and give you certain directions which you will obey without question.”
“Certainly. I have no option.”
Ten minutes later, without bothering to pack a suitcase, taking with him on his person his passport and a few other items which he knew he would need, Crillon locked the bedroom door and sat at the main room table and wrote two notes. He left the bedroom key with them. Whistling he left the apartment and slammed its self-locking door behind him. He went down the stairs in a light-hearted mood. He had out-worn Aldo and Carla and Florence. A little sadness and some occasional nostalgia would linger – but now the world was before him and somewhere in it would be a new place for him to find and call for a while home.
* * * *
Early that evening when Carla returned from her work in the boutique – until she was married Aldo had insisted that she stay there – Aldo, worried and restless, came out of his room and said, “You have called to see Maurice on the way home?”
“No. Why should I? I go round there later as usual.”
“I ring and ring him and I get no reply.”
“Then he is not there.”
“Then, Mother of Jesus – where is he?” Little beads of perspiration dewed Aldo’s forehead.
