Assignment - Palermo Read online

  “Gabriella, my dear, dear child.”

  “Contessa Serafina . . .”

  “You are more beautiful than it was reported. How many tears I have shed, thinking of your wasted* life!” “It has not been wasted, my contessa.”

  “You could have lived with me and had everything. Everything! But you chose to stay with that foolish, pitiful little circus, the Vanini family—”

  “It was my choice.”

  “Yes. And Zio ordered it so.” The woman turned her proud head toward Durell. “And this is your new friend? It is Mr. Durell who persuaded you to come here on such a foolish mission! Is he your lover?”

  Gabriella was shocked. “No, Contessa.”

  “He is a dangerous man. Perhaps a cruel one. You conceal your surprise very well, Mr. Durell.”

  “Nothing surprises me now, Contessa,” he said politely. He kept Gabriella and himself out of the line of fire from the open doors to this lovely room. “Nothing except possibly women.”

  “You lie gracefully. You know women better than most. Am I beautiful, Signor Durell?”

  “Yes,” he said truthfully.

  He knew she was old enough to be Gabriella’s mother. But now and then he’d met women who seemed immortal in their feminine beauty. There was pride in her fine, tilted head, the careful blonde hair done in a regal coronet, the slim, tanned arms, the good legs. She was that famous combination of ancient Norman blood and local noble stock, reflected in her dark eyes, which contrasted with her hair. Her mouth was full and sensuous. She wore a Pucci frock that accented a figure still firmly curved.

  She smiled as he appraised her, and her eyes were as bold and objective as his own. “You will have bourbon, I think, Signor Durell. And you, Gabriella? Stravei?”

  “Nothing, thank you,” the girl whispered.

  “Then come and kiss me, my dear.”

  Gabriella obeyed dutifully, with just a twinge of reluctance.

  “You have indeed grown beautiful, poor girl,” Contessa Serafina murmured. “Zio would be delighted to see you.”

  “Then you will take us to see him?”

  The contessa looked at Durell. “Why have you brought this child to me? Why do you wish to see Zio?” “It’s urgent enough,” Durell said.

  “But I cannot give permission so casually. No one sees Zio. He is most—secluded. You understand, it is astonishing—no, dismaying—that you even know of his existence. It cannot be permitted, such knowledge.”

  “We must see him,” Durell insisted.

  “And you use Gabriella for your ends? We know all about you, Signor Durell. And while our main opponents”—she smiled—“are the police, we are surprised that a man in your position, with your duties, shows interest in us.”

  “The interest was forced upon me.”

  “By petty thieves!” For the first time there was a touch of steel behind the beautiful, throaty voice. “By traitors who betray their vows, by scum, the sweepings of the gutter.”

  Gabriella broke in. “But O’Malley is not—”

  “Ah, poor Gabriella.”

  “Please stop calling me that,” she said.

  “But you are a child, you have been protected all your life, and you do not know what these men have persuaded you to do. And you, Mr. Durell, at such risk to this girl and yourself, have not answered me as to why you seek Zio.”

  “We just want to talk to him.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of certain changes in the Fratelli della Notte.”

  “You should not even mention the name. Not here or anywhere. It is foolhardy.”

  Gabriella spoke in a burst of passion. “But Vecchio Zio would never harm me!”

  “Of course not, you lovely child.”

  “Then you must take me to see him, Contessa. Or at least you must tell me the way.”

  “It is impossible.”

  “I remember the place!”

  “You cannot, or you would not ask my help.”

  Gabriella clenched her small fists. “But Zio said that if I ever needed him, no matter when or where, I was to come to him, from anywhere in the world, at any time.”

  “You sound desperate about this. But is it not merely to help this man, this Durell, who you must know is an American intelligence agent.”

  “No.”

  “Durell could bring much trouble to Zio.”

  “He would not.”

  “You are naive. And have you considered, dear child,” the contessa said gently, “that Zio may no longer wish to see you?”

  “But he promised!” Gabriella cried.

  “He made a fond and sentimental speech to a lovely child. But you are a woman now and you may put him in danger. So I must tell you that Vecchio Zio forbids you to come. More than that, he has ordered us to prevent it by any means. By any means, do you understand?” Contessa Serafina Cimadori smiled sadly. “Such a blow to you. I can see it. But you must go home, my dear. At once. Otherwise ... we must kill you.”

  13

  SOMEWHERE in the exquisite palazzo a canary began to trill mindlessly up and down the scale. The warm Neapolitan sunlight shafted through the tall windows and touched the woman’s blonde, elegant head, the rich Aubusson rug, the paintings in ornate frames on the wall. Durell could hear the fountain tinkling in the courtyard garden below the windows.

  He watched Gabriella go pale and touch her heart as if she had been struck in the breast. She looked like someone who had just been stripped naked in a cold and bitter world, left vulnerable and alone to face an awful disillusionment. How many years had she lived, he wondered, with the warm security of knowing that someone incredibly powerful in secret ways watched over her like some ancient wizard, aware of all she did, guarding and comforting her? To Gabriella, Vecchio Zio must have seemed all-powerful, remote, but still intensely personal, always involved with her welfare.

  With just a few words Contessa Serafina had stripped her of the foundations of her world, which seemed so sure ever since that fairy-tale day when she was taken as a child to this mysterious source of power, wisdom, and strength. With those words the contessa had also stripped herself of her facade of patrician elegance. Cruelty grated in her voice, and a savage triumph, and her beautiful face hardened into an adamantine mask.

  She was an enemy, Durell thought, who would not be easy to cope with. He broke the deathly silence.

  “I don’t believe you, Contessa.”

  She smiled graciously. “And just what don’t you believe, Signor Durell?”

  “Zio would not refuse to see Gabriella. We want to hear it directly from him.”

  “Impossible.”

  “We intend to see him. We ask your help again.” Her laugh was scornful. “You ask my suicide. I am not really so important. There are others who have much greater influence—”

  “Such as Karl Kronin?” he asked easily.

  Her eyes were a blank dark blue, like closed convolvulus flowers. “I do not know the name.” She stood up with splendid grace, hands clasped before her. “Mr. Durell, you are in a world you cannot comprehend, one that has existed for many centuries. What do you know about the Fratelli? We rob, yes. We commit crimes, yes. But we also do much, much good. We exist because we are a historical necessity. Oppression called us into being, and we survive one way or another until history calls us again. During the Nazi occupation of Italy we formed an underground and fought as a resistance movement for patriotism. We hated Mussolini, we hated the Nazis. Many of the Brothers died for Sicily. And when your Allied troops invaded the island, who greeted them and acted as eyes and ears against the Tiger tanks? Who directed your Naval fire on enemy divisions that might have bathed your landing beaches in blood? The Fratelli della Notte was there, Mr. Durell. When the people of Naples rose up against the Nazis who shot and killed us, we fought with what we had— the knife, poison, gun, the dynamite.”

  The woman paused, panting with her emotion. Her great eyes were alight with passion. “So now we exist in crime. We must ex
ist somehow. We are not related to the Honored Society, what you call the Mafia. What we did is not recorded. We asked for no thanks. But we go on. We still keep people alive with food and money and all sorts of help—”

  Durell deliberately looked about the exquisite room. “Yes. And you have done well by it.”

  She dismissed the palazzo with a wave of her hand.

  “It does not belong to me. It is all for Vecchio Zio.”

  “Has he ever come here?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Has he ever left Sicily?”

  “There is no need,” she snapped, and then she bit her lip. “Ah, you are a clever man, infuriating me.”

  “So he’s still alive and still in Sicily.”

  “You will never, never find him,” she said.

  “We’ll see.” He held out a hand for Gabriella, who had stood like stone ever since the contessa pronounced what might be her death sentence. “Come along. There’s nothing for us here.”

  No one interfered as they went down the curving steps. The doors to the courtyard were still open, bright with sunshine and flowers. An orange butterfly floated from the wisteria to the fountain and back again.

  Then Adolfo Cimadori appeared from a doorway at their back, swaying like a tall dark blossom in the wind.

  “S-sst!” He winked, exaggeratedly conspiratorial. Durell halted. Gabriella would have gone on, her head high, but Durell checked her.

  “What is it, Adolfo?” she asked.

  “I promised help. I knew you would need it. Caris-sima, you look as if you have seen a ghost.” Adolfo giggled. “We must speak softly. Mamina would be very angry if she knew I spoke to you. She thinks I have gone out.”

  “Well?” Durell asked.

  “You want help, do you not? The contessa turned you down, as I knew she would. Why should she disobey orders? She loves her luxury. She is clever but not more clever than I. Me, I am a greedy man.” Durell waited. Adolfo elaborately fitted a cigarette into a black holder and lit it with a gold lighter. He did not inhale. He puffed and blew the smoke awkwardly.

  “I need money,” he said.

  “How much?”

  “We can discuss it at my apartment. It is a very private place, one I keep for myself, for my true life.

  Do you think I enjoy being a little boy at the beck and call of my mother? I have gone into—ah—business for myself. In a small way.”

  “You don’t pay tribute to the Fratelli?”

  Adolfo smiled and waved his cigarette like a baton. “All Americans are so blunt. But this is a very dangerous matter. I take a great risk simply speaking to you. But I can direct you to Zio.”

  Gabriella spoke at last. “He would not allow a man like you in his sight,” she said flatly.

  Adolfo flushed, and cold hatred flashed in his eyes. Then he shrugged. “Gabriella, you have always disliked me. A pity, since we could have been such good friends. Perhaps I will not help you, after all. Why should I? It is too great a risk. No, no, I have changed my mind. Ciao.”

  Durell crossed the terazzo floor and caught the man’s blue scarf in his fist. “You said you were greedy, Adolfo. How greedy?”

  Adolfo licked his lips. “Blunt, yes. Crude, yes. But rich. Like all Americans. I want a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Fifty, then.”

  “It depends on how valid your information proves.”

  “Twenty-five now, the balance when you return.” Adolfo frowned. “No, that will not do. You may not return. So you must put the money in a bank for me, to be paid after a specific date.”

  “No. When we return. You could lie to us. You could walk us into a trap.”

  Adolfo smiled. “That is a chance you take. You are a gambler, no? And only I can help you. But not here, please. Mama will be down shortly to take the sun in the garden. At my apartment in two hours, yes?”

  “Where?”

  “Via Mirabella, forty-five, on Vomero Hill. You know it?”

  “I know it.”

  “In two hours, then.” Adolfo adjusted his rumpled scarf. “I will be waiting with all the information you

  need. Bring the money—as much money as you can. I need it, frankly. My tastes are most expensive.” Durell looked at him with open contempt. “It’s a deal,” he said quietly.

  O’Malley came quickly toward him down the street, from the Riviera di Chiaia. His blond hair looked white in the hot Neapolitan sunlight. Traffic came and went with wild abandon. At the far corner, a narrow intersection, Joey Milan stood uncertainly near a wall.

  Something had happened.

  O’Malley was sweating when he joined them. “There was no way in through the back, Cajun. Glad you got out without trouble.” He looked at Gabriella. “What’s the matter?”

  “We were turned down,” Durell said shortly. “But it’s not over yet. What’s biting you?”

  “Like that dumb Bruno, you know what he did?” O’Malley jammed angry hands in his pockets. “That stupid clod. He let them take him.”

  “Where?”

  “He saw this salumeria, and you know how he is about food. He went to buy stuff for his goddam cooking. Wanted to make vermicelli a la putana. Says it’s a speciality of Naples.” He grinned. “A quick meal, originated while the ladies of pleasure waited for another trick. Anyway, Bruno went into this deli and didn’t come out. Joey Milan thinks they took him.”

  14

  “HOW long ago?” Durell asked.

  “Four, five minutes.”

  Durell hid his immediate anxiety. He told O’Malley to go in the front way, with Milan to cover him. He himself would find the back door and enter that way. “And Gabriella?”

  “She comes with me,” Durell said.

  O’Malley didn’t like it. “You’re getting real possessive, Cajun. Gabriella is a real swinger, but she belongs to me.”

  “She belongs to all of us just now. And she’s the one in the most danger. She stays with me, in the open.” O’Malley nodded reluctantly. It occurred to Durell that O’Malley’s jealousy could turn into a real problem soon. But it had to wait. He went with the girl around the comer, through crowded streets. Traffic was heavy. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary in the scene.

  Gabriella spoke quietly. “O’Malley is angry with you, Cajun. What is a ‘swinger?’ ”

  “A lovely and attractive girl.”

  “You think he regards me that way?”

  “He’s in love with you, Gabriella.”

  She was silent. Durell’s mind was on the search for Bruno. What he had seen of the salumeria was not encouraging. A small shop with fly-specked windows hiding a variety of Neapolitan sausages, cheeses, and gaudy stacks of canned food. Halfway to the next street he saw the alley. It was just wide enough for a small black Fiat to be jammed between the blank walls of the adjacent buildings. Durell could not see beyond the little car. But vague movement stirred in the deep shadows where the sun never penetrated the alley. An orchestration of garbage smells struck him as he stepped in from the street. Gabriella stepped daintily behind him.

  A radio blared, louder than usual, even for Naples. It drowned out all other sounds. He counted blank doorways and decided that it came from the rooms behind the salumeria. But there was no sign of violence, none of Bruno. Only the empty Fiat. It had been slammed into the wall of the opposite house, crumpling the fenders, but its engine still ran. Nobody was behind the wheel.

  Durell took out his gun.

  “What is it?” Gabriella whispered. “Is Bruno—?”

  “I don’t know yet. He’s still around.”

  There was just space enough on the opposite side of the Fiat to squeeze through. He waved the girl back for a moment. Then he saw the man who sprawled in the filthy water in the center of the alley. He lay face down, his legs oddly splayed. One arm was broken. It was not Bruno. His face was just a face, narrow and ratty, with a look of surprise on its features. For a moment Durell thought he was dead. Th
en the man groaned in his unconsciousness.

  The back door of the delicatessen was open. It looked as if someone had tom it off its hinges. A man sat there, crosswise, with a broken neck. Beyond, all was in darkness in a narrow hallway that seemed to lead nowhere.

  “Bruno?” Durell called softly. There was no answer. He stepped over the dead man.

  “Bruno?”

  “Goddammit.” Someone spoke in the black stifling hole. “I couldn’t help it, Cajun. They tried to grease me.”

  Brutelli lurched into sight. He staggered, and his huge bulk caromed from one wall to the other. He held a wickedly glinting knife with the wide blade flat—the easier to slip between an opponent’s ribs. His other arm was filled with a paper bag bulging with cans and packets of food.

  His grin was amiable, almost joyous. “Frank is cornin’ along with Joey. Put away the heat, Cajun. It’s all over.”

  “What happened to you?”

  There was blood on Bruno’s shirt and a cut over his eye. “Hell, there was only two of them.” He stepped over the dead man in the doorway and eyed him objectively. “Broken neck, huh? I didn’t mean to do that.” He seemed surprised. “So they tol’ me to come inna back room, like, to see some special goodies in the way of groceries, and I was dumb enough to go. They was waitin’ in there. But they didn’t figure on ol’ Bruno. Even so, they almost suckered me into the car before I reasoned it out. I got a little mad.”

  “So I see.” Durell hid his vast relief. Bruno put away his knife and heaved his groceries into a more comfortable position in his massive left arm. “Come on, Frank. Let’s go, Joey.”

  Out of the gloom came O’Malley and Milan. From beyond, muffled by the intervening walls to the salumeria, came a sudden spate of recrimination, a woman’s angry voice, and the placating murmur of a man’s reply.