The Malaspiga Exit by Evelyn Anthony

find out when the next consignment of antiques is leaving for the States, but go to the villa as often as possible. Make a note of anyone who visits there, especially foreign contacts.’
    â€˜I think I can do that,’ Katharine said. ‘But it may take time.’
    â€˜Not too long,’ he said. ‘That shipment will be on its way. If not to America, then to one of the other places. I want to know when and where it’s going.’
    â€˜I’ll do my best,’ she said. ‘There’s something I’d like to ask you …’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜How far did Firelli get?’
    He took a thousand-lire note out of a shabby wallet and folded it in the bill.
    â€˜We’ll never know,’ he said. ‘His last telephone call didn’t make sense; the line was so bad that only a word here and there came through. He wasn’t alone, that was obvious. And whatever he was trying to tell us had to be disguised. Angelo; that was the only clue. It didn’t connect with anything. There is nobody with that name among the Malaspiga’s family or their staff. But it meant something to Firelli. He knew he’d never make another call and he was trying to get it through to us. He was a very brave man. I liked him.’
    â€˜And he was never heard of again—it seems incredible. Why didn’t the police investigate?’
    â€˜They did,’ Raphael said. ‘He was using a firm of antique exporters as a cover. The Duke said he left after a business interview, his hotel received a telephone call asking them to pack his luggage, which was collected by a taxi, and after that there wasn’t a trace. The caller said he was Firelli and flying back to the States.’
    â€˜It’s horrible,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s worse than knowing for certain he’s dead.’
    â€˜Oh, there’s no doubt about that,’ Raphael said. ‘They murdered him because he was on to something. Firelli’s dead, but we will never find him. Take my advice. Don’t be afraid to be afraid. Fear breeds caution, and you need to be very cautious dealing with your family. Don’t imagine that a blood-tie would protect you. Be very careful.’ Frank Carpenter had said the same.
    â€˜I will,’ she said. He got up and they squeezed out between the tables.
    â€˜I think you should leave first,’ he said. ‘I will pay the bill. I look forward to your next report and I will pass on this information to New York. You’ve done very well.’
    They shook hands briefly, and Katharine went outside on to the piazza. It was dusk, a warm, humid evening; crowds of people were crossing the piazza, breaking up into groups, to linger and look. The Florentines were setting out for the bars and cafés before going home. Everywhere the shops were open, lights blazing. The scene had a medieval quality, with the great Cathedral and the Baptistry brooding over the scurrying people. High above her, a bell began to toll; a flock of pigeons rose whirring in alarm and then as quickly settled. Bells began to ring in different parts of the city. The sound was indescribably sad and beautiful. A pair of sharply dressed Italian men paused as they came by her; one of them half turned back, a smile of invitation on his face. Katharine turned quickly before he had time to accost her, and walked towards the Via Vecchio. In the main street she waited a few minutes on the pavement until she found an empty taxi to take her back to the hotel.
    Be very careful, the little policeman had said. A blood-tie won’t protect you. Her handsome cousin, with his princely bearing and his charm, would kill her as pitilessly as he had killed Firelli. As those who worked for him had killed her brother.
    She went upstairs to her bedroom; she didn’t want to eat anything. She felt sick and weary. There was a huge parcel wrapped in cellophane and tied with a pink ribbon in her room.