“How many people in your office knew about this assignment of yours?” I demanded. “One of them must have spilled the beans.”
“Beans?” In my recalcitrant mood, I preferred to believe that she was stalling rather than that she was not familiar with the expression.
She explained that she had an independent role in the agency that came from having a small investment in the operation. In this case, Desmond had called and requested her directly. The fax information had given nothing away and only supported the cover story that I was gathering information for an eating guide.
“It’s much more likely that it’s someone in Desmond’s organization,” she said in that languid tone that disdained such trivial details.
“How well do you know him?”
She turned in the wide limo seat to face me at this change in direction of the conversation. “What do you mean?”
I picked my words carefully. If I used the wrong ones, I would learn nothing.
“There is a third possibility. Maybe Desmond is up to something.”
It was another colloquialism, but she was not baffled by this one. Nor, to my surprise, did she reject it at once. She looked thoughtful. I prompted her.
“I don’t what his motive could be,” I told her, “nor do I think he’s a devious person. But people with money and power are apt to have a lot of irons in the fire.” I paused, but her expression did not change so I assumed she knew that one too.
She went back to my first question. “I got to know him very well when he was here. I don’t think he does a lot of—what is your word?—shenanigans?” I smiled.
“That’s the word and that’s how he seemed to me.”
“He is very loyal. When he was here, one of his people got into trouble with the police, and it was only Desmond’s efforts that kept him out of prison. I can understand what you are thinking though,” she said, being surprisingly reasonable. “He is not only a world-famous movie star, he owns restaurants and now he is financing this eating guide. He has his finger in a lot of pots.” She smiled. “We say that too—so there may be some angle here that you and I don’t know about.” She cocked her head on one side in a pretty gesture. “But I don’t think so …”
I was still thinking about this as I brushed my teeth. The phone rang. A voice, a man’s, verified my identity. “This is Brother Angelo. I am a Dominican monk temporarily attached to the cathedral in Modena.” He spoke in English, heavily accented but accurate. “I am sorry to bother you this late at night but it is an urgent matter.”
I sat down hard on the edge of the bed. “Urgent! What is it?”
“In the confessional, we hear many things. It is not often that one of them is serious. But now, I have one of these. This is very serious indeed—”
“Yes,” I said quickly, “what is it?”
“It is a matter of murder.”
His voice sank to a sepulchral level and vibrated with intensity.
“How does this involve me?” I asked, although I had a feeling I was not going to like the answer.
“One attempt on a life has already been made. There is to be another—and this time, it may be successful.”
“How do you know this?”
“I told you, the confessional—”
“But I thought you could not divulge anything you learned there.”
“Not everyday sins, no,” he said indignantly, “but we are talking about murder.”
I made a mental note not to accept everything I heard in the movies, even if it came from Hitchcock. I took a breath and asked, “Whose murder?”
There was a pause and in the background, I could hear a low chanting. I assumed it to be Gregorian as I don’t know any others. When he answered, Brother Angelo lowered his voice.
“It is difficult to talk. Can you come here to the cathedral tomorrow?”
“In Modena? Yes, I suppose so.”
“After morning prayers, ten o’clock. I will meet you by the statue of San Giorgio in the west transept.”
I barely had time to agree before he hung up hastily, just as the chant was rising to a glorious crescendo.
Sitting thinking about this provocative conversation, I had pangs of alarm. Brother Angelo must know about the buffalo charge, when Pellegrini and I had a narrow escape. I was still not clear which of us was the target of that attempt and I had noted that Brother Angelo had said “an attempt has already been made on
a
life,” not on my life. Pellegrini had no idea who would be trying to kill him and I could not believe that my simple mission of evaluating three chefs singled me out for extinction. So who and why?
After the alarm came doubt. If it was me in somebody’s sights, this might be a trick although surely a Dominican monk must be a rarity in a suspect line-up. Was he really what he claimed to be though? I picked up the phone and enlisted the aid of the hotel operator in getting through to the presbytery of the cathedral at Modena.
“Can I speak to Brother Angelo?” I asked.
There was a muttered side conversation and the man answering said, “He has just gone in to evening prayers. He can not be disturbed. Can I give him a message?”
I thanked him, said no, and hung up.
I strolled along Modena’s Corso Canale Grande next morning, a thin sunlight trying to build up its energy for a bright and warm day. The city has an extraordinary number of art treasures and is not too well known, so getting around is easy. Its fame lies mainly in the location here of the factories where Ferraris and Maseratis are made and these, sadly, attract most of the tourists.
The lady limo driver had looked a little surprised when I told her that a change in plans meant we were heading for the duomo in Modena instead of the Corso Ercole in Ferrara. Then she nodded and headed for the autostrada. Both cities are less than an hour from Bologna and we were early arriving, so I made my way in the direction of the cathedral, admiring the pink stucco palaces and the beautiful gardens, ablaze with pink hydrangeas, behind magnificent wrought-iron gates.
I walked past a medieval hospital, little changed since the time of the Borgias. Its gray walls bore its five centuries well, testimony to the oft-voiced criticism that Italians are overwhelmed by antiquity. They love it and refuse to change it, which is why they have so many ancient buildings in a state of disrepair. Many of them are amazingly still in service, and this hospital was no exception. Women were hurrying in with covered bowls and trays, for in Italian hospitals it is expected that the patient’s family bring in meals.
Modena’s duomo is one of the most glorious buildings in Lombardy. Built in the eleventh century, it is impressive in its Romanesque style, and the restoration work that has been necessary over the years has been done with great care and taste so that it appears the same as when it was built. I admired the vaulted ceiling and an outstanding piece of sculpture in which four great stone lions support a long gallery. A rose window threw carmine stains across a floor worn bone white from millions of feet. The place reeked of dust, that unmistakable smell of the past.
I checked the ancient plaques under the statues around the walls, passing batteries of guttering candles, supplications for help or relief plastered above them. Grotesque paintings hung high in dark alcoves. They showed grinning devils jabbing forked spears into pale flesh while, above, winged creatures swooped, herding the damned into the tunnels that led to the underworld. The smell of incense was heavy in the air and the footsteps of a few sightseers clattered on the flagstones. The structure resonated as a bell began to chime ten o’clock.
San Giorgio is a different saint to the Italians. He is not England’s mounted knight, who is usually depicted slaying a dragon. This one stood in a niche, blue and white flowers planted around his feet dripping fresh water. A nun, pale face almost hidden in gray and black robes, stood below the saint. She saw me stop and look around. She took a step forward. “You are looking for Brother Angelo?”
I nodded. “He told me to tell you that he would be waiting for you on the bell tower platform,” she said softly. I looked up to see an iron staircase winding upwards in a dizzying spiral and thought that he must have something very confidential to impart. My feet clanged on the metal steps. The only lighting came from high on the cathedral walls, and the small bulbs shed only a dim glow.
The handrail was worn smooth and bare. I climbed higher and higher and eventually reached the top—a wide platform which led to a circular stone-slabbed balustrade going all the way around the outside of the tower. Two diametrically opposed archways led out there from the platform. Sunlight came streaming in through these, welcome after the clammy coolness of the cathedral interior.
I heard a voice but could see no one, nor could I distinguish the words. I went out through the nearer of the two archways. The daylight was dazzling and the warmth almost physical, but still there was no one in sight. Perhaps Brother Angelo was on the other side, so I started out to walk around the circular walkway. On the outside was a metal rail and I looked down involuntarily. My stomach lurched—I had forgotten that the tower of Modena’s cathedral has a pronounced tilt. The fact is that Italy has many leaning towers but we tend to ignore all the others as the famous one at Pisa has hogged all the publicity.
Vertigo is not something I am usually susceptible to, but looking down almost directly at the ground instead of at the horizon, I came close to a feeling of utter terror. I squeezed back against the inner wall and slid along it as I completed my circumnavigation of the tower. Still no Brother Angelo.
It was as I went back through the archway that I had the stabbing thought that this might be a mistake. After becoming accustomed to the brilliant sunshine, I could see nothing coming back inside. Combined with not finding Brother Angelo as I had expected …
There was no further time to speculate. I heard a shuffling sound in the gloom in front of me and a figure materialized as my eyes adjusted. Then I could see brown robes and I asked, “Brother Angelo?”
I realized I was not going to get an answer to my question when I saw the thin-bladed knife protruding from the brown-sleeved robe. I was mesmerized as the deadly-looking weapon moved menacingly towards me. I had the fleeting impression of a pale face largely concealed by a brown cowl pulled well forward, but the knife held the full focus of my attention and no other detail registered.
Backing up hastily was not exactly heroic but it was my first reaction. The knife jerked forward again. I almost lost my footing but I recovered and retreated out on to the balustrade so hastily that my back slammed into the railing and for a sickening second, I thought I was going to topple over. I grabbed the rail to steady myself and a strange thing happened.
The cowled head twitched as if looking past me. The shiny blade of the knife dipped marginally, then the monkish figure turned as if suddenly terrified and ran for the stairs. I could hear sandaled feet rattling on the metal rungs. I turned to see what had frightened my assailant so much, afraid of what I would see.
There was nothing. Blue sky held a little late-morning haze. A few pigeons sailed past and the sun shone. Otherwise, nothing. I went in and stood on the platform, looking down. I could see a figure getting smaller and could hear the patter of hasty footsteps, sounding as if their owner could not get away fast enough.
I felt a profound relief then wondered if I had been too quick to jump to a conclusion. I circled the balustrade again, very carefully but there was no one and no trace of anyone or anything to account for the would-be assassin’s abrupt flight. Well, I thought, I really scared him off. I wonder how I did it?
I was in no hurry to get down to ground level and stood for a while regaining my composure and pondering, still baffled. I had a momentary palpitation when I heard footsteps on the staircase from far below, but the voices quickly crystallized into female and childish tones. They were speaking excited French and were surprised to see me up there alone. A grandmother and three grandchildren, they took a lot of photographs of the city below. Before they started on a downward journey, a small German group had made the climb and we all went down together.
Outside, I looked around carefully but there was no sign of any brown-robed figures. I saw a sign over an adjacent door that said “Cathedral Offices,” and I went in. An elderly man in clerical habit looked at me questioningly. “Do you have a Brother Angelo here?” I asked.
“Why, yes, we do,” he said, turning to point. “He’s here right now.” He indicated a venerable-looking man, very tall and gaunt, who was surely pushing the age of ninety.
“Thank you,” I said. “I must be mistaken.”
I
T WAS FORTUNATE THAT
Francesca was Italian. She loved opera she had told me, and what is more dramatic? Being accustomed to opera, she did not burst out laughing when I told her of an attempted murder in a cathedral—she had probably watched that scene on the stage a dozen times. She did show the right amount of concern too, making sure I was unmarked by that wicked-looking knife.
“Now that I think about it more objectively,” I said, “I don’t think his intention was to stab me. I think the knife was supposed to frighten me into backing into the rail and falling over it. That way, it would look like an accident.”
“Then stampeding the buffalo must have been an attempt on you and not on Signor Pellegrini.”
“But why? You don’t usually try to kill off writers of eating guides, do you? Not until after you see what they have written anyway.”
“Very strange,” she murmured, still looking very solicitous about my health. She looked almost regal in an ivory linen sheath with high-heeled sandals and chunky gold designer earrings. Her hair shone and her eyes were alluringly bright.
We were on our way to the Ristorante San Pietro where the owner-chef was Bernardo Mantegna, “the philosopher of food” as the Italian media liked to call him. His fame was already spreading to other countries, and I had seen him in a guest appearance on BBC television in a program on Italian food. If he was the man for Desmond Lansdown’s new restaurant, now was the time to sign him up before he grew to be even more famous.