Belladonna Read online

  We make the arrangements and buy all the buildings"an entire square block. The few tenants in the houses on Horatio gladly accept our hefty cash buyout of their leases, as well as moving expenses. We buy much of the property across the street as well, just to be safe. As ever, we are clever, and very cautious. We take our time. Leandro had taught me well, and the lessons continued after his death. He had already set up several offshore corporations for us, which I discovered months after the reading of his will, when the paperwork was all in order. There were tax shelters and diversified portfolios and accounts, annotated files chock-full of letters and the names of colleagues in New York. Once I saunter in to their hoity-toity offices, sweep past the secretaries and the underlings, drop his name and show them the letters of introduction, divulge the nature of some of my assets, and watch their jaws drop, I become a valued member of the investing public. No questions asked and all deference paid. It is a game, and I rather enjoy it. Matteo and Belladonna and I read financial journals and prospectuses and shareholder statements after Bryony’s nighttime fairy tales, and we discuss what to buy and what to sell. It is almost frightening how stupendously rich Belladonna is. We have so many companies that even the firm drawing up the contracts and completing the purchase of our many parcels of prime real estate has no idea exactly for whom they’re working.

  The renovations about to begin, linking Kiss-Kiss to some crumbling houses, are barely noticed, in a part of the city of no consequence to anyone but butchers and hookers.

  I expect you’ve guessed why all this subterfuge. Of course. So that once the club is up and running no one can trace it back to the source: the Contessa della Robbia. She hasn’t decided to show her face in New York yet. There’s no need. We enroll Bryony in kindergarten at the Little Brick Schoolhouse, the best private school within easy walking distance for us, and none of the parents of the other children will ever realize that the bilingual and bubbly Bryony Rose Robbia is the daughter of the masked marvel. Who will think that the soon-to-be notorious Belladonna in reality lives Kiss-Kiss close to her infamous den of celebrity? Who will suspect that at the end of an evening all she has to do is pass through one of the secret doorways into the narrow passageway built between the club and her row of houses?

  As far as the records go, she doesn’t exist.

  One of Leandro’s architects comes over from Italy with his team, and the scaffolding goes up. We are paying him so handsomely that he asks no questions about some of our more bizarre requirements, making sure only that everything is up to code. The foreman is well versed in the fine art of greasing palms for the necessary permits. Luckily, Manhattan bureaucrats are still reeling from Mayor O’Dwyer’s resignation a year or so ago, as well as the allegations of the Kefauver committee, and they pay absolutely no attention to us. The demolition and heavy work crews are hired in Chinatown, work around the clock, and are rotated after a few days so they have no basic idea what the final results will be. No one who speaks English hammers in a nail.

  After only a few weeks of furious activity, the vast space is beginning to resemble a club. Marisa Columbo, who tended to Leandro’s frescoes in Ca’ d’Oro, arrives with a team of painters to decorate the walls with scenes from Venetian carnivals. Around the corner, the row of brown-stones has several interior walls on the ground floor knocked down, combining five houses into one, though you’d never know it walking down the street. Why, we are so paranoid, we have letters delivered to the so-called tenants in each house so the lazy local mailman won’t be suspicious. The floors are stripped and the walls painted a bright apple green, like a leaf about to unfurl in the spring. We buy comfortable overstuffed furniture and colorful Orientals; we hang pictures and Belladonna’s photographs of Italy and heavy velvet curtains. We install a piano and a harpsichord. The terra-cotta tiles and the pots of herbs on the windowsill in the kitchen remind me of Caterina. It is starting to feel like a home.

  Belladonna and Bryony settle in the middle house, although Belladonna always uses the door closest to Washington Street, the one farthest from the entrance to the club door around the corner. Bryony’s nanny, Marisa’s widowed aunt Rosalinda, sleeps in a room on the next floor up. I have the entire second floor of the house on Belladonna’s right to myself; Matteo takes over on the left. Farther down, Orlando sets up an exercise area near his own room, and at the other end, our cook, his cousin Bianca, takes care of the kitchen. Two of her distant cousins, Fabia and Donatella, come in during the week as maids. They barely speak a word of English, and are so grateful for the work and the opportunity to be near their family that we don’t have to worry about them spying. When the house rings with the lovely lyrical sound of Italian, it makes us feel as if we have brought a little piece of Leandro with us.

  Especially when we go up on the roof. We turn the top of the second house from the left into a haven, a lushly planted roof terrace. We lay down a carpet of grass, line the sides with terra-cotta planters, plug in a small fountain, and hang Petunia’s huge wrought-iron cage out for her to squawk her pleasure to the sunshine. We even add a large fake marble fireplace that Bryony loves to hide in, with a gilded baroque mirror hanging from a stand above it. The effect is theatrical and ridiculous, and we love it.

  Yes, we are getting closer. The club space is shaping up nicely. Now we need to find the right people to put into it.

  It is, in other words, time to have a nice long chat with Mr. Jack Winslow.

  He meets me in a midtown coffee shop, and he doesn’t look like I thought he would. I figured he’d be whippet-thin and highly strung, but our boy Jack is of medium build and moves with deliberate assurance. When he takes off his fedora I see that his dark brown mane is slicked back with pomade, not a hair out of place. His white shirt could practically walk by itself, it is so crisply starched. His tie is dark brown with subtle red stripes, and his trousers baggy and cuffed; his cuff links are plain gold disks. He is a perfectly pleasant-looking American man in his late thirties, of no noticeable ethnicity. His eyes are brown and his nose is straight and his cheekbones are only moderately chiseled. I guess that’s the essence of a good detective: one whose demeanor is so innocuous that he could blend into a crowd anywhere and not call attention to himself.

  I notice a Masonic ring, and he sees my quick glance at it. He doesn’t miss a thing, this one. Leandro was one to watch carefully, yes, and I can tell that Jack is equally vigilant. He hardly blinks, or moves, but it’s as if he is absorbing the very molecules of information swirling around him so he can fit the pieces together later.

  “Cigarette?” I offer.

  He shakes his head no. “I need my sense of smell,” he says, “in this line of work.”

  “Of course,” I say. “How did you meet the Pritch? Mr. Pritchard, I mean.”

  “During the war.”

  “Intelligence, I suppose.”

  If he had a cigarette he’d be exhaling in a rush. “Where did you fight?” he asks.

  “How did you know I did?”

  “I guessed.”

  “Italy. The Resistance. Till 1943.”

  “What happened to you?”

  I try not to blush. He can’t possibly know what happened. “Betrayal,” I say with what I hope is an offhand shrug. “Torture. The usual.”

  He nods. The imaginary cigarette would be stubbed out now. I’d like to tell him everything, I decide, but now is not the time.

  “Who brought you to Mr. Pritchard?” he asks.

  “Leandro, the Count della Robbia. He took care of us in Italy until he died. I’m sure the Pritch told you some of the details.”

  “Yes, Harris said he was a man of hidden talents.”

  “You might say that, yes. He was very good to us. Saved us, as a matter of fact. He taught us"me, my brother, Matteo, the Contessa"all about planning, and patience. Which is what brings us to you.” I flash one of my devastatingly charming smiles, which he ignores. Oh dear, what a bore. This one’s all business. Not an unnecessary word will be crossing
his lips.

  I plow on nonetheless. “We have a slightly unusual project for you. The Pritch told us you are indisputably the best man for us, a man who is trustworthy beyond reproach. Are you?”

  He looks at me soberly. “Yes, sir,” he says, “I am. Trust-worthy. I can’t speak for the rest until I hear more.”

  “Do call me Tomasino,” I say. “I am no gentleman.” He nods. “This project,” I continue, “will involve all of your time and many of your contacts. Cost, as you may have already guessed, is not going to be an issue. The utmost discretion is.”

  “Go on.”

  “We’re trying to find some men the Contessa was introduced to in 1935. Nearly seventeen years ago. Members of a peculiar kind of club in England"at least we’re fairly sore it was England"of a reprehensible nature.” I sigh. This is not as easy as I’d like it to be.

  “Then why are you here and not there?” he asks.

  “The Contessa doesn’t want to be there. The thought of it is too much for her,” I explain. “The Pritch is working on it from his end, of course, but the complicating thing is, we don’t know any of their names. She never saw any of their faces. They wore masks. All she knows is their voices, their hands, if you catch my drift. I can’t say any more right now.”

  He nods again. Now I’m glad he’s the taciturn type. Not one to pry unless necessary, although he must be bursting with questions.

  “So you have no idea how many of them are still alive,” he asks.

  “No. But I’m sure most of them are. They’re too mean to die. Especially the worst one. The one she came to know only as His Lordship.”

  I shudder at the thought of him, even in broad daylight, then take a deep breath and go on. “Finding them"especially his Lordship"and then, well … At any rate, it is our life’s mission, you might say. It keeps her going. The Contessa, I mean. Coming here was inspired by something Leandro said"that we should reel them in. So we’ve decided to create a place that is so unique and so spectacular that everyone who is anyone will want to come to us. We’re going to call it the Club Belladonna, which is named after what Leandro called the Contessa. Here, in New York, where it’s much easier to blend in. And where we can absolutely control the environment.”

  “I see.”

  “That’s where you come in. Since the Pritch has vouched for you, and you’ve just said we can trust you, I want you to see the space, now, while it’s under construction. I’m sure you’ll have lots of suggestions.”

  “Explain.”

  “Well,” I go on, eager to spill the beans, “the entire club and everyone in it is going to be rigged. Two-way mirrors, hidden cameras and microphones, the very latest tape-recording devices, peepholes tucked away in the frescoes, you name it. So even if the Contessa’s not there, she’ll be able to listen to the voices later, if need be. We want many, if not all, of the staff to be your kind of professionals. Professional people watchers, that is. People you know and trust, moonlighting cops, leftover spies from the war who are bored, perhaps. Whatever. Those who are adept at overhearing conversations and reporting on them later.”

  He nearly smiles. I know this whole idea must strike him as only slightly preposterous.

  “How long do you foresee the surveillance lasting?”

  “Until we find at least one of the members of the Club. After we’re done with him, he should be able to lead us to the others.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then we see. A swift getaway, most likely. Always leave when you’re having a good time, that’s my motto.”

  Jack eyes me thoughtfully. Clearly, I have tantalized him. “I need time to consider the ramifications,” he says, “and to see the club as it is right now.”

  “No problem.”

  “And I must meet with the Contessa.”

  I frown. “That might be a bit of a stretch. She’s not up to seeing anybody right now.”

  Jack shrugs and stands up. “Suit yourself.”

  “Sit down,” I say. “Let me speak to her. You have to understand she’s not a very social creature.”

  “Then how will she cope with running a club?”

  “Well, for one thing, she’s not going to be there every night. No one will ever know whether she’ll show up or not, so that will make them keep coming back in anticipation. And she’ll always be costumed, in disguises. A facade to hide behind. Naturally, that will make her seem more exotic and unreachable. I needn’t tell you there’s nothing men love more than the challenge of making a conquest.”

  But of course I have to tell him anyway.

  “The Contessa is going to be like the Mount Everest of hostesses. We’re working out the details now, having the dresses and wigs and her masks made. The decor of the club,” I go on, with cheerful confidentiality, “is going to be Italian carnival. You’ll see soon enough. And we’re planning to have masked balls. Theme parties. Bring in the rabble from around the world. Spy on them all.” I smile broadly. “Frankly, I can’t wait. If it’s not fun, what’s the point?”

  “Set up the meeting,” he says. “If she’s worried about my trustworthiness, I’ll be happy to sign a confidentiality agreement beforehand.”

  I eye him carefully. “Do you think I don’t trust you?”

  “I know I can trust myself,” he says, “and no one else.”

  “Well, then,” I say, “what would you do in our position?”

  “Hire me.”

  We meet for tea at the Waldorf-Astoria, just in case Jack doesn’t work out. Then he won’t know where we live, even though the club’s address will soon be no secret. We take a table against the back wall, where we can scan the room. Matteo and Orlando come along for protection. I make the introductions.

  “Thank you for taking the time to meet me,” Belladonna says. “I expect you’ve quite a lot of questions.”

  Jack nods.

  “About trustworthiness,” she adds.

  He looks at her. She does look ravishing, if I do say so, wearing a wasp-waisted black crepe suit, with large red buttons down the bodice and matching red leather gloves. She has high heels on so she seems taller, although she sits so erectly that she often seems to loom over anyone else present. Her lips are stained nearly the same red, setting off the piercing green of her eyes. Or would, if you could see her eyes clearly. There is a small black velvet hat perched on her hair, which she’s twisted into a neat chignon, with a veil nearly obscuring her face.

  Oh ho, how I love a lady with an air of mystery!

  “Although,” she continues, her voice low and mellifluous, “I should think I’m the one who should be asking you if you are trustworthy.”

  “In which way?”

  “In the way I need.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “As a detective, and as a man.”

  He frowns. “As a detective, assuredly, Contessa.”

  “Please, call me Belladonna. Just that.”

  He nods. He doesn’t yet know that few have that privilege. Of course, few actually talk to her as Belladonna, do they? Their loss.

  “And as a man,” she repeats.

  “As a man? I don’t follow you.”

  “Women. Are they your weakness?”

  His face becomes blank. “Not at the present. Not anymore.”

  “Good.” She takes a sip of tea, Lapsang souchong. “Tomasino told me he has explained the scope of our project to you.”

  “In brief.”

  “You’ll be working nights. You’ll be on call even when you’re not working. If you had a family and responsibilities of that nature there would undoubtedly be conflicts.”

  “I work alone,” he says, for him a little too quickly.

  He doth protest too much, our Jack, I say happily to myself. She’s zoomed right in on what is probably his only weak spot, poor thing. So he is human after all. I’m very relieved. No one needs a sourpuss running the club. Hmm, I start to wonder, if we didn’t have so much for him to do, I wonder if he might like Marisa.
She’s got to get her head away from those frescoes before the fumes do her in.

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Belladonna goes on. “You’ll be responsible for a large staff of people who must know how to keep their mouths shut. Who are incorruptible.”

  “No one is incorruptible,” I say.

  “Are you incorruptible, Jack?” she asks, throwing me a sharp look. “If what we have in mind works, there will be many, many people offering bribes to the staff to uncover our secrets. Even now we’re taking a calculated risk talking to you. But we have to find someone. Mr. Pritchard has nothing but praise for you, and my husband told me that Mr. Pritchard’s word has always been good. We’ve got nothing else"no one else here"to go on.”

  “I hope to serve you to the best of my abilities,” Jack says. “No one can bribe me, if that’s what you mean. You have my word.”

  Belladonna gets up suddenly. She means to sit next to Jack, I realize, and we swap seats. A faint hint of her perfume, a strange melange of yellow jasmine and lily of the valley and other exotic flowers, wafts by. I smile, blissful at the scent of it.

  Jack doesn’t move a muscle, but he is already falling under her spell, I can tell. Desperately curious, our boy, but he’s a real pro. He’s burning with curiosity; I can smell it on him.

  Like he said, a sense of smell is indispensable in this line of work.

  “Give me your palm,” Belladonna tells him.

  “What?”

  “Your hand.” She tries her best not to flinch at his touch. “Hmmm,” she says, tracing the lines of his palm with a red-leather-clad finger. This is something Caterina taught her. Jack is mesmerized, despite himself. He can’t help it. “Analytical, but your fingertips show a decided creative streak.” She turns his hand over. “Heavy knuckles; that means you cut to the chase. And need constant variety.” She turns it back over. “Aha, a triangle on the mount of Saturn. You wonder about your place in the universe, and it’s hard for your brain to shut off. You ask questions until you get the answers you seek. Good.”

  He nearly blushes, and worries that his hand is starting to sweat. What is she doing to him? How can her eyes remain limpid and yet so focused?