The Mafia Emblem

  - 19 -

  The wall along the front of the Villa Cimbrone was at least ten feet high. It was old and crumbling, with a spectacular growth of weeds sprouting from the parapet. Nevertheless it would be hazardous to try and climb over it. The stonework to the once splendid old gateway in the centre had sadly deteriorated. Only the large iron-bound gates were freshly painted and the hinges newly oiled.

  Ben pulled at the large brass knob set in the right hand gatepost. It started a bell jangling somewhere in the distance. But gradually the noise died away and only the silence returned. He looked round. The dusty road was deserted, hemmed in along both sides by similar high walls. The only difference was that most of the others were in better condition.

  Donna had dropped him at the main road. She hadn’t seemed too keen about testing the springs of the little Alfa over the rough potholes of the side road that led to the Villa. So Ben had left her there. He was carrying his brand new briefcase which contained all his worldly possessions - a sponge bag and the change of clothes he had purchased that morning. He had walked round to the driver’s door to say goodbye.

  “’Bye.” Donna’s words were bright, but her voice was more husky than he remembered it before. “Don’t forget to ring me as soon as you want picking up.”

  That was to remind him that he was also carrying the brand-new mobile phone which she had insisted he buy, “So that I don’t lose you so easy next time”.

  “Thanks for everything,” he said.

  “Tell me when you see me next.” She tried to wink but her artificial lashes stuck together and she had to rub her eye with her forefinger.

  Ben leaned in at the window to give her an inadequate peck on the cheek. He was rewarded by a view down the front of her loose cotton dress which nearly extended to her navel. With a quick, “Goodbye, then,” he turned and walked off down the gravelly road trying to concentrate on the task ahead. After a few seconds he heard the Alfa rev up and pull away.

  It was now late afternoon but the sun was still beating down mercilessly. There was very little shade and no breeze in the roadway. Ben could feel himself beginning to perspire freely. He put down his new briefcase, took off the jacket of his dry-cleaned suit and slung it over his shoulder. Then he yanked again at the bell-pull and started the mad jangling going once more. The day, which had started so well, was beginning to deteriorate.

  They had been very late getting up that morning. In fact it had been well after ten before they had rung for breakfast to be served in the room.

  “A man has to keep his strength up,” Donna reminded him, looking enticing in a see-through negligee.

  The waiter had shown no surprise at the undressed condition of the guests. After eating, it had been another two hours before they finally got up and showered and dressed - Ben in his freshly laundered clothes. He calculated that they had hardly left the bed for the last eighteen hours – not that he was complaining.

  They managed to catch the bank just before it closed for siesta. Donna had half-charmed and half-bullied the little bank clerk into setting up a new account for Ben, into which he paid his draft. Then she had persuaded the man to let him cash a cheque for five hundred euros without waiting for clearance. Actually she’d asked for a thousand.

  With the money in his wallet, they went shopping and Donna took great delight in helping him to choose a new outfit. Ben had an uncomfortable feeling that she was trying to make him look like something off a Miami beach. Then it was back to the hotel for another love-making session. So, by the time they had lingered over a light lunch on the balcony and the inevitable further wrestle on the bed, it was nearly four o’clock. He had dressed in his dry-cleaned suit and shoes to look more formal. By then it was getting late to call on the Cimbrone family.

  Ben returned his attention to the doorbell. The people here didn’t seem in a hurry to reply, but he had no intention of leaving without arranging an interview with Alfredo. Impatiently he jerked at the pull-handle again. Almost immediately a small door in the main gate opened and an old retainer poked his head out nervously.

  “Signor?”

  “Desidero parla a Alfredo, per favore.” Ben had tried to work out the Italian while he waited.

  “Eh?” The dark, wizened little face took on a puzzled expression.

  “Signor Alfredo Cimbrone,” repeated Ben, loudly and slowly.

  “Hah,” said the old man, shrugging expressively. “No strangers today, please.” And he began to close the gate.

  Ben caught hold of the knob to stop him. It was obvious that much had changed since he last came to visit this house, but he was sure that old Emilio still recognized him.

  “Mr. Cimbrone will see me,” said Ben, trying to sound confident. “I’m his business partner. Tell him that Ben Cartwright has arrived from England.”

  He fished in his jacket pocket for a business card. His hand fastened over something hard and square and metallic. He drew it out and looked at it. It was the metal emblem he had found near Toni’s body on the night that he was murdered. How strange that it should have remained in his possession since then and had even survived the hotel laundry.

  His thoughts returned to the present. “Just a minute. I have . . . “

  Then he stopped, for he had seen Emilio’s face which was contorted with fear. The old man seemed to have just received an awful shock. His eyes were wide with terror.