But not, it seemed, into the music room. Instead, Cole wandered slowly after Linda, Holmes on his heels, as far as the portego, the connecting room and general reception hall that overlooked the Grand Canal. A room filled with art and dignity, where even a large man felt small—and a small man could feel large, were he the master of the house.
The Fascist was following Linda up the stairway, and there was no mistaking the direction of his eyes as she climbed. His gaze lingered on her skirt as she moved into the room, shifting at last to take in the two men waiting for him: tall and old; short and young.
He looked between them. “Signor Porter?” As if a man in a suit gone shiny with age might be paying for a summer at Ca’ Rezzonico.
Cole put out his hand without hesitation, although Holmes could see tension in his jaw.
The newcomer did a sort of click of the heels as he shook hands. “Renato Francoletti, Capitano of the Milizia Nazionale, at your service. I wanted to thank you for your invitation tomorrow night. And to ask your indulgence, that I might bring a guest as well?”
Porter produced a charming smile that did not quite reach the eyes. “Sure, no problem. It’ll be enough of a crowd that one or ten more won’t be noticed.”
“Oh, not ten—ah, but you are making the joke.”
“Might be.”
“Thank you, Signore, I am sure he will enjoy the evening.”
Porter’s eyes flickered briefly at the pronoun as he considered, then instantly dismissed, the chance that the man was hinting at his own interests: no, his guest was more colleague than friend.
The Capitano was not finished. “This is an important gentleman, from England, who is in a position to do much for the city and for Italia, in the eyes of the world.” And, it was clear, for one Capitano Renato Francoletti.
“We’ll do our best to keep him entertained.”
“And if I may, I also wished to suggest a further…indulgence, for the future.”
“And what is that?” Looking on, Holmes was amused to see that Francoletti was one of those who could not tell the difference between friendliness and good manners.
Linda could. She moved around beside her husband so that the two faced the Venetian militia man, shoulder to shoulder, for all the world a pair of welcoming householders.
Francoletti lowered his voice to confide, “I am told that Il Duce may be coming to Venice, later in this summer. Il Presidente, yes?”
“Mr Mussolini, I know.”
“He finds an interest in Americans, and he does enjoy music. I would be most happy if you were to come and meet him, if he honours my house with a visit. And perhaps to play an American song for him.”
“Oh, I’m no professional, not at all. There’s loads of better people around.”
“That may be, but he finds you of interest. You and the delightful Mrs Porter, of course.” Captain Francoletti inclined his head, his glance lingering on Linda’s bust as it went past. Linda’s face took on the kind of gracious smile that Southern ladies wear just before the knives are drawn, although the Captain did not appear to notice. “You have become such a force in Venice, these past years. Many of us in the city feel that we should make note of that, in some way.”
In other words: The two of you throw around so much money, even the President of Italy wants to get on your good side.
“Well, then, I’d be honoured to do a song or two, if you don’t mind that I can’t sing worth a damn.” Porter’s smile had grown a touch more genuine, as the opportunity of performing for honest admirers presented itself.
“Good, then. I will let you know when Il Duce is considering a visit here. And I will look forward to our time tomorrow night.”
Porter started to extend his hand for another shake, but the Capitano paused. “Oh, but one suggestion. Both for my…colleague tomorrow and for Il Duce later on. You perhaps should play nothing too…pansy.”
Both Porters went as still as the portego’s statues. Eventually, Cole’s head tipped a fraction.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Maybe I use the wrong word, pansy? Modern music, it’s often not masculine, but Il Duce, he is most masculine person. And of course, my English friend. It is perhaps an American taste, I do not know. But you will remember this, please, when you play for them.”
The portego was, for a long moment, suspended from the real world. The air ceased to stir, no tumult rose from the Grand Canal, the cat in the balcony doorway held itself very still. Linda was the first to draw breath, straightening to her full height as she did so. Her eyes blazed, her shoulders went back, her mouth came open—
And she stopped. Holmes, standing to the side, had seen the tiny motion: Cole Porter’s hand had moved, one finger touching his wife’s arm, ever so lightly.
After a moment, she tore her outraged eyes from the Capitano to look at her husband. He gave her the tiniest shake of the head, the most silent of warning looks.
She held his gaze, an argument of a thousand words taking place in utter silence and in the space of four seconds. Her eyes suddenly glistened, and she turned abruptly away.
“Terribly sorry, gentlemen, there’s something I’ve forgotten.” Her heels hurried across the portego tiles, nearly running by the time she hit the stairs.
Cole drew a breath of his own, and raised his pale features to the burly man in black.
The Capitano, satisfied, thrust out a hand that was like a contract.
And slowly, unwillingly, Cole Porter took it.
The two men watched the Capitano walk away, watched him disappear down the stairway. The outer world crept back into the palazzo.
Holmes did not want to look at the young musician. He knew what he would see there, knew that he’d never be forgiven for seeing it: shame as a husband, resentment as a proud man, gnawing disbelief as a person with civilised manners.
Humiliation, that he had not had the servants throw Francoletti in the canal.
Self-loathing, that he had abjectly received a heap of casual abuse as a thing he had to eat.
Even a man with his money, his gifts, his joy in life—even such a man.
Holmes took a deep breath, blew it out deliberately. “By God, Porter,” he said. “I hope to hell you’ve got some alcohol downstairs.”
Porter’s choked laughter told Holmes he’d got it right: that if a stranger’s insult could be borne, then so could a friend’s having witnessed it.
Chapter Thirty-nine
DESPITE MY LONG SILKEN GARMENTS, and despite having worn my hat securely tied down, my hours at the wheel of the Runabout had left me fairly comprehensively burnt. I tried to reassure myself, as I eyed the glowing person in the bath-room mirror, that in spite of my hair-colour, sun-burns tended to fade to a tan fairly quickly. Still, for the next twenty-four hours, I was going to resemble a freshly cooked lobster.
Holmes did a double-take when he came in. “Did you fall asleep in the sun, Russell?” He went to the drinks table, and handed me a glass.
“I had a rather more active day than that. I was helping a young man to water-ski.”
One eyebrow quirked. “Skiing on water? Like those young men riding the surf near San Francisco? I shouldn’t have thought the Adriatic waves high enough for that.”
“They’re not. No, this involves standing on skis and holding for dear life on to a rope attached to the back of a fast boat.”
He winced as he tried to picture it. I laughed.
“I remained firmly at the wheel. Even so, Holmes, I am starving. I could eat a horse—a kosher horse. And then we may have a little project.”
“I shall dress quickly.”
We took our meal down in the dining room again, ignoring the ma?tre d’s injured expression as he ushered us in, pointedly welcoming us back to “our” table.
However, perhaps our absence from his dining room since Sunday served to warn him that we were culinary Philistines, unwilling to take the proper time over a meal: our courses arrived without delay, and none of the staff lingered to offer their advice. Which tonight was precisely what was required.
When we were alone, I lowered my voice. “Holmes, do you have anything going tonight?”
“There will be a round of festivities chez Porter, but I am not required to attend.”
“Would you like to come and help me commit grand larceny and trespass instead?”
“What, no battery and assault?”