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“Is that all?”
“No,” she said. “You didn’t contract theocchjufrom Don Casabianca’s goat.”
Upon his return to the villa, Gabriel informed Christopher that Don Orsati’s inquiries would bear no fruit and that Don Casabianca’s goat was the devil incarnate. Christopher questioned the accuracy of neither assertion, as both had come from the mouth of thesignadora. He nevertheless advised against telling the don to preemptively break off his search. It was far better, he said, to allow the wheel to spin until the ball had dropped.
“Unless the wheel continues to spin for another week or two.”
“Trust me, it won’t.”
“There’s more, I’m afraid.”
Gabriel explained the old woman’s prophecy regarding the Spanish woman.
“Did she say how the don knows her?”
“She said it wasn’t in her power to tell me.”
“Or so she claimed. It’s her version of ‘no comment.’”
“Did you ever run across a Spanish woman when you were working for the don?”
“One or two,” said Christopher beneath his breath.
“How should we raise it with him?”
“With the utmost care. His Holiness doesn’t like anyone rummaging through his past. Especially thesignadora.”
And so it was that two nights later, while seated beneath a cloud-draped moon in the garden of Villa Orsati, Gabriel feigned incredulity when told that the don’s operatives had failed to locate the man who had delivered the expertly constructed bomb to Galerie Fleury. Then, after a moment or two of companionable silence, he cautiously asked Don Orsati whether he had ever encountered a Spanish woman who might have ties to the criminal art world.
The don’s brown-streaked eyes narrowed with suspicion. “When did you speak to her?”
“The Spanish woman?”
“Thesignadora.”
“I thought themacchiasees all.”
“Do you want to know about the Spanish woman or not?”
“It was two days ago,” admitted Gabriel.
“I suppose she also knew that I wouldn’t be able to find the man you’re looking for.”
“I wanted to tell you, but Christopher said it would be a mistake.”
“Did he?” Don Orsati glared at Christopher before turning once more to Gabriel. “Several years ago, perhaps five or six, a woman cameto see me. She was from Roussillon, up in the Lubéron. Late thirties, quite composed. One had the impression she was comfortable in the presence of criminals.”
“Name?”
“Françoise Vionnet.”
“Real?”
Don Orsati nodded.
“What was her story?”
“The man she lived with disappeared one afternoon while walking in the countryside outside Aix-en-Provence. The police found his body a few weeks later near Mont Ventoux. He’d been shot twice in the back of the head.”
