Irwin Shaw - Nightwork

“If the police let me out of town,” I said. “They still have my passport.”

“Oh,” Fabian said, “I nearly forgot.” He took my passport out of his pocket and tossed it onto a table. “Here it is.”

“How did you get it?” Somehow I was not surprised that he had it. Partially against my will he had established himself in my imagination as a looming father-figure, capriciously powerful, solver of problems and mysteries, mover of men and laws. I thumbed through the passport to see if there was anything added or missing. I could see nothing to indicate that I had been suspected of crime.

“The assistant manager gave it to me when I came in,” Fabian said carelessly. “They found the necklace.”

“Who stole it?”

“Nobody. The lady had it stuffed in a ski boot for safe keeping and forgot where she’d put it. Her husband found it this afternoon. The assistant manager was writhing in apology. There’s a large bouquet of flowers and a magnum of champagne waiting for you in your room as a sign of the hotel’s mortification. Hello, hello,” he said into the phone, “may I speak to Lady Abbott please?” Then to me. “You don’t mind being left alone for a few days, do you?” “Frankly,” I said “nothing could please me more.” He arched his eyebrows. “Well…” he said. “I feel as though I’ve been running cross-country for weeks,” I said. “I could use a little holiday.”

“I thought you were enjoying yourself.” There was a touch of reproach in his voice.

“Everybody to his own opinion,” I said. “Lily,” Fabian said into the phone, “I have to go to America tomorrow. Two or three weeks, at the outside. Do you want to come?” He listened for a moment, smiled. “That’s my girl,” he said. “You’d better get back rather quickly and start packing.” He hung up. “She loves New York,” he said. “We’ll be staying at the St Régis. In case you want to keep in touch.” “Roughing it, aren’t you?”

He shrugged, went back to his packing. “It’s convenient,” he said. “And I like the bar. Actually, even if this hadn’t come up, I would have had to fly over in a day or two anyway. I want to put together the chalet deal and just about everybody I can think of is on the East Coast. I may have to go down to Palm Beach for a week or so, too. After the funeral.” “Rough country.”

“I sense a certain resentment on your part, Douglas.” He frowned at a cashmere sweater he was folding. “I don’t think I’ll need this, do you?”

“Not in Palm Beach, you won’t.”

“You make it sound as though I’m going on this trip for pleasure.” Again I heard a mild reproach, “I assure you I’d much rather go down to Italy with you. As a matter of fact, there’s something I’d like you to do for me – for us – after you get to Rome. I’ve been in touch with a charming Italian gentleman. Name of Quadrocelli. Italians have all the luck when it comes to choosing names, don’t they? I’ll send the Dottore a wire to expect you. A nice little enterprise that’s waiting to be wrapped up.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t sound so suspicious.”

“You must admit your last enterprise was hardly a howling success.”

“It worked out all right in the end, didn’t it?” Fabian said cheerfully.

“I don’t think we can count on everybody we do business with dropping dead on payday.”

Fabian laughed, showing his excellent teeth beneath the neat mustache. “Who can tell? I myself am now approaching the crucial age.”

“It would take an axe to do you in, Miles,” I said. “And you know it.”

He laughed again. “Anyway, you can explain the circumstances to Dottore Quadrocelli. Why I couldn’t come in person. You’ll find him in Porto Ercole. That’s just about two hours north of Rome. It’s a delightful place. I had hoped to spend at least two weeks there. There’s a first-class small hotel overlooking the Med. It’s called the Pellicano. An ideal place to hide out with a girl.” He sighed, regretting the first-class small hotel overlooking the Med. “Lily adores it. Later in the year, perhaps. Ask for the room with the big terrace. The good Dottore has a villa not far from there.”

“What have you got going this time?”

“I wish you wouldn’t sound so surly, old man. I like contented partners.”

“My nerves aren’t as strong as yours.”

“No, I suppose they’re not. Wine.”

“What?”

“You asked me what I had going this time. What I have going is wine. With the way the world’s drinking these days, being in wine is like having a license to steal. Have you noticed how the prices for any kind of bottle have been going up? Especially in America.”

“I can’t say I have.”

“Trust me, they have. Quadrocelli has a small estate outside Florence. He makes a delicious Chianti. So far, on a very small scale. Just for himself and his friends. He’s surrounded by a lot of small farmers who also grow wine of the same quality. We played with the idea last summer of contracting to buy the crop of his neighbors, having a pretty label drawn up, and bottling it under his name and selling it in the States directly to restaurant chains. Eliminate all the middlemen. You can imagine the advantages.”

“I can’t really,” I said. “I’ve never eliminated a middleman in my life. But I suppose it’s enough if you can.”

“Believe me,” he said. “It would take a little capital, of course. Mr Quadrocelli doesn’t have the necessary and last summer, as you can imagine, neither did I.”

“And now you have.”

“We have. First person plural, old man.” He patted my arm in a brotherly gesture. “Forever and a day. I’ve been in touch with Mr Quadrocelli and he’s working out a set of figures. I’d appreciate it if you’d look them over and call me in New York so we can discuss it. In fact, I think it would be a good idea if you called me every few days, say at ten o’clock New York time. There’s always something coming up.” “That’s no lie,” I said.

“Keeps the blood circulating,” he said airily. “Tell Mr Quadrocelli that on my side I’ll be lining up restaurants in the States. Luckily, I have some dear friends who are in the business. Very much in the business. In fact, they’ve been after me to come in with them as vice-president in charge of public relations. But it would mean going to an office every day. Unthinkable. No matter what the money is. It would also mean smiling all the time. Not my cup of tea, at all. But they’d absorb a lot of wine.”

“Miles,” I said, “how many other schemes have you got at the back of your head that you’re going to spring on me one at a time?”

He laughed. “I don’t like to worry you about projects until they ripen”. Gentle Heart. “You should thank me.” “I thank you,” I said.

“After dinner,” he said, “I’ll give you Quadrocelli’s address and telephone number. Also the address of my tailor in Rome. Tell him you’re a friend of mine. I suggest a complete wardrobe. I’ll also give you the address of a very good shirt-maker. I also suggest throwing away your present wardrobe. It does nothing for our mutual image, if you get what I mean. I hope I’m not hurting your feelings.”

“On the contrary,” I said. “I understand. By the time you see me again, I’ll be a credit to you.”

“That’s better,” he said. “Would you like the telephone numbers of some lovely Italian girls?”

“No. I’ll do it alone, thank you, if you don’t mind.”

“I just thought you might like to save a little time.”

“I’m in no hurry.”

“Finally,” he said, “we’ll have to try to uproot the old Puritan in you. Meanwhile I suppose I’ll have to take you as you come.”