Death of a Showgirl Read Free

wasn’t. I guessed she was probably in an unhappy marriage. But then that’s a percentage assumption about most people.
    ‘What are the chances?’ she said.
    ‘Of what?’
    ‘Finding her safe and well?’
    I must have hesitated because her face dropped. She closed her eyes as if I were already breaking bad news.
    ‘It’s very likely I’ll find her,’ I said slowly.
    ‘Alive?’
    ‘I can’t say that. I hope so. It’s perfectly probable she’ll come home unharmed.’
    She sighed again, less noisily this time.
    ‘Where’s this Oro?’ I asked.
    ‘What?’
    ‘The nightclub where that photo was taken?’
    ‘It’s in Testaccio.’
    ‘I should get round there.’
    We walked down the staircase. I saw her running her hands along the wide flat bannisters as if searching for support.
    ‘Allora?’ shouted Biondi before we were even at the bottom. ‘Did you find anything?’
    ‘Of course we didn’t,’ the sister interrupted.
    ‘Then why did you go up there?’
    ‘Please, Father.’ She slammed a hand on the circle of wood at the end of the bannister. ‘Try and be civil. He’s trying to build up a picture of who he’s looking for.’
    Biondi stared at me like he was already disappointed. ‘Va bene, va bene,’ he said, though he didn’t sound convinced. ‘Come into my study and we’ll sort out your fee.’
    I nodded at Chiara by way of goodbye and followed Biondi into a room at the end of the house. There were more untouched tomes in here and a large desk with a green leather inlay. The room’s rug looked like an heirloom from the Middle Ages.
    ‘How much?’
    I told him my daily rate and he pulled out a drawer and counted some notes.
    ‘I’ll need expenses as well.’
    ‘Of course you will,’ he said sarcastically.
    If I hadn’t been concerned about the fate of a young girl, I would have walked out there and then. I was tired of his rudeness and discourtesy but I bit my tongue and said nothing. He was the kind of man who got his own way but no pleasure from it. His face at rest was a scowl, and when animated was a grimace. He seemed to hold a grudge against the world. He was abrupt and discourteous, but very openly so, and I wondered if there was an honesty there, if maybe Biondi’s causticity wasn’t preferable to the mellifluous deceit I had seen so many times before. It was the wrong time to judge him anyway. He looked like the type who was always highly strung, and – with his daughter missing – he seemed about to snap.
    I thanked him as he passed me a thin wad of notes.
    ‘Please find her. Bring her home.’
    ‘I’ll do everything I can.’
    He stood up and we shook hands. He took mine in both of his, a rare show of solidarity or encouragement. ‘Please . . .’ he said beseechingly.
    As we walked back into the large reception room the frail wife came stumbling towards us. ‘I’m going to try and get some sleep,’ she said. ‘Good night.’ She offered me her fingers again. I clasped them and gave a slight deferential bow.
    Biondi walked me towards the front door repeating his wife’s phrase: ‘“Going to try and get some sleep” . . . the amount of pills she takes, it’s a wonder she ever wakes up.’
    ‘What does she take them for?’
    ‘The pills? To sleep, to wake up, to get out of bed, to digest, to regress. There’s hardly any activity that isn’t accompanied by some pill being knocked back.’
    ‘It must be a very trying time.’ It sounded condescending or false and he nodded brusquely.
    ‘Buonanotte,’ he said, reaching to his right to open the monumental gate that kept the swarming city at bay.
    I got back in the car and looked up at the sad house once more. I saw the mother, Giovanna, silhouetted in an upstairs window. The window looked twice her height as she drew the curtains. The car crunched on the gravel and the gate closed behind me as I waited for a space to enter the busy Saturday night traffic.

  
     
     
    The three-lane road ran parallel