The Witch of Napoli (12 page)

He looked at Lombardi.

“Professor, you would be wise to learn more about Alessandra before you launch your public tour of Europe. If Mr. Huxley’s suspicions are correct, it is far better to know now.”

He turned to Huxley. “As Mr. Huxley here knows, I own a small, private island in South France, on the Cote d’Azur, where I have a summer cottage. I would be happy to host a private sitting there. Mr. Huxley has spent the week as my guest, so he is familiar with the layout of the building, and its isolation should appeal to his suspicious nature. If Alessandra is employing confederates, they’ll have to swim three kilometers to assist her, with no place to hide when they get there.”

Huxley smiled, and Renard continued.

“If Mr. Huxley is willing to spend a few more days as my guest, I suggest we meet on Ile Ribaud for a séance with Alessandra. Mr. Huxley will set the rules for the evening – I will act as the referee should you strongly object to some condition he imposes. With Mr. Huxley’s permission, you may want to bring a photographer. Last but not least, gentlemen, we all agree to accept the results, whether favorable or unfavorable to our position. Do I have your concurrence?”

Huxley, slouched in his chair, waved his acceptance. “Agreed.”

“Agreed” Lombardi replied grimly.

I wasn’t listening.

My mind had already jumped back to the photograph I had taken of Alessandra and the levitated table, hanging in the air. After developing the plate, I had studied it with a magnifying glass for almost an hour, reluctant to accept what I had witnessed. But I couldn’t find anything I couldn’t account for – a wire, a string, a lifted knee or slyly placed finger. Nothing.

Except for a thin, faint, vertical shadow parallel with the table leg, where the flash bounced off – what? Something. But what? And did Alessandra have anything to do with it?

Suddenly I felt scared for Alessandra.

H
uxley wasted no time coming after Alessandra.

He was a master at intimidation, and it was easy to understand how some little cockney trickster working the London séance circuit would pee in her knickers if he turned his attention towards her game. He expected to land a quick knockout punch.

When we arrived at the train station for the trip to Ile Ribaud, Lombardi hurried forward to the first class carriage to join Huxley and Renard. Sapienti had also decided to come along. Alessandra and I went to buy food. It was six hours to Genoa, and another 14 hours up the coast by boat before we could reach Toulon, and we were traveling second class. We weren’t welcome in the dining car.

We boarded at the conductor’s
tutti a bordo
and dropped into our seats, loaded down with our luggage and a big basket of bread and sausages. A plump woman and her three children followed on our heels and squeezed into the bench opposite us. Across the aisle, a small, wide-eyed boy dressed in Sunday clothes sat next to a fat monsignor who had his nose stuck in his breviary, mumbling his Hours. The remaining seats in the car were grabbed by a dozen sailors from the Royal Navy who had sloughed off their uniforms, pulled the window curtains, and launched a noisy dice game.

By the time the train reached Asti, we had a card game of our own going, and a picnic spread out on our laps. Alessandra invited the mother and her kids to help themselves to our larder, which they eagerly did, the little boy playing the jew’s harp between chomps of bread, his sister dancing along as she stuffed her own mouth. Alessandra always played
scopa
with reckless abandon, and I steadily piled up the points. I had just captured her Knave, and she was swearing like a sailor herself, when we looked up and there stood Huxley in a white linen suit.

He fixed his icy blue eyes on Alessandra.

“One must play one’s cards wisely,
Signora
Poverelli – or suffer the inevitable consequences.”

No
buongiorno
, no introduction. Nothing.

He turned to me. “If you will allow me to sit down for a moment…?”

I jumped up from my seat and removed my hat. Alessandra looked confused.

“
Scusa
,
Signore
, do I know you?” she asked.

“No, but you shall,” he replied.

As he stepped past me, I poked Alessandra. “
Signor
Huxley. The Englishman Dr. Lombardi told you about.” She had never met him.

Huxley sat down, adjusted his trousers, languidly leaned back on the bench, and gazed out the window for a few seconds, watching the countryside pass by. Finally he swung around to face Alessandra, leaned in close, and whispered in her ear.

“I know your game. You’re a pathetic fraud, and a waste of my time. You may fool Dr. Lombardi, but not me.”

Alessandra’s jaw dropped. So did mine.

He drew back and stared out the window again, not even deigning to look at us. “I’ve exposed a dozen cheats smarter than you. I know what you’ll do, and how you’ll do it.” He nonchalantly brushed a spot off his suit. “If you try any of your silly tricks on Ile Ribaud, you will return to Naples a topic of amusement, not amazement. Do you understand?” As the color rose in Alessandra’s face, Huxley picked up the Queen of Cups from the scatter of cards on the bench beside him, studied it, then rose to his feet and handed it to her. “My advice,
Signora
Poverelli? Fold your cards while you’re ahead.”

The show was over. He had dropped by, delivered his threat, and was ready to return to first class for a cigar and a glass of sherry, confident his preemptive strike had scared the shit out of her.

Instead, Alessandra grabbed the bread knife and leapt to her feet.

“Vafanculo!”
she replied. Up yours!

Huxley blushed – he didn’t expect
that
response, though he should have. You don’t insult a Neapolitan to his face, and certainly not Alessandra. He looked at her calmly.

“Language one would expect from someone of your class.”

I snatched the knife from Alessandra, scared she would use it, and shoved Huxley, knocking him backwards.

“Leave her alone!” I said. Huxley recovered his balance and turned towards me.

“Ah, the little photographer boy who created the fake photo. Tell me, how long have you been her confederate in this scam?”

I shoved him again, harder. “Leave her alone!”

He grabbed my elbow and yanked me up close. “You little guttersnipe!” he snarled. “When I’m done with her, perhaps you and I can go a few rounds in the ring. How does that sound to you?” My heart was pounding in my chest.

Alessandra jumped forward and slapped him in the face.

“
Cazzo!
” Prick!

Huxley glared at her, red-faced. Down the car, the sailors stopped their dice game and began to whistle and cheer her on. Let him have it, lady. Bastard! Asshole! Huxley turned and stomped back to his carriage. I had to physically restrain Alessandra from chasing him back to his car. She was spitting mad.

A
lessandra was spoiling for another fight, but I wasn’t.

Lombardi had warned her about her temper, and the consequences if she couldn’t control it. As the train pulled into Genoa where we would disembark to transfer to the ferry, I lit into her.

“Do you want to be sent back to Naples?” I shouted. “Your husband will kill you. You stole his money, for Christ’s sake – remember?” I was pissed. “And think of someone other than yourself for once. If you’re sent home, so am I.”

That stung her. Whatever faults Alessandra had, she was loyal to her friends. For the rest of the trip, she made an effort to avoid Huxley, and we reached the Cote d’Azur without another scrap.

Renard’s man was waiting for us with two boats at the small harbor in Hyeres when we finally arrived the next morning. In the distance, across the sparkling, blue water, the Ile du Grand Ribaud rose up out of the bay in the blinding, noon sunshine, white gulls lazily circling in the sky above. I could make out a small lighthouse on one tip of the flat island but nothing else.

Gaston and his young son Henri hurried forward to grab our bags. Lombardi and Sapienti looked uncomfortable and out of place in their dark suits and ties, but Huxley and Renard had already donned casual summer clothes and leather sandals. In his short-sleeved mariner’s shirt, Huxley’s athletic build was conspicuous. He would have killed me in a fight. I watched as he pulled a square, leather box from under the pile of luggage, swung it easily to his shoulder, and stepped sure-footedly into the boat, ignoring Gaston’s offer of a hand. Renard followed, helping Lombardi and the unsteady Sapienti into their wooden seats at the bow.

Alessandra and I were assigned to Henri’s skiff along with the luggage, my camera gear, and supplies for the weekend. The kid settled into his seat, grabbed the oars, and I untied the rope and shoved us off. Alessandra kicked off her shoes, closed her eyes and leaned back, letting the sun warm her face. Henri said something in French I didn’t understand, and giggled. Alessandra let her hand play in the sparkling water as we headed out into the bay.

“God, Tommaso, I miss the sea.” She unbuttoned the cuffs of her blouse but didn’t roll up her sleeves. The cigarette burns Pigotti gave her were probably still there. “I used to walk down to the docks and watch the kids fish, and look out to the sea and imagine all the different places in the world the boats were going to.”

I laughed. “You could have been a cook on a boat bound for Borneo.”

She opened her eyes and grinned. “I know how to row, you know.”

She hiked up her dress, slipped into the seat next to Henri, and grabbed an oar. Henri laughed, and the two of them started stroking together. I thought she would have us going in circles, but she pulled in rhythm and we powered right along. God knows where she learned that. Half way across the bay, we were closing on Lombardi’s boat, and I’m sure she wanted to overtake them to thumb her nose at Huxley, but a wave caught her oar in a tangle with Henri’s and we slid onto the beach a distant second. Huxley had already hopped out with his box and their gang had started up the beach.

In Naples, I never cared for the ocean. It stinks. Ile Ribaud was different. The scent of lavender infused the salt air, and white clouds floated in a blue sky above our heads as we scrambled up a steep, narrow footpath from the rocky beach. When we reached the top, Henri pointed to a low, stone cottage atop a small rise a sizeable hike from us. The island was mostly burnt grass and low bushes with an occasional olive tree, and the heat soon had us sweating despite the sea breeze.

Henri played guide, cheerfully babbling away in mixed up Italian and French, pointing out the sights – the lighthouse which Napoleon had something to do with, the small building next to it where he and his family lived –
“mon casa”
– and three shallow, rectangular ponds which we skirted along the way. I later found out they held poisonous jellyfish Dr. Renard used in his scientific experiments. I’m glad I didn’t put my hand in the water.

Henri’s mother, Capucine, was waiting at the door to greet us when we arrived, and led Alessandra to her room. Henri showed me to mine. As we passed by the verandah, I saw Lombardi and Sapienti had removed their coats and ties and everyone was busy lighting up cigars. Once our bags were dumped in the room, Henri headed back to the beach to pick up the luggage, Capucine busied herself in the kitchen, and Alessandra and I started for the verandah.

Renard intercepted us with his black dog Barbet, a large, friendly mutt who took an instant liking to Alessandra, jumping up and licking her face. Alessandra bent down and hugged him. Renard smiled and handed her the leash.

“Take him. He needs a walk,” he said. “We’re meeting with Monsieur Huxley to go over his requirements for the sitting tonight, and I don’t think you’re presence is welcome.” He smiled. “Tell me, what exactly
did
you two talk about on the train? He was in a foul mood when he returned to his seat.”

“He can go to hell,” Alessandra shot back.

I winced. Renard looked at her quizzically.

“Alessandra, Monsieur Huxley has a right to be skeptical. He’s uncovered the most shameful tricks played by the seemingly sweetest ladies. You need to earn his trust. And mine, too. But if you can produce the phenomena Dr. Lombardi believes he observed in Naples, you’ll find no stronger champion than me.”

Barbet let out a loud bark, tugging at the leash. Renard patted his head then pointed to the door. “Take Barbet to the beach, find a stick and toss it in the surf. He loves to swim.”

I followed Renard out to the verandah, and found the others settled around a rough wooden table that Capucine had decorated with a vase of pretty wildflowers and a yellow bowl filled with oranges. Gaston was circling the group, a bottle of red wine in his hand, filling glasses. The view was superb. It looked back across a lovely bay crowded with holiday sailboats to the village of Hyeres and its white-washed houses running up a pine-covered hill crowned by a castle. The Brits had discovered the town years earlier, and half the street signs were in English.

Huxley ignored me as I pulled up a chair. Renard delivered a welcome toast, then turned the stage over to Huxley who pushed aside the flowers and placed his mysterious leather box in the center of the table. For the first time, I noticed it had a lock.

“Rule one in this business, gentlemen,” he announced. “Never let the medium furnish the target objects.” He removed a small key from his pants pocket. “Rule two. Never allow the medium access to them at any time.” He sprung the lock and lifted the top. We all leaned forward as he pulled out a small silver bell and held it up for us to see.

“The test I propose is simple. I am challenging
Signora
Poverelli to duplicate the bell levitation she allegedly produced in Naples for Professor Lombardi here. Preferably, it will not be accompanied by a slap to the face similar to that suffered by Dr. Lombardi that night. If our insolent ‘Fra Savonarola’ attempts that outrage, she will get her ears boxed. But the test comes with a small twist…..”

Huxley reached into the box again, and pulled out a small glass jar and a brush.