The American Lady(111)

“Send it,” he said absentmindedly.

“Are you sure?” The countess rarely intruded upon her husband’s affairs, but they could not afford any false steps now.

“Of course I am!” he snapped. “She knew nothing of all this as she was writing it.”

He took the letter from Patrizia’s hand and inspected it.

“It’s to her American niece, as always. Meaningless gossip, that’s all.” He put the letter down onto the hall table with the rest of the outgoing mail and then turned to go back to his office. “I have to prepare everything for Franco’s departure. What luck that there is a ship leaving tomorrow!”

Patrizia followed him. “Are you really going to send Franco to New York? Into the lion’s den?” Her voice shook.

Though her face was usually calm and composed, fear had left its mark on her. There were wrinkles at the corners of her mouth, and her lips twitched. Her eyes were wide with shock. She looked like an old woman. “Isn’t that dangerous for him?”

The count shook his head. “It would be more dangerous if we do nothing. At the moment nobody can connect us to the dead men; their bodies washed up farther north along the Hudson. Franco has to make sure that it stays that way. It will cost us a great deal of money, but what can you do?” He threw up his hands in resignation.

The countess bit back a reply. Instead she asked, “And what are you going to do about Marie? Do you think she’ll just calmly accept the fact that Franco has left? You’ve seen how foolish she can be. She’s a danger to us all! What if she goes to the police? And what will she tell her family in her next letter? Do you want to let her ruin us?” Though Patrizia was whispering, her voice was shrill.

The count looked up only briefly from his pile of papers.

“There will be no next letter.”



It was still dark outside when Marie woke up the next morning. The left side of her head was throbbing. The terrors of last night came flooding back to her, shrouding her in darkness.

Without even looking over at the other side of the bed she knew she was alone—Franco was bound to be with his father again, in the office.

Feeling drained, she was just about to sit up when she noticed something on the pillow next to her.

A letter from Franco.

Her hand trembling, she picked up the sheet of paper.



Mia cara, by the time you read these words, I will already be on my way to New York. In the name of all those who died, I have to try to set this tragedy right, even though I wonder if this is even possible. I know that it is the worst possible moment for such a journey, but there is nothing else I can do. Please do not do anything rash while I am away—if not for my sake then for that of our child. I beg you to wait for me. I will make sure that you have everything you need while I am away. Please stay! Give me this one chance. If you leave me after I come back, I will not stop you. In everlasting love,

Your husband Franco.



Marie put down the note. An attempt to save what could not be saved. How could he leave her on her own, at this time of all times?

In good times and in bad . . . but how much did she still owe Franco after all this?

Pale winter sunlight streamed into the room. Marie looked outside, her gaze vacant. The palms, the laurel bushes, the neatly trimmed box trees—everything looked just as it had before. The thought that she had not even said good-bye to Franco only added to her misery.

Air! She had to get out of bed and go out for some fresh air. Perhaps that would calm the tumult in her head a little.

She walked barefoot through the workshop and tried to open the double door that led into the garden, but it was stuck. She twisted the handle and shook it hard, but the door wouldn’t budge. That was odd, as the gardener had oiled the hinges and the lock at her request only last week—it used to squeak with every little puff of air.

Well then, not out into the garden. What then? Should she pack up a few things and sneak out of the house?

Perhaps Franco was still there? It was only seven o’clock after all. If she saw him again, perhaps that would help her to understand. She could tell him why she had to go—she owed him that much, at least. Marie rushed to put on her robe. Suddenly she was in a hurry. But when she went to open the door to the hallway, that didn’t open either.

Marie frowned. Was she being especially clumsy today? She rattled in vain at the doorknob, but to no avail. This couldn’t be happening!

She leaned against the door and pushed with her whole weight. Nothing happened. What could it possibly mean?

“Franco!” she shouted. “Franco, open the door!”

Panic rose inside Marie, stretching its tentacles like an unfurling octopus.