Alibi

“Turned up at last, has he?” Behind me, Bertie had put a hand on my shoulder.

“Hello, Bertie,” I said. “Where’s your princess?”

“In the loo. So I thought I’d say hello. I hate staring at an empty table, don’t you?”

“Join us,” Dr. Maglione said.

“No, no, she’s quick as a bu

My mother laughed.

“And where did you get to last night?” Bertie said to me. “Now you see him, now you don’t.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt. You were about to go into confession.”

“And so should you, once in a while. I know I don’t want to be caught unawares. Between the old stirrup and the ground.” He looked at me. “You haven’t the faintest idea what I’m talking about, do you? Heathen. A fine job you’ve done, Grace.”

“Still, he went to the Accademia,” Gia

“Did you?” Bertie said, looking at me, letting the phrase hang in the air.

“Would you join us for di

“Molto gentile, but you’d never forgive me. The boredom of her. Old hunting days in the Piedmont. You don’t want to hear it, I promise you.”

“What about you?” my mother said, laughing.

“Well, I have to. One of life’s little crosses. The husband was a peach, you know. Fu

I turned to find a thickset man in a natty suit coming toward the table. Neatly trimmed mustache and shiny face, a man who might just have come from the barber’s. Gia

“Dottore,” the man said to him. Then a stream of Italian, obviously friendly. He put his hand on Bertie’s arm. “And Signor Howard. I’m sorry, don’t let me interrupt.”

“No, no. My friend Mrs. Miller. Her son Adam. Grace, Inspector Cavallini.”

Cavallini bowed, a stage gesture.

“Inspector?” my mother said. “Police inspector?”

“Yes. Have you done anything wrong?”

“Do people tell you?”

He smiled. “No, usually I have to catch them.” He nodded and touched my hand halfheartedly, glancing at Dr. Maglione.

“And he does. Always,” Bertie said.

“Here? At Harry’s?” my mother said.

“No, here I take Prosecco. Off-duty.” He was enjoying my mother. “You don’t think it would disturb the customers?”

“I think it would make their night.”

He laughed, then said something in Italian to Gia

“Me? I’m one of the good. As you know. Practically Caesar’s wife.”

Cavallini smiled. “Yes, practically,” he said, and headed for the frosted glass door.

“Bertie, give,” my mother said, interested. “How on earth do you know him?”

“I’m a foreign national, you know. We had to report during the war.”

“Report? I thought they locked you up.”

“Irish passport, lovey. Thanks to me dad. So there’s that to be said for him anyway. Convenient being a neutral just then.”

“But weren’t you both?”

“Not here. Green as a clover. Had to be. Otherwise, you know, I’d have had to leave. My pictures, my house. Then what?”

“Yes, then what?” I said.

He looked at me sharply, then back at my mother. “Anyway, they couldn’t have been nicer. Came to the house, had a drink, and that was it. Never even had to go to the station. Now that it’s over, I rather miss it, the little visits.”

“Oh, Bertie, you don’t mean it. He’s creepy.”

“You don’t find him charming?” Bertie said.

“The police?”

Gia

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, they’re not drinking at Harry’s. How can he afford it, aside from anything else?”

“Grace, dear,” Bertie said, “that is exactly the sort of question one should never ask. Not here.”

“You mean he’s—” My mother started, eyes wide, imagining, I suppose, black-market storerooms and goods hidden under raincoats.

“Bertie makes a joke, I think,” Gia

“But imagine a policeman at ‘21’,” my mother said, still toying with it.

“There she is,” Bertie said, spotting the principessa. “What did I tell you? Less time than it takes to—fresh lipstick too. She’s a wonder. Enjoy your di

“We must go too,” Gia

“How is it that you know him?” I said.

“Inspector Cavallini? Sometimes they come to the hospital for help. Medical evidence.”

“Really?” my mother said. “Did you ever solve anything?”

Gia

I got up. Dizzy for a second, I pressed against the table for support.

“Are you all right?” he asked, a doctor’s voice.

I nodded. “Just a drink on an empty stomach. I forgot I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Too busy looking at art,” my mother said, amusing herself.

The dining room at the Monaco was formal and starchy—waiters in black tie, silver serving trolleys, soft, flattering lights. Gia

“There’s something I don’t understand,” I said, drawing their attention back to the table. “Is he an inspector now?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And he has been—I mean, he consulted you on cases. So that means he was working for the Germans.”

“Technically. At the end. We were an occupied country.”

“But he’s police. Not a doctor or a waiter or something. Police. Why hasn’t he been thrown out?”

“For doing what?”

“Enforcing German laws. And before that—”

“Fascist laws? Yes, you can say it. Well, who knows if he enforced them?” He tasted the wine, the waiter hovering. “Yes, very nice.” We said nothing as the waiter poured.

“But if he didn’t, what makes you think he’ll enforce new ones now?”

Gia

“Yes,” my mother said, raising her glass.

We clinked glasses—celebrating what?

“You’re still troubled by this?” Gia

“But if he was a police officer, he must have been a Fascist. I mean, in the party.”

Gia

“I

Gia