Murder in Venice

by L. B. Hathaway

  Cursing under her breath, Posie looped about, intending to return to her own second-rate corridor where she knew Inspector Lovelace was also billeted. But as she hurried along, she heard a low agitated murmuring coming from behind one of the doors which had been left slightly ajar. Loitering as she passed she realised this must be Dickie Alladice’s room, and she caught a very brief glimpse of him. He was frantically pacing up and down, wearing full black-tie. There was another man in the room too, contributing in a low, measured murmur; a reassuring baritone which Posie didn’t recognise. Were they talking about Minnie?

  She caught a snippet of Dickie speaking in a broken but passable Italian: ‘No, Ennario. Sicuramente, oggi.’

  ‘Ma sei sicuro?’

  ‘Si, alle quattro…’

  Today. It must happen today. At four o’clock.

  Something was definitely happening today, that much Posie understood. And Ennario? Wasn’t he the Venetian notary that the Alladice company used? The man that Roger Valentine had told Bella Alladice not to use for her personal affairs?

  Perhaps Dickie, distraught at Minnie’s actions, but practical and business-like as ever, was making contingency plans for the company to keep going without the necessity for the shareholders to all sign documents, now that one was dead and the other would shortly become a convicted criminal…

  Posie stumped along her own corridor, not bothering to make herself look presentable, and she rapped on the Inspector’s door in a way which meant business.

  ‘Ah, Posie, it’s only you.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. Only me. Can I come in? Let me tell you the news.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He had obviously been shaving, and he looked crumpled, as if he had grabbed at yesterday’s shirt and suit trousers and tugged them on, regardless. A smart black suit was hanging behind him.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m up late this morning, Posie. I was just about to go down to breakfast. What’s up with you? You look dreadful. I take it you’ve not just got up, like me? Have you heard from that little priest fella about whether the wedding is off or on? I’ve got my best suit out, you see, if I am being called on to be a witness at the eleventh hour… ’

  ‘Oh, hang it all, sir. We both know the wedding caper is all off. In fact, I managed to speak to Alaric this morning, or what passes for speaking, these days. He told me he wasn’t in the mood for getting married. So there you go.’

  And ignoring every social convention in the book, Posie flung herself down on Lovelace’s bed, spreading out Minnie’s notes about her. And while Lovelace finished shaving, miraculously not cutting himself, as he was keeping a constant eye on Posie in the tiny mirror above the sink, he heard the whole sorry tale.

  Turning at last, patting his face with a threadbare moss-coloured flannel, he let out a soft whistle. ‘By Gad! Question is though, did Minnie actually do for Bella in the end? Wasn’t she at the lawyer with her nephew Dickie at the time Bella took the poison?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. A Mr Ennario.’

  ‘So she couldn’t have been the one in there stealing off with the papers and exchanging the silver flasks, could she?’

  ‘Apparently not, sir. Salvarocca seemed happy with the alibi which was given. It all checked out. You could ask him to check again, I suppose? He’s here now, as it happens. Mr Ennario…’

  ‘I see. That’s handy. Well, Salvo will have enough to go on with these notes for a charge of manslaughter for Silvia Hanro’s death. I’ll get this guesthouse sealed up so Minnie can’t leave and I’ll get old Salvo to come here and arrest her pretty sharpish.’

  ‘If you would, sir.’

  Richard Lovelace was straightening himself up, putting on his suit jacket and fixing a navy woollen tie. He was already at his door. But he cast an anxious look over in Posie’s direction:

  ‘What are you going to do now, Posie?’ But he almost didn’t need to ask, for Posie had put her head down on his pillow, and waves of welcome, anaesthetising sleep were engulfing her.

  And Lovelace nodded to himself, and left his room double-quick.

  ****

  Twenty-Six

  A brief glance at her wristwatch told Posie that almost six hours had passed.

  It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon. It was unbelievable, and inconvenient to say the least, but the heavy, sweaty, dreamless sleep on Lovelace’s bed seemed to have restored her afresh like nothing else had since she left London, and Posie sat bolt-upright, her thoughts crystal-clear. Welcome waves of understanding coursed through her like a new energy.

  How could she have been so stupid?

  Posie listened intently, but her ears were met with a ringing silence from the very depths of the guesthouse. Even the rain outside seemed to have stopped. Standing, and turning in an arc, Posie scanned Lovelace’s room.

  There it was.

  That mysterious manila envelope which the Inspector had carted so carefully out with him from London. It was something which Alaric had requested.

  But what if Alaric hadn’t been the only one to request the manila envelope? What if someone else, or several others, were after the very same information? Pushing any scruples aside, Posie reached for it. She pulled out a thick wodge of official-looking documents, typewritten, many boasting fancy seals and stamps. Nearly all the documents bore a swarm of inky signatures.

  It took just a few minutes to read through the papers, most of which Posie didn’t understand. But she understood enough. And that limited knowledge drove her on. Hiding the envelope as best she could beneath Lovelace’s mattress, she ran from his room and almost threw herself down the stairs to the main entertaining floor. As suspected, the place was totally deserted.

  But then she heard a shuffling, rustling noise coming from the vestibule below, and peering down the stairs, she saw the welcome sight of Mrs Persimmon, keys still in hand, just arriving into the entrance hall, string bags bursting with grease-proof parcels, pulling a lemon-coloured silk scarf from her head and shaking her oilskin coat from her shoulders. The small woman looked up beadily.

  ‘Ah! Miss Parker! Are you all right, dearie?’

  ‘Where is everyone? What has happened to Minnie Alladice?’

  And Mrs Persimmon, pleased to be able to shed light on something Posie was unaware of, told how, completely unexpectedly, Minnie Alladice had been arrested by Inspector Salvarocca – probably on completely fabricated grounds – and removed from the guesthouse with a full complement of police officers all waving guns about. That had been about nine-thirty that morning, and Mrs Persimmon hadn’t heard a thing since.

  Well, not unless you counted the two Inspectors hunting about the place noisily for Dickie Alladice and a man with a foreign-sounding name, and finding no-one.

  And not unless you counted an incessant ringing of the bell and much shouting outside in the square at about eleven o’clock.

  A man – it had sounded like Mr Boynton-Dale, but surely not? – had been kicking up a big fuss. But Mrs Persimmon had been having a mid-morning nap at about that time, having taken a wee nip of brandy to calm her nerves following the arrest of Minnie Alladice. And she had been on the point of getting up and answering the bell to the man, when she must have drifted off to sleep again…

  Turning tail and almost running, Posie hurried along her own corridor, up the twists of stairs and along to the top of the house. She hammered on the door of the laundry room, not knowing whether to expect a reply or not. But she was in luck.

  ‘Posie?’ Max opened his door a fraction, and looked out, checking up and down the landing for anyone else.

  ‘I’m alone, and I need your help.’

  ‘You’d better come in, then.’

  Inside the laundry room everything was much as it had been two nights previously, but the doors to the altana, the little broken-down balcony, were open, and a playful sunlight lit up the Venetian sky, which for the first time since her arrival Posie saw was now streaked a vivid blue. The usual binoculars were trained on th
e Grand Canal, on the Romagnoli Palace.

  ‘Why were you following me this morning? To the Frari Church?’

  Max shrugged. ‘I thought the meeting you were attending might have had dangerous repercussions. I don’t much like the company Alaric Boynton-Dale keeps. Ach, I was, against my better judgement perhaps, making sure you were okay.’

  She glanced at Max’s makeshift desk, and saw a notebook lying there, with columns of numbers written in a neat pencilled hand. She also saw a bundle of cream cards, unmistakeably international telegrams. Max followed her gaze.

  ‘I go each morning and each evening to collect my instructions, and I also send my reports that way, too. I go to the Fondaco dei Tedeschi, the main Post Office. It’s a lovely building, full of little shops on the ground floor selling glassware and trinkets and things. I got your pink necklace there. I’ve seen Minnie Alladice there early of a morning, too, among the stalls, looking for more scarves, no doubt. I’m finding that telegrams are more secure than using the telephone here. I only use that for emergencies now.’

  Posie nodded. Max clearly hadn’t heard about Minnie’s arrest, and there wasn’t time to fill him in. ‘It might be one such emergency now. Can you help me? I need people in high places. Can you pretend it’s a part of your mission? Whatever that might be…’

  Max narrowed his eyes. ‘Go on.’

  And so she told him. Five minutes later they were standing close together in the vestibule of the guesthouse, with Max asking for the International Operator to connect him through to places deep in Whitehall which Posie had only imagined existed in her wildest dreams.

  Max put the telephone apparatus down after a few minutes of a conversation in deep, hushed tones. He looked over at Posie and raised an eyebrow. ‘Ach, I’m – how do you English say? – sticking my neck out for you on this one, Posie.’

  ‘I’m very grateful. But what’s happening?’

  ‘My contact will call back. Hopefully in just a matter of minutes. They will give me the information which I’ve requested. Which you’ve requested.’

  ‘Were they surprised by your request?’

  ‘Nein. Nothing surprises this lot.’

  And sure enough, within just a couple of minutes the telephone was ringing and Max was answering it in unhurried, calm tones. ‘I understand,’ he muttered at the end of the conversation. ‘I quite see the need for caution.’

  Upon ringing off, he turned to Posie.

  ‘It’s as you thought. Almost three weeks ago this very same information was accessed quite properly – all above board – by somebody called Roger Valentine. He paid for the right to borrow it and had the information for a couple of hours in the headquarters of Companies House in London. During this time it’s probable that he took photographs of what he saw, with that fancy little Leica camera of his, even though it’s forbidden. The next record we have of it is somebody official, at the highest possible level, requesting a special right to borrow the material. That request was granted two weeks ago.’

  ‘You mean Inspector Lovelace?’

  ‘That seems likely.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘In the time the information has been out on its special “borrowed status” with Inspector Lovelace, there has been one further request to access it, but from abroad. It came yesterday morning, about ten o’clock…’

  ‘Bella Alladice!’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Posie leant against a damp, clammy wall. She was almost shaking. She looked at her wristwatch. It was twenty to four.

  Alle quattro…

  ‘I need to find Dickie Alladice,’ she said softly. ‘And Alaric. They were supposed to be meeting up soon. I believe their lives to be in peril.’

  Max looked at her somewhat sourly. ‘After all that Alaric has put you through, you want to save him? So where might this grave danger be taking place, exactly?’

  Posie wrung her hands together, searching for any detail in the recesses of her mind which might help to locate one obvious place. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. They’re going into business together; something about glassware?’

  Max almost hooted with derision. ‘Glassware? In Venice? Ach! Mein Gott! They could have a headquarters anywhere! Most likely the island of Murano, of course. But that will take you forever to get out there, across the lagoon. Even if you do take that fancy police motor boat. You won’t make it in an hour, though, let alone by four o’clock.’

  Posie groaned. She remembered Dickie’s casual words, just the day before, about signing the contract with Alaric in a very sweet place. What had he meant? Why hadn’t she paid more attention?

  For now the man’s life was in danger, and so too, possibly, was Alaric’s. She would never forgive herself if something happened to Alaric, disregarding whatever had taken place between him and Silvia Hanro.

  Just then there was a rapid hammering at the front door and both Posie and Max almost jumped out of their skins. Posie opened the door to a smart-looking policeman, who was clutching at a thick envelope, marked ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ and much tied about with blue string and covered in stickers. He started to speak in a flurry of fast Italian, and Posie gulped, not understanding a word.

  Behind them, on the staircase, Mrs Persimmon had appeared, an anxious expression playing on her small-boned face. She came down smartly, replied to the policeman in a slow local dialect and indicated towards Posie.

  Posie signed the policeman’s chit and took the envelope, her thoughts still very much with Alaric and his meeting at four o’clock. Watching the policeman’s retreating back, the freshness of his white helmet and gloves glimmering in the sunlight like icing sugar as he marched across the Campo San Vio, Posie suddenly turned to the Landlady, a flash of realisation hitting her.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, Mrs Persimmon. But it’s just struck me now that you said the other day that you had known Dickie Alladice awhile now. Not just these last few days?’

  ‘That’s right, Miss Parker. We met over a year ago.’

  ‘Would that be on account of his renting your husband’s former business premises?’

  Mrs Persimmon laughed shrilly. ‘That’s making it sound grander than it is, dearie. It’s just an old warehouse.’

  Posie nodded to herself with certainty. Mrs Persimmon’s husband had traded in sugar, had he not? ‘It’s a former sugar warehouse?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  A very sweet place. ‘And please, can I ask exactly where it is?’

  The Landlady laughed again, and gestured outside, through the still-open doorway. ‘Why, of course, dearie. You can see it from here. It’s that thin warehouse building right next door to the Romagnoli Palace. A bit run-down now, of course, but then I haven’t the spare cash to spend on upkeep. But it’s been very handy for Mr Alladice, from what I can gather. A mercy it didn’t catch light at the same time as the Palace, isn’t it!’

  And Posie nodded automatically, steeling herself for what must come, grabbing at her own red coat and hat, and propelling herself towards the doorway and the sugar warehouse, but not before she had had a chance to glance at Max’s face, ashen beyond belief, contorting itself back into its usual implacable calm mask.

  But she had seen the panic and the fear which had so obviously lurked there.

  ****

  Twenty-Seven

  ‘Wait, Posie.’

  She had never heard urgency in Max’s voice before and she stared at him in surprise as he tore his hands through his white-blonde hair and hissed in an undertone. ‘Please wait, you may jeopardise everything. Let me explain.’ He was casting anxious looks over at the telephone apparatus.

  ‘There’s no time for explanations, Max. I must go now. It’s almost four o’clock!’

  ‘What do you expect to happen at this meeting, Posie?’ he hissed. ‘Who are you afraid of?’

  ‘If you must know, it’s Roger Valentine. His presence at the meeting will be catastrophic. Dangerous.’

  ‘He mi
ght not know where to go?’

  Posie laughed bitterly. ‘I have a feeling Roger Valentine knows absolutely everything. Of course he knows where to go!’

  Max put his hand on her arm, tugging her back, gently. ‘Then if this is serious danger, as you suppose, surely you can’t just go barging in there alone? Can’t you at least call your friendly Scotland Yard Inspector or the big Italian for some support?’

  ‘No time. But if you’re so concerned then why don’t you come along with me?’

  ‘I will. Give me two minutes. I need to place a call first.’

  Posie nodded tightly. ‘I’ll wait then.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Posie watched the German spy move towards the telephone again. She turned towards the open doorway, her gaze never wavering from the building she had so far never paid any attention to, the sugar warehouse. She hoped against hope there was enough time to stop Roger Valentine. The man who broke people, whose lives were left shattered behind him.

  But this time Roger Valentine had really stumbled upon something big, and it had broken several lives already; ending one, Bella’s, forever.

  There had always been something which didn’t ring true about the timing of Roger’s big pay-off, and about the termination of his employment in Venice.

  Lucy had reported that she had told Dickie about Roger’s blackmail just a couple of days previously, and that was the reason Roger was now leaving. But the pay-off had come three weeks ago. And Roger had been searching for other jobs for the last three weeks, too. Which meant that Roger had been dismissed for something quite other than his treatment of Lucy Christie.

  In fact, three weeks ago Roger had been in London, sourcing information for his blackmailing activities. And not even he could have guessed the murky waters he would find himself in.

  Posie’s thoughts tripped back over the manila envelope Lovelace had carried from London, and she recalled the papers inside it methodically, one after the other. Returning to the present, she saw Max turning from the telephone, placing another call, waiting for the connection. He smiled a watery, tight grin full of bravado.