by Heron Carvic
With the rest of the travelers on their way to customs, the hostess had beckoned from the top of the steps. One of the police officers, chosen for his command of English, had bounded up into the aircraft. He had set a tone of correctness: had bowed to Miss Seeton, demanding in Italianate English whether she was Miseetone—alias MissEss? Miss Seeton, equally correct, had replied in Anglican French: Wee. The officer was relieved. Here was the true delinquent. The amateur would negate, would bluster, but the professional admitted what was beyond negation without disturbance. He had, he informed her, with others, been requested, on a demand made by Interpol, to meet her, to greet her, and to accompany her to police headquarters. Was she disposed?
Miss Seeton hesitated. It had been made so very clear that she was to insist, should question arise, that she was merely on holiday. But, then again, on the other hand, one could appreciate that Scotland Yard would, through necessity and good manners, have informed the Swiss police that they were exporting an Identi-Kit artist. And foreigners, one had read, set great store by politeness. No doubt the Swiss police had felt obliged to make a gesture. Miss Seeton felt equally obliged. She replied: Wee.
Upon her arrival at headquarters Miss Seeton was taken before a superior officer and supplied with an interpreter. The compulsory police information form which she had filled in during the flight was produced. She was an art teacher (retired)? Wee. Her destination was such and her address so? Wee. And her reason for traveling was holiday—true or false? False, admitted Miss Seeton. The interpreter smiled in triumph, his superior officer smiled in satisfaction and Miss Seeton smiled in sympathy. Brazen, decided the two Italians. She had not entered the length of her stay. Why not? Because, explained Miss Seeton, she did not, as yet, know how long the bank business would take. The two men exchanged glances: a bank robber and brazen—with this semblance of innocence. Then her declaration was, in essential, false? Wee.
Miss Seeton was escorted along several corridors, was shown into a room with a barred window, a bed, a basin with hot and cold running water, an armchair, a table and an upright chair. Her main luggage was brought in, she was asked to wait, the door was shut. And locked.
• • •
Elio Mantoni was tired and his feet hurt him. He had checked in at the hotel where a room had been reserved for him and had then gone to room 117 in accordance with his instructions in order to hand over the briefcase. He had knocked, but there had been no answer. He could not ask for information at the reception desk since he did not wish to establish any connection between himself and the room’s occupant. So, later, after two more failures, he had shelved the matter and had concentrated upon discovering the whereabouts of Miss Seeton. None of the hotels that he had telephoned would acknowledge a booking under that name. He had therefore trudged the streets examining upon various pretexts the latest entries in the registers of all the hotels in the directory. He was, in consequence, tired and his feet hurt him.
A small libation at most of his ports of call had led him from questioning his orders to eliminate Miss Seeton, to questioning the sanity of his employers, and by the time that he had reached his thirty-second hotel on a descending scale, his visitations and potations had induced a feeling of defiance. It was too much—it was not to be expected that you could arrange the death of a woman you did not know when you did not know where she was. Without doubt—without any doubt—from the manner in which they had received her at the airport the police were holding a banquet in her honor and would arrange her accommodation when and where they wished.
“Ecco, ecco! Tieni! Aspetta!” bawled the captain of the Genoese police.
Human nature is apt to reflect its geographical conditions. Mexico is subject to earthquakes and the inhabitants mirror the pattern with political quakes which they call revolutions. In Italy, when deeply disturbed the mounts of Etna and Vesuvius erupt: so, under stress, do the Italians. There are few countries in the world where an argument as to which town of a province should be the principal, a matter usually settled by acrimonious discussion between the local councils involved, could break out into a minor civil war. In Italy it can. The Italian is inherently exuberant; scratch the dormant surface and generations of vendetta and extravaganza will ensue. A single agent of police or at the most one car would have been ample for the reception of Miss Seeton. It was typical, after the first advice that they had received from Interpol, that the captain of police should respond to what had appeared to him to be a matter of international import with two police cars fully manned and, considering the woman might have associates on the plane, it was only to be marveled at that he had not called upon the army.
It was many years since the captain had run, but the second message, from Scotland Yard via Interpol, had galvanized him. They had made—he had made—the most enormous error. Extravaganza now reversed, with a clash of gears that could be heard around the town, for fear that his force should become a laughingstock through Europe. He lumbered from his office like a charging elephant in time to catch the young poliziotto who was carrying a tray down the corridor. He glared from the tray to the young man and back again. What, he barked, in the name of all the saints was the idea? How dared they offer a cheap dish of pasta—at that (he peered closer) with a mere smatter of sauce, a grating of cheese and a glass of water—to an honored guest? Did he imagine that this was how amicable relations were stabilized between the police forces of the world? Go, go, immediately—he thrust a handful of fifty-thousand-lira notes at the bewildered young man—to the best, to the most expensive ristorante in town and have them prepare a banquet fit for a king—no, he amended hastily, a queen, naturally, for a queen—and return with it at once.
The captain waddled back to his office, sat and mopped his brow. More ideas came to him. He punched buttons, summoning subordinates. Carpets! Had they carpets? After a consultation someone remembered the strip of red felt they had used for the festa for the mayor. To be nailed, at once, from the door of her room, down the passage, to the toilet. The bath! How could they make the bath, the one, the only functional bath, beautiful? Soap, bath salts, colored towels. The shops were shut. Then demand of their wives, go to their homes and by favor of finesse produce beautiful towels, perfumed soaps, fragrant lotions. And for the toilet—paper. Soft, soft paper in color. Flowers! The market was closed. But flowers were blooming, weren’t they? In the public gardens, the squares, the Piazza della Vittoria? Cut flowers and bring them here subito, subito.
With his minions running in all directions, the captain relaxed and remopped. He picked up and compared the two communications from Interpol, the second of which had followed a bare half hour upon the first.
The wires had hummed between Genoa and Paris, between Paris and Geneva, between Geneva and Genoa, between Geneva and London, between London and Paris, between London and Genoa. While Deputy Assistant Commissioner Fenn was arranging protection for Miss Seeton in Switzerland and Sir Hubert Everleigh was organizing a telex request to Alitalia for surveyance during her flight and a message to Interpol asking them to settle with Genoa for her reception, for her safety and for her retransmission to Geneva the following day, Jonathan Feldman had reported to Karl Telmark at the Banque du Lac the disappearance of Miss Seeton from Heathrow and, upon subsequent investigation, her inexplicable flight to Italy. Suspecting abduction at best and death at worst, the Swiss banker had contacted the headquarters of Interpol in Paris, which had relayed his report to Genoa along with his demand that the police should ensure her security on arrival. Unfortunately, in translation, instead of being asked to give her sicurezza, use was made of the verb assicurare, and “make her secure” the Genoese accordingly did.
But how could he have supposed, how imagined? the captain appealed to Fate. He had acted immediately, had done what they had asked, had secured this woman “known to the police,” only to find within the hour that she was a member, an honored member, one of the chiefs no doubt, of England’s Scotland Yard. But how—he thrust the papers from him—c
ould he have imagined, how supposed?
None of this activity, after an initial and triumphant statement from the police P.R.O. in Genoa anent their capture of the English criminal Miss Seeton, alias MissEss, had escaped the agency representatives of the world press. Reporters, photographers and television crews jostled for position in front of the police station. Pictures of embarrassed officers in uniform clutching bunched flowers, self-consciously carrying towels and scent bottles and, even more self-consciously, rolls of lavatory paper and, finally, three policemen in line supporting loaded trays covered with white damask, were flashed from capital to capital. It lacked only roast peacock in fine feather and a well-tusked boar’s head to complete the flavor of a Roman festival.
• • •
Miss Seeton was a little confused: so odd to be met by the police instead of by the car she had expected; to be taken to a police station in lieu of her hotel; and even more odd, when later occasion had led her to try the door of the room into which they had shown her, to find that it was locked. It must have, she had decided, to do with that form which she had filled in incorrectly on the airplane. One had read that foreign police forces were meticulous in such matters. In Spain, and also in Russia, she remembered, English tourists were frequently detained for what appeared, from what was printed in the newspapers, quite trivial reasons. She had knocked two or three times upon the door and had called “Excusez-moi” but had received no answer. They had not yet returned her passport and, since there was nothing further that she could do until morning, when doubtless Mr. Telmark from the bank would be able to put the whole thing straight, Miss Seeton had unpacked what she needed for the night, had cleaned her teeth and had gone to bed. So very fortunate that the nice hostess on the airplane had provided one with that more than adequate tea.
She was awakened by the sound of hammering. For a few muddled moments she was unable to orientate herself. Was it morning? She got out of bed, fumbled into her dressing gown and groped her way to the light switch by the door. She looked at her watch. Nearly half-past ten. Then, surely, it must still be night. She tapped upon the door and called, but by now the hammering had moved farther away and she met with no response. She tied the sash of her dressing gown and determined to wait by the door in order to catch the attention of anyone who passed. The hammering was now distant, but there were sounds of activity and men’s voices. Oh, dear, how very awkward. Should one dress again?
All was prepared. Everyone was lined up. The captain, accompanied by the interpreter, advanced, grasped the door handle, twisted it and thrust. Nothing happened.
“Je suis so sorry,” a muffled Miss Seeton cried, “but je suis afraid la porte est locked.”
As the captain turned an empurpled face toward his staff, a sheepish young poliziotto thrust a posy of geraniums and a cake of soap into his superior officer’s hand—this was no moment for recording that he had only been obeying orders—fished in his pocket and produced the key.
Miss Seeton was at first discomposed, then resigned and, finally, indifferent to what seemed to be an endless invasion of her privacy by gentlemen in uniform. She was, after all, decently and soberly, if incorrectly, clad, and since their attentions and intentions, though astonishing, were obviously well-meant, and considering that they completely ignored the fact that she was in night attire, she, too, would disregard it.
The captain, having shaken her hand with difficulty, hampered as he was by the geraniums and the soap, stood to one side of the door looking both imposing and idiotic. The interpreter, unencumbered, shook hands freely, aligned himself beside his chief and the two of them remained in this position of command to observe, to criticize, while the troops deployed. Flowers! But no vases. Jam jars and two pails were found in a cleaner’s cupboard, emptied of their contents, filled with water and crammed with blooms. The surplus served to decorate the bathroom and the lavatory. The hand basins in the room and in the bathroom were both half full of soap, wrapped and unwrapped. Bottles of bath essence and lotions were lodged and dislodged everywhere. The moment for the grand entry had come. The three tired men supporting their loaded trays advanced. The table was too small. They backed and waited while two more tables and a pair of chairs were produced from nearby offices. The scene was set, the legions withdrew and the captain with the interpreter stepped forward to address his honored colleague and to make formal explanations and apologies. The locking of the door—how could she forgive? Incompetent misunderstanding of orders to hand the key to her. Her accommodation—so nude, so poor. But they had had so little time, not having been advised until too late of her arrival. But now, with regard to the advanced hour, they had done their humble best to make amends. He did not expect this flummery to be believed but hoped that she would have the grace to accept it and not raise the awkward question as to why they had not engaged a room at a hotel. Meanwhile might they offer her a light repast? They whipped the damask from the trays to disclose rows of hot plates; they lifted the covers with pride. There was: risotto di scampi; three different kinds of pasta; fritto misto alla Fiorentina with its exotic mixed grill including forcemeat balls, sweetbreads, brains, boned cutlets and chicken livers; asparagus browned in butter with grated cheese and fried eggs; a bombe in a Thermos bowl; a Neapolitan spiral of short crust with honey, nuts and candied peel; a pottery bowl containing a cheese and egg dip over a spirit lamp waiting to be lit; bottles of red wine, white wine and brandy; coffee, cream; cutlery, glasses; butter and a basket of assorted breads. Miss Seeton gasped.
“But je ne peux pas, possibly, manger tout cela!” Sensible of the disappointment that she would cause, she realized that she would have to do her best. It was, after all, so very, very kind and they had taken so much trouble. To say nothing of the expense. She appealed to the interpreter. “Won’t you—voulezvous non manger too?”
The interpreter translated the painstaking Anglo-French into rapid Italian. The idea was received with enthusiasm and the three of them drew forward chairs and settled down to what was beginning to take on the aspect of a maximal feast in the dormitory. In view of the number of dishes through which she would have to wade, Miss Seeton pecked, the interpreter ate and the captain of police, whose girth gave him the advantage, stuffed.
During the meal Miss Seeton was told that arrangements had been made for her flight to Milan in the morning and the interpreter would accompany her. Milan? She couldn’t go to Milan in the morning. She had an appointment with the bank.
When this information was relayed the captain’s eyes narrowed. Allora, they were about to learn the reason for her visit.
“What bank?”
The Banque du Lac. The interpreter was nonplussed. There was no such bank in Genoa, nor had he ever heard of one in the whole of Italy.
“Non, non,” she explained, “in Geneva—in Swiss.”
But—the interpreter spilled ravioli on the table—they could not get her to Svizzera in the morning. Not possible. There was no direct flight. She would have to go via Milan and the plane from there to Ginevra was in the afternoon.
No direct flight . . .? Afternoon? The uncomfortable feeling that she had experienced when seeing all that water before they landed came back in force.
“Where,” asked Miss Seeton, “am I?”
She was told. She was appalled. Then embarrassed. And she had been speaking to them in French. How silly they must think her. And all the trouble she had put them to. Oh, dear. Between repeated apologies, she gave them an account of what had taken place at Heathrow and how she had come to make such a truly dreadful mistake. On being apprised, the captain of police roared with laughter and slapped the table with appreciation, making the glasses ring. An able one, this one—a prime agent of her class. Pretending in the first part to believe the story of their error; now, in the second part, she offers them this buffo divertimento of the lady with her cream cakes. Naturally not expecting credence, but knowing that they must pretend to give it credit since it could not be disproved. Unless the wine—he
drained his glass, refilled Miss Seeton’s and his own—loosened her tongue . . . But no, he was beginning to have respect for this one. Able. Very able. They would not learn from her why Scotland Yard had sent her here. Principal officials did not suddenly alter their destination without reason. He gave it thought. They would be in force tomorrow at the airport, keep a close watch and try to establish her intentions. And he would telephone his opposite number in Milano to scrutinize her every word and look, supposing that she might have, or try to make, a contact. Or . . . was she following someone—some international criminal? He must examine the lists of passengers.
Slightly glazed, they finished dipping bread in cheese and put the coffee on to heat. Now for the morning—for breakfast? Miss Seeton repressed a shudder. What could they offer? Anything, anything she wished, she had but to command.
“Just,” Miss Seeton ventured, “some weak tea, toast and jam.”
The interpreter and the captain exchanged a glance. Tea? Toast? Where could they obtain . . .? They countered this with coffee and hot rolls. And of course marmellata. Well, no, not marmalade, she didn’t care for it. But just butter would do if jam was difficult. Reassured that in Italy jam was marmellata and that marmalade was something else again, Miss Seeton once more shook hands, bade her guest-hosts good night and trod the wrinkled red felt to the facilities before retiring finally to rest.
Fifty-three hotels were all that could be—all that should be—expected of a man. Only lodgings were left. Allora, it was not—it could no longer be—his responsibility. His plane left at eight in the morning for Milano, so they must arrange whatever deaths they wanted for her—and for the doing, they could do themselves.
Mantoni decided to treat himself to an expensive dinner, washed down by two bottles of Vernaccia di Solarussa. It was a little bitter for his taste but he found consolation in the fact that it was the highest-priced wine on the list. He topped the stuffed peaches of his dessert with three shots of the wormwood-flavored Miele del Grappa and succeeded in convincing himself that his claim for expenses would be sympathetically viewed. By now the night, like Mantoni, was well advanced. Fortified, he returned to his hotel in a mood of belligerence. He collected his key, took the lift to his floor, walked down to the first floor and knocked on the door of room 117. He waited. Waited, then thumped. There were creaks, a thud, heavy footsteps and the door was thrown open to reveal a huge man, pajama buttons straining to contain the doormat-fronted barrel which served him for a chest. Bleary-eyed from sleep, he looked ahead, looked left, looked right, looked down. The thick lips under the heavy mustache parted and he gave a raucous laugh.
