They entered the courtyard. By night, it had a look of theatrical gloom—a compact stage-set, dimly lighted, for even here the heavy walls seemed to eat up the brightness of the lamps set high on the surrounding houses. By contrast, the hotel’s wide doors, opened and welcoming, showed an empty lobby ablaze with gleam and glitter. Fenner’s grip on Claire’s small automatic loosened, and he took his hand out of his pocket. “Walk straight ahead and use the staircase. Wait for me on the floor above. I’ll get the key and take the elevator.”
Ballard nodded obediently, and entered the hotel. Fenner followed watchfully. No one around except the night porter, alone at his desk, and an elevator boy. Everyone else was in the bar or the dining-room, or out on the town. He could relax a little as he took the slow elevator, and ponder over Ballard’s new amenability. Either Ballard felt the edge of danger on which they were all balancing so precariously or he had stopped worrying that Fenner was after his job. Was that what he meant when he said, in his own peculiar form of reasoning, that Fenner had been to blame for his arrival in Venice? Because Fenner was in Venice, and a story was in Venice. But if Fenner was working for Intelligence, he could never use the story and so Ballard could stop worrying. Was that it? Fenner shook his head in wry amusement. He was relieved, at least, that Ballard had stopped glooming around.
But he could wish, when he met Ballard upstairs and noted his rising euphoria, now that they were safe in a brightly lit, comfortable hotel, that Ballard had stayed a little more scared. The edge of danger was a slippery place.
He hurried Ballard into his room, with no one to see them enter. The bed had been turned down, the light left on to welcome him. “Stay here. Keep the door locked. If the telephone rings, wait for an identification before you speak.”
“What’s the password?” Ballard was highly amused.
“Florian,” said Fenner on the spur of the moment. “You won’t forget that.”
“No,” Ballard said abruptly. He chose a comfortable armchair and looked around the room. “So I wait here.”
“You wait here.” Fenner turned back to the door.
“I could use a drink and a sandwich.”
“You’ll have them. Just wait, meanwhile.” Fenner was getting impatient. “That’s little enough to—”
“Do you know who was in the bar? Drinking brandy with his coffee, lucky stiff. Tarns. Sir Felix Tarns.”
Fenner halted. “Did he see you?”
“No.” Ballard was irritated. “Would that matter?” Tarns was a stinker, but not the Jan Aarvan type. His mood was back to high amusement. “You know, I was thinking how we could shake him a little. Just enough to—”
“You keep away from that telephone!” Fenner said angrily, making a quick guess.
“Okay, okay.”
“All set?”
“Any cigarettes? I’m all out.” Ballard caught the pack that Fenner had tossed over on his way to the door. “Stay for a couple of minutes, Bill. Claire has given the alarm about Sandra, hasn’t she? So what’s the rush?”
“You are part of it,” Fenner reminded him, opening the door.
“When do I get bailed out?”
“Soon.”
“How soon is soon? One hour? Two? Am I just to sit—?”
“You’ll find a couple of books on top of the dresser,” Fenner said.
“Hey!” But Fenner had closed the door firmly. Ballard heard its lock snap tight. He stared angrily at the door, lit a cigarette. Not that he wasn’t grateful to Bill for getting him off the streets. But all those cloak-and-dagger boys were too damned mysterious. Part of the act, no doubt. Made them feel important. It wasn’t as difficult a job as they made it seem, though. Hadn’t he talked his way very neatly out of Ca’ Longhi? Hadn’t he brought them the letter? He, a rank amateur, had done what they couldn’t do. Not bad for old Mike, not bad at all. Finesse and quick wits, a little daring, that was all you needed in this or any other sport.
He smoked two cigarettes, started walking around the room. There was nothing to drink. The books on the dresser didn’t interest him. (They seemed dull compared to the excitement he had been going through. Who wanted to read about Faulkner’s Mississippi or the White Nile on a night like this?) The window looked out onto a blank courtyard. Quiet, restful. He turned the door’s lock cautiously, glanced into the corridor. Quiet and restful, too. Not so expensive a hotel as the Danieli, but not bad. Comfortable and respectable. He watched a well-dressed, elderly couple go into a room not far away. Near the staircase, a middle-aged maid ended her gossip with a white-haired servant in a green apron and striped waistcoat. The corridor was empty again. This was the kind of hotel where Mama could let her eighteen-year-old daughter stay without a chaperone, and only have to sigh over the bill. A dull and virtuous place, cosy and safe.
He could fix the lock so that the door would open from the outside. And he did. He was thirsty, he was hungry. The bar was a quiet place. He could have his sandwich and Scotch, and the pleasure of watching Sir Felix Tarns lose a little of that stiff-necked composure, too. It was time that someone administered a little shock treatment to that quiet-faced stinker: that could have saved his wizened little soul, before now.
Mike the missionary, he thought, as he entered the small bar, panelled, softly lighted, its velvet chairs around polished-wood tables mostly empty, and ordered a double Scotch and a couple of chicken sandwiches. Mike the avenging angel, he added grimly, thinking suddenly of Lenoir as he saw Tarns’s head bent over a newspaper. Finesse, just a little finesse, could hurt Lenoir where he didn’t expect it. Ballard slid off the bar stool as the solitary attendant telephoned the kitchen for the sandwiches, and walked across the room.
“Sir Felix Tarns? You are a friend of Sandra Fane, I believe?” Sir Felix looked up at him blankly.
“Sandra told me you visited her today. Was she all right then?” Ballard dropped his voice still more, to an appropriate conspiratorial murmur.
Sir Felix said icily, “I don’t believe I know you—”
“Doesn’t matter. It is Sandra we have to worry about. I saw her this evening. She’s ill. I don’t think she is going to last until morning, in fact.”
Tarns’s handsome, gaunt face whitened. “I beg your pardon?”
“She wants to talk with you. She needs your help. I think you’d better get over to Ca’ Longhi right away. Lenoir is having her shipped off to Russia.”
There was a definite pause. Sir Felix rose to his feet. “I do not know who you are. I do not know why you should tell me this fantastic story. But I do know that I do not have to listen to it.” He walked quickly out of the bar, his head up, eyes cold, nostrils pinched. He had been shaken enough, though, to leave his newspaper behind him and his brandy unfinished.
Ballard enjoyed his sandwiches and his drink. Tarns was a womaniser—that had been the start of his troubles—and any womaniser had a definite drift toward Sandra Fane. I ought to know, Ballard thought. Tarns could pretend he had never heard of Sandra or Lenoir. But he had listened, all right. Now let him go to Lenoir, let him at least stop Sandra screaming.
The trouble with the bright boys like Fenner, Ballard reflected, was that they had to plan and prepare and wait and tie themselves up in double talk and high signs. Fenner’s pals would have to rack their brains to find a way into Ca’ Longhi. It would take them at least a couple of hours to get organised. The place was a fortress. You just didn’t climb in a window. Not in Ca’ Longhi. But I’ve got inside: I’ve sent Sir Felix Tarns, no less. And when he insists on seeing Sandra, and Lenoir has to start sweet-talking—well, that could hold up Sandra’s questioning for a couple of hours. It could even delay her being taken on board the freighter.
How’s that for an idea, Fenner?
It wasn’t altogether like that, though.
Sir Felix was definitely alarmed, but he did not go to Ca’ Longhi. He compromised. He telephoned, instead.
Lenoir was, in turn, astounded—indignant—amused. Sandra couldn’t be i
n better health. She had already retired for the night—she had an early start tomorrow. Yes, she was going to visit Moscow. The invitation had only arrived this evening, and Sandra had accepted it with great excitement. Naturally.
“Naturally,” Sir Felix agreed. Shipped off to Russia—what hysterical phrases those Americans used. “I envy her. This is such a pleasant time of year in Moscow. I am sorry I shan’t see her before she leaves.”
“That’s possible, if you could join us for breakfast tomorrow. At six, I’m afraid. That might be a very pleasant send-off for her.”
“A little early for my own plans,” Tarns excused himself quickly. “But you will give Sandra my best wishes? I hope to see her in Paris when she returns. She is returning?”
“At the end of October. By the way, whoever told you this nonsense about her illness?”
“I have no idea. Just an American in one of those appalling silk suits. He said he called on you this evening. Otherwise, I should never have telephoned.”
“I’m glad you did. Otherwise, my dear Felix, you would have been worried unnecessarily. Is the American staying at your hotel?”
“I suppose so. At least, he was ordering sandwiches in the bar. He is no doubt eating them there at this minute. Peculiar habits they have, I must say.”
“And a peculiar sense of humour. Until tomorrow evening, as arranged? Have a pleasant night!”
The call ended. It was really indiscreet of Fernand, Sir Felix thought in annoyance, to mention my plans in that tone of voice. Surely how I choose to spend the next eight hours is entirely my business? Bridling over Fernand’s slight raising of the whip, Sir Felix prepared to leave the hotel for his pleasant night. Sandra Fane was already forgotten.
24
Bill Fenner left the hotel casually. He crossed the courtyard briskly. He passed through the alley at a light run. But as he reached the sotto portico, he dropped back into a quick walk as he saw a man and woman, arm in arm, sauntering toward him. They passed him, American they were by clothes and voice, seemingly bound for the alley. He halted in the shadows of one of the squat pillars at the canal’s edge that held up the low ceiling of the covered way. Ahead was the short stretch of open quay, and then the street that traversed the bridge. It was fairly quiet at this hour, with only occasional tourists drifting around. The gondolier was still there. So were the two men. They weren’t talking now. Just standing together.
To his surprise, as he was about to walk on, two other men stepped out of a recessed doorway near the street and joined the group at the bridge. Had they been there all along? Perhaps, Fenner admitted worriedly: the doorway was deep and dark; he could have missed them when he and Ballard came this way—he had been too busy looking at the canal for Zorzi. As he waited, puzzled (the two newcomers had looked at their watches, said a few words, moved slowly back into the doorway), he heard the voices of the American couple retreating from the alley.
The man was saying, “But it won’t lead anywhere.”
“It looks romantic. You never can tell—”
“It’s a dead end,” the man said flatly, and won. Their footsteps came back into the sotto portico.
“Isn’t this a funny old place?” the woman asked as she halted. “Sort of an arcade. Where does it lead, d’you think? Perhaps down to the Grand Canal. Come on, Milt. Let’s see!”
“There’s no exit that way.”
“How do we know until we try it?” High heels clacked lightly, the man’s step followed slowly, toward the far end of the sotto portico, a place of deepening shadow turning into black depth. “Romantic, isn’t it?” the woman’s voice drifted back, a little uncertainly.
“We’re nuts,” her husband said, baulking. “There’s no street down here—just a dock where they bring in supplies. Come on, Sue, let’s get to the Piazza.”
His voice, raised in annoyance, had carried as far as the recessed doorway near the bridge. One of the men stepped out on to the lighted quay, and started towards the voices. The gondolier’s two friends had looked quickly in their direction, also. But the American couple, retracing their steps, had passed Fenner and were reaching the open quay. The man halted, went back to his doorway. “Funny, isn’t it,” the woman was saying, “gondolas instead of trucks.”
“Funnier if they tried to float a truck.”
“I just never thought how they got supplies to the shops and restaurants. You know, Milt, it must be strange to housekeep here.” Their voices faded into a murmur. At the bridge, they hesitated, and took the wrong direction for the Piazza San Marco. The men on the bridge paid no more attention. The gondolier, in fact, had decided to go down to his craft, which was moored so close to the bridge that half of it disappeared into black shadow.
Fenner was about to move on. He was puzzled. He hesitated. He looked over his shoulder, to the far end of the dark and deserted sotto portico. Just what had worried those men when Sue and Milt had gone exploring down there?
Carefully retreating from the shelter of one pillar to another, Fenner tried some exploring himself. Quickly, he made his way back through the shadows into the black depths of the sotto portico and ended, as the practical Milt had predicted, at a house wall where the ground floor of the building pushed out to reach the canal. There was, also, as his eyes became accustomed to the various depths of shadows cast by a far-off and meagre lamp, a heavy doorway, closed; barred windows, unlit; a coil of rope on the paving stones; some basket-covered kegs; two barrels; a crate. And on the canal side, cradled darkly against the edge of the sotto portico, was a heavy gondola, neatly tarpaulined and shipshape, waiting for tomorrow’s workday. Nothing, no one here.
Fenner almost turned away. Then he noticed that there were two shapes of tarpaulin deep in the well of the gondola. Amidships, one was squared off neatly, stretched over the square bulk of its cargo, roped in a business-like way, but the smaller tarpaulin-covered shape seemed loose, ill-secured, as if the workmen had been in a hurry and had dumped the last load in a bundle. It wasn’t their way, though: the neatness of the rest of the gondola, and of the miniature wharf to which it was so securely moored—Fenner stopped speculating and stepped carefully into the gondola, keeping his body bent, his head low, using the bulk of the well-stowed cargo as a shield against any watchful eyes from the distant street. He felt the lilt of the canal send the gondola swaying gently with his weight. He steadied himself, paused just long enough to let the gondola right itself. He was down in the broad deep well of the boat, and invisible from the bridge up the canal. He moved carefully, reached out to the small bundle of tarpaulin. It was tightly wrapped but unroped, pliable to his touch. It stirred with a small feeble movement, felt more than seen.
Quickly, he searched for an opening in the tarpaulin, wrenched it apart. A man’s eyes stared up at him wildly. His mouth was tightly covered with a broad strip of adhesive, his hands and feet tied with wire. Cautiously, Fenner flicked on his lighter briefly, shielding it with his hand. It was Zorzi.
Fenner tried to ease the cruel bandage from Zorzi’s cheeks, and the staring eyes closed. But the gondolier’s pulse, though weak, was still countable. There had been no sign of any blood, so Zorzi had probably been hit on the head, or at the base of the neck. Enticed near here on some pretext, and struck from behind? Fenner worked frantically at the bandage and wrenched it loose. The wires around the wrists and ankles were not so easily removed. He could feel blood there, where Zorzi must have tried to struggle free. And the more he had struggled, the more the several strands of wire had been pulled, almost welded, together. Impossible to unravel. Fenner’s penknife was useless, too. He needed pincers. He needed some light to work by. He needed help, and quickly. Police, in this case, would be the simple solution. But that was all that was simple. Normally, he would have stood up and yelled until a passer-by in the street came running, but not with those men at the bridge. He could guess what kind of help they’d give him. No, he would have to walk past them, in his search for a policeman, and if he couldn’t see an
y around, he would have to get to Arnaldi’s shop by its rear entrance—only not by a direct approach, for the waiting men might see him branch off the street into the side alley.
He disliked the idea of leaving Zorzi, trussed up like this, to regain consciousness by himself in the darkness. But there was no choice. And just as he was about to hoist himself on to the covered wharf, he heard the sound, the soft silklike sound of a gondola speeding smoothly down the little canal. He crouched instinctively, and glimpsed the two men from the bridge sitting erect and motionless as they swept past. The gondolier standing high behind them might have seen Zorzi lying free of the tarpaulin, but if he did, his only response was to increase speed. He shouted a warning to some approaching gondola coming up from the Grand Canal, and that was all.
Fenner pulled himself on to the paving stones of the sotto portico and broke into a run. Ahead of him, the street was peaceful and almost empty. He glanced at the recessed doorway on the quay as he ran past. There was no one there. The men had got tired of waiting and left. Or perhaps they had seen the flicker of his lighter in the freight gondola, and decided that flight was wise. As he reached the bridge, he remembered Zorzi, this noon, standing down there in his gondola, shouting up to Claire and himself. Ten o’clock... Their arrangement had been no secret. Now he knew why the five men had waited, why Zorzi had been eliminated, why his gondola had been taken. Instead of cursing Mike Ballard as a general nuisance and delay, he ought to be giving him special thanks for changing their arrangements.
He halted on the crest of the bridge and looked both ways along the street. There was no policeman in sight. Near him were two Italians walking quickly home, a small group of Austrian students hiking along. He tried some Italian on both, and received only puzzled frowns in return. Thankfully, he saw the American couple retracing their sadly wandered steps. “There’s a man in a gondola down there!” he yelled to them, and pointed. “He has been mugged. Will you wait with him? I’ll telephone the police.”
The Venetian Affair Page 36
