The Big Book of Reel Murders

by Stories That Inspired Great Crime Films (epub)

  “Is she on her way?” asked Laura.

  “About to pass our table now,” he told her.

  Seen on her own, the woman was not so remarkable. Tall, angular, aquiline features, with the close-cropped hair which was fashionably called Eton crop, he seemed to remember, in his mother’s day, and about her person the stamp of that particular generation. She would be in her middle sixties, he supposed, the masculine shirt with collar and tie, sports jacket, grey tweed skirt coming to mid-calf. Grey stockings and laced black shoes. He had seen the type on golf-courses and at dog-shows—invariably showing not sporting breeds but pugs—and if you came across them at a party in somebody’s house they were quicker on the draw with a cigarette-lighter than he was himself, a mere male, with pocket-matches. The general belief that they kept house with a more feminine, fluffy companion was not always true. Frequently they boasted, and adored, a golfing husband. No, the striking point about this particular individual was that there were two of them. Identical twins cast in the same mould. The only difference was that the other one had whiter hair.

  “Supposing,” murmured Laura, “when I find myself in the toilette beside her she starts to strip?”

  “Depends on what is revealed,” John answered. “If she’s hermaphrodite, make a bolt for it. She might have a hypodermic syringe concealed and want to knock you out before you reach the door.”

  Laura sucked in her cheeks once more and began to shake. Then, squaring her shoulders, she rose to her feet. “I simply must not laugh,” she said, “and whatever you do, don’t look at me when I come back, especially if we come out together.” She picked up her bag and strolled self-consciously away from the table in pursuit of her prey.

  John poured the dregs of the chianti into his glass and lit a cigarette. The sun blazed down upon the little garden of the restaurant. The Americans had left, and the monocled man, and the family party at the far end. All was peace. The identical twin was sitting back in her chair with her eyes closed. Thank heaven, he thought, for this moment at any rate, when relaxation was possible, and Laura had been launched upon her foolish, harmless game. The holiday could yet turn into the cure she needed, blotting out, if only temporarily, the numb despair that had seized her since the child died.

  “She’ll get over it,” the doctor said. “They all get over it, in time. And you have the boy.”

  “I know,” John had said, “but the girl meant everything. She always did, right from the start, I don’t know why. I suppose it was the difference in age. A boy of school age, and a tough one at that, is someone in his own right. Not a baby of five. Laura literally adored her. Johnnie and I were nowhere.”

  “Give her time,” repeated the doctor, “give her time. And anyway, you’re both young still. There’ll be others. Another daughter.”

  So easy to talk….How replace the life of a loved lost child with a dream? He knew Laura too well. Another child, another girl, would have her own qualities, a separate identity, she might even induce hostility because of this very fact. A usurper in the cradle, in the cot, that had been Christine’s. A chubby, flaxen replica of Johnnie, not the little waxen dark-haired sprite that had gone.

  He looked up, over his glass of wine, and the woman was staring at him again. It was not the casual, idle glance of someone at a nearby table, waiting for her companion to return, but something deeper, more intent, the prominent, light blue eyes oddly penetrating, giving him a sudden feeling of discomfort. Damn the woman! All right, bloody stare, if you must. Two can play at that game. He blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air and smiled at her, he hoped offensively. She did not register. The blue eyes continued to hold his, so that finally he was obliged to look away himself, extinguish his cigarette, glance over his shoulder for the waiter and call for the bill. Settling for this, and fumbling with the change, with a few casual remarks about the excellence of the meal, brought composure, but a prickly feeling on his scalp remained, and an odd sensation of unease. Then it went, as abruptly as it had started, and stealing a furtive glance at the other table he saw that her eyes were closed again, and she was sleeping, or dozing, as she had done before. The waiter disappeared. All was still.

  Laura, he thought, glancing at his watch, is being a hell of a time. Ten minutes at least. Something to tease her about, anyway. He began to plan the form the joke would take. How the old dolly had stripped to her smalls, suggesting that Laura should do likewise. And then the manager had burst in upon them both, exclaiming in horror, the reputation of the restaurant damaged, the hint that unpleasant consequences might follow unless…The whole exercise turning out to be a plant, an exercise in blackmail. He and Laura and the twins taken in a police launch back to Venice for questioning. Quarter of an hour…Oh, come on, come on…

  There was a crunch of feet on the gravel. Laura’s twin walked slowly past, alone. She crossed over to her table and stood there a moment, her tall, angular figure interposing itself between John and her sister. She was saying something, but he couldn’t catch the words. What was the accent, though—Scottish? Then she bent, offering an arm to the seated twin, and they moved away together across the garden to the break in the little hedge beyond, the twin who had stared at John leaning on her sister’s arm. Here was the difference again. She was not quite so tall, and she stooped more—perhaps she was arthritic. They disappeared out of sight, and John, becoming impatient, got up and was about to walk back into the hotel when Laura emerged.

  “Well, I must say, you took your time,” he began, then stopped, because of the expression on her face.

  “What’s the matter, what’s happened?” he asked.

  He could tell at once there was something wrong. Almost as if she were in a state of shock. She blundered towards the table he had just vacated and sat down. He drew up a chair beside her, taking her hand.

  “Darling, what is it? Tell me—are you ill?”

  She shook her head, and then turned and looked at him. The dazed expression he had noticed at first had given way to one of dawning confidence, almost of exaltation.

  “It’s quite wonderful,” she said slowly, “the most wonderful thing that could possibly be. You see, she isn’t dead, she’s still with us. That’s why they kept staring at us, those two sisters. They could see Christine.”

  Oh God, he thought. It’s what I’ve been dreading. She’s going off her head. What do I do? How do I cope?

  “Laura, sweet,” he began, forcing a smile, “look, shall we go? I’ve paid the bill, we can go and look at the cathedral and stroll around, and then it will be time to take off in that launch again for Venice.”

  She wasn’t listening, or at any rate the words didn’t penetrate.

  “John, love,” she said, “I’ve got to tell you what happened. I followed her, as we planned, into the toilette place. She was combing her hair and I went into the loo, and then came out and washed my hands in the basin. She was washing hers in the next basin. Suddenly she turned and said to me, in a strong Scots accent, ‘Don’t be unhappy any more. My sister has seen your little girl. She was sitting between you and your husband, laughing.’ Darling, I thought I was going to faint. I nearly did. Luckily, there was a chair, and I sat down, and the woman bent over me and patted my head. I’m not sure of her exact words, but she said something about the moment of truth and joy being as sharp as a sword, but not to be afraid, all was well, but the sister’s vision had been so strong they knew I had to be told, and that Christine wanted it. Oh John, don’t look like that. I swear I’m not making it up, this is what she told me, it’s all true.”

  The desperate urgency in her voice made his heart sicken. He had to play along with her, agree, soothe, do anything to bring back some sense of calm.

  “Laura, darling, of course I believe you,” he said, “only it’s a sort of shock, and I’m upset because you’re upset…”

  “But I’m not upset,” she interrupted. “I’m happy,
so happy that I can’t put the feeling into words. You know what it’s been like all these weeks, at home and everywhere we’ve been on holiday, though I tried to hide it from you. Now it’s lifted, because I know, I just know, that the woman was right. Oh Lord, how awful of me, but I’ve forgotten their name—she did tell me. You see, the thing is that she’s a retired doctor, they come from Edinburgh, and the one who saw Christine went blind a few years ago. Although she’s studied the occult all her life and been very psychic, it’s only since going blind that she has really seen things, like a medium. They’ve had the most wonderful experiences. But to describe Christine as the blind one did to her sister, even down to the little blue-and-white dress with the puff sleeves that she wore at her birthday party, and to say she was smiling happily…Oh darling, it’s made me so happy I think I’m going to cry.”

  No hysteria. Nothing wild. She took a tissue from her bag and blew her nose, smiling at him. “I’m all right, you see, you don’t have to worry. Neither of us need worry about anything any more. Give me a cigarette.”

  He took one from his packet and lighted it for her. She sounded normal, herself again. She wasn’t trembling. And if this sudden belief was going to keep her happy he couldn’t possibly begrudge it. But…but…he wished, all the same, it hadn’t happened. There was something uncanny about thought-reading, about telepathy. Scientists couldn’t account for it, nobody could, and this is what must have happened just now between Laura and the sisters. So the one who had been staring at him was blind. That accounted for the fixed gaze. Which somehow was unpleasant in itself, creepy. Oh hell, he thought, I wish we hadn’t come here for lunch. Just chance, a flick of a coin between this, Torcello, and driving to Padua, and we had to choose Torcello.

  “You didn’t arrange to meet them again or anything, did you?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

  “No, darling, why should I?” Laura answered. “I mean, there was nothing more they could tell me. The sister had had her wonderful vision, and that was that. Anyway, they’re moving on. Funnily enough, it’s rather like our original game. They are going round the world before returning to Scotland. Only I said Australia, didn’t I? The old dears…anything less like murderers and jewel thieves!”

  She had quite recovered. She stood up and looked about her. “Come on,” she said. “Having come to Torcello we must see the cathedral.”

  They made their way from the restaurant across the open piazza, where the stalls had been set up with scarves and trinkets and postcards, and so along the path to the cathedral. One of the ferry-boats had just decanted a crowd of sight-seers, many of whom had already found their way into Santa Maria Assunta. Laura, undaunted, asked her husband for the guidebook, and, as had always been her custom in happier days, started to walk slowly through the cathedral, studying mosaics, columns, panels from left to right, while John, less interested, because of his concern at what had just happened, followed close behind, keeping a weather eye alert for the twin sisters. There was no sign of them. Perhaps they had gone into the Church of Santa Fosca close by. A sudden encounter would be embarrassing, quite apart from the effect it might have upon Laura. But the anonymous, shuffling tourists, intent upon culture, could not harm her, although from his own point of view they made artistic appreciation impossible. He could not concentrate, the cold clear beauty of what he saw left him untouched, and when Laura touched his sleeve, pointing to the mosaic of the Virgin and Child standing above the frieze of the Apostles, he nodded in sympathy yet saw nothing, the long, sad face of the Virgin infinitely remote, and turning on sudden impulse stared back over the heads of the tourists towards the door, where frescoes of the blessed and the damned gave themselves to judgment.

  The twins were standing there, the blind one still holding on to her sister’s arm, her sightless eyes fixed firmly upon him. He felt himself held, unable to move, and an impending sense of doom, of tragedy, came upon him. His whole being sagged, as it were, in apathy, and he thought, This is the end, there is no escape, no future. Then both sisters turned and went out of the cathedral and the sensation vanished, leaving indignation in its wake, and rising anger. How dare those two old fools practice their mediumistic tricks on him? It was fraudulent, unhealthy; this was probably the way they lived, touring the world making everyone they met uncomfortable. Give them half a chance and they would have got money out of Laura—anything.

  He felt her tugging at his sleeve again. “Isn’t she beautiful? So happy, so serene.”

  “Who? What?” he asked.

  “The Madonna,” she answered. “She has a magic quality. It goes right through to one. Don’t you feel it too?”

  “I suppose so. I don’t know. There are too many people around.”

  She looked up at him, astonished. “What’s that got to do with it? How funny you are. Well, all right, let’s get away from them. I want to buy some postcards anyway.” Disappointed, she sensed his lack of interest, and began to thread her way through the crowd of tourists to the door.

  “Come on,” he said abruptly, once they were outside, “there’s plenty of time for postcards, let’s explore a bit,” and he struck off from the path, which would have taken them back to the center where the little houses were, and the stalls, and the drifting crowd of people, to a narrow way amongst uncultivated ground, beyond which he could see a sort of cutting, or canal. The sight of water, limpid, pale, was a soothing contrast to the fierce sun above their heads.

  “I don’t think this leads anywhere much,” said Laura. “It’s a bit muddy, too, one can’t sit. Besides, there are more things the guidebook says we ought to see.”

  “Oh, forget the book,” he said impatiently, and, pulling her down beside him on the bank above the cutting, put his arms round her.

  “It’s the wrong time of day for sight-seeing. Look, there’s a rat swimming there the other side.” He picked up a stone and threw it in the water, and the animal sank, or somehow disappeared, and nothing was left but bubbles.

  “Don’t,” said Laura. “It’s cruel, poor thing,” and then suddenly, putting her hand on his knee, “Do you think Christine is sitting here beside us?”

  He did not answer at once. What was there to say? Would it be like this forever?

  “I expect so,” he said slowly, “if you feel she is.”

  The point was, remembering Christine before the onset of the fatal meningitis, she would have been running along the bank excitedly, throwing off her shoes, wanting to paddle, giving Laura a fit of apprehension. “Sweetheart, take care, come back…”

  “The woman said she was looking so happy, sitting beside us, smiling,” said Laura. She got up, brushing her dress, her mood changed to restlessness. “Come on, let’s go back,” she said.

  He followed her with a sinking heart. He knew she did not really want to buy postcards or see what remained to be seen; she wanted to go in search of the women again, not necessarily to talk, just to be near them. When they came to the open place by the stalls he noticed that the crowd of tourists had thinned, there were only a few stragglers left, and the sisters were not amongst them. They must have joined the main body who had come to Torcello by the ferry-service. A wave of relief seized him.

  “Look, there’s a mass of postcards at the second stall,” he said quickly, “and some eye-catching head-scarves. Let me buy you a head-scarf.”

  “Darling, I’ve so many!” she protested. “Don’t waste your lire.”

  “It isn’t a waste. I’m in a buying mood. What about a basket? You know we never have enough baskets. Or some lace. How about lace?”

  She allowed herself, laughing, to be dragged to the stall. While he rumpled through the goods spread out before them, and chatted up the smiling woman who was selling her wares, his ferociously bad Italian making her smile the more, he knew it would give the body of tourists more time to walk to the landing-stage and catch the ferry-service, and the twin sisters would be o
ut of sight and out of their life.

  “Never,” said Laura, some twenty minutes later, “has so much junk been piled into so small a basket,” her bubbling laugh reassuring him that all was well, he needn’t worry any more, the evil hour had passed. The launch from the Cipriani that had brought them from Venice was waiting by the landing-stage. The passengers who had arrived with them, the Americans, the man with the monocle, were already assembled. Earlier, before setting out, he had thought the price for lunch and transport, there and back, decidedly steep. Now he grudged none of it, except that the outing to Torcello itself had been one of the major errors of this particular holiday in Venice. They stepped down into the launch, finding a place in the open, and the boat chugged away down the canal and into the lagoon. The ordinary ferry had gone before, steaming towards Murano, while their own craft headed past San Francesco del Deserto and so back direct to Venice.

  He put his arm around her once more, holding her close, and this time she responded, smiling up at him, her head on his shoulder.

  “It’s been a lovely day,” she said. “I shall never forget it, never. You know, darling, now at last I can begin to enjoy our holiday.”

  He wanted to shout with relief. It’s going to be all right, he decided, let her believe what she likes, it doesn’t matter, it makes her happy. The beauty of Venice rose before them, sharply outlined against the glowing sky, and there was still so much to see, wandering there together, that might now be perfect because of her change of mood, the shadow having lifted, and aloud he began to discuss the evening to come, where they would dine—not the restaurant they usually went to, near the Venice Theatre, but somewhere different, somewhere new.

  “Yes, but it must be cheap,” she said, falling in with his mood, “because we’ve already spent so much today.”