The experts are right, he thought. Venice is sinking. The whole city is slowly dying. One day the tourists will travel here by boat to peer down into the waters, and they will see pillars and columns and marble far, far beneath them, slime and mud uncovering for brief moments a lost underworld of stone. Their heels made a ringing sound on the pavement and the rain splashed from the gutterings above. A fine ending to an evening that had started with brave hope, with innocence.
When they came to their hotel Laura made straight for the lift, and John turned to the desk to ask the night-porter for the key. The man handed him a telegram at the same time. John stared at it a moment. Laura was already in the lift. Then he opened the envelope and read the message. It was from the headmaster of Johnnie’s preparatory school.
Johnnie under observation suspected appendicitis in city hospital here. No cause for alarm but surgeon thought wise advise you.
Charles Hill
He read the message twice, then walked slowly towards the lift, where Laura was waiting for him. He gave her the telegram. “This came when we were out,” he said. “Not awfully good news.” He pressed the lift button as she read the telegram. The lift stopped at the second floor, and they got out.
“Well, this decides it, doesn’t it?” she said. “Here is the proof. We have to leave Venice because we’re going home. It’s Johnnie who’s in danger, not us. This is what Christine was trying to tell the twins.”
* * *
—
The first thing John did the following morning was to put a call through to the headmaster at the preparatory school. Then he gave notice of their departure to the reception manager, and they packed while they waited for the call. Neither of them referred to the events of the preceding day, it was not necessary. John knew the arrival of the telegram and the foreboding of danger from the sisters was coincidence, nothing more, but it was pointless to start an argument about it. Laura was convinced otherwise, but intuitively she knew it was best to keep her feelings to herself. During breakfast they discussed ways and means of getting home. It should be possible to get themselves, and the car, on to the special car train that ran from Milan through to Calais, since it was early in the season. In any event, the headmaster had said there was no urgency.
The call from England came while John was in the bathroom. Laura answered it. He came into the bedroom a few minutes later. She was still speaking, but he could tell from the expression in her eyes that she was anxious.
“It’s Mrs. Hill,” she said. “Mr. Hill is in class. She says they reported from the hospital that Johnnie had a restless night, and the surgeon may have to operate, but he doesn’t want to unless it’s absolutely necessary. They’ve taken X-rays and the appendix is in a tricky position, it’s not awfully straightforward.”
“Here, give it to me,” he said.
The soothing but slightly guarded voice of the headmaster’s wife came down the receiver. “I’m so sorry this may spoil your plans,” she said, “but both Charles and I felt you ought to be told, and that you might feel rather easier if you were on the spot. Johnnie is very plucky, but of course he has some fever. That isn’t unusual, the surgeon says, in the circumstances. Sometimes an appendix can get displaced, it appears, and this makes it more complicated. He’s going to decide about operating this evening.”
“Yes, of course, we quite understand,” said John.
“Please do tell your wife not to worry too much,” she went on. “The hospital is excellent, a very nice staff, and we have every confidence in the surgeon.”
“Yes,” said John, “yes,” and then broke off because Laura was making gestures beside him.
“If we can’t get the car on the train, I can fly,” she said. “They’re sure to be able to find me a seat on a plane. Then at least one of us would be there this evening.”
He nodded agreement. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Hill,” he said, “we’ll manage to get back all right. Yes, I’m sure Johnnie is in good hands. Thank your husband for us. Goodbye.”
He replaced the receiver and looked round him at the tumbled beds, suitcases on the floor, tissue-paper strewn. Baskets, maps, books, coats, everything they had brought with them in the car. “Oh God,” he said, “what a bloody mess. All this junk.” The telephone rang again. It was the hall porter to say he had succeeded in booking a sleeper for them both, and a place for the car, on the following night.
“Look,” said Laura, who had seized the telephone, “could you book one seat on the midday plane from Venice to London today, for me? It’s imperative one of us gets home this evening. My husband could follow with the car tomorrow.”
“Here, hang on,” interrupted John. “No need for panic stations. Surely twenty-four hours wouldn’t make all that difference?”
Anxiety had drained the color from her face. She turned to him, distraught.
“It mightn’t to you, but it does to me,” she said. “I’ve lost one child, I’m not going to lose another.”
“All right, darling, all right…” He put his hand out to her, but she brushed it off, impatiently, and continued giving directions to the porter. He turned back to his packing. No use saying anything. Better for it to be as she wished. They could, of course, both go by air, and then when all was well, and Johnnie better, he could come back and fetch the car, driving home through France as they had come. Rather a sweat, though, and a hell of an expense. Bad enough Laura going by air and himself with the car on the train from Milan.
“We could, if you like, both fly,” he began tentatively, explaining the sudden idea, but she would have none of it. “That really would be absurd,” she said impatiently. “As long as I’m there this evening, and you follow by train, it’s all that matters. Besides, we shall need the car, going backwards and forwards to the hospital. And our luggage. We couldn’t go off and just leave all this here.”
No, he saw her point. A silly idea. It was only, well, he was as worried about Johnnie as she was, though he wasn’t going to say so.
“I’m going downstairs to stand over the porter,” said Laura. “They always make more effort if one is actually on the spot. Everything I want tonight is packed. I shall only need my overnight case. You can bring everything else in the car.” She hadn’t been out of the bedroom five minutes before the telephone rang. It was Laura. “Darling,” she said, “it couldn’t have worked out better. The porter has got me on a charter flight that leaves Venice in less than an hour. A special motor-launch takes the party direct from San Marco, in about ten minutes. Some passenger on the charter flight had canceled. I shall be at Gatwick in less than four hours.”
“I’ll be down right away,” he told her.
He joined her by the reception desk. She no longer looked anxious and drawn, but full of purpose. She was on her way. He kept wishing they were going together. He couldn’t bear to stay on in Venice after she had gone, but the thought of driving to Milan, spending a dreary night in a hotel there alone, the endless dragging day which would follow, and the long hours in the train the next night, filled him with intolerable depression, quite apart from the anxiety about Johnnie. They walked along to the San Marco landing-stage, the Molo bright and glittering after the rain, a little breeze blowing, the postcards and scarves and tourist souvenirs fluttering on the stalls, the tourists themselves out in force, strolling, contented, the happy day before them.
“I’ll ring you tonight from Milan,” he told her. “The Hills will give you a bed, I suppose. And if you’re at the hospital they’ll let me have the latest news. That must be your charter party. You’re welcome to them!”
The passengers descending from the landing-stage down into the waiting launch were carrying hand-luggage with Union Jack tags upon them. They were mostly middle-aged, with what appeared to be two Methodist ministers in charge. One of them advanced towards Laura, holding out his hand, showing a gleaming row of dentures when he smile
d. “You must be the lady joining us for the homeward flight,” he said. “Welcome aboard, and to the Union of Fellowship. We are all delighted to make your acquaintance. Sorry we hadn’t a seat for hubby too.”
Laura turned swiftly and kissed John, a tremor at the corner of her mouth betraying inward laughter. “Do you think they’ll break into hymns?” she whispered. “Take care of yourself, hubby. Call me tonight.”
The pilot sounded a curious little toot upon his horn, and in a moment Laura had climbed down the steps into the launch and was standing amongst the crowd of passengers, waving her hand, her scarlet coat a gay patch of color amongst the more sober suiting of her companions. The launch tooted again and moved away from the landing-stage, and he stood there watching it, a sense of immense loss filling his heart. Then he turned and walked away, back to the hotel, the bright day all about him desolate, unseen.
There was nothing, he thought, as he looked about him presently in the hotel bedroom, so melancholy as a vacated room, especially when the recent signs of occupation were still visible about him. Laura’s suitcases on the bed, a second coat she had left behind. Traces of powder on the dressing-table. A tissue, with a lipstick smear, thrown in the wastepaper basket. Even an old toothpaste tube squeezed dry, lying on the glass shelf above the wash basin. Sounds of the heedless traffic on the Grand Canal came as always from the open window, but Laura wasn’t there any more to listen to it, or to watch from the small balcony. The pleasure had gone. Feeling had gone.
John finished packing, and, leaving all the baggage ready to be collected, he went downstairs to pay the bill. The reception clerk was welcoming new arrivals. People were sitting on the terrace overlooking the Grand Canal reading newspapers, the pleasant day waiting to be planned.
John decided to have an early lunch, here on the hotel terrace, on familiar ground, and then have the porter carry the baggage to one of the ferries that steamed between San Marco and the Porta Roma, where the car was garaged. The fiasco meal of the night before had left him empty, and he was ready for the trolley of hors d’oeuvres when they brought it to him, around midday. Even here, though, there was change. The head-waiter, their especial friend, was off-duty, and the table where they usually sat was occupied by new arrivals, a honeymoon couple, he told himself sourly, observing the gaiety, the smiles, while he had been shown to a small single table behind a tub of flowers.
She’s airborne now, John thought, she’s on her way, and he tried to picture Laura seated between the Methodist ministers, telling them, no doubt, about Johnnie ill in hospital, and heaven knows what else besides. Well, the twin sisters anyway could rest in psychic peace. Their wishes would have been fulfilled.
Lunch over, there was no point in lingering with a cup of coffee on the terrace. His desire was to get away as soon as possible, fetch the car, and be en route for Milan. He made his farewells at the reception desk, and, escorted by a porter who had piled his baggage on to a wheeled trolley, he made his way once more to the landing-stage of San Marco. As he stepped on to the steam-ferry, his luggage heaped beside him, a crowd of jostling people all about him, he had one momentary pang to be leaving Venice. When, if ever, he wondered, would they come again? Next year…in three years…Glimpsed first on honeymoon, nearly ten years ago, and then a second visit, en passant, before a cruise, and now this last abortive ten days that had ended so abruptly.
The water glittered in the sunshine, buildings shone, tourists in dark glasses paraded up and down the rapidly receding Molo; already the terrace of their hotel was out of sight as the ferry churned its way up the Grand Canal. So many impressions to seize and hold, familiar loved façades, balconies, windows, water lapping the cellar steps of decaying palaces, the little red house where d’Annunzio lived, with its garden—our house, Laura called it, pretending it was theirs—and too soon the ferry would be turning left on the direct route to the Piazzale Roma, so missing the best of the Canal, the Rialto, the farther palaces.
Another ferry was heading downstream to pass them, filled with passengers, and for a brief foolish moment he wished he could change places, be amongst the happy tourists bound for Venice and all he had left behind him. Then he saw her. Laura, in her scarlet coat, the twin sisters by her side, the active sister with her hand on Laura’s arm, talking earnestly, and Laura herself, her hair blowing in the wind, gesticulating, on her face a look of distress. He stared, astounded, too astonished to shout, to wave, and anyway they would never have heard or seen him, for his own ferry had already passed and was heading in the opposite direction.
What the hell had happened? There must have been a hold-up with the charter flight and it had never taken off, but in that case why had Laura not telephoned him at the hotel? And what were those damned sisters doing? Had she run into them at the airport? Was it coincidence? And why did she look so anxious? He could think of no explanation. Perhaps the flight had been canceled. Laura, of course, would go straight to the hotel, expecting to find him there, intending, doubtless, to drive with him after all to Milan and take the train the following night. What a blasted mix-up. The only thing to do was to telephone the hotel immediately his ferry reached the Piazzale Roma and tell her to wait, he would return and fetch her. As for the damned interfering sisters, they could get stuffed.
The usual stampede ensued when the ferry arrived at the landing-stage. He had to find a porter to collect his baggage, and then wait while he discovered a telephone. The fiddling with change, the hunt for the number, delayed him still more. He succeeded at last in getting through, and luckily the reception clerk he knew was still at the desk.
“Look, there’s been some frightful muddle,” he began, and explained how Laura was even now on her way back to the hotel—he had seen her with two friends on one of the ferry-services. Would the reception clerk explain and tell her to wait? He would be back by the next available service to collect her. “In any event, detain her,” he said. “I’ll be as quick as I can.” The reception clerk understood perfectly and John rang off.
Thank heaven Laura hadn’t turned up before he had put through his call, or they would have told her he was on his way to Milan. The porter was still waiting with the baggage, and it seemed simplest to walk with him to the garage, hand everything over to the chap in charge of the office there, and ask him to keep it for an hour, when he would be returning with his wife to pick up the car. Then he went back to the landing-station to await the next ferry to Venice. The minutes dragged, and he kept wondering all the time what had gone wrong at the airport and why in heaven’s name Laura hadn’t telephoned. No use conjecturing. She would tell him the whole story at the hotel. One thing was certain. He would not allow themselves to be saddled with the sisters and become involved with their affairs. He could imagine Laura saying that they also had missed a flight, and could they have a lift to Milan?
Finally the ferry chugged alongside the landing-stage and he stepped aboard. What an anticlimax, thrashing back past the familiar sights to which he had bidden a nostalgic farewell such a short while ago! He didn’t even look about him this time, he was so intent on reaching his destination. In San Marco there were more people than ever, the afternoon crowds walking shoulder to shoulder, every one of them on pleasure bent.
He came to the hotel, and pushed his way through the swing-door, expecting to see Laura, and possibly the sisters, waiting in the lounge on the left-hand side of the entrance. She was not there. He went to the desk. The reception clerk he had spoken to on the telephone was standing there, talking to the manager.
“Has my wife arrived?” John asked.
“No, sir, not yet.”
“What an extraordinary thing. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely certain, sir. I have been here ever since you telephoned me at a quarter to two. I have not left the desk.”
“I just don’t understand it. She was on one of the vaporettos passing by the Accademia. She would have landed at San Marco abo
ut five minutes later and come on here.”
The clerk seemed nonplussed. “I don’t know what to say. The signora was with friends, did you say?”
“Yes. Well, acquaintances. Two ladies we had met at Torcello yesterday. I was astonished to see her with them on the vaporetto, and of course I assumed that the flight had been canceled, and she had somehow met up with them at the airport and decided to return here with them, to catch me before I left.”
Oh hell, what was Laura doing? It was after three. A matter of moments from San Marco landing-stage to the hotel.
“Perhaps the signora went with her friends to their hotel instead. Do you know where they are staying?”
“No,” said John, “I haven’t the slightest idea. What’s more I don’t even know the names of the two ladies. They were sisters, twins, in fact—looked exactly alike. But, anyway, why go to their hotel and not here?”
The swing-door opened but it wasn’t Laura. Two people staying in the hotel.
The manager broke into the conversation, “I tell you what I will do,” he said. “I will telephone the airport and check about the flight. Then at least we will get somewhere.” He smiled apologetically. It was not usual for arrangements to go wrong.
“Yes, do that,” said John. “We may as well know what happened there.”
He lit a cigarette and began to pace up and down the entrance hall. What a bloody mix-up. And how unlike Laura, who knew he would be setting off for Milan directly after lunch—indeed, for all she knew he might have gone before. But surely, in that case, she would have telephoned at once, on arrival at the airport, had take-off been canceled? The manager was ages telephoning, he had to be put through on some other line, and his Italian was too rapid for John to follow the conversation. Finally he replaced the receiver.
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 96
