“It is more mysterious than ever, sir,” he said. “The charter flight was not delayed, it took off on schedule with a full complement of passengers. As far as they could tell me, there was no hitch. The signora must simply have changed her mind.” His smile was more apologetic than ever.
“Changed her mind,” John repeated. “But why on earth should she do that? She was so anxious to be home tonight.”
The manager shrugged. “You know how ladies can be, sir,” he said. “Your wife may have thought that after all she would prefer to take the train to Milan with you. I do assure you, though, that the charter party was most respectable, and it was a Caravelle aircraft, perfectly safe.”
“Yes, yes,” said John impatiently, “I don’t blame your arrangements in the slightest. I just can’t understand what induced her to change her mind, unless it was meeting with these two ladies.”
The manager was silent. He could not think of anything to say. The reception clerk was equally concerned. “It is possible,” he ventured, “that you made a mistake, and it was not the signora that you saw on the vaporetto?”
“Oh no,” replied John, “it was my wife, I assure you. She was wearing her red coat, she was hatless, just as she left here. I saw her as plainly as I can see you. I would swear to it in a court of law.”
“It is unfortunate,” said the manager, “that we do not know the name of the two ladies, or the hotel where they were staying. You say you met these ladies at Torcello yesterday?”
“Yes…but only briefly. They weren’t staying there. At least, I am certain they were not. We saw them at dinner in Venice later, as it happens.”
“Excuse me…” Guests were arriving with luggage to check in, the clerk was obliged to attend to them. John turned in desperation to the manager. “Do you think it would be any good telephoning the hotel in Torcello in case the people there knew the name of the ladies, or where they were staying in Venice?”
“We can try,” replied the manager. “It is a small hope, but we can try.”
John resumed his anxious pacing, all the while watching the swing-door, hoping, praying, that he would catch sight of the red coat and Laura would enter. Once again there followed what seemed an interminable telephone conversation between the manager and someone at the hotel in Torcello.
“Tell them two sisters,” said John, “two elderly ladies dressed in grey, both exactly alike. One lady was blind,” he added. The manager nodded. He was obviously giving a detailed description. Yet when he hung up he shook his head. “The manager at Torcello says he remembers the two ladies well,” he told John, “but they were only there for lunch. He never learnt their names.”
“Well, that’s that. There’s nothing to do now but wait.”
John lit his third cigarette and went out on to the terrace, to resume his pacing there. He stared out across the canal, searching the heads of the people on passing steamers, motorboats, even drifting gondolas. The minutes ticked by on his watch, and there was no sign of Laura. A terrible foreboding nagged at him that somehow this was prearranged, that Laura had never intended to catch the aircraft, that last night in the restaurant she had made an assignation with the sisters. Oh God, he thought, that’s impossible, I’m going paranoiac…Yet why, why? No, more likely the encounter at the airport was fortuitous, and for some incredible reason they had persuaded Laura not to board the aircraft, even prevented her from doing so, trotting out one of their psychic visions, that the aircraft would crash, that she must return with them to Venice. And Laura, in her sensitive state, felt they must be right, swallowed it all without question.
But granted all these possibilities, why had she not come to the hotel? What was she doing? Four o’clock, half-past four, the sun no longer dappling the water. He went back to the reception desk.
“I just can’t hang around,” he said. “Even if she does turn up, we shall never make Milan this evening. I might see her walking with these ladies, in the Piazza San Marco, anywhere. If she arrives while I’m out, will you explain?”
The clerk was full of concern. “Indeed, yes,” he said. “It is very worrying for you, sir. Would it perhaps be prudent if we booked you in here tonight?”
John gestured, helplessly. “Perhaps, yes, I don’t know. Maybe…”
He went out of the swing-door and began to walk towards the Piazza San Marco. He looked into every shop up and down the colonnades, crossed the piazza a dozen times, threaded his way between the tables in front of Florian’s, in front of Quadri’s, knowing that Laura’s red coat and the distinct appearance of the twin sisters could easily be spotted, even amongst this milling crowd, but there was no sign of them. He joined the crowd of shoppers in the Merceria, shoulder to shoulder with idlers, thrusters, window-gazers, knowing instinctively that it was useless, they wouldn’t be here. Why should Laura have deliberately missed her flight to return to Venice for such a purpose? And even if she had done so, for some reason beyond his imagining, she would surely have come first to the hotel to find him.
The only thing left to him was to try to track down the sisters. Their hotel could be anywhere amongst the hundreds of hotels and pensions scattered through Venice, or even across the other side at the Zattere, or farther again on the Giudecca. These last possibilities seemed remote. More likely they were staying in a small hotel or pension somewhere near San Zaccaria handy to the restaurant where they had dined last night. The blind one would surely not go far afield in the evening. He had been a fool not to have thought of this before, and he turned back and walked quickly away from the brightly lighted shopping district towards the narrower, more cramped quarter where they had dined last evening. He found the restaurant without difficulty, but they were not yet open for dinner, and the waiter preparing tables was not the one who had served them. John asked to see the patrone, and the waiter disappeared to the back regions, returning after a moment or two with the somewhat disheveled-looking proprietor in shirt-sleeves, caught in a slack moment, not in full tenue.
“I had dinner here last night,” John explained. “There were two ladies sitting at that table there in the corner.” He pointed to it.
“You wish to book that table for this evening?” asked the proprietor.
“No,” said John. “No, there were two ladies there last night, two sisters, due sorelle, twins, gemelle”—what was the right word for twins? “Do you remember? Two ladies, sorelle, vecchie…”
“Ah,” said the man, “si, si, signore, la povera signorina.” He put his hands to his eyes to feign blindness. “Yes, I remember.”
“Do you know their names?” asked John. “Where they were staying? I am very anxious to trace them.”
The proprietor spread out his hands in a gesture of regret. “I am ver’ sorry, signore, I do not know the names of the signorine, they have been here once, twice perhaps, for dinner, they do not say where they were staying. Perhaps if you come again tonight they might be here? Would you like to book a table?”
He pointed around him, suggesting a whole choice of tables that might appeal to a prospective diner, but John shook his head.
“Thank you, no. I may be dining elsewhere. I am sorry to have troubled you. If the signorine should come”—he paused—“possibly I may return later,” he added. “I am not sure.”
The proprietor bowed, and walked with him to the entrance. “In Venice the whole world meets,” he said smiling. “It is possible the signore will find his friends tonight. Arrivederci, signore.”
Friends? John walked out into the street. More likely kidnappers…Anxiety had turned to fear, to panic. Something had gone terribly wrong. Those women had got hold of Laura, played upon her suggestibility, induced her to go with them, either to their hotel or elsewhere. Should he find the Consulate? Where was it? What would he say when he got there? He began walking without purpose, finding himself, as they had done the night before, in streets he did not know,
and suddenly came upon a tall building with the word QUESTURA above it. This is it, he thought. I don’t care, something has happened, I’m going inside. There were a number of police in uniform coming and going, the place at any rate was active, and, addressing himself to one of them behind a glass-partition, he asked if there was anyone who spoke English. The man pointed to a flight of stairs and John went up, entering a door on the right where he saw that another couple were sitting, waiting, and with relief he recognized them as fellow-countrymen, tourists, obviously a man and his wife, in some sort of predicament.
“Come and sit down,” said the man. “We’ve waited half-an-hour but they can’t be much longer. What a country! They wouldn’t leave us like this at home.”
John took the proffered cigarette and found a chair beside them.
“What’s your trouble?” he asked.
“My wife had her handbag pinched in one of those shops in the Merceria,” said the man. “She simply put it down one moment to look at something, and you’d hardly credit it, the next moment it had gone. I say it was a sneak thief, she insists it was the girl behind the counter. But who’s to say? These Ities are all alike. Anyway, I’m certain we shan’t get it back. What have you lost?”
“Suitcase stolen,” John lied rapidly. “Had some important papers in it.”
How could he say he had lost his wife? He couldn’t even begin…
The man nodded in sympathy. “As I said, these Ities are all alike. Old Musso knew how to deal with them. Too many Communists around these days. The trouble is, they’re not going to bother with our troubles much, not with this murderer at large. They’re all out looking for him.”
“Murderer? What murderer?” asked John.
“Don’t tell me you’ve not heard about it?” The man stared at him in surprise. “Venice has talked of nothing else. It’s been in all the papers, on the radio, and even in the English papers too. A grizzly business. One woman found with her throat slit last week—a tourist too—and some old chap discovered with the same sort of knife wound this morning. They seem to think it must be a maniac because there doesn’t seem to be any motive. Nasty thing to happen in Venice in the tourist season.”
“My wife and I never bother with the newspapers when we’re on holiday,” said John. “And we’re neither of us much given to gossip in the hotel.”
“Very wise of you,” laughed the man. “It might have spoilt your holiday, especially if your wife is nervous. Oh well, we’re off tomorrow anyway. Can’t say we mind, do we, dear?” He turned to his wife. “Venice has gone downhill since we were here last. And now this loss of the handbag really is the limit.”
The door of the inner room opened, and a senior police officer asked John’s companion and his wife to pass through.
“I bet we don’t get any satisfaction,” murmured the tourist, winking at John, and he and his wife went into the inner room. The door closed behind them. John stubbed out his cigarette and lighted another. A strange feeling of unreality possessed him. He asked himself what he was doing here, what was the use of it? Laura was no longer in Venice but had disappeared, perhaps forever, with those diabolical sisters. She would never be traced. And just as the two of them had made up a fantastic story about the twins, when they first spotted them in Torcello, so, with nightmare logic, the fiction would have basis in fact: the women were in reality disguised crooks, men with criminal intent who lured unsuspecting persons to some appalling fate. They might even be the murderers for whom the police sought. Who would ever suspect two elderly women of respectable appearance, living quietly in some second-rate pension or hotel? He stubbed out his cigarette, unfinished.
This, he thought, is really the start of paranoia. This is the way people go off their heads. He glanced at his watch. It was half-past six. Better pack this in, this futile quest here in police headquarters, and keep to the single link of sanity remaining. Return to the hotel, put a call through to the prep school in England, and ask about the latest news of Johnnie. He had not thought about poor Johnnie since sighting Laura on the vaporetto.
Too late, though. The inner door opened, the couple were ushered out.
“Usual clap-trap,” said the husband sotto voce to John. “They’ll do what they can. Not much hope. So many foreigners in Venice, all of ’em thieves! The locals all above reproach. Wouldn’t pay ’em to steal from customers. Well, I wish you better luck.”
He nodded, his wife smiled and bowed, and they had gone. John followed the police officer into the inner room.
Formalities began. Name, address, passport. Length of stay in Venice, etc., etc. Then the questions, and John, the sweat beginning to appear on his forehead, launched into his interminable story. The first encounter with the sisters, the meeting at the restaurant, Laura’s state of suggestibility because of the death of their child, the telegram about Johnnie, the decision to take the chartered flight, her departure, and her sudden inexplicable return. When he had finished he felt as exhausted as if he had driven three hundred miles nonstop after a severe bout of flu. His interrogator spoke excellent English with a strong Italian accent.
“You say,” he began, “that your wife was suffering the aftereffects of shock. This had been noticeable during your stay here in Venice?”
“Well, yes,” John replied, “she had really been quite ill. The holiday didn’t seem to be doing her much good. It was only when she met these two women at Torcello yesterday that her mood changed. The strain seemed to have gone. She was ready, I suppose, to snatch at every straw, and this belief that our little girl was watching over her had somehow restored her to what appeared normality.”
“It would be natural,” said the police officer, “in the circumstances. But no doubt the telegram last night was a further shock to you both?”
“Indeed, yes. That was the reason we decided to return home.”
“No argument between you? No difference of opinion?”
“None. We were in complete agreement. My one regret was that I could not go with my wife on this charter flight.”
The police officer nodded. “It could well be that your wife had a sudden attack of amnesia and meeting the two ladies served as a link, she clung to them for support. You have described them with great accuracy, and I think they should not be too difficult to trace. Meanwhile, I suggest you should return to your hotel, and we will get in touch with you as soon as we have news.”
At least, John thought, they believed his story. They did not consider him a crank who had made the whole thing up and was merely wasting their time.
“You appreciate,” he said, “I am extremely anxious. These women may have some criminal design upon my wife. One has heard of such things…”
The police officer smiled for the first time. “Please don’t concern yourself,” he said. “I am sure there will be some satisfactory explanation.”
All very well, thought John, but in heaven’s name, what?
“I’m sorry,” he said, “to have taken up so much of your time. Especially as I gather the police have their hands full hunting down a murderer who is still at large.”
He spoke deliberately. No harm in letting the fellow know that for all any of them could tell there might be some connection between Laura’s disappearance and this other hideous affair.
“Ah, that,” said the police officer, rising to his feet. “We hope to have the murderer under lock and key very soon.”
His tone of confidence was reassuring. Murderers, missing wives, lost handbags were all under control. They shook hands, and John was ushered out of the door and so downstairs. Perhaps, he thought, as he walked slowly back to the hotel, the fellow was right. Laura had suffered a sudden attack of amnesia, and the sisters happened to be at the airport and had brought her back to Venice, to their own hotel, because Laura couldn’t remember where she and John had been staying. Perhaps they were even now trying to track down his
hotel. Anyway, he could do nothing more. The police had everything in hand, and, please God, would come up with the solution. All he wanted to do right now was to collapse upon a bed with a stiff whisky, and then put through a call to Johnnie’s school.
The page took him up in the lift to a modest room on the fourth floor at the rear of the hotel. Bare, impersonal, the shutters closed, with a smell of cooking wafting up from a courtyard down below.
“Ask them to send me up a double whisky, will you?” he said to the boy, “and a ginger-ale,” and when he was alone he plunged his face under the cold tap in the wash-basin, relieved to find that the minute portion of visitor’s soap afforded some measure of comfort. He flung off his shoes, hung his coat over the back of a chair, and threw himself down on the bed. Somebody’s radio was blasting forth an old popular song, now several seasons out-of-date, that had been one of Laura’s favorites a couple of years ago. “I love you, baby…” They had taped it and used to play it back in the car. He reached out for the telephone, and asked the exchange to put through the call to England. Then he closed his eyes, and all the while the insistent voice persisted, “I love you, baby…I can’t get you out of my mind.”
Presently there was a tap at the door. It was the waiter with his drink. Too little ice, such meager comfort, but what desperate need. He gulped it down without the ginger-ale, and in a few moments the ever-nagging pain was eased, numbed, bringing, if only momentarily, a sense of calm. The telephone rang, and now, he thought, bracing himself for ultimate disaster, the final shock, Johnnie probably dying, or already dead. In which case nothing remained. Let Venice be engulfed…
The exchange told him that connection had been made, and in a moment he heard the voice of Mrs. Hill at the other end of the line. They must have warned her that the call came from Venice, for she knew instantly who was speaking.
“Hullo?” she cried. “Oh, I am so glad you rang. All is well. Johnnie has had his operation, the surgeon decided to do it at midday rather than wait, and it was completely successful. Johnnie is going to be all right. So you don’t have to worry any more, and will have a peaceful night.”
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 97
