by Nan Lyons
“I love you,” Max said.
Natasha handed the phone to Gilli. He put the receiver to his mouth, and kissed it loudly. Then he hung up.
Dipartimento di Giustizia
Divisione di Roma
Ufficio di Omicidio
12 Settembre
TO: Detective Inspector Carmody
FROM: Capitano L. Gilli
RE: Nutti Fenegretti
As per your telephone request I enclose for you copies of reports concerning the death of Sr. Fenegretti, including the statement of Miss Natasha O’Brien.
After a personal in-depth examination of Miss O’Brien, I cannot agree with your suspicions concerning her being a possible murder suspect. I do not believe this lady capable of murder. Besides, I have rarely found female killers to be as clever as Miss O’Brien. It is my experience that women who kill do so in a moment of passion. Your suspicion that the same person who killed L. Kohner also killed Sr. Fenegretti cannot be substantiated. I personally believe that Miss O’Brien was by coincidence in both cities at the times of the murders.
Even as we did not have the airtight alibi of Abruzzio Cenelli (the man who sold Miss O’Brien the ice), I could not uncover, in my investigation of Miss O’Brien, any possible motive for her to murder Sr. Fenegretti.
Since we cannot presume that the death of Sr. Fenegretti had obvious benefits for any radical political groups or for any criminal organizations, and since the method of his death does not fit the patterns of any known or suspected criminals, we have decided not to assign personnel to this case.
The official opinion then, at this time, is that somebody crazy came into the restaurant and killed him.
Chapter 8
The black Phantom stopped. Rudolph got out and walked briskly around the front of the car as he checked his watch. He opened the back door with one hand and thrust the other inside to help Achille.
“Right on time for your flight, sir,” Rudolph said, pulling him to a standing position.
“My case.”
Rudolph reached to the back seat and took the thin black briefcase with AVG engraved in gold above the latch. “Have a pleasant day, sir. I hope Mrs. van Golk is feeling better.”
Achille nodded and entered the terminal building. He walked directly to the Swissair counter.
“Good morning, Mr. van Golk,” the clerk said. “Must be Thursday.”
“Good morning.” He handed her his ticket and passport. She picked up the telephone.
“Mr. van Golk is here. Will you have the courtesy car at Gate 11, please? Thank you.” She hung up the receiver and gave him back his passport and ticket with a boarding pass. “Seats 1A and 1B as usual.” She smiled. “Have a pleasant trip.”
“Good day,” he said without smiling. He turned and walked past the newsstands, the gift shops, and the clusters of tourists. As he approached the line at passport control, he was motioned ahead by one of the inspectors. It was at best a superfluous gesture, since Achille always walked to the head of any line.
“Good morning, Mr. van Golk,” the inspector said. “Is it Thursday already? A nice sunny morning it is.”
Achille handed him his British passport. “Good morning.”
“You’ll be soon needing another one of these. Have a good day.” He stamped the passport and handed it back.
“Thank you. Good day.” Achille walked in a straight line through the international lounge, past the duty-free shops and down the corridor to Gate 11, where he was greeted by yet another smiling face.
“Good morning, Mr. van Golk,” the young girl said as she took his boarding pass. “A lovely morning, isn’t it?”
He walked slowly down the steps to where a car was waiting.
“Good morning, Mr. van Golk. Lovely morning, isn’t it?” the driver said without turning around.
“Good morning.” They drove slowly across the field, passing buses stuffed with executives carrying bottles of Scotch, and merry widows clutching make-up cases and fur coats. The car stopped directly in front of the ramp leading into the first-class cabin. Achille got out, and with great care walked slowly up the steps. He could feel the metal stairs moving from side to side and by the time he reached the top he was nearly out of breath. Miss Schnee held out her hand.
“If you tell me it’s a lovely morning,” he said to her, “I shall report you for exposing your genitalia over Luxembourg.”
“I am so glad to see you.” She took his arm and led him into the cabin. And then, in a pouting little-girl voice, “I was beginning to worry about you. It just wouldn’t be Thursday without you.”
The center armrest between seats 1A and 1B had already been removed. Miss Schnee held Achille’s briefcase as he lowered himself into one and a half seats. She leaned across Achille to fasten the window half of 1 A’s seat belt to the aisle half of 1 B’s seat belt “There, I bet we’re nice and comfy now,” she said, careful to press her breasts against his arm. “You naughty boy,” she whispered.
“Would you be kind enough to bring me my Perrier?”
“Oh, Perrier, Perrier. I tasted that Perrier. It’s nothing. Why don’t you let yourself go and have a Coke? C’mon.”
“Had I been on the Lusitania, and all the lifeboats were filled and gone, and were I standing on the deck as the ship was sinking and the captain told me that if I drank but one Coca-Cola, not only would the ship right itself and stay afloat, but also the drowned would be resurrected, I would pretend not to have heard him.”
“Perrier?”
“Thank you.” Achille looked at his watch. Ten minutes to ten. They were due to leave at ten and arrive in Geneva by eleven-fifteen.
“Fasten your seat belts, please. We are about to land at Cointrin Airport, Geneva. Please observe the no smoking sign. …”
“I didn’t have the heart to wake you,” Miss Schnee said as she tightened the knot on his tie. “I adore your tie. Polka dots are my very favorite. They’re so masculine.”
“Take this before we crash,” he said, pointing to the half-empty bottle of Perrier. “I don’t want to get my suit wet.”
“You see? You do need someone to take care of you. Oh, I hope your wife is feeling better and can leave that nasty clinic. It’s such a waste for a man like you to be all alone.” He checked his watch. Ten past eleven. “Will I see you tonight on the return?” she asked.
“Unless you’re grounded for vaginal odor, I would presume so.”
“You. Really!” She pinched his arm and walked to the back of the cabin.
Achille was the first to descend the ramp and enter the terminal. He walked as rapidly as he could, but his leg hurt and he winced with each step. As he approached Swiss immigration, he was greeted with a smile.
“Good morning, Mr. van Golk,” the officer said, taking his passport. “How are you today?”
“I am very well,” he said. The passport was stamped and handed back to him.
“Have a good day.”
“Thank you.” Achille put the passport into his pocket as he continued walking past the crowds at the baggage carrousels, and over to the customs officer.
“Good day, Mr. van Golk,” the customs man said.
“Good day.” Achille raised his briefcase to signify he had nothing to declare. He walked through the impatient crowd of people waiting for familiar faces. He looked back once over his shoulder. Instead of leaving the terminal, he turned and walked to the baggage lockers in the departure lounge. He placed his briefcase in a locker, closed the door, and put the key in his vest pocket. He walked to the Alitalia ticket counter.
“I have a reservation on Flight 433 to Rome.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll check that for you. They’re almost ready to board. May I have your passport, please?” the young man asked.
“Yes.” Achille reached into his breast pocket and took out a Swiss passport. He handed it to the clerk, who was already dialing the phone.
“Was that economy or first class?”
“Economy,” Achille a
nswered, lowering his eyes.
“Did you wish a return … excuse me,” and then into the phone, “Confirming a single in economy on four three three, the name is Victor, V-I-C-T-O-R, first name Hugo.” While he was waiting for a reply, he again asked Achille if he wished a round-trip ticket.
“No. One way.”
“Thank you,” he said into the receiver and then put down the phone. He reached under the counter for a ticket as he looked at the clock above him. “Any luggage?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good. How will you be paying, Mr. Victor? Card or cash?”
“Cash.” Achille reached into his pocket and paid in Swiss francs.
“That will be Gate 32B. They’ll be boarding in about five minutes.”
“Thank you,” Achille said. He took back his Swiss passport and ticket.
“Have a good flight, Mr. Victor.”
Achille went to a telephone booth and stepped inside. He dialed the clinic.
“Dr. Enstein, please,” he said to the receptionist.
“Dr. Enstein’s office,” another voice said.
“Dr. Enstein, please,” he said.
“Who is calling, please?”
“Hugo Victor.”
“Just one moment, please.”
“Hello. Enstein here.”
“This is Hugo Victor.”
“I understand. May I call you back?”
“I told you I would never call unless I was actually here,” Achille said sharply.
“I know, but may I have your number, please?”
“54-44-76.” Achille hung up and waited. The phone rang.
“Please don’t be offended,” Dr. Enstein said. “I wanted to use my private line.”
“How is she?”
“She expects you.”
“Of course. And your staff expects to see me as well. That’s why you must take her out of the clinic for the afternoon as though you were meeting me.”
“I understand.”
“I am wearing a dark-blue suit and a blue polka-dot tie. You met me with your car. The three of us had lunch together. Probably in that dreadful café she likes on the lakefront. We had an overdone trout with a rather remarkable Piesporter. Then we went for a drive in the country.”
“I understand.”
“How is your research coming?”
“It will take more money.”
“I told you that would be no problem.”
“The results are quite encouraging. Except … except I find this deception very disturbing.”
“Doctor, my wife has been in your care for over a decade. It is more than thirteen years since I have shared my bed with her. Surely you would not deny me a few stolen hours of anonymous sexual pleasure in a country where I am not known. Especially when I am willing to pay so generously for it.#8221;
“Oh, you’ve been most generous. It’s just the secrecy and intrigue that bothers me.”
“Having grown up in a neutral country, I would have presumed secrecy and intrigue to be second nature.”
“Please do not be facetious.”
“Doctor. I have explained to you that if my wife’s family were aware of my dalliances they would take action to prevent my drawing upon her inheritance. And then, Doctor, what could you draw upon for your research?”
“Your point is clear. You may rest assured I will take care of everything.”
“I am confident you will, Doctor.”
“Thank you.”
“Good-bye.” Achille hung up the receiver. He continued through the departure lounge to passport control, where he assured himself that no one from the later shift was on duty. He handed the Swiss passport to an inspector who stamped it and did not say hello.
“Merci,” Achille said and then proceeded to Gate 32B, where he handed his ticket and passport to the clerk. He was given an economy boarding pass and was told to select his own seat once aboard. He walked under the metal detector, onto the boarding sleeve, and then into the plane. He squeezed himself into a right aisle seat so that he could extend his left leg into the aisle. A middle-aged German couple on their first trip to Rome sat next to him. They had spread between them a large map and were marking the routes they would walk, and planning how much time to spend. Why twenty minutes at the Spanish steps? Ten minutes at Trevi? Surely not more than half an hour for the Forum.
His presence was acknowledged only when he refused the cold meats and cheese served for lunch. By the time the plane began its descent to Fiumicino Airport, the German couple had decided two days was too long to be in Rome.
Achille got off the plane and made his way into the bus that waited on the airfield. He looked at his watch. It was one-fifteen. The timing was perfect. The bus threaded its way across the field to the international arrivals building.
He walked briskly to the head of the line at passport control. “Permesso! Ufficiale,” he whispered to the man at the front and, without waiting for a reply, stepped ahead of him and handed the inspector his Swiss passport.
Upon leaving the terminal, Achille hailed a taxi. “Piazza del Popolo,” he said, handing the driver 40,000 lire. “Presto, presto, presto.” The driver nodded, half saluted him in the rearview mirror, and started with such force that Achille was thrown back against the rear of the seat. They made the forty-five-minute drive into Rome in about thirty-five minutes. As soon as they came to the Piazza, Achille called, “Qui, qui. Bene.” He waited until he was certain the driver was out of sight and then hailed another taxi. He gave an address only a short distance away. When they arrived, Achille paid the fare, careful not to overtip. He looked at his watch as he walked around the block. It was two-thirty. He stepped into a doorway and waited. After a few minutes he saw Nutti turn the comer, look at his watch, walk to the back door of the restaurant, unlock it, and step inside.
Achille crossed the street, turning his head to see whether anyone was watching him. He opened the door. Nutti stood a few feet away facing him.
“Non mi piace questo,” Nutti said angrily. “I do not like this, my friend. Come in. What is the mystery?”
“Is anyone here?” Achille asked.
“No. What is this about? I have just left Natasha. I feel very unhappy to lie to her.”
“You didn’t lie,” Achille said, looking around at the kitchen. “You just didn’t tell her you were meeting me.”
“But why? You make me very sad. I want to see my old friend, but I do not know why I must meet you this way.”
“Nutti, you are a fine fellow,” he said, looking at the fish tank. “And I have so few friends I can trust.”
“You know you can trust me, Achille.”
“I know. You are certain you told no one about my calling you?”
“My friend, you say to me on the telephone that if I tell anyone it will mean the end of you. And then you say it will mean the end of me. So tell me, Achille, did I tell anyone?”
“Good.”
“But what is it? You are in some kind of trouble?”
“The worst kind.”
“Dio,” he whispered, putting his hand to his lips. “Non è possible.”
“Yes. It is true. I am dying.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My God.” Nutti began to cry. “First Louis and now you. And you came to tell me. You came to tell me yourself. I am very honored, Achille.” He started to put his arms around Achille, but was pushed away.
“Please don’t do that”
“I am sorry, Achille,” Nutti said, drawing back quickly. “It hurts you? You are in pain? Did I hurt you? I did not mean to!”
“No, there is no pain.”
“No pain? You are dying and there is no pain? How wonderful,” he cried out, tears coming to his eyes. “But what is it, Achille? What is wrong with you?”
“I am too fat,” Achille said slowly.
“Che cosa?”
“I am too fat.”
Nutti sat down at the table. “You are dying of
fatness?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Nutti raised his hands in the air. He shrugged his shoulders in exasperation and turned away from Achille. “Then stop eating,” he said.
Achille picked up a large frying pan and, holding it in both hands, swung it at the back of Nutti’s head. Nutti slumped forward onto the table. Achille took a towel and wiped his fingerprints from the pan. He removed his jacket and took an ankle-length apron from a pile of fresh linen.
Achille grabbed Nutti under the arms and dragged him to the fish tank. He pushed Nutti’s head down into the water. Nutti suddenly regained consciousness and desperately tried to raise his head, but Achille had both hands on his neck and was leaning hard on top of him. Nutti flailed his arms, choking and belching large bubbles of air. He knocked some fish onto the floor and then died.
Achille left him half hanging outside the tank and picked up a cleaver. With both hands he brought the cleaver down to split open the back of Nutti’s head. Blood splattered onto his apron. He raised the cleaver again and split open the back of Nutti’s neck. As though it were food coloring, Nutti’s blood ran into the fish tank and marbled the clear water. Achille brought the cleaver down again and again until he had finally split Nutti all the way down his back. He lifted the body and it slipped easily into the tank.
Achille went to the sink, washed the cleaver, and rubbed off his fingerprints. Carefully, he took off the long white apron and dropped it into the tank. He washed his hands, put on his jacket, and used his handkerchief to turn the knob on the outside door.
Achille strolled casually for a few blocks, trying not to limp despite the pain in his leg. He hailed a taxi and returned to the airport.
“Is that one way to Geneva, Mr. Victor?”
“Yes.”
“Will that be charge or cash?”
“Cash,” Achille said, paying in lire.
“Your flight will be loading at about ten to four, Gate 11.”
“Thank you,” Achille said, taking the ticket.
“Have a pleasant flight, Mr. Victor.”
Upon landing in Geneva, Hugo Victor was processed through the arrivals-area second shift of immigration and customs inspectors before stepping outside the terminal into the cool air. A delightful climate. Achille van Golk re-entered the building and took his briefcase from the locker in the departure lounge. It was five-thirty. He walked quickly to the Swissair counter. The familiar evening shift was on duty. Achille nodded his head and smiled.
