Farewell to the Flesh

by Edward Sklepowich

  “I’m Nicholas Spaak,” the blond man said, frowning at Dora who said a quick good-bye and shuffled down the hall, the tissue pressed against her nose. “My mother needs to be asleep by nine. Dora insisted on seeing you first. If you wouldn’t mind talking with my mother in her own room, we would appreciate it. She’s more comfortable when she has all her things around her.”

  What Spaak meant by all his mother’s things became apparent as soon as Urbino entered the room on the floor below. In addition to the bed, night table, prie-dieu, religious lithograph, and washbasin found in all the rooms, there was also a large electric heater making the room almost unbearable. It was about five feet from the bed in which Spaak’s mother was lying, not beneath the regulation dark-brown blanket but beneath a brightly colored quilt. On the night table squatted a plastic object about the size of a small portable television. A cord ran from it to a socket in the wall and there was a hoselike apparatus from the other end that terminated in a plastic covering for the nose and mouth. Various American magazines—Time, Redbook, Reader’s Digest, and Health—were scattered on the floor, and on the bed was a messy pile of clippings held in place by a pair of scissors. Several boxes of cookies were next to the machine on the bedside table, all of them opened, and a full yellow plastic mask was hanging from the knob of the table drawer.

  “Mr. Macintyre, my mother, Stella Maris Spaak.”

  Stella Maris Spaak was a small woman in her early sixties who resembled her daughter much more than her son. Her form under the bedclothes hardly extended half the length of the bed. She was propped up with several pillows and showed a sweet, open face framed by short light-brown hair in need of a touch-up. Around her neck was a gold chain holding a little pendant embossed with what seemed to be the crossed keys of the Vatican coat of arms.

  “I’m sorry to inconvenience you so late, Mrs. Spaak, but it won’t be for long.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Macintyre. I’m sure my Nicky has been warning you not to trouble me but I’m not as bad as he thinks. I’ve held up very well during our three weeks in Italy, haven’t I, Nicky?”

  She smiled at her son, who was sitting on the bed. Urbino was in the room’s only chair.

  “We’ve already talked with the police, Mr. Macintyre,” Nicholas Spaak said.

  “Don’t be upset, Nicky dear. He’s really upset for me, Mr. Macintyre, but I’m fine. As you know, Nicky, Mother Mariangela said we should be nice to Mr. Macintyre. And you do seem like a very nice man, just as she said you were.”

  “Can’t we get on with this, Mr. Macintyre?” Nicholas Spaak said in an irritated tone that drew a disapproving glance from his mother.

  “Of course. All I wanted to know was if you noticed anything unusual here last night.”

  “Nothing whatsoever,” Spaak answered, “and I think that at a place like this—a convent, I mean—where everything is so usual, you would be bound to notice anything that was otherwise, wouldn’t you say?”

  Urbino had to agree, although the Convent of the Charity of Santa Crispina did tend to have its unconventional aspects, one of which was the somewhat loose way it ran its pensione. Most establishments attached to convents and monasteries had much stricter rules about coming and going and the mixing of the sexes.

  “Nicky is right. I’m afraid we can’t be of much help to you or to poor Mr. Gibbon, God rest his soul. Every evening here is the same. We have dinner with the others at seven. Last night we finished about eight as we always do. Mr. Gibbon was looking very healthy and happy. I went to the chapel for half an hour. When I got back here, Nicky got me all set up for the night. I was in bed by nine.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Macintyre. We keep to a schedule, my mother and I. It’s best for her.”

  “Now, Nicky, don’t give him the wrong impression. You like it, too. Ever since he was a baby, Mr. Macintyre, my Nicky has been like a clock.”

  Nicholas Spaak blushed.

  “You see how sensitive he is, Mr. Macintyre? Ever since he started to go to school, he wouldn’t let me praise him one bit, and what greater pleasure is there for a mother than to talk about her children? He’s one of the best young English teachers at the community college in Pittsburgh.”

  Spaak’s blush had deepened.

  “What did you do after getting your mother ready for bed?”

  “I went to my room next door. I read for a while, then fell asleep and slept until about seven this morning.”

  “I didn’t hear anything unusual either, Mr. Macintyre. Nicky looked in on me after nine, and Dora came in about half an hour after he did and once again later. I’m not a good sleeper, but I don’t like my children to worry, so I sometimes pretend to be asleep.” She gave her son a nervous little glance. “It wasn’t until the next morning at breakfast that we knew something was wrong.”

  “And now you’ll want to know what we thought about Gibbon,” Spaak said, “and whether we liked him or not.”

  “Liked him or not! What a thing to say! Of course we liked him. You never should speak ill of the dead.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother, but you know I didn’t care for him. My mother has never been a person to say anything hurtful about anyone else.”

  “Why didn’t you like him, Mr. Spaak?” Urbino asked, thinking of how Dora had said that her brother had actually liked Gibbon but didn’t show it.

  “I found him insufferably snide. Sometimes I thought he needed a smack in the face.”

  Xenia Campi had said very much the same thing.

  “Nicky, that’s not like you!”

  Spaak got up and thrust his hands into the pockets of his corduroy trousers. His mother’s eyes followed him with concern as he went to the door and turned around.

  “You should understand, Mr. Macintyre, that I’m not the kind of person to dislike without good reason.” He shrugged, as if to say that this was the form his own charitableness took—to have at least a reason for speaking ill of the dead. “Gibbon had an insidious way about him. I didn’t like the way he talked to Dora, being sweet and encouraging but really making a fool of her. And he would always try to take you unawares with one of his insinuating comments.”

  “Nicky, you’re still not letting what he said at dinner bother you, are you? If Dora thought there was anything bad in it, she never would have told me, you can be sure of that. You know how devoted she is to you. According to Dora, Mr. Macintyre, the other night at dinner when I wasn’t there Mr. Gibbon was joking around. Nicky asked him how he decided what to take pictures of. Mr. Gibbon said something about wanting his pictures to show what people couldn’t see on their own. But Nicky was upset because Mr. Gibbon said he wouldn’t want to take his picture, that everyone could see what my Nicky was like, and that if I were in the picture with him it would be even more clear. I think that was a very nice thing to say, Mr. Macintyre, don’t you? Dora thought so too. He was paying Nicky and me a compliment.”

  Mrs. Spaak paused for a telling moment as she looked at her son, who was standing very still, avoiding her eyes.

  “Of course, Nicky understands things Dora and I don’t,” she went on. “It hurts me to see him upset. But Mr. Gibbon is dead now. If what he said wasn’t nice in some way, it’s not for us to judge him now. He’s met his justice.”

  She closed her thin lips firmly after the last word, a hard look coming into her eyes and taking away almost all the sweetness in her face.

  8

  Out in the hall Spaak asked Urbino to come into his room. Unlike his mother’s room, Spaak’s held only the regulation items, a carry-on valise, an Italian dictionary, and a paperback copy of D. H. Lawrence’s Twilight in Italy.

  “There’s one thing I’d like to clarify, Mr. Macintyre. Just now with my mother I may have misled you.”

  He made a long pause.

  “Mr. Lubonski,” Spaak said slowly as if offering Urbino a generous hint. “I didn’t stay in my room after I saw my mother last night. I went out about nine-thirty. Mr. Lubonski saw me as he was coming in. He
looked as if he was in a daze. Didn’t he tell you he saw me?”

  “I haven’t been to the hospital yet.”

  “I wonder if the Commissario has. I didn’t tell him I had been out last night. I didn’t want to disturb Mother. I do it every once in a while, you see, after she goes to bed, but I don’t like her to know. If I had told the Commissario, he might have asked her all sorts of questions and then she would have known. I’m sure you understand that sometimes I need to get away. And Dora was here. She’s a nurse and is much more qualified to care for Mother. Each of us looks in on her once a night, both here and back home. Dora covers for me. She’s devoted to me, as Mother said—a typical kid sister, I guess.”

  “What did you do last night after you left?”

  “I did what I usually do. I went for a walk for about an hour. I ended up in a bar where I had a few drinks.” He gave a nervous laugh and added, “But if you’re going to ask me where I walked and where the bar was I can’t tell you. It could have been around the corner—or miles away. All I know is that I didn’t go over one of the big bridges.”

  So he didn’t walk over to the other side of the Grand Canal. The Calle Santa Scolastica, however, was on the same side as the Cannaregio and could be reached through the network of alleys, squares, and small bridges.

  “I came back about midnight. No one saw me come in. I used my key.”

  Urbino didn’t know when Gibbon’s body had been discovered or the probable time of his death. He knew only that it had to be after Nicholas Spaak’s sister had seen Gibbon in the dining room—if Dora was telling the truth about the encounter. But if Urbino couldn’t be sure of exactly what had passed between Gibbon and Dora in the dining room, it should be easier to verify when Gibbon had left the Casa Crispina last night. He must talk with Xenia Campi again. And then there was Sister Agata who had been at the reception desk. Urbino was going to have to try to get information from Commissario Gemelli, too, a prospect that didn’t please him.

  “I’d rather Mother didn’t know about all this, Mr. Macintyre. She’s an asthmatic and her attacks can be brought on by emotion.” Spaak had an imploring look on his face. Urbino could see the little boy who wanted to please his mother, who never wanted to be in her disfavor. Was Spaak in the habit of using her as a convenient excuse for things he himself didn’t want to do anyway? There seemed to be a core of strength in the woman that Spaak either didn’t see or didn’t want to acknowledge.

  “You should tell the Commissario. Perhaps you could speak with your mother first.”

  Spaak shrugged. Fear flickered in his eyes, but whether because of his mother’s possible response or the Commissario’s there was no way for Urbino to know.

  The only other guests Urbino needed to see were the three boys from Naples, but they were out for the evening. As for Sister Agata, she was fast asleep at the reception desk.

  9

  When Urbino returned to the Palazzo Uccello he fed Serena and fixed himself a frittata. He had almost finished eating it when the phone rang.

  “My God, Urbino, I’ve known you for ten years and I never knew you had a sadistic streak,” the Contessa said as soon as he picked up the receiver. “Why have you kept me waiting? I’ve been ringing and ringing.”

  “I just got in.”

  He told her about his visit to the Casa Crispina and his conversations with Xenia Campi and the Spaaks.

  “Dora Spaak must have been the girl you saw Gibbon with at Florian’s the other afternoon. She was obviously infatuated with him.”

  “I could see that. But what about the other girls Xenia Campi mentioned that Gibbon flirted with?”

  “She seemed reluctant to give more details. I think she regretted having mentioned it.”

  “From what you’ve learned already, I’d say that the brother is the most likely suspect. He obviously didn’t like Gibbon.”

  “Neither did Xenia Campi.”

  “Caro, you know that’s neither a recommendation nor a condemnation when it comes to Xenia Campi! No, I’d say it was the brother. He didn’t return to the Casa Crispina until midnight. Even if we learn that Gibbon was killed after then, the brother really isn’t off the hook, is he? We only have his word for when he got back. Gibbon not only insulted him—and his mother—by his snide comment but was also making a fool of his sister. But perhaps those aren’t strong enough reasons to kill someone, are they?”

  “People have been murdered for less. I can’t shake the feeling that the Spaaks are hiding something, but whether in concert or individually I can’t tell.”

  “Surely you don’t think that Mrs. Spaak could have done it! I can’t imagine a woman like her—a semi-convalescent from what you say—dragging herself to the Calle Santa Scolastica and back again in the middle of the night. It was impossible for her to have killed Gibbon!”

  “I haven’t told you yet, Barbara, but Nicholas Spaak saw Josef coming in about nine-thirty.”

  The Contessa didn’t say anything for a few moments.

  “But, Urbino, he was coming in, not going out. He couldn’t have killed Gibbon, who had left only a short time before Josef returned.”

  “You miss the point, Barbara. If Josef was well enough to go out one time that night, perhaps he went out again later. He wasn’t rushed to the hospital until the early hours of the morning. He called me when I got back from the Fenice at at eleven to tell me not to work on the fresco until he got well.”

  “I don’t believe Josef could harm a fly. Besides, what motive could he have?” She sighed. “All I would need is to have Josef turn out to be a murderer. I recommended him for the job. No one would ever let me forget it.”

  “Are you concerned about Josef or yourself, Barbara?”

  “Urbino! How can you say such a thing! But if Josef turns out to be the murderer, I’ll never forgive you—for both our sakes!”

  Having run through the lodgers at the Casa Crispina—except for the three Neapolitan boys—Urbino realized that he could no longer avoid telling the Contessa about Hazel Reeve.

  “Cherchez la femme,” the Contessa said without much enthusiasm and even less originality. “But it would seem, caro, that la femme has found you instead! It’s strange, don’t you think? A complete stranger—a bereaved woman with an emotional involvement with the murdered man—seeks out another man. It’s not what one would expect.”

  “Emotionally speaking, it’s probably not unusual at all if you think about it. Besides, Barbara, she’s not a complete stranger.”

  “Then, my dear, you are a complete liar. I never heard of this Reeve woman before.”

  “I met her last night at Porfirio’s.”

  There was a charged silence.

  “Didn’t we talk about Porfirio’s party on the way back from the Fenice? I don’t remember any mention of this woman then. I do seem to remember, however, that you were preoccupied. I refrained from probing then and now it seems unnecessary. It was this Reeve woman, wasn’t it?”

  Urbino felt uncomfortable. He and the Contessa were very good friends, and there had even been unfounded rumors about them because they were so often out together that they appeared more inseparable than many married couples. “The Anglo-American alliance” they were sometimes called. His personal life was seldom something he discussed even with her, yet she had a somewhat proprietary attitude toward it. It had often occurred to him that this was probably because of his own reticence, for, with good reason, she couldn’t help believing that she—and only she—was always sitting squarely in the center of his personal life. With a bit of a shock Urbino realized that he felt a little guilty, almost as if he were displaying a peculiar kind of infidelity by his interest, vague and unformed though it was, in Hazel Reeve.

  “I don’t assume this conversation with Miss Reeve took place in the middle of the Campo San Gabriele.”

  It didn’t make him any more comfortable when he detected something in the Contessa’s voice. It wasn’t quite a quaver, it wasn’t quite a breathiness, but h
e knew her well enough to know what it meant. She was hurt, disappointed. She made an attempt to control it as she said with certainty, “You went back to the Palazzo Uccello.”

  “Don’t make it sound like an assignation! It seemed the most convenient thing to do. I couldn’t go back to the Casa Crispina until I was sure Gemelli had left, and a bar—”

  “Spare me a long explanation, Urbino dear. It will only make me more suspicious. I suppose you’re entitled to have your secrets from a poor old woman like me. I’d prefer not to talk about your Miss Reeve right now or about all this sad business at the Casa Crispina. Call it selfishness on my part, caro, but at the end of my day I’d prefer tranquil thoughts. How did you find my old school friend?”

  “I rather liked her. It must be a good feeling to have someone look you up like that—once you get over the initial surprise. And her stepson is pleasant enough. The two of them seem to have a rapport.”

  “Yes, they do, don’t they?”

  The Contessa’s voice sounded suddenly tired. She and Alvise had been childless and Urbino knew that she felt the lack the older she got. Seeing her old school friend with her stepson might be difficult for her.

  “Berenice didn’t stay much longer. Take it as a recommendation of your own social charms that were so abruptly snatched from us. We avoided the murder and talked about the Casa Vogue piece. Then she told me a few more things about her life. She has an antiques business and spends a lot of time in Florence around the Via Maggio and the Borgognissanti quarter. She met Vico’s father in the mid-sixties when she was in Naples scouting around for things. He was a widower with the one son, She was in her thirties by then—I think,” the Contessa emended, realizing any specific references to her friend’s age would be more than a clue to her own—“anyway, she hadn’t married yet. She raised the two-year-old Tonio as her own.”

  “And her second husband?”

  “Malcolm Pillow. He had money too. He owned several factories in America and died about eight years ago in London. Collapsed during a business trip and was hospitalized for several months. It took a lot out of Berenice. When she’s in Italy, she’s usually at the Villa Vico in Naples. It belongs to Tonio now. He’s an architect with a degree from London University.”