The Flying Boat Mystery

by Franco Vailati

  The train slowed, and an attendant announced that the restaurant-car would soon have to be uncoupled at Agropoli.

  Luigi stood up with a gentle bow to Marcella:

  ‘I'm going to buy some cigarettes, Giorgio. We shall meet back in our compartment. I leave you to your happy flirting, in the hope that you won’t talk too much about the murder!’

  Giorgio and Marcella remained silent, but their eyes were clearly following Luigi’s instructions. Marcella broke the silence with a smile:

  ‘Your friend is very nice!’

  Giorgio nodded as a good friend, even if it wasn’t very easy courting a girl whilst speaking about another man:

  ‘Otherwise he wouldn’t be my best friend!’

  ‘You have a very good opinion of your friends… and of yourself,’ smiled Marcella.

  Giorgio began to speak about himself through his friendship with Luigi, hoping that Signorina Arteni was very interested in the former and not so much in the latter. And he felt he was right, so he started to question her about herself:

  ‘Do you live in Rome?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Near the station?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Out by Porta Pia?’

  ‘Not there either.’

  He was trying to make her simile about his haphazard attempts to satisfy his own curiosity. He had hoped she would ask why he thought she would live there and not elsewhere, but Signorina Arteni answered curtly, almost angrily. So he admitted defeat:

  ‘Really, I don’t know where I would find you!’

  He waited in vain for an answer. That jarring note had created a sudden, embarrassed coolness between them, possibly because it reminded them that their relationship was very superficial. Any conversation now seemed impossible: either too casual or too intimate.

  But their mutual silence kept them close, almost reducing the distance between them on its own. So they stayed silently close to each other whilst the train kept running, and running, and running between the dark-blue sea, glittering with white-spangled sprays and stars, and the dark brown bulwark of the mountains, glittering with the pale yellow lights of remote and sparsely populated villages.

  But the train stopped at Sapri, and the sudden, garish lights of the station divided them with a new, jarring jolt.

  Vallesi returned to the compartment he shared with Luigi and found him half-asleep in a corner.

  Giorgio was happy, uncannily happy, and he didn’t know why. Certainly not because of Marcella’s words nor any encouragement about future prospects. But he was in the mood where future prospects had no meaning, no meaning at all. He simply knew he loved Marcella as he’d never loved any woman before, and he’d just spent an hour alone in her company.

  Renzi had returned to his compartment through the jolting, rumbling corridors of the train. As he was passing through the wagon-lit, the dark-blue clad conductor had called out to him:

  ‘Excuse me, are you Signor Sabelli?’

  Renzi was jolted, and not just because of the train, but he answered casually:

  ‘No, why?’

  He showed his official card to overcome the conductor’s hesitation.

  ‘Commendatore Renzi, could you follow me, please?’

  He opened the door of one of the compartments with his passkey. In the feeble blue light Renzi could see two unoccupied berths.

  ‘It’s because of this suitcase, Signor Commendatore.’

  He showed him a nondescript fibre suitcase, with a tag tied to the handle bearing the name of Giuseppe Sabelli. It was the same suitcase Boldrin had shown to Renzi, but….

  ‘This berth was booked to Palermo.’

  ‘What about the suitcase?’ asked Renzi anxiously.

  ‘It was placed on the bed by a gentleman just as the train was ready to go. He told me that berth number 5 had been booked by his friend Sabelli, and he wished to place the suitcase on the berth because Sabelli had been delayed and would arrive at the very last moment.’

  ‘And this gentleman was…’

  ‘Short, very fat, bald-headed, and apparently in a great hurry,’ explained the attendant.

  ‘With a bizarre rounded profile, almost mirroring the curve of the skull?’ asked Renzi insistently, while smiling at the goofy image he’d evoked with his own words.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ confirmed attendant eagerly. ‘Almost chinless, with a crooked nose.’

  He was obviously describing Giovanni Marchetti, Sabelli’s travelling companion. But Renzi wasn’t satisfied: there was a jarring note, almost a jarring leitmotif in the story, and he had a curious, subconscious feeling. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the right number of detectives on hand to shadow every passenger of that fatal flight…. Soon, he would have a far more tragic and gripping reason to complain.Meanwhile, the conductor was continuing his curious narration:

  ‘I immediately placed the suitcase on the luggage rack—.’

  ‘The traveller himself had no luggage?’

  ‘An almost identical suitcase, if I remember correctly. Afterwards, I was too busy with the other passengers to keep track... but I checked half an hour ago and the compartment was still empty.’

  ‘The other berth hadn’t been booked?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And was the suitcase still in its place?’

  ‘Nobody could have got in, because I’d locked the door with my special key. But I noticed that nobody had claimed it, and that the compartment was still unoccupied. Even if the passenger had been in the restaurant-car, now....’

  But Renzi was focused on the suitcase, quite certain that his memory wouldn’t be wrong about a very small detail. He pulled a handful of skeleton keys from his pocket and pushed the mildly protesting conductor to one side. After several attempts he found the correct key and opened the suitcase.

  Veiled by a small film of sawdust, Sabelli’s eyes looked blindly out at the assistant commissioner.

  ‘May I speak with Commissario Boldrin? This is Vice Questore Renzi... thank you... .Boldrin? I'm phoning from Sapri Station... Please tell me, have your detectives found Marchetti? He’s on the Rome train? And does he have a suitcase with him? Thanks... So he left his companion’s suitcase on the Palermo train. Yes, he was delayed and he asked his friend to place the suitcase on the train... His friend booked a berth, but didn’t claim it for a very good reason... Worse, he has been murdered; his head and his arms are in the suitcase. Yes, yes, sawn or cut off, of course! I don't know anything more, the suitcase was full of sawdust... Yes, try to find Marchetti, he must be arriving in Rome about now... You can speak to my assistant, Vice Commissario Galbiati. Do you really think so? Frankly, I envy your confidence, my dear Boldrin. As for me, I have my doubts! Yes, yes, do what you have to do, of course, it’s your case. I’ve left the poor man’s remains with the station constabulary. I’ve detained the conductor, but really, I don’t think that... No, I’m going to Palermo, of course. It’s not the case that... Quite the contrary! Yes, the case is yours until my return, and I will be in Naples again as soon as I can. No, now’s certainly not the time to lose them. I’ll keep an eye on them, don’t worry! Of course, not a single word to the newspapers here. I’m providing for it myself! Now I must really go, the train is leaving, I’ll call you again tomorrow, hoping we can see some daylight... Good luck, Boldrin, and I’m wishing it for myself, too!’

  Villa San Giovanni. Half-asleep, Luigi was vaguely conscious of the long stop and of the noisy manoeuvres whilst the train was being guided onto the ferry. He couldn’t get to sleep again. By nightfall he’d stopped out of sheer drowsiness, but the shuddering images, created by his morbid fantasy and excited by his horrifying discovery, were in full possession of his mind now, and they were both shrieking and creepily insinuating. He’d tried every way to fight against them, but the horrible new fact created by its sudden, brisk appearance a veritable jumble of fantastic hypothesis, whereas the current situation demanded cool, calm logic and a reasonable replacing of the labels attached in Naple
s to the various characters of this creepy and mysterious play. But now that sleep was no longer a remedy, Luigi’s fantasies were working overtime, so that when a slight rocking movement informed him that the boat was now leaving the shore, he decided to go into the corridor, where he found Marcella Arteni. He invited her to come to the deck and he helped her to navigate the very narrow passage between the train’s cars and the engine-room. As they were climbing the iron stairway, Luigi wryly complimented her:

  ‘I never thought that an early bird could catch a beautiful girl.’ Sure to have found the right diversion for his attack, he included in a sweeping gesture the splendid landscape and Marcella kissed by the early sun:

  ‘And Giorgio is asleep and missing this magnificent view!’

  Miss Arteni smiled but seemed to prefer dedicating herself humbly to the landscape: Messina was a bunch of little white dice on the short, flat coastline with, on its right side, the lighthouse and a triangle of mountains, hidden amongst the darker clouds and barely pierced by dawn’s early light. Behind it, the coast lost itself in the mist, becoming almost indistinguishable, blending and confusing itself with the Aspromonte. After a long, awe-struck viewing, Miss Arteni decided to at least accept the compliment with another radiant smile:

  ‘If you can enjoy my company this morning you must thank my mother.’

  ‘Really?’ replied Luigi, with a sort of incredulous satisfaction.

  ‘My mother loves Messina, and she taught me never to lose this moment of the voyage. So I always watch the Stretto from the deck... It’s really marvellous at dawn!’

  But Luigi appeared absent-minded, lost in his mysterious thoughts. In the brief silence which followed, he touched lightly on Signorina Arteni’s hand, in simple, happy, thoughtless enjoyment:

  ‘If this were a French novel, they would write about couples, side by side, leaning on the railings,’ he said, smilingly indicating another pair of heads leaning out to view the sea, just like them.

  ‘But...?’ she replied immediately, ready for the sting in the tail.

  ‘But they are near, and we are so distant. We can notice them, and they notice only themselves.’

  ‘Are you envious of them? ’

  ‘Is that a question? ’

  She was taken aback by his remark, and she immediately found a barb for her playful revenge:

  ‘Can you give me some kind advice, Dr. Renzi?’

  ‘I will hear you with pleasure as soon as I can, but as you can see we are soon to disembark in Messina and I’m very sorry to have to leave you alone, just for a couple of moments.’

  Whilst the boat was being tied to the wharf, he jumped out and ran to the Marine Station office. After a couple of minutes there, he ran back towards the departing train and smiled merrily at Marcella, who was helping him to jump on the wagon:

  ‘And now, let’s hear your request for kind advice.’ He smiled again, with affectionate satisfaction.

  ‘Actually, it’s a warning, not really a request for advice, and it can sound quite ominous. The classic mystery novel sleuth has the very bad habit of falling in love with the beautiful girl he was supposed to arrest.’

  ‘Obviously. She’s always innocent. Beautiful girls can never be guilty. Not in my book. But in this particular case, I haven’t the slightest intention of falling for a beautiful, innocent girl.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she replied sardonically, as if she’d been hurt in some way by his jocular remarks, but Luigi touched her arm again gently:

  ‘No, please, I’m serious. Don’t try to find a mysterious secret in my words, or any inappropriate and very vulgar innuendo. I’m simply speaking on a third person's behalf....’

  The young woman blushed with confusion at her sudden understanding of his demeanour, so Luigi rushed to add, in a less serious tone:

  ‘Don’t think too badly of me, please. But I now know the exact reason for your trip to Palermo.’

  She fluttered her long lashes briefly:

  ‘How?’

  ‘I phoned the Hotel des Palmes, just before my risky climb onto this wretched train. Your words had made me think and understand, you know.’

  There was a moment of suspenseful incertitude, then Signorina Arteni smiled admiringly at him and offered her hand:

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Friends.’

  Luigi returned the handshake and the smile with pleasure:

  ‘The friends of our friends are our friends, isn’t that what they say?’

  6-PALERMO

  Two taxicabs were following each other on the long, straight avenue from the railway station to the Hotel des Palmes. In the first was the girl in blue, and in the second her faithful follower, the reporter. So far, the latter had only managed to exchange a few frosty words with her. When they had parted, her frank smile had been directed at Renzi, and Renzi only. But Giorgio thought he’d detected a tinge of bitterness, of defeat. Luigi was a good talker and she liked him very much, but she wasn’t pleased about his increasingly distant attitude. He hadn’t been imposing himself; he’d been paving the way for someone else, and the girl in blue reasoned that the only person who could be grateful about his sacrifice would be his friend Giorgio himself. Yet Giorgio was cursing his own stupidity. He didn’t even know the girl’s hotel in Palermo! Which is why he’d been reduced to squalid taxi-shadowing, as in all those bad old films….

  Certainly, he was trying to solve the Great Flying Boat Mystery on behalf of his paper, La Gazzetta, and Marcella Arteni was one of the prime suspects… But he had to admit cockily to himself that she was the only Dornier passenger he had any intention of following.

  More seriously, he acknowledged that he didn’t actually know the part she’d played in that dark, obscure mystery. Up until now, he’d subconsciously dismissed any suspicion he might have had about her, but now that idea was returning more and more insistently, he had to face up to it. But now the taxi ahead had stopped and the girl in blue was entering Hotel Des Palmes with her customary grace, whilst the wicked idea slipped once again from Vallesi’s mind.

  He waited patiently for several minutes, and when the girl came out of the hotel, he rushed to enter, happy to notice the total emptiness of the reception area. He approached the bell-boy standing in front of the elevator.

  ‘Please, about the girl who just went out a couple of minutes ago.’

  He had been prepared to show his reporter’s card and adopt the classic policeman’s attitude, but the view of an inviting coin was far more persuasive to the young lad, already sheepishly confused by the brisk, authoritative tone of Giorgio’s voice:

  ‘Are you a real detective?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Where did she go?’

  ‘She asked me about a lady, and when I told her she was on an excursion to Pellegrino Mountain, she asked me where she could find a cab….’

  Giorgio fought fiercely with the revolving door as he rushed out of the hotel. He cursed himself for not having kept his taxi. He made uncertain steps in all directions as he tried to find one and at last a garage beckoned to him from a street corner. Of course, no girl in blue had rented a car from them, but Vallesi was at least able to find a taxi for his trip up Pellegrino Mountain.

  Giorgio looked in vain along the road climbing up the dreary, barren mountain, only sparsely covered by a pale film of fading grass. They hadn’t seen a car in either direction. The motor of the 521, pushed at full speed, was labouring breathlessly up the steep incline. It seemed very odd that Marcella would have gone so far, up to the peak of the mountain… Anxious and feeling deceived, Giorgio continued to peer at the asphalt strip covered and uncovered at the mountain’s madcap whim. We can only share his despair and his total neglect of the wonderful natural landscape, until he reached the small, deserted square where the road ended. He looked around with even greater despair, towards a long rounded canyon in which white rubble was unenthusiastically tracing a continuation.

  To the left of the small square, a drive had been cut across the
rocky flank of the mountain, swiftly disappearing behind its powerful ribs.

  A group of five or six people had assembled in the Palermo Alpine Club Hotel at the peak of Pellegrino Mountain. Vallesi scanned the gorgeous, flamboyant party of visitors attentively. Needless to say, Marcella wasn’t amongst them, but possibly the mysterious lady she had sought at the Hotel Des Palmes was, unless the bell-boy had been lying or joking. Giorgio was an incorrigible optimist, however, and he confidently trusted the eager lad.

  A slim young man was standing apart from the group in brooding silence. He was light-haired, with a sort of laziness in his clear, wide face. In stark contrast, a scarlet-lipped young woman was the centre of the group. She was very attractive, with a finely-chiselled, sensual face and a softly curved nose that was vaguely Jewish. The girl was a bundle of energy: breezy, jolly and very lively.

  The light-haired young man was following her every movement with a lingering jealousy, particularly when she exploded in throaty laughter. Far luckier than he was the man who was verbally skirmishing with her, enthusiastically. He was in his forties, broad-shouldered and very good-looking, with a youngish face under a shock of grey hair.

  Next to them stood a tall, slender blonde lady, who, despite her rosy freshness, was fighting desperately against encroaching middle age. Her companion was a younger and even nervier man, animating the general conversation with his briskly staccato words. He made a sudden appeal to all those outside:

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, aren’t we going to sign the guest register?’

  The hotel manager, like a faithful conjuror’s assistant, hastened to display it. Giorgio was the last to sign, so he casually took note of the other names: Lucilio and Miriam d’Alfedena were certainly the lazy young gentleman and his small, breezy wife. The blonde lady had signed in as Gianna Arteni Morello, which prompted Giorgio to think suddenly about Marcella. They were certainly very much alike, so she must have been her—.