For the subject of a surprise arrest, Abbott had remained calm and offered no resistance. He had said nothing except, “Thanks very much for your help,” as his captors and he swept by Reuben. His look had not been altogether friendly.
No sooner had the boat with Abbott aboard disappeared toward San Marco when a second blue-and-white craft, also a P.S. vessel, pulled up. Engines running, it stopped only long enough for Tony Garrison to jump clear. He saw Reuben and ran toward him.
“Rubes! Is it you I have to thank?” he said, embracing Frost.
“In part,” Reuben said. “Me and Dan Abbott—who was just arrested for Gregg Baxter’s murder.”
Garrison, wearing his shirt open and carrying a blue blazer, appeared unaffected by his confinement, his handsome features intact and unmarked. “So it’s Dan, is it?” he said very quietly.
“I’m afraid so, young man,” Reuben said.
“How do they know?”
“Look, the hotel has put a suite at our disposal up on the first floor. I haven’t eaten, Cynthia hasn’t and I’m sure you haven’t—”
“—I have. But if you’re talking about real food, I’m ready.”
“Let’s go upstairs, where it’s quiet and private, and I’ll reconstruct the story as best I can. Tabita and Ms. Medford would perhaps like to join us, too. They’re right inside.”
Frost repeated his plan to the two women, who, still shaken, seemed grateful for the chance of company. Back upstairs, he found Cynthia sitting uneasily across from Cavallaro, who was doing his diplomatic, hotel-school best to make diverting small talk.
Reuben quickly asked him if he could arrange for dinner and drinks in the suite. Cavallaro said he would tend to it at once, though he pressed Reuben for details of the arrest before leaving. His relief was palpable when Frost told him and Cynthia what had happened and he was reassured that the operation had been carried out without undue alarm to other guests.
A waiter and a bar cart appeared with extraordinary speed. Reuben requested a martini and oversaw its preparation. Then a captain came and took orders. Reuben, Cynthia and Tony Garrison all settled on fried calamari and broiled scampi, to be accompanied by a white Durello the captain recommended. Tabita and Medford passed.
“How did they figure out it was Dan?” Garrison asked.
“They didn’t. I did,” Reuben said. “I’ll tell you how if you promise to stop me when the tale gets boring.”
Reuben began by describing the epiphany he had experienced earlier in the day, after viewing the incomplete likeness of Doge Vendramin and reading of John Ruskin’s shock at discovering it.
“Suddenly I was determined to look at the facts of our case in a new light, to turn all our assumptions upside down or inside out, however you want to put it. So I began with the most recent surprise, the note accusing Dan Abbott.” He described the note and how it had been found under his door the previous afternoon.
“Cynthia and I had agreed last night that to accuse Dan was preposterous. Today, I made myself assume that the note, wherever it had come from, pointed to the truth—that Dan Abbott had killed Gregg Baxter and earlier had tried to poison him.
“Before going any further, I reviewed Abbott’s possible motives again, and realized that, when you thought about them carefully, they were pretty powerful ones. Gregg Baxter and he differed on the future of Baxter Fashions and how it could be expanded and exploited. If Baxter’s conservative views prevailed, Abbott, as a one-third owner, stood to lose millions—many, many millions—in unrealized profits. Then there was the whole matter of Baxter’s erratic and contentious behavior—plus his sexual escapades—which could only cause harm in the future, and which were surely personally unpleasant to Abbott.
“I concluded that at some point Abbott might well have decided that Baxter had to be eliminated. But wouldn’t this destroy the very business Abbott wanted to expand? Not from what everyone said. The prevailing opinion, and certainly Abbott’s, was that you, Tony, could carry it on. Even before Baxter’s death, I had received hints, especially from you, Tabita, that Tony was already doing much of the design work. And Abbott and you, Tony, told Cynthia and me that there were buyout arrangements for Baxter’s share of the business—a key-man insurance scheme—that would prevent financial disruption.
“By last Thursday night, I think Abbott was in a desperate state of mind, evidenced by the fact that we saw him in the bar late that night having a good strong drink, and ordering a second one. This although he claimed to be a nondrinker.”
“That’s true,” Medford said. “Unlike some of us, he never drank at all.”
“Look at his situation, while he was sitting there drinking: The poison attempt had not worked, and Baxter was determined to find the poisoner. The chance for a lucrative perfume deal with Eric Werth had exploded. His partner, Baxter, was in a vile mood after his less than successful dinner party and had complained to him about how he was running things. And then the two had their bitter confrontation over Baxter’s going off to cruise at Haig’s Bar.
“My guess is that Abbott, drinking in his bleak mood, remembered your glass dagger, Tony, and decided to steal it. That is what he did, climbing over the balcony from his room to yours—just like the pool boy who opens the umbrellas in the morning.
“Abbott probably figured that he could ‘borrow’ the dagger and return it later. The problem was that it broke when he stabbed Baxter, so he couldn’t return it. This must have made him realize that the police would almost certainly finger Tony as its purchaser. Anybody buying such an oddity was likely to stand out in the memory of the seller.”
“Particularly if the buyer was black,” Garrison said.
“Exactly,” Reuben said, turning toward Garrison. “Having you arrested didn’t fit with his plans. Again, twisting the facts around, it suddenly dawned on me—if Abbott had a plan to get Gregg Baxter out of the business, its success depended on you! Your design talents were essential if Baxter Fashions was to keep operating—and you wouldn’t be able to do very much if you were locked up in Santa Maria Maggiore. So Abbott not only had to keep others from suspecting him but you as well.
“He had started the process, as far as he was concerned, after the poisoning had failed. He knew that Baxter would be obsessed about finding the poisoner. What better way to appear innocent than to lead the investigation himself? Which he did by rather ostentatiously seeking my help. Probably on the assumption that I was a harmless old man, especially when operating in foreign territory.”
“Boy, was he wrong, Rubes,” Garrison said, provoking laughter all around.
“Then I tried to analyze his conduct over the last week in light of my hypothesis that he had a dual goal—to keep the spotlight off both himself and you, Tony. The result amazed me. Almost everything fit the pattern. It began the morning after the murder, when Abbott spread the rumor that the killing had been a homosexual one, planting the idea with Alfredo Cavallaro here at the hotel and Commissario Valier, before Abbott even knew that Baxter had met up with the dubious Nicolò Pandini. He also floated the theory with Cynthia and me, on a trip to Torcello last Sunday, and to anyone who would listen at Ceil Scamozzi’s cocktail party.
“Then there was his almost fanatical defense of you, Tony. Look at what he did. He deliberately concealed from the P.S. and me that Baxter had been abusive to you the night he was killed—not that you didn’t do the same, I might say. And he said repeatedly that you could carry on the business and that you had too much at stake to kill Baxter. Plus, of course, insisting on getting you the best possible lawyer. This had the double purpose of trying to get you off the hook and of making him look like a disinterested Samaritan.
“But trying to defend you, Tony, was only part of his tactics. He also had to get the P.S.—and me—looking at other suspects.”
Reuben told the group about his call from Jim Cavanaugh and the item in Sharon Meagher’s gossip column in New York, which at least hinted that Eric Werth had been involved in the murder. “Meagher is
an old friend and when I called her she told me Abbott was her source. She was reluctant to tell me, like the good reporter she is, and only did so when I laid out the problem for her. The plant with Meagher had been another attempt to divert attention.
“Then he tried to do a job on you, Doris, to make me believe that you were an irresponsible drunk and quite capable of killing Baxter. When we invited Abbott to go to Torcello with us, I specifically asked him to invite you along. But then, when I brought the subject up with you at Ceil Scamozzi’s party, I could tell that he had never done so. Now I figured out why—so that he could make his insinuations to us about you throughout the day.”
“My God, he was an even bigger son of a bitch than I imagined,” Doris said.
“Then we come to the most desperate act since the murder,” Frost went on. “Look at the picture yesterday as he would have seen it. The Sostituto Procuratore was satisfied that you, Tony, should be charged with homicide and held in prison and, frankly, your situation looked pretty bad. I’m sure Commissario Valier explained that to you.”
“Yes. Like about fifteen times,” Garrison said.
“The lawyer Abbott hired, Avvocato Mancuzzi, said the most effective strategy for overturning the Ordine against you on appeal was to arouse suspicion concerning someone else, to create uncertainty in the minds of the magistrates over whether they were holding the right person. To make some smoke, as Mancuzzi put it.
“What surer means than to cast doubt on himself? So, in his urgent need to free Tony, he took the chance and sent me that anonymous note naming himself.”
“That was pretty dangerous,” Doris Medford interjected.
“Dangerous, but gutsy and clever. He knew I didn’t suspect him, and I’m sure he was confident that view would carry the day. But meanwhile there would be the ‘smoke’ Mancuzzi wanted to support Tony’s appeal.”
“Question,” Doris Medford said. “Why wasn’t Abbott afraid that people would suspect him of sending the note?”
“Two reasons. One, it would normally be so completely improbable that anyone would accuse himself of murder. Second, I’ll wager a healthy sum that he thought Tabita here would be tagged as the author. Unlike the rest of you, she was not accounted for Wednesday afternoon. Or so Abbott believed. What he didn’t know is that she was with Cynthia the whole time and couldn’t possibly have left the poison-pen letter under my door.”
“Shooot,” the model said incredulously.
“Before I forget it, I’m reasonably sure, Tabita, that you’ll find an envelope and a sheet of paper missing from that box of stationery you bought the other day.”
“Rubes, I’ve got a problem with what you’re saying,” Garrison commented. “You said yourself you saw Dan here at the hotel last Thursday night. How did he get back out of here without being identified? That’s next to impossible.”
“Maybe for you, Tony,” Tabita said, laughing.
“I confirmed a few hours ago that late at night there are only two ways out and in, the landing stage by the swimming pool and the back gate. The motoscafista of the boat could not remember seeing Abbott any time Thursday night, except when he returned on the boat after dinner. This is where poor old John Ruskin really helped, with his example of looking on all sides of Vedramin’s statue.
“Can anybody doubt that Abbott wears a wig? Wasn’t it just possible that he had moved around unidentified while not wearing it? Luckily Cynthia remembered a piece in Spy magazine about well-known bald men who wear hairpieces. The real targets were the likes of Michael Milken and Sinatra, but one of the dozen or so indiscreetly pictured without his wig was ‘fashion fixer’ Dan Abbott. Were these photos real or doctored? I don’t know. But the faxed print we received was enough for Mr. Tagliapetra, the motoscafista, to identify Abbott as a passenger he had brought back early on the morning when Baxter was murdered.
“You may remember that a week ago tonight this place was going mad with a huge black-tie party. My hunch is that Abbott had the inspiration to take advantage of this. He had his tuxedo here, having worn it to the dinner the night before. So he put it on, removed his wig, blended anonymously with the black-tie crowd and went and stalked Gregg Baxter with Tony’s glass dagger.
“He waited for Baxter outside Haig’s, I’ll bet, and then, when he came out, told him it was time to go home and led him back toward the Cipriani boat. Then he diverted him into the deserted Calle dei Tredici Martiri, killed him, and came back here on a crowded boat without being recognized—until we got the Spy photograph, that is.
“Just to wrap it up, the final piece in the puzzle was finding Abbott’s dinner jacket rolled up in his suitcase, which Commissario Valier did tonight. There were small bloodstains on the sleeve that I have no doubt will be identified as Baxter’s.”
“Why didn’t he have his tuxedo cleaned?” Tabita asked.
“And have the laundry or the chambermaid find the telltale stains? He had to hide it,” Reuben said. “And maybe he’d seen that movie Don’t Look Now. He might have been afraid his tuxedo would float to the surface and haunt him if he threw it into a canal somewhere.”
The group, mesmerized by Frost’s account, did not notice Valier’s entrance, but Frost saw him and said, “Do you agree about the bloodstains, Jack?”
“I have no doubt they are Baxter’s,” Valier replied. “But it does not matter. Your friend Abbott has confessed. He actually seemed relieved to have the chance. He wanted to talk even before we got to San Lorenzo.”
“Motorboat questioning?” Reuben asked.
“No. It was entirely voluntary,” Valier said.
“L’indagine è chiusa,” Tony Garrison said.
“Meaning what, Tony?” Reuben said.
“The case is closed,” Garrison explained. “It’s one of the local legalisms I’ve picked up in the last few days.”
“Or as Irving Berlin wrote,” Valier added, “the song is ended.”
CHAPTER
27
A Secret Mission
Friday morning, Frost, at Doris Medford’s request, called Avv. Mancuzzi and asked him to represent Dan Abbott. Having arranged a meeting between Medford and the lawyer, he made plans for spending the entire day at the Cipriani pool. He was going to rest and bake in the sun, free at last of both worry and surprises.
His one engagement was an appointment to visit the Manfredini Collection in the Seminario Patriarcale. Frost had set Gigi to work to obtain permission for a visit. This had proved more difficult than anticipated, but the word had finally come that Frost could see the collection precisely at five that day.
The seminary was next door to the Salute. Reuben allowed plenty of time, as he was unsure where exactly he was meant to present himself at five o’clock. Eventually he found a glassed-in reception booth, where the building’s custodian summoned an eager seminarian to escort Frost to the collection on the upper floor.
Reuben had not come to see the entire collection of paintings and sculptures but, as he told his guide, “Vorrei vedere soltanto il busto di Doge Da Ponte.” The youth looked puzzled that Frost wished to see only one object, but dutifully led him to the room where the bust was located and pointed it out. Realizing that it must have some special significance to Frost, the guide quietly withdrew.
The terra-cotta bust by Alessandro Vittoria of Doge Nicolò Da Ponte (1578–85) showed a distinguished old man, wearing the corno and a vestment of a rich fabric that Reuben thought resembled one of la marchesa Scamozzi’s.
If anyone had asked Reuben why he wanted to take the trouble to make this pilgrimage, he probably would not have told them. The truth was that he had come to gloat. Da Ponte, elected the Doge in his eighties, had developed the unfortunate habit of falling asleep in meetings. To keep him from slipping to the ground, a velvet-covered appoggio, a supporting shelf, was built across the front of his throne, creating in effect a high chair for the senile leader.
Frost wanted to exult because he was still in possession of all his faculties—h
adn’t the events of the last few days proved it?—and intended to continue to be.
He thought of the dreadful Filberts and their condescension to him, unlike the young novices he saw moving about the seminary, smiling and properly deferential. The Filberts be damned, he thought. Sustained and encouraged by his beloved Cynthia, he planned, grazie infinite, to go on for many more years. There was no need to build a high chair for him quite yet.
APPENDIX
Reuben’s Book Bag
The Hotel Cipriani, ever accommodating, allowed Reuben Frost to keep a box of books at the hotel from year to year. As he made his sightseeing excursions around Venice, he selected the appropriate volumes to put in his green book bag from this collection. In the box were:
Da Mosto, Andrea. I Dogi di Venezia (Florence: Giunti Martello, 1947).
Hale, Sheila. The American Express Pocket Guide to Venice (New York: Prentice Hall, 1991).
Honour, Hugh. The Companion Guide to Venice (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice Hall, 1983).
Lauritzen, Peter. Venice: A Thousand Years of Culture and Civilization (New York: Atheneum, 1978).
Links, J. G. Venice for Pleasure (New York: Farrar, Straus, 1979).
Lorenzetti, Giulio. Venice and Its Lagoon (Trieste: Lini, 1985).
Morris, James. The World of Venice (rev. ed.) (New York: Harcourt, 1985).
Norwich, John Julius. A History of Venice (New York: Knopf, 1982).
Pignatti, Terisio. Venice (New York: Holt, 1971).
Ruskin, John. The Stones of Venice, edited and introduced by Jan Morris (Boston: Little, Brown, 1981).
About the Author
Haughton Murphy is the pseudonym of former lawyer James H. Duffy, author of the Reuben Frost Mysteries. A graduate of Princeton University and Harvard Law School, Duffy got his start writing as a part-time and summer reporter for the Daily Times of Watertown, New York, before moving to New York City to practice law. After a number of years as an attorney, Duffy began writing thrillers, eventually retiring to focus on his novels full-time.
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