As if to prove his point, the sound of a man’s voice warbling a song drifted from outside. Sleep? Forget it.
Rolf fumbled in his backpack for his cigarettes, found them, and lit one. He propped his head on the arm of the sofa and expelled smoke into the already stuffy air of the attic storeroom that was also, at the moment, his bedroom. The place was piled with old trunks, battered suitcases with peeling stickers from Naples and Sorrento, colored Sunday supplement magazines from years past, a broken lamp whose shade hung at an angle. Still, it wasn’t a bad place to be, which is what Rolf had realized when he rushed in late yesterday afternoon all hot to get out of town.
Where would he go? He wasn’t going back to Paris, but he couldn’t think of any obvious alternatives. Money was a consideration. He had told Gianni and Rosa he’d be here till Carnival was over, and that wasn’t until tomorrow. He could stay here for free and think about the next move.
Nobody could connect him with Sally’s death. The weird-looking bride had seen him bending over the body, but what she had seen was a guy with a black hood and a mirror-face. Nobody knew that apparition was Rolf. When he’d dressed in his costume yesterday, Rosa and Gianni were out. Nobody had been around except the family cat and some kids kicking a ball to each other down the street. Now the mirror-man was gone— as dead as Sally, floating in the canal.
Most important, Rolf needed to do some investigating here in Venice. Someone in the group— at least one of them— had discovered where Rolf was staying. Granted, that wouldn’t have been the most difficult thing in the world to do. Anyone could have asked Louis at the bistro, and Louis, being the accommodating, jovial fellow he was, would’ve given out the address on the Giudecca without a second thought.
What bothered Rolf was, why would anyone ask? It was breaking the rules, which they’d vowed not to do, but Rolf didn’t care about the damn rules. He just didn’t at all like the idea of someone snooping around, asking about him in order to send him a poem about Sally.
Who can predict what she’ll change about you? Rolf couldn’t tolerate it. It might be dangerous to stay, but if he left, he’d never know who knew about him, or where that person might turn up again.
So. He was here like a rat in a hole, and he’d better move before whoever it was moved on him. The person had had no trouble at all delivering a poem to him yesterday, in a nice white envelope. Unfortunately, one of the kids had answered the door and taken it. Neither of the boys spoke English very well, and the one who’d accepted the poem seemed especially dumb. Rolf had been over the episode with him several times to no avail, the kid with his closed, sullen face, sitting half off his chair, glancing longingly toward the living room where the TV was playing full blast:
“Who brought the envelope?”
“A boy.”
“Do you know him?”
“No.”
“You never saw him before?”
“No.”
“What did he look like?”
Long hesitation. “A boy.”
“Was he older or younger than you?”
“What?”
“Was he older than you?”
“Yes.” Throat clearing. “I think so.” And on and on. In all probability, the boy who looked like a boy was some urchin hired for the job and wouldn’t know much, although Rolf would give a great deal to lay hands on him, even so.
Rolf put out his cigarette in the butt-filled ashtray on the floor by his backpack. His hand strayed to the backpack’s webbing strap. Maybe he should get out. He hefted the backpack slightly, then put it down again and lay with his hands clasped behind his head.
No. He wasn’t going to run. Somebody knew too much, and Rolf couldn’t have it. He would stay and find out what was going on. The decision made, he felt better.
Some time later he dressed and went downstairs. The kids had gone out— to school, he guessed— and Rosa was in the kitchen rolling out pasta. She was friendly, dark-eyed, sallow-skinned, putting on weight around the hips. She wore a green wool sweater fraying at one elbow and a heavy gold cross around her neck. She spoke a few words of English and French, and Rolf spoke a little Italian, so they got along fine.
Rolf’s decision to stay in Venice and fight had made him feel exceptionally good, he realized as Rosa poured him a cup of coffee. When she put the cup in front of him, he said, with effusive mock gallantry, “Tante grazie, Signora,” and kissed the chapped back of her hand.
“Prego, Signor.” She giggled, pulling her hand away. He noted with satisfaction the flush rising on her plump cheeks.
He drank his coffee and ate bread and butter, watching as, her back turned toward him, she continued with her work. She seemed to shift her weight rather often from one hip to the other. Watching the outline of the movement against the back of her skirt, Rolf started to smile to himself.
When he’d finished eating, he made a great show of taking his dishes to the sink and starting to wash them. Noticing what he was doing, she protested, “No, no! I do!”
“Si, sì, I do!” he mocked, grinning, running hot water in the dishpan to make a soapy froth.
“No!” Laughing, she grabbed at his cup and saucer as he slid them in the dishpan.
“Si.” He caught her wrist and, with his other hand, picked up a pile of soapsuds and blew them at her. A few bubbles landed on the front of her sweater.
She gave a cry of delighted outrage, picked up her own handful of bubbles, but was laughing too hard to blow them at him. Rolf took that wrist too, and blew them back at her. Bubbles flew around them, clinging to her dark, curly hair.
“Terrible! Very naughty!” she gasped, her face glowing.
“Very naughty,” Rolf agreed as he slid his arms around her extremely warm body.
Yet even as he tasted Rosa, held her, pushed himself against her, murmuring what he hoped was the Italian word for “upstairs,” Rolf found himself thinking of Sally. The image of her skinny, cold, dead body only increased his need and desire.
THE PIERROT COSTUME
The sun sparkled on the green expanse of the Giudecca Canal and reflected brilliantly off the white bulk of an arriving cruise ship. Rolf, on the way to get the vaporetto across from the Zattere, thought it was a nice enough day to have a coffee outside. Maybe he’d do that at one of the cafés near the Accademia Gallery.
Rosa had been disappointed at his leaving her so soon, but Rolf had never understood what was so appealing about the cuddling, the tracing the outline of nose, lips, chin, with a forefinger, the sticky, worn-out kisses and soft murmurs afterward. A cigarette, or even two, was fine. After that, he started to feel moody just lying around, and somebody’s eyes brimming and a few hurt looks weren’t going to make him stay.
Besides which, Rosa might be a little pissed at him now, but he knew she was going to be at him every minute Gianni was out of the house, because she had been so ready. When they were ready like that and you got them going, they couldn’t stop even if they wanted to.
A boat was approaching, and he ran for it. Even this early, a clown with a painted face, wearing a red fright wig, was among the passengers. The clown wore an overcoat on top of his costume and carried a trombone case. Looking at the clown’s exaggerated mouth, bright red against white greasepaint, and his heavily outlined eyes, Rolf felt that his own face was naked. If he was going to stick around Venice, maybe he should get another mask.
The clown had dark brown circular freckles drawn across his nose and cheekbones. The freckles reminded Rolf of Sally. He shifted his eyes from the clown to the churning water beside the boat, watching it until they reached the Zattere.
He got off and looked around. A couple of places were serving coffee at outside tables, but he didn’t want to sit looking back across at the Giudecca. He’d rather put a little more distance between himself and Rosa. He wandered along the Rio di San Trovaso across from the gondola works, cut behind a palazzo, and emerged into the campo in front of the Accademia Gallery, with its newsstand near the foot of t
he Accademia Bridge and a couple of cafés overlooking the Grand Canal.
He wondered if there would be anything in the local papers about Sally’s death. He couldn’t really read Italian, but he could pick out enough to make it worthwhile to buy a paper. He wandered toward the newsstand and had almost reached it when he saw Jean-Pierre entering the campo from the opposite direction. Rolf was sure it was Jean-Pierre, even though Jean-Pierre was wearing one of those yellow cardboard masks that were given away everywhere.
Rolf shrank behind the wire rack of postcards, next to the banks of magazines in four languages, and peered out at Jean-Pierre. Jean-Pierre gave no sign of having seen him. He was carrying a white plastic bag under one arm. The bag was stuffed full. As Rolf watched, Jean-Pierre turned and began to climb the steps of the Accademia Bridge.
Lingering by the postcards, Rolf debated what to do. He hadn’t hailed Jean-Pierre because it was possible that Jean-Pierre was his enemy, the author of the Medusa poem. Rolf couldn’t trust any member of the group, and he would stay away from them until he was sure of his next move.
Jean-Pierre’s appearance, though, might be an opportunity to find out what was going on. Maybe Jean-Pierre was on his way to see Brian. Rolf was surprised, in fact, that Jean-Pierre wasn’t with Brian now, but maybe Brian had had a bad reaction to Sally’s death.
Jean-Pierre had reached the top of the bridge. Seconds from now, he would be out of sight. Rolf left his hiding place and started for the bridge, following Jean-Pierre.
Luckily, quite a few people were out by this time, enough so Rolf could lose himself among them. Still, he would have given a great deal to have a mask, as extra protection against discovery. He would get one the first chance he had.
So where are we going, sweetie? Rolf sneered at Jean-Pierre. Rolf had had no respect for Jean-Pierre since he’d gone gaga over Brian. That slavish, sickening devotion was imbecility. Rolf might have his problems, he’d be the first to admit it, but slavish devotion had never been one of them. It was, in a way, the opposite in his case. He didn’t want to be anybody’s slave. He wanted to be in control. And if the woman— an innocent type like Sally— was scared, terrified—
Rolf switched his mind off that subject and concentrated on Jean-Pierre. They had crossed the bridge and were passing a flower stand where bunches of yellow mimosa, iris, and salmon-colored roses sat in tubs on the pavement. Jean-Pierre plodded on, clutching his bundle, head bent and shoulders rounded. He was the very picture of a defeated jerk, although he should’ve been riding high with his competition out of the way.
They moved into the airy Campo Francesco Morosini. Costumed children chased each other while their mothers, wearing dark winter coats and carrying shopping bags, stood talking. A couple of cafés here were serving outside, but for the moment Rolf had given up on coffee alfresco. He followed Jean-Pierre into the passage in front of the Santo Stefano Church, then down a little shop-lined street.
And then, God damn it to hell, right to a dead end at a canal.
Seeing Jean-Pierre stop abruptly, Rolf skidded to a halt as well. When Jean-Pierre turned around, which he was sure as hell going to have to, he’d be staring Rolf in the face if Rolf didn’t do something right now. Of course, this being the most inconvenient city in the world, there were no handy side streets or alleys. Rolf ducked into a little shop with sausages hanging in the window and waited for Jean-Pierre to pass on his way back.
Rolf waited. A man wearing a white apron asked him something in Italian and Rolf gestured to him to shut up. He craned his neck past the sausages, watching for Jean-Pierre, but Jean-Pierre didn’t return.
Jean-Pierre could’ve sat down on the stones to enjoy the sun. He could’ve jumped into the canal. Those were the only two alternatives Rolf could think of, because Jean-Pierre couldn’t possibly have come back without Rolf seeing, although Rolf began to feel that Jean-Pierre had managed it somehow.
The man in the apron was right behind Rolf, talking in Italian again. His hand was on Rolf’s arm, giving Rolf a little shove. Rolf shook him off and went to the door. He’d take a short look to make sure Jean-Pierre was still there.
As the man, still close behind him, began to yell, Rolf stuck his head out the door. He stuck it practically in the face of Jean-Pierre, who was returning from the canal. Jean-Pierre’s eyes were on the ground and he no longer held his plastic bag.
Rolf jumped backward. He bumped into the man’s soft stomach, and stepped on the man’s foot. The man’s voice was raised even higher in what was clearly pain and outrage. Rolf turned to him and said, “Can’t you shut up for a second?” He checked that Jean-Pierre wasn’t looking back, had apparently not noticed him at all, but was proceeding down the street at a steady pace. Then he slipped through the door, followed by the man’s cries, which were muffled as the door closed.
Rolf was in a quandary. He could either follow Jean-Pierre, who would be out of sight very soon, or search for the plastic bag. Whatever was in the bag, Jean-Pierre had wanted to get rid of it someplace where it wouldn’t be connected with him. If it was garbage or something equally boring, why carry it all this way? Maybe he had given it to somebody. If he had, Rolf had better hurry if he wanted to see who it was. Rolf opted for the bag and rushed to the place where the street ended.
There was the canal, glinting in the sun. Steps led down to water level. And on those steps were piled quite a few well-filled white plastic garbage bags.
Rolf wished he could get his hands on Jean-Pierre. He would shake Jean-Pierre until his teeth rattled. How was Rolf going to find Jean-Pierre’s plastic bag among all these plastic bags? A Coca-Cola can that had escaped the cleanup lay at Rolf’s feet. He picked it up and hurled it into the canal, taking some satisfaction at how ugly it looked floating there.
Then he got an idea. Jean-Pierre’s bag had looked much like these bags, yes, but it hadn’t been nearly as large. These bags were neatly closed at the top, so Jean-Pierre probably hadn’t opened one to shove his bundle inside. Perhaps he had simply pushed it in among the others. Rolf approached the pile and began tossing bags aside. In barely a minute he uncovered the bag that Jean-Pierre had been carrying.
Here was a bonus: Printed in small black letters on the white plastic was the name of a hotel, Hotel Romanelli, and an address. More than likely that’s where Jean-Pierre was staying. Rolf opened the bag. Inside was a mass of white satin and black net that turned out to be a Pierrot costume. Along with the pajama-style trousers and billowing top with its black net ruff were a black satin skullcap and a Pierrot mask with a fake-diamond tear.
Jean-Pierre had dressed as Pierrot? On the face of it, that didn’t make sense. And why had he walked across town to get rid of his costume— or gotten rid of his costume at all?
Thoughtfully, Rolf stuffed the costume back in the bag. He put the bag under his arm and strolled toward the Campo Francesco Morosini. He was ready for his coffee.
SALLY PACKS UP
Sally sat on the bed where Brian had made love to her the night before he died and stared at the two open, empty suitcases. She was wearing jeans, running shoes, and her sweater with the geese flying in front of the moon. Her hair, no longer piled in the señorita’s topknot, hung past her shoulders. Her clammy hands, palms together, were pressed between her knees.
Brian had been murdered. A policeman with luminous dark eyes had explained how it happened, with a lot of translating help from Michèle. The policeman had acted grateful to Michèle, very deferential.
Brian had been hit in the face, a blow hard enough to break his nose despite his mask.
“He is hit— so,” said the policeman, making a chopping motion across the bridge of his own nose. “He is stunned, you know, he stumbles forward—”
Michèle, soberly dressed in a dark gray suit, a yellow rosebud in his buttonhole, interrupted with a flood of Italian.
The policeman answered in an apologetic tone, still looking at Sally.
“I have asked if you can be spared the pain o
f these details,” Michèle said.
“No. He can go on,” said Sally.
At a nod from Michèle the policeman proceeded. “He stumbles forward, falls into the canal. His mask is cracked, but it does not come off. He is wearing on his head this— these snakes, which are heavy. His face, you see, is in the water.”
Sally stared at a blue crockery mug on the policeman’s desk. Brian fell into the canal. Dazed, his nose broken, wearing a heavy headdress, he couldn’t lift his head. His mask filled with water and blood, and he drowned.
It was horrible. So much worse than she’d thought. She’d imagined an accident, maybe. Or suicide. But she couldn’t imagine Brian killing himself, no matter how bad he felt. To think that somebody hit him, hit him deliberately— she bent her head into her hands.
Michèle spoke sharply, in a tone of command, and someone brought her water in a paper cup. After she had taken a swallow she said, “It couldn’t have been that he stumbled? He hit his face on the edge when he fell in?”
“We do not believe a fall would produce sufficient force for his injuries.”
“What hit him, then?”
The policeman shrugged slightly. “Very possibly the staff that was found there, although we have no conclusive proof that was the weapon.”
So it could just as easily have been the bat a Harlequin wears tucked in his belt, Sally thought. She didn’t look at Michèle, but she could feel his presence, not two feet away.
Sally didn’t know if Michèle really believed she might have killed Brian, or if he’d wanted to test her by pretending he did. In any case, she had told the policeman the complete truth: about the game, and about Tom, Rolf, Francine, and Jean-Pierre. About Brian’s saying he was afraid, and the message in his glove, and finding the body, and seeing the mirror-man. About being taken away from the scene by a man dressed as a Harlequin, who had turned out to be Count Michèle Zanon. And how Count Zanon had summoned a doctor to give her an injection, and had insisted on taking her to Torcello this morning before they came to the police station. The policeman listened attentively, occasionally asking Michèle to translate something or other. Sally watched the policeman’s face, and she thought she could see her words disappearing into the policeman’s eyes, leaving no disturbance on the surface. When she finished, he thanked her very much, expressed his condolences, and asked her not to leave Venice.
The Grand Tour: Four International Mysteries Page 50