Every Hidden Thing

by Elaine Young

Chapter 22

  Saturday evening 9th November

  By the time they were ready to leave, the rain had started again, dimpling the black water below and turning it to hammered steel. ‘We can get several seasons in a day at this time of the year. We’ll have to take the vaporetto. We can walk another time.’ Michel called up to Giuseppa’s apartment and told her that he would be back later. Once outside, he put up his umbrella and placing his arm about Libby’s shoulders they hunched against the rain and hurried to the embarcadero.

  The vaporetto was fairly empty and there were not many people out late in the gloomy weather, so they made good time. Then they ran all the way from the stop at the Ferrovia delle Scalzi to the hotel, splashing through puddles like children. When they arrived, still laughing and puffing, at the door of the hotel, they stopped to catch their breath before entering, trying to look composed.

  ‘Ah, buona sera Signorina . . .’ the delicate young man behind the desk held out a note in a limp hand. His expression was eloquent as he looked archly from Libby to Michel. Libby dared not catch Michel’s eye for fear she would begin to giggle.

  She took the note, expecting it to be a message from Gillian. ‘Miss Wentworth’ it read, ‘I just need to get Mayer’s parcel. I will come back at 10pm.’ it was unsigned; the time on the note said it had been received at 1pm. All of a sudden she felt as though a bucket of cold water had been emptied over her.

  Michel, noticing her white face, took the paper from her. ‘Who left this note?’ he asked the receptionist when he had read it.

  The young man shrugged. ‘I wasn’t on duty at lunch time so I cannot say.’

  ‘It could have been Dougie, if he had escaped the men who chased him off the train. It is possible that he noticed the hotel’s address on the label on my suitcase when he was trying to grab the parcel. He did finger my stuff rather; I don’t think he really knew what he was looking for,’ she whispered to Michel. Very conscious of the frank interest of the young man at the reception desk, Michel took her arm and led her to the lift. They did not speak until they reached her door. It was slightly ajar as it had been yesterday. The maid must be very sloppy, she thought. She stopped in the doorway, her blood pounding in her ears. She knew immediately that someone had gone through her things. It was not very obvious, but the cupboard was slightly open and the suitcase was sticking out a bit. She remembered that she had put it in the cupboard properly and twisted the handle to secure it when she had left in the morning. The bedspread was rucked up as though someone had sat on it.

  ‘Someone has been in here!’

  Michel closed the door behind them. He saw the fear in her face as she looked around the room, expecting to find someone lurking there.

  ‘Check and see if anything is missing.’

  He sat patiently on the bed, watching her as she went through all her things. Her mind was numb and she was glad of Michel’s encouraging presence.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything taken. Even my spare traveller’s cheques are there,’ she said finally, combing her hair out of her face with both hands. She puffed out her breath in a gusty sigh. ‘I wonder who could have done this! Theft was obviously not the motive . . . I should report it to the desk. Perhaps an employee of the hotel . . . ’

  ‘Libby, I think that it could have been your friend Dougie, looking for Ari’s parcel.’

  ‘Of course! It is too pat isn’t it, with the note downstairs. He probably looked in my room first! I wonder how he would have got in, though.’

  ‘There are ways I suppose. He could have pretended to be a workman of sorts, although I don’t expect he can speak Italian. He could have got in through the kitchens or something. He could have bribed a maid. Anyway the fact is, someone was in this room,’ he thought for a moment. ‘It is 9.30 now. I don’t think that you should stay here tonight. You don’t have the parcel and I don’t think it will help if you try to explain that to him in person. You had better come back with me. I can get Guiseppa to fix a room for you,’ he said firmly, seeing her start to protest. ‘Pack your things, you must check out now. And don’t worry; you will be well-chaperoned.’ He called a number from the phone on the bedside table and spoke to someone in Italian.

  ‘Don’t you think we should tell the hotel management what has happened? What will they think if I leave now, so late?’

  ‘We haven’t got time. It is almost ten now. I don’t want you to be here when he, or they, appear,’ he said.

  While she packed hastily, Michel went down to the reception desk and to settle her bill and then came back up to help her with her luggage. As they crossed the foyer, she nodded briefly to the concierge. He nodded back with his eyebrow raised and a knowing smile on his lips. She was beyond caring what he might think. She was badly frightened and was very glad to be leaving this place.

  They took a water taxi back to the palazzo off the Calle Lunga St Barnaba and when they opened the door they were greeted warmly by an old lady in a pink floral dressing gown. She stood very erect and dignified despite the fact that her white hair was done up in plastic curlers.

  ‘Guiseppa, this is Libby Wentworth. Penny, this is Guiseppa. She has fixed up a room for you.’

  ‘I am so glad to meet you and I am very sorry to have got you out of bed so late. Thank you so much.’

  ‘I am very pleased that Michel brought you here. He said that there could be some danger for you if you stayed where you were,’ she said in careful English as she took Libby’s cold hands in her warm ones. Her voice was kind and if Libby had not known differently, she would have thought that she was Michel’s grandmother. The old lady led the way to a beautifully appointed bedroom. There was an electric heater blowing warm air into the room and the bed had been turned back. Michel carried her suitcase and typewriter in and left Guiseppa to fuss over Libby.

  ‘We can have a nightcap when you are ready; just come through to the sitting room,’ he called over his shoulder.

  Guiseppa helped Libby unpack before she went back to her small apartment upstairs. At the door, she cautioned her not to let ‘that naughty boy’ keep her up late. Libby really didn’t think that she would be able to resist that cosy bed for too long and smilingly assented. She longed to climb in, pull up the blankets and sleep for a week. She looked at her watch. Ten forty-five, scarcely an hour since they’d left the hotel. She changed out of her damp shoes, into fluffy blue slippers and found her way back to the sitting room.

  When Michel saw her, he apologised. ‘You poor sweet, you must be very tired. I should have brought you some hot chocolate and let you drink it in bed instead of keeping you up even later.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, I am going to drink this and dash off, I promise.’ She lifted her glass of sherry and toasted him. ‘Thank you so much for all you’ve done tonight. I was really afraid when I saw that letter, knowing what I know now.’

  ‘These people are very clever. I am sure Dougie is not working on his own. I have phoned my friend at the Questura to warn him about this development, but we will talk about it in the morning.’

  Just then the phone rang. Michel frowned as he looked at his watch and excused himself while Libby sat back and let the warming liquid slide down her throat. She sat back and closed her eyes. For a moment she felt as though she was floating off, but in a few minutes Michel rushed back into the room, hastily shrugging himself into his overcoat.

  ‘Ettore has been attacked! The call must have come in just after I spoke to Venier when we arrived back! The police from the Questura are at Ettore’s place right now,’ he said urgently.

  Libby came back to earth with a jolt and jumped to her feet. ‘The poor old man! What happened?’

  ‘That was the investigating officer on the line. They are having him taken to the Ospidale Civile. Old Tommaso is going too, but is beside himself apparently; he is incoherent at the best of times and the police can’t make head or tail of what he is saying. I have to go, Libby. You get yourself off to bed and I will see you in
the morning.’ He looked into her eyes and stroked her cheek briefly before hurrying out of the room. Libby followed him into the hall, arms akimbo.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said fiercely, ‘but I am coming with you. Just let me change into my boots and get my coat!’

  With that she dashed back to her room, not waiting for a reply. All thought of sleep had evaporated. That bed is so tempting, she thought regretfully, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to go to sleep peacefully with all this on her mind anyway.

  They sat silently as they raced along quiet waterways in the taxi that Michel had summoned after he had the call from the police. Michel’s profile was grim as he stared ahead. She slipped her hand into his and squeezed it sympathetically. He turned to smile at her and lifted her hand to his lips. He did not let it go.

  Once they arrived at the Ospidale Civile they were met by the investigating officer, Commissario Emilio Zanon, who led them to the waiting room. There, in a pathetic bundle, sat Tommaso. He was weeping loudly, jumbled words coming out of his almost toothless mouth.

  ‘They are operating on Dottore Bragadin at the moment,’ said Zanon quietly. ‘Maybe you can help us try to find out what happened.’ He looked sympathetically at Tommaso, who, on seeing Michel, had bounded out of his chair and rushed over to cling to Michel’s arm. Calmly Michel put his arm around the frantic old man, speaking soothingly to him in Veneziana and drawing him to a sofa. Libby found a coffee machine and bought a round of strong coffee for them all. After a few sips, Tommaso quietened down, but he sat staring bleakly, murmuring, ‘It is my fault, it is my fault,’ over and over again, rocking back and forth as he did so. He was obviously in shock.

  What emerged slowly from the halting emotional speech of the old retainer was that the doorbell had rung at about ten thirty that evening. Bragadin had been sitting up reading late, as he was wont to do, and the caller had said in French that he had news of Ari Mayer. Bragadin had instructed Tommaso to let the man in. When he had opened the door, Tommaso had been roughly pushed aside and the stranger had burst into the apartment.

  He had demanded to see Bragadin but the old butler had tried to prevent him from coming further into the hall. Bragadin had called out, so the man had pushed in and found him in the study He had demanded that he get the parcel that Libby Wentworth had brought from Ari Mayer. When Bragadin had replied that he did not have anything of Mayer’s, the intruder had proceeded to pistol whip the older man. He had then thrown Bragadin to the floor and kicked him viciously while repeatedly shouting that he knew Libby Wentworth had been there. Then he had ransacked the study and had demanded that Ettore open the safe. Tommaso had given him the combination and the intruder had thrown the contents on the floor. He obviously had not found what he was looking for, and he had kicked Bragadin again and had left. Tommaso had tried to help his beloved employer but when he could not rouse him, had fled to the neighbours downstairs and they had phoned the Questura.

  Michel’s face turned to stone as this story unfolded. In Veneziana he asked urgently, ‘Did you or Dottore Bragadin say that the Signorina had been there?’

  The old man just shook his head and said, ‘He said he knew that she had been here.’

  Zanon had been writing busily as Tommaso spoke, asking questions, asking him to repeat what he had said. Finally the halting words ceased and they sat together, not speaking until Libby whispered,

  ‘What did he say?’ She had heard her name mentioned, but that was all she recognised. Michel sat back.

  ‘I’m sorry. I forgot you do not understand Veneziana . . .’ he apologised.

  ‘Or Italian much! The whole thing went completely over my head,’ she shrugged ruefully.

  As he repeated the tale in English, the full horror of it dawned on them. The whole episode was so appalling and it brought home the importance of the evidence that was securely stored in Michel’s safe.

  ‘Michel. It could have been those men from the train. They could have caught Dougie and brought him here. Or . . .’ she stopped; her eyes were wide with the appalling realisation that she could have led the attacker to Bragadin.

  ‘Or what, Libby?’ he said gently as he squeezed her hand.

  ‘No. It just can’t be him! I met a man on the train. Not Dougie, but a Frenchman who called himself Yves Lefevre. He said he was a journalist with Le Matin!’’

  ‘Lefevre?’ he frowned.

  ‘We happened to meet in the dining car the other night and then we bumped into each other again at Florian’s this afternoon . . . I can’t believe that it was only this afternoon . . . and when I went over to the Guidecca, he kept me company right up to Bragadin’s door . . . ’ her voice trailed off.

  ‘I have never met the man, but he has an excellent reputation. It seems unlikely that he would do this, but he was in touch with Ari. Ari kept him informed to a large extent about the progress of his enquiries.’

  ‘Michel! He told me he didn’t know Ari! Why would Lefevre deny knowing him?’

  ‘That’s very strange. According to Ari’s letter, Dubois would be interested in the parcel, but Lefevre? He shared a lot of information about Dubois with Ari in the first place.’

  ‘Maybe it was Dougie? Michel, ask Tommaso what the man looked like.’ But the poor old man was beyond reason and just muttered unintelligibly when Michel asked him.

  ‘Would you mind telling the inspector what you know, Libby?’ She nodded and Michel turned towards Zanon. ‘Miss Wentworth has something to add which may help the police to find who did this,’ said Michel. ‘She might be able to identify someone who could help you with your enquiries.’

  In a strong voice, Libby went over the whole account from the time Dougie invaded her compartment on the way to Venice. She also told him about Yves Lefevre. Zanon listened and wrote copious notes, questioning her closely and asking Michel for clarification of words he didn’t understand. Suddenly she remembered that Lefevre had given her his card and she scratched through her bag to find it.

  ‘We‘ll see if we can trace him through this phone number, Signorina. Thank you.’ He smiled at her politely and he agreed that it was better, in the light of the violent attack on Bragadin that she had checked out of the hotel. Libby could not help but have the same opinion. Her eyes met Michel’s and she smiled gratefully. Wordlessly, he took her hand again.

  Quiet descended on the waiting-room, although the inspector paced the room restlessly. Eventually a doctor came towards them and Michel leapt to his feet.

  ‘You are Signor Bragadin’s family?’ the doctor asked, looking at the small group.

  ‘He does not have any close family, but we are related. How is he, doctor?’

  ‘I’m afraid the prognosis is very poor. We have tried to alleviate the pressure on his brain, which is the worst injury. But there was severe bleeding and several ribs are broken and we have to make sure he does not develop pneumonia. He is still unconscious. We will just have to watch him carefully. Unfortunately, it is evident that he was not in good physical condition before this incident, so . . .’ he shrugged. There was nothing more that he could say.

  ‘May we see him please, doctor?’

  ‘Yes but just for a minute.’ He turned and led them down the long corridors of the former cloister. The Commissario followed without an invitation.

  Outside the door of a private ward, a young policeman sat trying to look alert. It was very late. He jumped to his feet as his superior came into view.

  ‘At ease, Abruzzo.’ the young man sat down again gratefully. The doctor pushed open the door and they filed cautiously into the room. On the bed, looking very small and vulnerable lay Ettore Bragadin, unrecognisable because of the swathed bandages. Most of the exposed flesh was bruised or grazed. A heart monitor blipped and flashed. They could hear the laboured breathing as his chest painfully rose and fell.

  ‘We took the liberty of calling for the chaplain as he is in so delicate a state . . .’ said the doctor quietly before turning and leaving them. Michel no
dded his thanks.

  Suddenly from behind them came a terrible wail. They spun around to see Tommaso standing there with his hands covering his face. Michel quickly put his arm around the grief-stricken old man, whispering comforting words to him until he quieted down. Then he led him forward and they looked down at the still form. Libby realised in that moment that she could easily fall in love with Michel. She was amazed at the way he cared for Tommaso with such compassion, as though he was a loved member of his own family. There was no stiff upper lip or carefully masked emotion in him. She had never met a man who was able to display such compassion as she saw before her.

  The nurse, who had been adjusting the machines and tubes, stood back so that they could cluster around the patient. But soon the hospital chaplain arrived and began to unpack the paraphernalia he would need to administer the Last Rites. He indicated kindly that they could stay, but they realised there was no point in standing staring at the unrecognisable shape on the bed so they decided to go back to the waiting room.

  ‘I would like to get a statement from him if he recovers consciousness,’ Zanon told them in a matter of fact way. Then he shook hands with them and left, saying that he had his report to write and that he would be in touch with them later, if there was any change in Bragadin’s condition.

  ‘Do they think he’ll die, Michel? I mean, that they should give him the Last Rites . . . ?’

  ‘Not necessarily. But they always give them to seriously ill patients and some recover, so who knows?’ Michel shrugged.

  Around them the building was hushed, with the subdued sounds of night in a hospital. Voices were muted. Footfalls echoed. Distant bells summoned help and there was a pervading aroma of coffee mixed with the inevitable smell of disinfectant.

  ‘You mentioned that you knew Ari during the war. Tell me about those days.’ Libby said feeling that she would fall asleep if she didn’t have something to think about. He nodded. It would be good to think of something else for a while.

  ‘As I told you, I was a small boy when my father was killed. Ari and his family stopped coming to our house at about that time, so I don’t recall much of those days. But I’ll tell you what I do remember . . . ’

  He spoke of how uncomplicated his life had been in those early days before his father died. He recalled that he had been too young to realise that his father had gone to the war, but when he had returned had enjoyed two years with him before he was killed. He described how he had explored the farm, collecting birds’ nests and playing soldiers in the small wood behind the house with Ari and Matthieu his little brother on their infrequent visits. The war had seemed so far away, although sometimes Aristide had told him about life in Paris; how they were always trying to keep one step ahead of the Germans. ‘And then, just after my father was killed, Aristide and his father and brother disappeared from my life. I knew it had something to do with Jacques coming to stay at the farm and it made me hate the man more. But as time went by, I all but forgot about Aristide and I was delighted to meet him again and hear what had happened to him in the interim . . . ’

  Once he turned his mind back to those days, recollections flooded in and he almost seemed to lose himself in his memories of the past. Libby was fascinated, but had to fight her tiredness and kept changing position so that she wouldn’t drop off to sleep.

  It was around one thirty that the doctor appeared. Libby had finally given into sleep with her head on Michel’s shoulder. He had put his arm around her shoulders and had drawn her close. It felt so right, he thought, as he leaned his scratchy cheek on her copper curls. Tommaso had fallen asleep on the sofa and, at Michel’s request a nurse had brought a blanket to cover him. Michel attempted to move without disturbing Libby, but the slight shift woke her and she snapped awake, feeling the crick in her neck, aware that her hair was standing on end, eye make-up smeared. They both appeared worse for wear. All was forgotten as the doctor stood over them. ‘I don’t think there is more that you can do here. Why don’t you go home and get some rest?’ he said kindly, ‘I think that for now the patient is fairly stable, we’ll call you in the morning if there is any change.’

  Michel looked at Libby’s weary face and decided that they would take his advice.

  ‘I think it will be a good idea doctor. No, Libby,‘ he said putting up his hand at her protest, ‘you need some rest and we’re just ten minutes away from the hospital. Thank you. Could you have a look at old Tommaso . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, when he came in with Dottore Bragadin, we examined him. He appeared not to have any physical damage and he said he had not been assaulted, so we concentrated on the urgent case first. Also, Zanon wanted to get the story from him as urgently as possible. I will send a wheelchair and have him admitted. I do think he has suffered a shock and it will be a good thing to keep him under observation for a couple of days.’

  Michel agreed. In a short time, Tommaso was sedated and put in a private ward. Michel and Libby walked slowly out of the hospital and were grateful to find a water taxi waiting hopefully for a late fare. Michel hailed it and gave the direction; they sat close together in the cabin, not talking, until they crossed the Basino St Marco and into the Rio di St Barnaba.

  They were unprepared for the reception they received as they entered the front door, ready to tiptoe quietly to their respective beds. All the lights in the apartment were on. There in the entrance hall both Elvira and Guiseppa stood, like two avenging angels in their night things. Both spoke at once.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  Feeling like young delinquents, Libby and Michel came inside and closed the door. Libby was suddenly very aware of their dishevelled appearance and her smudged mascara, the dark stubble on Michel’s face, his hair standing on end.

  ‘We have been so worried! Guiseppa told me about your hotel room being searched,’ said Elvira.

  ‘I heard the phone ring,’ said Guiseppa, ‘but it was only when I came down later for some milk that I realised you had both gone out.’

  ‘Guiseppa was still in the kitchen when I came back and she told me how worried she was about you, especially as you had had to flee your hotel earlier, cara mia,’ said Elvira. ‘So we decided to wait up for you.’

  ‘I completely forgot to let you know what happened,’ Michel apologised. ‘We were called to the hospital late last night because Bragadin had been attacked.’

  ‘What? This is terrible . . . Is he alright?’ said Elvira, upset.

  ‘He has been operated on and the doctor said that for now he is fairly stable. But as he pointed out, the old man’s body was very frail to begin with, so they don’t want to hold out any great hope for his recovery. We can just pray that he comes through this. He is a fighter and has overcome so much in his life before now.’

  Their two inquisitors were all cries of sympathy and they were drawn into the comfort of the lounge. In no time, Guiseppa had made a tisane and Elvira had made sure they were comfortable before they were allowed to say anything about their ordeal. They listened to the retelling of the tragic events, only interrupting in order to voice their horror and righteous anger. Then Guiseppa said she was going to run baths for them both and left the room.

  Libby left Michel talking to Elvira and she found her way to the bathroom. It was wonderful to be pampered and after her bath Libby was finally able to climb gratefully into the cosy cocoon of the bed that had waited patiently for her. Guiseppa had re-filled the hot-water bottle and she stretched out her toes to its comforting presence. She was afraid that she would lie awake mulling over the events of the night, but sleep quickly overtook her.