by Elaine Young
* * *
No one was about when she emerged from her room dressed in a soft green woollen dress which brought out the russet lights in her hair, but as she walked down the short passage Michel emerged from the study. Libby could sense that he was pre-occupied and she smiled up at him and put her arms around him in a gesture of commiseration. He groaned softly then gently at first, but more passionately, he kissed her lips, her eyes. Then held her in his arms and buried his face in her hair, murmuring endearments. Finally he released her. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to rush you.’ he said touching her flushed lips with a gentle finger as he looked into her shining eyes. Then with his voice shaking with emotion he said, ‘No I’m not sorry. I’ve wanted to do that since I first set eyes on you at that party in Paris. I also think that Ettore would approve. He liked you, I know that.’
‘I’m glad you’re not sorry. I would be very offended if you really didn’t want to do that. I am not to be trifled with!’ she said with mock indignation.
To prove his sincerity he did it again.
Then they realised they were still standing in the passage. He laughed out loud. ‘We’ll get that naughty teenager treatment again if someone comes in now. Let’s eat. You must be as hungry as I am, after missing breakfast!’
She wasn’t really hungry, but she nodded. He kissed her nose. ‘It’s just you and me,’ he said smiling down at her as she stood in the circle of his arms. ‘Elvira had a lunch date and Guiseppa has just gone to late Mass.’ For lunch, Guiseppa had prepared a delicious pork piccata with spaghettini, followed by little ricotta and lemon cakes.
‘This is delicious! Guiseppa is a wonderful cook. I think if I had to make a meal under present circumstances, we’d all get peanut butter sandwiches.’
Michel laughed. ‘Guiseppa cooks as easily as she breathes. Before she left for church she was very apologetic about this scrappy meal.’ He opened a bottle of prosecco and proposed a toast.
‘To Ettore Bragadin!’
They drank and then he said, ‘To the most beautiful girl in the world!’
She lifted her glass, emotion choking her, but her eyes were shining. Libby felt that she couldn’t stop smiling and she almost felt guilty because she was so happy in spite of the tragedy of Ettore’s death.
‘I have also had a call from the police to say that the body will be released tomorrow morning. I have to go to the funeral directors and hopefully arrange the funeral for Tuesday morning. The notice will be in the papers tomorrow. I also phoned Paris and spoke to Rose Delage and she says Ari is home with her and is feeling much better. She’ll tell him about Ettore when she feels he’ll be able to cope.’
‘I suppose Tommaso will stay on there, at the apartment?’
‘I imagine so. He won’t sell it. He has nowhere else to go anyway.’ They finished the meal in silence. Libby thought of the day before, of how far away and simple it had been and she remembered something,
‘Oh no! I meant to give Bragadin a greeting from Gillian! May I phone her and tell her . . .?’
‘Of course. Take the phone in the sitting room.’
She got through with just a short delay. ‘Hi Gilly.’ Her voice cracked when she heard her friend’s cheerful voice and she couldn’t continue, her chin was trembling so much.
‘Libby! What’s wrong, darling?’
‘Oh, Gilly. I’ve got some awful news. Your uncle Bragadin was attacked last night . . . he’s dead!’ she finished baldly.
‘What! Not him too!’ said Gillian, shocked. ‘I heard from Uncle Ari’s friend Rose that he had been assaulted and was in hospital!’
‘Yes. We heard about that. Michel phoned Paris and Rose told him what happened. Is he ok?’
‘Sounds like it wasn’t too serious, thank heavens. What happened to Uncle Ettore?’
‘Someone broke into his place and beat him up. He died just after eight this morning. I’m so sorry, darling!’
‘The poor dear man . . . that . . . that just breaks my heart. Why should anyone do that?’ she stopped and Libby could hear her blowing her nose. ‘When is the funeral scheduled for?’ Gillian’s voice was unsteady.
‘Tuesday at ten, hopefully. That’s what Michel wants to arrange anyway.’
‘I wish I could get there for the funeral but it will be impossible. We are hosting a dinner at the Embassy in a couple of hours and we are off to New York on the Concorde tomorrow on official business.’
‘Concorde, hey! You’re really hitting the high life . . .’ said Libby in a watery attempt at speaking lightly.
There was a short silence on the line. Then, ‘Where are you now? Are you alright?’ Libby could hear that Gillian was crying and she fought down her own tears.
‘I am at Michel Gaillard’s place. . .’
‘Michel Gaillard? You mean Michel-who-was-at-my-party-Michel? How did that happen? I thought that you never wanted to see him again!’
‘It’s a long story. I’m putting it all in a letter . . . I’ll try and get it posted by tomorrow. That parcel of Ari’s has caused a lot of trouble, Gillian. Your uncle Bragadin gave it to Michel to look after and it seems as though someone is willing to kill for it. I’m staying here to be safe . . .’
‘I don’t understand what’s going on . . . will you keep in touch? Tell me all about Michel Gaillard too! I hate to leave you like this, love, but I have to go. I’ll be thinking of you. Take care darling.’ The line went dead. Michel came into the room.
‘I want to have a look at that parcel. I thought that since you are the messenger, you may as well be there when I open it.’
She felt a rush of apprehension. ‘It’s scary to think a man has died because of it.’
‘At least one. Let’s go through to my office.’ He took her hand and they moved to the cosy atmosphere of his book-lined study. It was a very orderly room with lots of leather and brass. All of the walls were lined with bookcases filled with leather-covered volumes. She couldn’t help contrasting it with the muddle of Bragadin’s room, and her heart ached with the memory of yesterday. Michel opened the large safe and drew out a box that contained all of Ari’s files and notes as well as the familiar parcel and the letter that had arrived with it. It was less than twenty-four hours since she had given it to him and she was grieved that so much shock and anguish had filled those intervening hours. He sat down and put on gold-rimmed reading glasses before opening the letter addressed to him in Ari’s handwriting.
Dear Michel,
This parcel needs no explanation. It is what we need to finally convict our ancient enemy. It is the slingshot that will topple the giant.
Look after it.
A.M.
With a sense of foreboding he took his penknife, carefully slit the brown paper wrapping and slowly opened the parcel. It contained other letters which had pencilled numbers on them so that a reader would know in which sequence he should read them. A note scribbled in Ari’s handwriting said that the writer of the enclosed letter had been murdered. Michel raised his eyebrows as he read on. It was a letter of several handwritten pages and it was signed ‘Philippe’. Included in the envelope was a souvenir key ring of Mount Parnassus inscribed in English and Greek. Michel went through the letter carefully and passed it over to Libby with a grim smile.
‘So this is how the evidence was stolen from Dubois. The man sounds like he was a nasty piece of work! He and Dubois make quite a pair.’
Libby scanned through the letter but found the scrawled French handwriting a bit difficult to read although she was able to make out the gist of it. There were also a few folded sheets of exercise book paper with closely written lines. A cursory glance at this showed that it was a diary with very recent notes, mostly events of the last two weeks. The large bulky envelope was an ancient manila one, worn almost to the texture of suede leather. It was sealed with a much-used split pin. Carefully he prised it open. Inside was an old Victorian photograph album. Michel started with an exclamation of surprise.
‘I
remember this! It belongs to my family. My grandmother kept it in her dressing table. Sometimes, when I was a little boy, I would sneak into her room and look at the old pictures and wonder who the people were.’ Casually slipped in amongst the boards was a bulky envelope which he opened and up-ended. Out came a flood of faded black and white photos. They stared at the contents for a moment, as they had not expected anything so mundane. Michel picked one up. He took a magnifying glass from his desk drawer and examined it minutely. Suddenly he whistled.
‘I can hardly credit it!’ he said excitedly. ‘This is undoubtedly a picture of Dubois as a young man, but look at what he is doing!’ He passed the photo over to Libby. The photo was of a grinning figure standing over a body, gun in hand.
‘I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen this.’ She had a mental picture of the handsome, charismatic old gentleman who had bought her coffee a couple of days before and she shuddered.
Almost all of the photographs had a clear description of who the victim was and a date written in indelible pencil, as though he was recording something he was proud of. One of these would have been enough to convict the man, and here on the polished wooden desk was a pile of evidence that was overwhelming. Many of his victims bore an armband with a Jewish star on it. Feeling nauseated at such casually recorded brutality, they turned to the box of Ari’s possessions. There were his diaries and other notebooks with small markers in them, where Michel had previously made observations for use in the court case. There were also birth certificates, passports and other personal documents. In the midst of all of these things, Libby noticed a smudge of red. She reached out for it and realised it was a soft skein of rather grubby embroidery thread that protruded from a worn leather wallet. Intrigued, she opened this and there she found a photograph of a handsome dark-haired young couple with two small boys sitting between them. On the back, written in indelible pencil, was the legend: Henri, Hannah, Ari and Matthieu Mayer.
‘Look at this old photograph. What a lovely family. How terrible that Dubois should have destroyed them,’ she said, remembering the story that Michel had told her in the hospital.
‘We are not going to let it have all happened for nothing,’ said Michel firmly. ‘There is no question that we’re going to be able convict Dubois with this stuff. I will contact the legal team for the prosecution in Paris once the funeral is over.’ Absentmindedly, he ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. As she watched him, Libby felt a strong desire to kiss him again. Those specs just make him handsomer somehow . . . focus, girl!
There was another smaller paper wallet of the type issued by photographic printers with photos in it. Surprisingly, they were photographs of art objects and paintings and furniture. Included with them was a list that seemed to correspond to the photos, but they couldn’t immediately see the significance of these.
Libby picked up the thick diary. It appeared to be a chronicle of Ari’s search for Dubois. She sat down and began flipping through it. ‘He’s a very thorough diarist too,’ she said appreciatively as she paged through, ‘he even puts in what he had for dinner! Do you think he’d mind if I read this?’
Michel shook his head and she moved to a large armchair next to the fire while he sat at his desk, carefully examining the photographs in the album with a magnifying glass.
Sometime during the afternoon, Michel got a call from his friend the Questore, Pietro Venier. ‘Michel? Pietro. I am so sorry about Ettore. He was a good man. His death affects us all.’ There was a silence for a moment. Michel cleared his throat as emotion rose up in him.
‘Yes,’ he said softly when he found his voice. ‘He was much loved.’
‘I thought I would let you know that we have been in touch with the Sureté. They confirmed your belief that Dubois is in Venice. They have had a tip-off from a reliable source in Paris that he is probably hiding in a palazzo in San Polo. Apparently he has been renting this for the last few years. We’ve put a twenty-four hour watch on the place. Another interesting thing is that in the last few days our men became aware of the movement of large crates from that area. They are being loaded onto a small cargo boat in the docks. There was no real reason to suspect that anything was irregular, but we like to keep our eyes open. By making discreet enquiries, we discovered that the planned destination is Venezuela. A few free drinks for thirsty workers can go a long way when you need information!’ he chuckled. ‘We also found out that the boat is waiting for an important person to arrive and then they would be sailing shortly after that. Nobody could say who the person is. It is quite possible that our bird will try to fly. By the way, have you arranged the funeral?’
‘Not officially. I’ve spoken to the funeral home and tentatively it will take place at Redentore on Tuesday morning at 10 o’clock. I have to go there tomorrow to choose a casket and finalise other details. The notice will be in the newspapers tomorrow.
‘What I want to suggest is that there be a strong police presence at the funeral. I’m concerned about the raid on the young woman’s hotel room. If it was the same person or people who attacked Bragadin, we must be very careful.’ He stopped. ‘The funeral could bring them out into the open. You have the evidence secure, I trust?’
Michel assured him that he had.
‘By the way, we have tried the number for Lefevre that Miss Wentworth gave us, but it seems he checked out of the hotel yesterday and we haven’t been able to locate him. My men are on it and they’ll bring him in for questioning when they track him down.’
‘Yes, that will be a good idea, although it still puzzles me that he should be involved in all of this. I mean, he’s a French journalist for goodness sake! What possible connection could he have? Investigating the case, yes, but beating up an old man, a stranger to him . . .?’
‘I’m sure it will all be cleared up once we find him. My money is on the young Englishman.’ A quiet laugh came down the line. ‘By the way, what are you doing the rest of the day tomorrow? I strongly recommend you stay out of sight.’
‘I thought I could show Libby some of Venice . . . ’
‘We’ll give you a police escort. I am concerned that the Englishman knows what she looks like, and of course if Lefevre is a suspect, he may be looking for her, too.’
‘Right. I agree that would be sensible. What if we go over to Murano where we are less likely to be seen? Send your escort anyway, but no official launch or anything, please. That will only make us more conspicuous. I’ll order a taxi for the day. I have to get to the funeral place by nine o’clock if we want it all to be arranged for Tuesday and then we will have the rest of the day to look around.’
‘Good. We’ll be in touch, amico.’
He turned back to the album which lay open on his desk. He closed it and he ran his fingers over it absent-mindedly, remembering how he used to creep into Grandmère’s room and look at it in secret. When he was a small child, he had always thought it looked like a pirate’s treasure chest with its ornate clasp and decorated covers. These were made of very thick tooled red leather with embossed flowers and birds around a knight’s helmet device on the front. He remembered how the last time he had seen it, his Grandmère had found him with it and she had grabbed it from him, scolding him, her voice angrier that he had ever heard it before. She had sent him to his room and he had never seen the album again.
Funny, he thought, how here, so many years later, he had it in his hands once more. His stroking fingers stopped and he went back to the helmet device in the middle of the design. It seemed to be a bit worn, with a small tear in the leather. He didn’t remember that. He rubbed it and then tried to push the loose shred back into place. Suddenly, silently, the front of the cover opened on its hinges to reveal a shallow, red velvet-lined cavity.
