Every Hidden Thing

by Elaine Young

Chapter 24

  Dubois

  Monday 11th November

  Dubois stood at the un-curtained window in the salon, staring blindly at the pelting rain that obscured the neglected wall on the opposite side of the narrow canal. He was almost beside himself with fury. He had paced up and down, snarling at his companions since waking. Antoinette had made lunch, but he was too angry and had not eaten any of it. Things were not working out as they should have. He knew that the bumbling by Jean and Pierre had caused this delay and he would make them pay, but now he would have to let them finish the job before he could take action against them.

  He chafed at his confinement. He wasn’t used to this squalor. All the defects of this place were accentuated by the lack of its luxurious furnishings that had already been moved to the boat in packing cases; the oriental carpets, the paintings, the antique furniture that had been stolen from Jews during the war. He hadn’t cared too much about the shabby apartment in the past, since mostly he had kept everything under dust-covers. He only stayed there when he wanted to sort through his treasures and to have the place cleaned. On these occasions he’d be there incognito, as he usually stayed in the best hotels when he came to Venice officially. He had expected that as soon as the contents of the palazzo were on board the ship, he would be able to leave this place. He would have liked to have moved to the comfort of the Danieli, but that was something even he did not dare. He realised that the Sureté would be watching for him to surface after his unorthodox departure from that hospital in France. He would tolerate this place as a matter of expediency, but he knew he deserved better.

  This was the fourth day since his arrival in Venice and he was frustrated at the inability of those fools to locate the crucial package, without which he would not leave. He thought it was time he took things into his own hands. He had a special need to avenge the theft of his photograph album. Not only were the photographs dangerous evidence against him, the album contained his greatest prize. He had intended to go into retirement crowned with laurel leaves, but he would have to be content with what he had planned as an alternative.

  He turned back to the room. Antoinette lounged on the sofa, gaping intently at the small television screen. It was best to see her in a more subtle glow, he thought with sudden dislike. The unshaded light bulb in the room exposed shortcomings in her complexion and sagging figure that he had not been aware of before. She couldn’t understand Italian, but it was as though she was hypnotised by the soccer game on the screen. She was unaware of being observed and he saw her rather slack-mouthed face in repose and was somewhat revolted. His wife, Catherine, at least had some refinement, although she knew too much about him and had always to be rigidly manipulated. He felt he should have engineered her death before the trial, but things had moved too quickly and he had to leave his threat against her father as the only guard against her going to the police, at least until he had disappeared. Antoinette, on the other hand, had no political convictions or much intelligence but she was a willing, not to say voracious, lover and she had bolstered up his flagging ardour.

  If he could have read her thoughts, he would have been startled to find that Antoinette was fed up and was wishing she hadn’t come. It had seemed like a good idea, an adventure even, when she had driven the car while the others had entered the hospital and had killed the guard in order to help Dubois to escape. But since their arrival in Venice they had been staying in this dreadfully dilapidated palazzo. It was not what she had grown used to, nor was it anything close to what she had expected from going into exile with him. Opposite her on the other sofa were the two body guards André and Bruno. They, too, were engrossed in the football match on the television.

  It was well past noon when suddenly there was a loud ringing of the doorbell in the calle outside. Bruno went to open the great front door and from the salon they could hear voices in the hall. Dubois straightened his shoulders, as though he was gathering his authority around him. He would not rant. He did not need to.

  Pierre and Jean came shuffling in with Dougie being pushed ahead. Despite his fear and painful body, Dougie was amazed at how suddenly the two bullies with him had deflated as they entered the room. The first thing he saw as he came around the door was an elderly white-haired man who stood proudly in front of the fireplace. Dougie had no idea who he could be until Pierre called him Mon Patron, and he felt his skin crawl.

  Dubois demanded to know who he was and when he heard that he was the link to Ari Mayer, he became unctuous in his attention and led Dougie to a seat by the fire. Dougie was totally taken aback and a warning jangled in his brain. After the treatment he had received up till now, this seeming kindness made him very wary.

  ‘I believe you are the man who has brought my parcel.’

  Dougie did not know what to say. All he could do was look blankly at le Patron. The friendly, encouraging voice did nothing to put Dougie at ease. He felt bad enough that he had left Ari lying bloodied on the carpet in his apartment, not even trying to see if he was alive; he certainly had not taken the parcel from him. Now he, Dougie, was badly frightened and in pain from his broken ribs and swollen face and he wondered if there would ever be an end to this nightmare.

  ‘We won’t ask why you did not give it to my messenger at the Gare de Lyon, but it is all right now that you have brought it to Venice yourself.’

  Dougie said nothing. Pierre cleared his throat in the silence and Dubois looked at him, a slight frown on his face.

  ‘Actually, mon Patron, we do not have the parcel. It is in the possession of someone, a woman, who was on the train with him.’ He looked studiously at a nail-hole in the wall above Dubois’ head.

  ‘And she is bringing it to me. Is that what is going to happen, Jean? Pierre? I will not ask who misdirected me with false information . . .’ the smooth voice became softer as it trailed off, although his face and demeanour did not change. Dougie had to try and stop his body from shaking as menace seemed to fill the room. There was an uncomfortable silence as the two ruffians tried to think of an answer. They both began speaking at the same time and then stopped.

  ‘We have tried to locate her, Mon Patron, but she has eluded us. We actually spent the whole of yesterday searching for her because she has checked out of her hotel . . .’ said Jean, looking anywhere but at Dubois’ face.

  ‘That means she is not bringing it? I am not going to ask you what has happened, but you are going to find her and get my parcel, are you not, Jean? This is your last chance. Your stupidity has cost me dearly in time and comfort and I want that parcel.’ He turned away. He did not have to say any more. The threat in the quiet voice was unmistakeable. The two men were in no doubt as to what would happen, if they were unsuccessful. As they left the room, Dubois issued a command to the other two men who were there. They nodded and followed the others out.

  As they left the palazzo, Jean and Pierre assumed the bullying mantle and immediately began to harass their captive while the other two stood at a distance. Dougie had almost lost hope of surviving this chapter of his life and he had lost all sense of normality. The four men walked along with umbrellas against the rain, but he had to stumble along getting soaked, although he hardly noticed that his shoes were squelching with water.

  They had captured him soon after he had escaped from the train and he had avoided instant death by telling them that he had given the parcel to Libby Wentworth. They had not believed him, but he had convinced them not to kill him when he remembered seeing her address on the label on her suitcase. They had bundled him into a car and had driven through the night to Venice. By lunch-time they had found the Hotel Pruili but Libby was out. When they went back later that night she had checked out and disappeared. Dougie was terrified. He knew he had been captured by the devil that Marthe had spoken of and he knew that they were going to kill him soon and there was nothing that he could do to stop them.. They had retreated to a poky apartment that was obviously set aside for them when they were in Venice. He had been obliged to
sleep on the floor, but he was too afraid to care about the pain in his body. They had spent Sunday looking all over for Miss Wentworth, hoping that she would be sight-seeing but they had drawn a blank. Today was Monday and still there was no sign of her.

  Now Dougie lurched miserably along with his captors. Fortunately they stopped for lunch at a small café and he was grateful for the warmth of the busy place. He watched them eat, as they didn’t order any for him, but he knew he couldn’t have eaten anything even if they had. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for a handkerchief and his frozen fingers found his wallet. He drew this out and looked idly though the contents. There, amongst other papers he found a business card. Wondering, he looked at it. He remembered that he had filched it from the Prof’s desk once when he was searching through Mayer’s office. He turned it over. Ettore Bragadin. Avvocato, it read in flourishing script. The address on the Guidecca was in plain type in the right hand corner. He felt light-headed, as though he had been thrown a lifeline.

  ‘I think I know where the parcel could be,’ he said. He held out the card and Pierre grabbed it.

  ‘What has this to do with anything, Anglais?’

  ‘Mayer has a relative here in Venice. He told me once that he sent all his important papers here for safe-keeping. This might be the place to look for it . . . Miss Wentworth might have delivered it there.’

  The four men moved away from him but kept an eye on him as they discussed it in low voices, and then nodding in agreement they said,

  ‘We will have to find out more about this lawyer, Bragadin. First we will go to this apartment and see if he has it . . .’

  They pored over the map, to find the direction mentioned on the card. Leaving the remains of their food on their plates, they hurried to the vaporetto stop at San Silvestro. From there, the ride to the Guidecca was quite long and they had to change at San Zaccaria.

  While they waited for the vaporetto that would take them over to the other island, Dougie turned his back on the canal. He could see the Doge’s palace on the right, with its delicate Moorish archways and the profile of the fabulous façade of St Mark’s basilica next to it. He wondered at the tall twin pillars, with statues on top of them that seemed to stand guard over the entrance to the piazza. Tourists were feeding pigeons, careless of the rain. The tide was out, but the square was still full of puddles. He wished with all his heart that he could be like those people, carefree, feeding the birds, seeing the sights. He found himself fervently praying that he would get out of this whole mess alive.

  They took the vaporetto across to the Guidecca, but got off at the Redentore stop and walked back along the fondamente towards Zitelle. It wasn’t easy to find their way as the map was quite small, but eventually they found the place and were stopped in their tracks. The area was crawling with police and the narrow lane had been cordoned off with tape. They drew back and conferred together.

  ‘I wonder what has happened?’ asked Dougie, wanting to gag as bitter water rose up in his throat. Bruno was volunteered to be the one to find out because he could speak Italian.

  Soon he was back. ‘Someone was murdered there in the house we were going to. What was that man called? Ettore Bragadin. That was the one.’

  They looked at one another in silence. What now? If Bragadin was dead, how would they get the parcel?

  ‘I wonder if this will have been reported in the papers?’ said Dougie. He felt a slap on the side of his head and he opened his eyes to see Pierre’s uneven, discoloured teeth smiling mirthlessly down at him. The man squeezed Dougie’s face in his hands and moved his head from side to side.

  ‘You are not as stupid as you look, Anglais.’ He turned to the others. ‘Do you see? This is how we will find out what happens next. There will be a funeral and that will bring his friends out into the open. We know his name and so it will be easy to trace. We can keep an eye out for a funeral notice in the paper and invite ourselves and get the girl.’ He was grinning as he thought of it.

  ‘What if she’s not there?’

  ‘We’ll just have to make another plan then, won’t we . . . ?’

  A tall dark-haired man and a red-headed woman were coming past the barricade, and they stopped to speak to the policemen on duty. Then they turned around and came towards Dougie and his captors. Some instinct for self-preservation made the rag-tag little gang duck down an alley before the couple spotted them. Dougie jumped and almost cried out aloud but Pierre, who noticed his agitation, grabbed him and covered his mouth.

  ‘What is it Anglais? Don’t think they can save you.’

  ‘That couple . . . they . . . she’s Miss Wentworth!’

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  When they had passed them by, Pierre insisted that Bruno follow them to see where they went. The others then decided to go back to their den and sleep. They would get the newspaper later and see if there was any mention of a funeral.

  Bruno moved quietly behind his quarry. They had been joined by a man who had been standing at the barrier. He spotted them getting into a water taxi that appeared to have been waiting for them. They would get away without him knowing where they had gone. Merde! At that moment another taxi pulled up disgorging a small party, and he leapt in and told the man to hurry and follow the other boat across the Guidecca canal.