One Way to Venice

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “And then—”

  “I came back here.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t remember.” Impatiently. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.”

  “They were going into dinner already. It must have been after six thirty. The girl on the desk will remember. I asked her to put in a call to England for me.”

  “She does remember, signora. It is you we are asking.”

  “Well, that’s the best I can do for you. Somewhere after six thirty. But what is all this? Why waste time on what I’ve been doing, when there is so much I have to tell you.”

  “Such as—”

  “What I didn’t manage to tell my—Signor Rivers. That I have been getting anonymous letters. That they brought me here. That I am afraid they are connected with the kidnapping.”

  “You have them with you?”

  “In my room.”

  “Perhaps we could see them?”

  “Of course.” Rising to fetch them, she was irritated to find the younger policeman holding the door for her, and then, without a word, coming too. “This is necessary?” She turned on him in the lobby, aware of the girl at the desk, watching avidly.

  “Unless you have any strong objection.”

  “We’ve wasted enough time as it is.” She picked up her key from the desk and led the way upstairs and across the bridge to her room. She went straight to the gimcrack writing table under the window and pulled open the top drawer. “That’s funny.” She could have sworn she had tucked the packet of letters, in its anonymous linen bag, under her handkerchiefs. But maybe it was under her stockings. She pulled out a side drawer…another…another. Nothing.

  Ridiculous. And ridiculous too to let herself imagine that this was what the young policeman had expected. He stood there, silent, while she went quickly through the drawers of the combined cupboard and wardrobe and then, in a last absurd hope, through her suitcase itself, where it stood behind the door. Then she stood up and faced him. “They’ve been taken.”

  “Taken?”

  “I had them in that top drawer. I knew it, really. Only, I couldn’t believe—”

  “You had better come back and tell the boss.” Was it her imagination, or did he walk a little closer to her this time?

  “They were gone?” The other man did not sound surprised. “There were valuables with them, perhaps?”

  “No, I don’t travel with valuables.”

  “Very wise. So—why would anyone take them?”

  “Anyone could have.” She did not like her own defensive tone. “All the keys in that wing are interchangeable.”

  “Yes, perhaps. If there were any letters?” It was a question.

  “Of course there were.” She had never shown the letters to Tarn. To prove their existence would mean invoking Sir Charles in England. All the time, precious minutes were ebbing away. “You’ll have to take my word for them,” she said impatiently. “There are copies in England. In the meantime, what are you doing to find my child?”

  “Searching for him,” said the older policeman.

  “Well, thank God for that.”

  “But it’s not easy in a place like Venice. Very much better to start at the other end, with the kidnappers. You quarrelled with Signor Rivers twice yesterday.” Again, it was not a question.

  “I suppose you could say so. He would not let me see Dominic. I was going to tell him about the letters, to warn him something was going on. But we were interrupted.” Suddenly she remembered that feeling she had had as she waited outside Breckon’s house, of being watched, spied upon. The Miss Browns, of course, as Tarn had suggested. “By two women.” The thoughts had raced through her mind. “I think you should investigate them. Their name is Brown. They said they had a message for my husband from his family.”

  “Ex-husband,” said the policeman.

  “Of course.” Impatience rose in her throat like bile. “If you would only listen. The Miss Browns are leaving today, or so they said. If you waste no time…My ex-husband would probably know where they are staying.”

  “But Signor Rivers has disappeared,” said the older policeman.

  “What?”

  “You are the last person to have seen him.” “And quarrelled with him,” added the other. “Dear God! But how?”

  “If we knew that, we would be getting somewhere. All that the girl, Lucia Capella, knew was that he was coming here, to see you, and that he was furiously angry. That is correct?”

  “Yes. He thought I had been behind the child’s disappearance. I think he was just beginning to believe me when I was called to the phone.”

  “To believe you?”

  “That I had nothing to do with it, of course. I’d just begun to tell him about the letters—”

  “The letters that have vanished.”

  “Yes. Don’t you see? It all hangs together. He had a note while I was telephoning. It must have given him a clue—an assignation, even.” She was shivering convulsively as the full terror of it hit her. First Dominic, now Breckon.

  “A note?” said the older policeman.

  “Yes. I told you. He had it in his hand as he crossed the lobby. While I was on the telephone. Lots of people must have seen him. The place was crowded.”

  “No one remembers.”

  “The girl at the desk should. The messenger must have asked her—” She paused. “That’s funny.”

  “Precisely. Your ex-husband was not a guest here. How would anyone have found him?”

  “They must have followed him. Waited, perhaps, until I was called away.”

  “Unless you gave him the note, signora.”

  “I?” As the full horror of it hit her she sank into the chair the younger policeman pushed forward. If they wasted their time on her, what hope for Breckon and Dominic? “You must believe me! I had nothing to do with it.” Quickly, desperately, she told them about Sir Charles and her attempt to telephone him the night before. Did they believe her? At least, at last, they left, promising they would telephone Sir Charles for confirmation of her story.

  “And you will not leave Venice.” It was an order.

  “Of course not. It’s my child!”

  “And your ex-husband.”

  Chapter Nine

  LEFT ALONE in the dreary little room, Julia bit her nails, a habit of which she had been ruthlessly cured ten years before. Breckon and Dominic. Dominic and Breckon. All my pretty ones. Unlucky to quote Macbeth. “Yes?” She turned as the girl from the desk looked in and, automatically, switched off the light.

  “There was a telephone call for you, signora, while the police were here. I told the signor you were busy.”

  “Thank you.” Tarn, of course.

  “He gave me a message.” She had written it down carefully in her flowing Italian hand. “Sorry to miss you. Author trouble. Campo Morosini. Six o’clock. Don’t forget.”

  The opera. Turandot. She had forgotten. And presumably Tarn was out for the day with his Mr. Heyward. So no help from him. She would have to meet him at six, to tell him what happened. Would she be followed by a policeman? She wondered, wryly. And, on the thought, decided that her next move must be a cable to Sir Charles. And not from the hotel desk, either. She had seen the general post office somewhere between Campo Morosini and St. Mark’s and now found it easily enough. Drafting the cable was more difficult, but this was no time to economise. She sent Sir Charles the kind of report she would have made, as his assistant, then emerged into brilliant sunshine and an empty day.

  Absurd. She would begin by visiting Lucia Capella. But Breckon’s house seemed, if possible, more closed and silent than yesterday. She rang twice, and was turning despondently away when the younger policeman appeared, apparently from nowhere. “No use, signora.” His tone was almost friendly. “The maid has left and Signorina Capella has gone home to her family.”

  “Oh. Where?”

  “In Venice Mestre. I regret, I do not know the address.”

  True or false,
it was at least courteous, and she thanked him from her heart. “You really are searching?”

  “Naturally. But it is not easy, here in Venice.”

  “And you’re wasting your time on me.”

  He shrugged, neither confirming nor denying it. “Well.” She looked at her watch impatiently. It was three o’clock, and she actually was hungry. “I am now about to eat something. Then I shall go back to the Da Rimini in the hope of a message. I shall stay there until a quarter to six, when I shall go to a café in the Campo Morosini, where I am to meet a friend. He is supposed to be taking me to the opera tonight, but I shall not go.”

  “A friend? One may ask who?”

  “I suppose you can ask anything. I met him on the train.” Angrily, she felt herself colouring. “I told him about Dominic. He has been helping me. His name is Tarn Menzies.”

  “He has seen the letters, perhaps?” The hopeful tone made her suddenly and happily suspect that the young policeman was almost on her side, or would like to be.

  “No,” she said regretfully. And then, suddenly remembering, “But I showed him my little boy’s picture. He spotted the house, too.”

  “A picture?”

  Incredible to have forgotten that the picture, at least, was safe in her bag. She reached in and produced it. “They sent me this,” she said. “In one of the letters.”

  “Yes.” He studied it. “It’s the child. We have, of course, other pictures. But”—regretfully—”you cannot prove that you did not take it yourself. One did not need to be in the garden.”

  “Signor Menzies will tell you.”

  “What you told him.”

  “Yes.” It was not evidence, and she knew it. “But you’ll talk to him?”

  “Naturally. The name of his hotel?”

  “He’s out for the day.” If only Tarn had told her where he was taking his author.

  “You trust him?” The young policeman had anticipated her thinking by a hairsbreadth.

  Tarn on the train. The Miss Browns on the train. That scene with the girl. Could it have been faked? She remembered her last glimpse of Pamela spread-eagled on the platform, and shivered. If it had been faked, these were people who took appalling chances. The young policeman was watching her, apparently trying to follow her thoughts. “I…don’t know,” she said slowly. “I thought I did. Could you have someone check up on him?”

  “Well.” Suddenly, surprisingly, he looked guilty. “There is a difficulty. You see, I was not supposed to speak to you.”

  “Oh.” Here was a difficulty indeed. He had spoken to her because he was sorry for her. She must be grateful, and she must not get him into trouble. “I do see.” She looked at her watch again. “Then it will have to wait until you see me meet him this evening, won’t it?”

  “Yes.” In his turn he was grateful. “It’s not long. And you do not seriously suspect this Signor Menzies of being involved? It seems to me,” he went on gallantly, “that it is more likely to be an involvement of the heart.”

  “Why, thank you.” Once again she felt the little, unwonted surge of confidence Tarn had given her, the young soldiers in the train, and now this very young policeman. “I’m glad you’re following me,” she said, turned, and left him.

  Over a belated sandwich and coffee she searched her heart about her relationship with Tarn and came to no conclusion. Had she taken him, absurdly, on trust, or was she now being just as absurdly suspicious? It is very difficult to be certain on such a point when one’s own self-confidence is at so low an ebb as hers had been when she first met Tarn. And, how odd, she thought, despite everything. I am better. He’s done that for me. So—surely, he must be genuine?

  True, false. False, true. And all the time the nagging anxiety for Breckon and Dominic occupied her imagination, clouded her thought. It was four o’clock. She finished her coffee, paid her bill, and hurried back to the Da Rimini, without a backward glance for the young policeman who must be following. And how awkward, she thought, such a pursuit must be in Venice’s narrow alleys, with their sudden side-turnings and secret doorways. It was really rather reassuring to think of that friendly young man following, and she slowed her steps slightly, for fear, she was afraid, of losing him.

  For once, the girl at the hotel desk had two messages for her; one, at least, an international cable. But its contents were bitterly disappointing. SIR CHARLES AWAY, it ran unhelpfully, WILL GIVE HIM YOUR MESSAGE WHEN HE RETURNS. Signed by his secretary, of course. I made a mistake about that secretary, she told herself, unfolding the second message. It was from Tarn: “Sorry to miss you. Change of plan. More author trouble!!! Meet me at seven, where we ate last time?” She had not seen his handwriting before, but it was like him, bold, black, and abrupt. Like him, and unlike those fussy little line drawings of his. He had never shown her a finished one, but the beginnings were curiously amateurish. Like his efforts to recapture that lost Australian accent? Or—invent it? What had her mind been doing? Suddenly, the facts she had detailed in her cable to Sir Charles shook themselves and fell into shape, the shape in which he would see them. Assume that Tarn was the enemy, the ruthless enemy. What then? She was in her room now, sitting on the bed, staring at the wall, clearing her mind of everything, even of her grinding anxiety for Dominic and Breckon.

  First, she made herself look again at that scene back at Victoria. Imagine that it had been rigged, that the girl, Pamela, had been bribed to play her part. But—to risk her life and end up in the hospital? She shut her eyes to resee the episode. Why had she not thought to do this before? Well, now? Tarn had tried to hold the girl back. Had held her back? Had held her back until the last possible moment, then pushed? It would account for everything. Reseeing the girl on the platform, now, she saw surprise as well as shock on the blanched face. So, Tarn a double-crosser. It made horrible sense.

  Then, go on. If he had known the train was fully booked, and had arranged her own lack of reservation, how easy to have bribed the couchette and wagon-lits attendants and thus ensure their “accidental” meeting. And, she, Sir Charles’ girl, had fallen for the lot of it. She had let him lead her by the nose, with his fake Australian and phoney flattery. She was hot and cold at once, with a mixture of shame, anger, and pure terror, as she thought of it. The trouble was, fatally, she had needed the flattery. Had he known that too? He had known altogether too much about her, this anonymous enemy of hers. Tarn Menzies! And she had bought that too, with its hint of a connection with the ex-Prime Minister of Australia.

  The Miss Browns had to be in it. It must have been them she had felt watching her as she rang Breckon’s doorbell. They had appeared so pat on their cue to prevent any possible understanding or eclaircissement between her and Breckon. And Tarn, in his turn, had arrived at the Da Rimini to sweep her off to Torcello before she could make another attempt at warning Breckon about the letters.

  If only she had followed through from her doubts about Tarn’s fake Australian last night. And why had she not? Because of the attack, of course, and his gallant defense of her. Gallant? Organised, no doubt, when he went to make that telephone call to “author Heyward.” He had been furious after the attack. Not, as she had thought, because of it, but because his hired muggers had hit him too hard and made his nose bleed. She shivered a little, counting up the numbers of the enemy. Four of them last night, because, of course, the “chance” water taxi had to be part of the plan. And the Miss Browns. And Peter and Sue, who had provided that timely lift back from Torcello? And, almost certainly, the staff here at the hotel, or some of them. No wonder her call to Sir Charles had not got through. Idiotic not to have thought of that sooner. If I get out of this, she thought, I will retire and grow cabbages.

  But would she get out? And, far more important, would Breckon and Dominic? Whatever Tarn’s plans for them, he meant her to look responsible. The police were half convinced of it already. Would they believe her if she went to them and accused Tarn? It seemed highly unlikely. And Sir Charles was away. No use trying to tel
ephone him, even if she dared do so from that exposed, hostile hotel desk. She sat down at her rickety dressing table and made a brief abstract in Italian of her suspicions. Her friendly policeman would be waiting to follow her out to dinner with Tarn. She would manage to give it to him first, then if anything happened to her this evening…

  But why should it? She was to be the scapegoat. And it was time to dress. In a spirit of defiance she put on the one brightly coloured garment she had brought, a long patchwork skirt that made her at least look as if she meant to go to the opera. Because—she was buttoning the black shirt that went with the skirt—at all costs she must not let Tarn see that she suspected him. If she could only reverse their roles, he might, somehow, give her a clue to where Dominic and Breckon were.

  Time to go. Locking her room door behind her, she remembered the stolen letters and grimaced at the waste of time. It was darker than usual in the corridor, and when she emerged on to the bridge that joined the annex to the hotel itself, she saw why. The light that hung from its vine-covered trellis was out. She must tell the girl at the desk. It was not absolutely dark yet, but she would not like to come this way when it was. As she closed the annex door behind her, the warning shrieked in her mind. Had she let Tarn outthink her once again? She would take no chances, but buzz the desk from her room. Her hand was back on the door, feeling for the handle to reopen it, when something came down, smothering, over her head, and, cursing herself, she fell into blackness.

  She was lying, face down, awkwardly cramped. Above her an engine hummed. A boat, moving fast. Not a vaporetto. Something small. A water taxi? She was so numb from the drug she must have been given, and from her cramped position in the bottom of the boat, that it took her a few minutes to realise her hands were tied behind her back. She wriggled a little, trying to turn over, and a voice spoke above her. “Blast!”

  Tarn. It was all true, every black, incredible suspicion. She made herself lie still and pretended unconsciousness while she faced it, cleared her mind, and thought back to unshuffle the whole pack of disaster. She had been right, but right too late. Tarn was indeed the enemy. Ahead of her as always, he had snatched her from the bridge over that dark cul-de-sac at the Da Rimini. Worst of all, the friendly young policeman would doubtless still be waiting, cold and impatient and full of suspicion, at the front of the hotel. How long would he wait? What would he do? Even if he went on believing in her, which seemed unlikely, he would be hamstrung by the fact that he could not admit he had spoken to her. No hope there. In fact, danger. What had happened to her bag with the document she had drafted so carefully for the police? Thank God, she remembered dropping it in the shock of the attack. No reason, surely, why Tarn should have bothered to pick it up.