The Pigeon Project

by Irving Wallace

  At this point, Major Kedrov raised his own voice, addressing the group. “On the other hand, you must know, to withhold information useful to the police would make any one of you an accomplice in the crime. Truth cannot harm you. Subterfuge can send you to jail.”

  “Yes, thank you, Major,” said Colonel Cutrone. He swung back to the group. “Now we will review together your roles in this investigation. I will try, when possible, not to cover all the same ground covered in our first interrogation. But if I repeat myself, please answer again with absolute honesty. I will begin with you, Mr. Cedric Foster. You were the first to come to us with a clue to Professor MacDonald’s whereabouts.

  What gave you the impression that the Contessa De Marchi was harboring the criminal?”

  “It was not an impression, it was a fact,” said Foster with fervor. “The contessa gave a dinner party in my honor. Miss Fantoni and Mr. Memo were also guests and will confirm what I am about to say. After the dinner, the contessa began to speak of a fascinating man she had recently met—”

  “Met where?”

  “In Venice. He was a famous scientist, she told us, who was on the verge of discovering a means of prolonging human life. I challenged her story, but she insisted it would soon be true. I remained doubtful, yet wondered about it. The following morning, I confronted the contessa alone and pressed her hard for more facts. At last, she confessed that the scientist was not only in Venice but under her very roof.”

  “Did you ascertain this?” inquired Colonel Cutrone. “Did you actually set eyes on Professor MacDonald?”

  “I wanted to. I begged the contessa to let me see MacDonald. She refused to let me see him. Angered, I left her and went to you.”

  Cutrone bobbed his head and faced Contessa De Marchi.

  “Well, Contessa, what do you say to that? Why didn’t you let your friend and guest see Professor MacDonald?”

  The contessa dismissed the question with an impatient wave of her bony hand. “I’ve already told you once, twice, ten times. I couldn’t let Mr. Foster see Professor MacDonald because there was no Professor MacDonald to see. His presence was a figment of my imagination, just like my story about him the evening before. I made up the story to entertain my guests—”

  “Made up the story?”

  “There had been some gossip throughout the week someone—one of my many friends—had heard it—I think from Mayor Accardi’s wife, I am not sure—that the fugitive being sought was not a spy but a renowned scientist, a gerontologist, who had discovered a means of doubling the human lifespan. That is all I knew about it. So I repeated the gossip at the party. When Mr. Foster doubted my veracity, I tried to strengthen my story, and perhaps titillate him further, by saying I had the fugitive in my residence. I am sorry my gossip caused so much trouble. But it was gossip, and no more. I not only have never seen this MacDonald, but do not know what he looks like, except from your posters.”

  Major Kedrov had been studying the old lady as she spoke. Was she lying? Had she been a Russian, he would have known. But these thin-blooded, blue-blooded types, new to his experience, were more difficult to read. Of course, he knew, the truth could be learned from this woman if she were interrogated privately and with a certain degree of physical pressure. But Kedrov also knew that the Venetian commandant would never consent to that. To torture the truth out of a fellow Venetian, and an aristocratic one at that—no, Cutrone would abhor and reject the idea.

  Well, Kedrov hoped, perhaps one of the others would have more to say.

  Colonel Cutrone was speaking to the actress. “Miss Fantoni, if you please, there are several questions.” Kedrov noticed that Cutrone’s voice had softened, become more deferential.

  “I am ready,” said Teresa Fantoni. “You went to the police, who sent you to the mayor,” said Cutrone. “You were certain you knew tie whereabouts of the fugitive MacDonald. How did you know this?”

  “From him,” said Teresa Fantoni, pointing to Oreste Memo.

  “From Mr. Memo. You are friends?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. I met him at the contessa’s dinner party. We both were present when the contessa spoke of the fabulous scientist she had met, of his imminent discovery. I was fascinated, of course, and wanted to believe it was true, but could not. The following day Mr. Memo called on me. We had cocktails at the Gritti. He wanted me to appear in a play he was writing. I was not interested. I sent him off. But later that evening, he reappeared at my suite. He was quite excited. He told me that he was aware of my interest in the contessa’s scientist and the scientist’s discovery to preserve youth. He told me he had met the scientist, and if I would star in his play, he would introduce me to the scientist. We discussed this further, and Mr. Memo finally confessed that the scientist was hiding in his apartment. As soon as Mr. Memo left, I did what I had to do, what was right. I went directly to the police.”

  Colonel Cutrone gave the actress an approving smile and turned his attention to Oreste Memo.

  “Well, Mr. Memo, what do you say? Is Miss Fantoni’s story correct?”

  “Only partially.”

  “What part would you say is incorrect?”

  “That I knew MacDonald. I never knew him. I don’t know him. I heard of him only from the contessa’s dinner anecdote.”

  “But did you tell Miss Fantoni you knew him?”

  “Yes. She wanted someone to give her youth, so I made believe I could introduce her to that someone.”

  Colonel Cutrone frowned. “In order to persuade her to do your play?”

  “Nothing so crass, Colonel. I simply wanted to make love to her?”

  “To what?”

  “To fuck her.” Oreste Memo grinned. “And I did.”

  Teresa Fantoni was on her feet, wild with rage. You lying son-of-a-bitch!” she shouted at Memo. “I’ll kill you, you dirty liar!” She plunged toward Memo, brandishing her handbag, preparing to swing it at him. Cedric Foster leaped to his feet, his great bulk intervening, keeping the actress from hitting Memo. She struggled briefly with Foster, cursing, as Cutrone signaled the guard, who hastened forward and led the actress back to her chair. She sat seething, glaring at Memo.

  Colonel Cutrone, with effort, regained his composure. “Let us continue with the business at hand. We must get to the bottom of this. A few more questions…”

  From his tilted chair, Major Boris Kedrov had watched the last exchange with disgust. They were all prevaricating decadents, dishonest parasites, who were making a sham of the interrogation. And Colonel Cutrone was treating them like neighbors and friends instead of the accomplices of a criminal. At this rate, Cutrone would never get to the bottom of anything. If only this were the Soviet Union, Kedrov thought, and he were in charge. A little physical force, and these brittle decadents would crack wide open.

  But this was Venice. Two Venetians, a Roman actress, an American homosexual, being handled with kid gloves instead of an iron fist. It was hopeless.

  Then Kedrov saw that there was one chair still vacant. The fifth person, an informant, the woman guide. Maybe she would have something to tell. Maybe there was still hope, and he would have news to report to Moscow tomorrow.

  * * *

  Breathlessly, conscious that she was late, Felice Huber left the Riva degli Schiavoni and turned into the Campo San Zaccaria.

  She was frightened by the summons and dreaded the interrogation. During her countless guided tours she had met many of the police, come to know some of them quite well and was on a friendly basis with all of them. But she had never met the commandante of the carabinieri, and she was afraid of how she would stand up before authority. She was vulnerable on two counts. Although she regarded Venice as her second home, she was still an outsider, a foreigner, a Swiss, and she feared that she might be treated more uncompromisingly than a native. More than that, she feared one question. She prayed it would not be asked.

  She had reached the entrance to the carabinieri headquarters, paused briefly to calm herself and then entered. At the ele
ctric gate, a stony-faced guard wanted to know her name and business. She gave him both. The gate opened, and she was admitted. The guard beckoned her to follow him, and she went up the corridor. He opened an office door and directed her inside.

  She had not expected others in the room and was momentarily disconcerted.

  A carabinieri colonel, behind a desk, interrupted his questioning of someone to take note of her.

  “Felice Huber?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “I’m Colonel Cutrone. We’ve been expecting you. Do have a seat.” He indicated the empty chair at the far end. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Woodenly, she went to the chair, lowered herself into it, recognizing the person next to her as Oreste Memo, a musician in the Quadri orchestra with whom she had several times exchanged banalities.

  Not listening to what was going on, Felice Huber glanced at the others who were present. The old lady, file Contessa De Marchi, of course, well known to everyone in Venice. The beautiful woman beside her, so familiar, yet the name escaped Felice. As for the big man, obviously American, he was unknown to her.

  She wondered why they were all here.

  She heard her own name and stiffened, immediately attentive to Colonel Cutrone behind the desk.

  “Miss Huber, you know why you have been called here?”

  “About what happened this morning,” she said. “About my reporting to the police that I had seen MacGregor, the spy—”

  “MacGregor. Ah yes,” the colonel interrupted. “For security reasons, we gave him that name. Actually, the man is Professor Davis MacDonald, a scientist, a fugitive from the law—but never mind, not important to our interrogation. When we answered your call this morning, we had no time to question you properly. When we tried to locate you later, you were off to Mestre. We’d like to ask you a few more questions now.”

  “Please.”

  “As I understand it, you were assigned to guide a group of foreign businessmen to a petrochemical plant in Mestre. They were to assemble in the lobby of the Bauer Grunwald. You had a list of those cleared to accompany you.”

  “That is right.”

  “Neither the name MacGregor nor MacDonald was on that list?”

  “No.”

  “Yet when you went around checking off each person, you recognized one as the fugitive MacDonald.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you recognize him?”

  “I had just, a minute before, by chance, seen his picture on a wanted poster.”

  “And you were positive it was MacDonald?”

  “Yes, unless he has a double.”

  “Then you rushed to the emergency phone and called us.”

  Felice Huber swallowed. “I phoned you immediately. I-I wanted to do my duty.”

  “And to qualify for the reward, of course. Fair enough. You phoned us. Then you returned to your tour group. What happened next?”

  “He was gone. The one you say is MacDonald, he had disappeared. I couldn’t see him anywhere.”

  “Could he have known you recognized him?”

  “I-I don’t think so. I don’t know how.”

  “Did any of the others in the group see him go?”

  “The police asked them. None had been aware of his leaving.”

  Colonel Cutrone was briefly silent, staring down at his desk pad, tapping a pencil on it. He lifted his head slowly.

  “One thing puzzles us, Miss Huber. If we can solve it, we may have the key to everything. We have been told your tour to Mestre was not publicized, your point of assembly at the Bauer Grunwald, the place, the time, were not known. Yet MacDonald knew of the tour, both the hour and the spot where it was to start. He was there at the appointed time, hoping to escape Venice. Someone must have told him, helped him. Indeed, you may have told someone who told him. So I’ll give you a moment to think back, Miss Huber, and then I’ll want your answer to a critical question. To this question. Who in Venice could have known you were taking a tour to Mestre and arranged to get MacDonald on the tour?”

  Who?

  It was the one question Felice Huber had dreaded hearing. But now the time bomb was fused, and she had been given a moment to think back.

  She had what the colonel wanted, of course. The answer. Timothy Jordan. If she told the truth, spoke his name, his goose was cooked. She had betrayed him before, but that had been different This morning, she had not actually harmed Jordan. She had merely informed on someone he had been trying to smuggle out of the city. She had done that in exchange for financial fortune. It would not have implicated Jordan in any way, only caused the detention of his friend. Yes, that had been different and somehow justifiable out of self-interest.

  But now, to betray Jordan himself, to implicate him personally, this was another matter entirely, and one to be considered.

  What if she gave him away? What would happen? They would try to make him lead them to MacDonald. They would question him. Knowing him, she was certain he would never talk, never betray a friend. Since he was not a Venetian, they’d continue to question him, harder, eventually torture him, hurt him terribly. She knew the explosive tempers and angers, the brutality of the Italians under stress. They’d cripple Jordan, perhaps permanently, these sons of Mussolini’s black shirts, and they would not get a word of MacDonald’s whereabouts from him. And she’d have nothing to show for what she’d done, no financial reward, only a lifetime of guilt. She would ruin the one man—the only man—admit it—who had ever been decent to her in a certain way.

  Think back, Felice.

  Before she had met Timothy Jordan—met him while guiding him on a tour his second week in Venice—she had engaged in sexual intercourse with a man only one time in her life, and she had hated it, vowed never to participate in the act again. Yet she wanted the company and companionship of men—wanted to be spoken to, taken out, entertained by them—always knowing that they would expect something in return. So her evenings with men had always ended up with her having oral sex with them, and this had gratified her partners. She had gone on a date with Jordan that first time, allowed him to see her back to her apartment, felt sympathy and a rapport with him, and had invited him inside. They had done the usual things, caressing, kissing, and after a while she had told him she did not like intercourse but would make him happy anyway. They had undressed, and she had gone down on him. And then, to her astonishment, he had gone down on her, excited her, and manually brought her to full orgasm, not once but three times. It had been the first time in her life that any man had ever bothered to do so.

  She heard her name once more, and the voice was foreign. She was being spoken to by a fierce-looking man, with a Slavic aspect, who was tilted back in a chair in the corner.

  “All right, Miss Huber, you have had time to think,” he was saying. “Whom did you tell about your guided tour to Mestre?”

  All hesitancy was gone. She had her answer, no matter what the consequences.

  “I told no one,” she said with conviction, “no one on earth. How MacDonald got into the group I do not know. He just materialized, and there he was. That’s all I know. I wish I could help you further, but I can’t.”

  Then she spoke softly to Timothy Jordan in her head: Okay, Tim, you don’t ever have to forgive me for trying to turn MacDonald over to the police. People will do terrible things for money. But know this someday. I saved you, yourself, from the police. Why? Because, Tim, once you were kind.

  * * *

  The electric lights were going on all over Venice, in the lagoon, in the crooked streets, in the crowded cafés, in the busy restaurants. Evening had come, and just before eight o’clock, Tim Jordan entered the glassware shop. He felt more relaxed than he had the entire day. All his tasks had been attended to, and there was some hope once more. Waving his gratefulness to Sembut Nurikhan, who was saying good-bye to several customers, he continued on into the small back office.

  A rumpled Professor MacDonald, who apparently had just awakened, was se
ated on the cot, Alison beside him, and they were deep in a discussion. The instant they saw Jordan, their discussion ceased, and both looked at him expectantly.

  “Good news,” Jordan announced. “Do you know what I’m talking about, Professor?”

  “Alison just told me. It doesn’t sound possible.”

  “It is not only possible, it is happening tonight—or let’s say, in the early morning. Signor Folin, the man in charge of the chopper, wanted a $10,000 down payment, but I managed to get him to settle for haft of that, the $15,000 balance due once you are on the helicopter, Professor, and on your way out of Venice.”

  “When does this—this effort take place?” MacDonald wanted to know.

  “At precisely two o’clock in the morning,” said Jordan. “Exactly two hours after midnight tonight. A helicopter—one Folin has rented elsewhere—will come in over the Piazza, drop down fast, and the minute it touches the ground and the door opens, you will make a run for it across the Piazza, climb up the ladder into the cockpit, and the helicopter will lift off. You’ll be safely out of here. It’s that simple.”

  Fumbling for his pipe, he now wanted to get off his feet and enjoy a smoke. He turned to take the swivel chair at the proprietor’s desk and was surprised to see Sembut Nurikhan in the doorway.

  “I accidentally overheard you, Tim,” said Nurikhan. “You are actually going to attempt this?”

  “Exactly as you heard, Sembut.”

  “I don’t want to intrude on your affairs, Tim—”

  “This is everyone’s affair.”

  “Nevertheless, I think such an attempt is foolhardy.”

  “Only because it sounds so dramatic,” replied Jordan. “Otherwise, it is perfectly logical under the circumstances. Besides, Sembut, they’ve tightened the noose around the professor. He must get away while he can. We have no other choice.”