Chapter 15
I took a taxi to the Imperial Hotel. It swims alone, like a mirage, on the horizon as you leave the city, going towards Bilkent. The area is marked for development, and the hotel is the flagship of the developers. I timed my arrival for mid-afternoon. The foyer of the hotel was enormous, full of light and palms, stories high, balconies like hanging gardens all around. There was a jazz quartet playing 'Midnight in Moscow', 'Sweet Georgia Brown', 'Starlight'.
Couples danced on a wooden floor set, like a raft, in a sea of marble. By far the most serious business of the afternoon, for many, was eating sweets and savouries from a table of delights.
I bought a ticket and enjoyed the delicacies until I gagged on the shrimps remembering the autopsy report. All around me were groups of smartly dressed middle-aged women, who looked as if they were taking a break from playing bridge, all with well-filled plates and teacups, all talking energetically. There were young men and women standing around , looking as if they were there under protest. The dancers were absorbed in the dance, translating the music into movement and tossing the rhythm to the musicians, who caught it and flung it back to them in a wild, yet disciplined communion.
'Mr. O'Gorman, how wonderful to see you. We were introduced at your very first reception in Ankara. Professor Tasnir, my husband, the banker, you know.'
I was wildly at sea to begin with and gazed blankly at the stout lady in good bottle-green satin. Then the filters began to work and I remembered her. She would not be averse to having herself described as a 'society' woman. She would be on the subscriber list of Turque Diplomatique and would appear in it at least four times a year. I greeted her warmly. Here was the witness I needed.
'Do you come her often, Mrs.Tasnir?'
'Quite regularly, Mr. O'Gorman. May I introduce my niece Yasmin. Yasmin, this is Denis from the Irish Embassy. Yasmin is a wonderful dancer, Denis. I may call you Denis? Yasmin has been pining for a partner. And here you are, an answer to any Auntie's prayer. Yasmin was ready to be clasped and led away.
You know, Millicent, that since we started going out together, I have never danced. I did learn my h-aon, dó, trí's at school but the context was immeasurably different. I was panic-stricken as Yasmin raised her hands in anticipation and I could see past her to the dance floor where people moved in ecstasies of skill.
'I'm a terribly bad dancer, Mrs. Tasnir.'
'Yasmin will show you how.'
She did show me how, through fifteen excruciating minutes, when I earned the curses of all on the floor. I restored Yasmin to her aunt's care.
'Were you here last Tuesday week, Mrs.Tasnir?'
'Oh no, I rarely come on Tuesdays. Wednesdays are more sociable. But I'm afraid my dancing days are over.'
She was gliding away, Yasmin in tow, as she said it. I think she was afraid that I was going to ask her to dance. All the attendants were busy, or seemed to be busy. The doorman, a pantomime footman in red velvet, tall hat and gold embroideries, was the only one standing still.
'Are you generally on duty on Tuesday afternoons?'
'Always on duty.'
'Do you recognise any of these people?'
I showed him the photos in my collection – Walter, Colette, Barbellini, Angelina, d'Aubine, my uncle Mike for variety – not because I expected him to recognise anyone other that the couple in question but as a check on what might be an excessive willingness to oblige.
'This one,' he said, pointing at the photo of Mrs. Brown, 'this one here, is the wife of the Irish Ambassador who was killed by terrorists. It was on the news. She was our ugly-beautiful dancer who tipped well, our prize foxtrotter. This gentleman – he picked out Barbellini – was her partner. They were so good that everybody stopped dancing to watch.'
' Did they dance all the time they were here?'
'There is a quarter of an hour's break in the middle of the soirée for our musicians to relax.
He scrutinised Walter's picture and handed it back.
'Perhaps he was here. If so, he was not a distinguished dancer. Many men of that age look alike. If he was a distinguished gourmand, the waitresses may remember him.'
M. d'Aubine he shook his head at.
'And this lady,' he said, pointing to Angelina, 'is trouble. She comes on Thursdays, with this gentleman - Barbellini - who is the Tuesday foxtrotter. On Thursdays he does tango. He and she are our best tangoists. But on Thursday only.'
I suppose, Millicent, I should not have been surprised. We are, after all, creatures of habit. If the tango on Thursday pleases one woman, why shouldn't the fox trot on Tuesday please another? If the legs are not faithful, what should it matter that they are unfaithful in a particular place?
'It was my opinion that the ladies were unaware that the gentleman dances twice a week,' added the doorman.
'So, they never came together, all three?'
'Once. Do you wish to know what happened on the Tuesday that the Irish Madame was assassinated, her last day here?'
'Definitely.'
'There is a quarter of an hour's break in the middle of the soirée for our musicians to relax. That is when the best dancers allow themselves a little refreshment and conversation. They sat together at that table under the palms.'
It was a quiet nook, away from the action.
'But they were dancing when Madame from Thursday, entered the foyer. I saw her face as she looked at the dance-floor and I signalled trouble to our floor staff. She took a subscription for afternoon tea and sat out of view of the dancers, there under the palms. Euclid, one of our floor men stood close by.
It was a day when the other dancers paid these two the tribute of standing aside to watch them. The musicians responded to the challenge. Even I was impressed. The Thursday lady had a handbag on her lap and opened it. Euclid drew nearer and, over her shoulder, saw a gun in her bag.'
'What kind of a gun?'
'Ask Euclid, I never saw it. It is our policy to avoid trouble here, so,Euclid beckoned to the tea trolley lady and she came to attend to Mrs. Thursday. Euclid gave the signal to her to spill the milk jug over the lady's bag. It was hustled away, to be sponged down, and the lady was besieged with apologies and tea towels while I engaged a taxi for her at the expense of the hotel. Her bag was returned intact, just as she was put in the taxi and left on a wave of our regrets. We offered a weekend, a deux, off-season, in our Alanya hotel. It was managed nicely, no fuss, no shots. Yet, you see, it was written in this Ambassador's lady's forehead that she would die that day. She escaped death in the hotel, only to be shot by terrorists. Kismet.'
I rewarded him and he pointed out the security man lurking under some potted palms. He was able to tell me that the gun in Angelina Barbellini's bag was a Derringer with a mother of pearl grip. Whether it was loaded or not, he could not say.
'You didn't confiscate the gun?'
'Of course not.'
'Were the dancers aware that there had been an incident?'
'There was no incident. The dance, the music, the conversation were not interrupted in any way.'The doorman pointed out the taxi driver who had brought Angelina home. When I asked to be driven to the same destination, he drove without hesitation, to Barbellini's.
'She got out here?'
'Yes.'
'What time was that?'
'Just before five.'
'What kind of mood was she in at that point?'
He whistled. 'Pretty cross.'
My heart should have been light but it wasn't. It was weighed down by the torment of jealousy that made Angelina Barbellini bring her gun to the hotel and, when foiled, to lie in wait for the Countess and shoot her... My imagination reconstruction always stopped there. I could see her slipping through the poplars to the residence, hear her husband's car pull up on the road above, see the Countess trip down the hill. I could see Angelina follow Colette down to the basement, pull out the gun, shoot her. But I couldn't believe that she stopped to wipe the gun and wrap the Countess' hand around it, set
her watch forward and tip her into the pool. Surely she would have rushed home to kill her husband and, perhaps, herself. Could she have had gone to a reception at half past six with her husband and the husband of her victim? It seemed extraordinarily cold-blooded behaviour for a neurotic woman in a fury. When and how had she come into possession of the Countess's gun?
I have the office to myself as I write this. Ayse has gone to the airport in a taxi to collect the bag. I must decide what to do next. I'll sleep on it tonight and take some action tomorrow. I must talk to Angelina Barbellini. I am annoyed with Maria who must have lied, comprehensively, to me.
The phone interrupted me as I wrote the above.
'Meet me in the coffee shop across the road.'
That was all. The phone clicked down. I recognised Inspector Akin's voice and went out to the café.
'A gunsmith in Istanbul identified the gun that shot Mrs. Brown as one of a pair that he'd sold six months ago to Mrs. Barbellini. No doubt about it. She even filled out a guarantee form.'
'Then how did the Countess have its pair and the case in her drawer?'
'Think, Denis.'
'Someone wanted to protect Angelina Barbellini by making the Countess's death look like suicide, the gun and case might have been planted after the killing. If Orhan hadn't moved the body, the scheme might have worked. Inspector Kadri, do you intend to charge Mrs. Barbellini? Need the case be pursued further?'
'Don't you want to exonerate Orhan?'
'If there were some way to guarantee that Orhan would never be accused of the murder…perhaps a signed statement from Angelina.…'
'Denis, what has happened to the avid amateur, defender of truth and the innocent?'
'Angelina Barbellini was tried beyond endurance.'
'You would be willing to allow Ambassador Brown to bear the brunt of my suspicions indefinitely?'
'Your suspicions are irrelevant if they remain suspicions only. I can let it be known in Dublin that the case has been resolved and that the suspect had no connection with Ireland. Walter will not be sent back here anyway. He is trapped in Protocol Section.'
Inspector Akin sipped the last sweet drop of coffee and peered into the cup. Then he swirled the sludge, turned the cup mouth-down on the saucer and tapped three times on its base.
'Let's see what the grounds say, Denis.'
He peered at the smears and held the cup out for my inspection.
'Don't you see it, Denis?'
I did see it, Millicent. There again was that horrid shape that Orhan had sketched, that I had seen on my first day in the residence. I shivered.
'You are not looking at it correctly, Denis. See the great white heart-shaped space, free of grounds. It spells innocence. I asked if Angelina Barbellini is guilty or not. See the answer. If you believe in this kind of thing, of course.'
'I don't think you do.'
'Oh I do, when it confirms what I know. Come, come, Denis. Don't abandon the wicked cousin, the sinister cook, the naughty military attaché, the trusty maid, the dodgy landlord, the crafty driver, the naturally suspect spouse just because Angelina Barbellini bought guns in Istanbul.'
Dear Millicent, my head is spinning. Ayse should soon return with the bag. I long for a letter from you.
Full-Bodied Wine : A Vintage Murder Page 15
