Another Death in Venice, page 19
‘What’s that? You’re a decent fellow. Welcome any time in Burnham Beeches. Yes. I mean it. Take me home. Your bloody wife can keep her rotten money. You and me understand …’
Here he pushed his hand into Michael’s shirt in a gesture which might have been a caress or merely pursuit of his bottle. Michael thrust him away in revulsion and handed over the grappa.
‘Try to pull yourself together, Dunkerley,’ he commanded, unable to drop the ruling class persona so recently adopted. ‘And don’t come round to our hotel bothering people again. Understand?’
He began to walk away. Dunkerley overtook him after very few paces.
‘Understand? Yes. I understand everything. Aristide, both of you. It’s filthy, you hear me? Well, you be careful, that’s all. You and your friends. I should have let him kill that bloody woman, but not me, not my idea, respectable bloody tourists, you and your bloody wives, filth, all of you!’
They were out in the piazza now and heads were turning, attracted by the noise even where the language was not understood. Michael increased his pace. Behind him the voice faded, dissolved, was left behind.
But he fancied he heard it all the way back to the hotel.
The tables remained together and by the end of dinner the tacit truce declared between the warring parties of the six-some had warmed into a positive armistice. Even Wendy seemed disposed to treat her husband (who had returned at last from whatever doubtless illicit pleasures had been occupying his day) as something more than arachnid, albeit still less than human. Wilf for his part was in vacant or in pensive mood and shot forth only one or two of those flashes of merriment, with which he was wont to set the table on a roar; Bob on the other hand spoke more than was usual for him, as if making a desperate effort to display his basic humanity; Molly said little but smiled and looked happy; and Sarah said less but smiled and looked sad, a combination which Michael referred to as her sorrows-of-the-world expression.
After dinner to his surprise Sarah proposed that they should all stroll to the piazza to listen to the music and to his greater surprise, the others agreed. As they walked along her hand slipped through his arm and she pressed close to him.
They heard the music before they reached the square. It was light, airy, and labyrinthine without being in the least sinister, like Hampton Court Maze on a sunny day with the hedges cut down to two feet six. It emanated from the Banda Municipala raised on a dais in the middle of the piazza between Florian’s and Quadri’s. A large crowd had gathered round to watch the precise batoning of the elderly conductor but there were plenty of empty chairs outside the cafés.
‘Like the bandstand at Bognor,’ grinned Wilf. ‘Will they know The Maid of the Mountain do you think?’
Michael sighed but did not feel angry. How could you feel angry with a man who, if Dunkerley were to be believed, put his money where his mouth was in such an important matter as uxoricide? The world’s Wilfs were unacknowledged legislators of mankind.
They sat at Florian’s and ordered drinks. It was a magic occasion. The air was warm and soft, the façade of St Mark’s shone darkly, and along the columns of the arcaded Procuratie and the Napoleonic Wing ran a double row of lamps casting a festive glow over the dignified façades like Christmas candles in the branches of a living pine forest.
Now the music changed. After a bout of appreciative applause, the conductor drove his team into the richer pastures of Verdi’s Aida.
Suddenly Michael felt safe. Here, if anywhere, surely that ghastly world which others mistook for reality could not intrude. Here he and Sarah could be happy and innocent like Hugo and Josefin in Kjell Grede’s film. He reached out and took Sarah’s hand.
‘Isn’t this the life?’ he murmured.
‘Oh, it is, it is,’ said a figure behind them which he had assumed to be a waiter keeping an eye open for defaulting customers.
‘May I be permitted to join you?’ And without staying for an answer Contarini pulled up a chair alongside them.
‘Are you following me, Captain?’ demanded Michael, angry that his escapism had been so quickly interrupted.
‘Following? No! I am Venetian, Mr Masson. Napoleon called this square the drawing-room of Europe. What more natural than for a Venetian on a brief visit home to stroll into his drawing-room to seek old acquaintance?’
‘And we are the best you could manage?’
‘You underrate your charms. Besides, if I sit here long enough, I shall see everyone I know in Venice. Another drink? You permit?’
He snapped his fingers and ordered a repeat of the whole round.
‘Nice to see that some of Mike’s friends buy as well as drink,’ observed Wilf.
‘Oh Christ. The charm of the man,’ said Wendy. ‘How’s the case going, Captain?’ asked Bob.
‘Please, no shop,’ interposed Molly.
‘Forgive me, I shall try not to bore you,’ said Contarini. ‘There has been progress. The young man, Aristide Roussel …’
‘You’ve found him?’ interrupted Sarah.
‘Yes. We have found him. Tell me, Mr Masson, you did not by chance know where he was staying?’
‘No idea,’ said Michael. ‘How should I?’
‘Of course. And anyone else here? Did anyone know?’
There was no reply. Contarini nodded.
‘I see. Mr Masson, when you were so regrettably assaulted this morning, was anything taken from you?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t really look. I’ve got my passport and …’
‘Is this yours?’
The captain held out a brown leather billfold. Michael took it gingerly and examined it with care, remembering the last occasion Contarini had produced one of his possessions.
‘Yes. I think it is. I’m sure of it.’
‘You didn’t miss it.’
‘No. I just thought I’d left it in the bedroom. I’m pretty careless …’
‘Yes. I recall. Like the lighter.’
‘Yes. Well, not really. I always carry money loose in my pockets, I’m afraid. This, well, there might have been a thousand lire in it. Nothing more.’
‘So, you thought you had lost it. Like the lighter,’ said Contarini. ‘You are indeed a careless man. Tell me; this man, Aristide, was he ever in your bedroom at the Leonardo.’
Michael and Sarah exchanged glances.
‘Yes,’ said Sarah firmly. ‘He was. They – he and Mr Dunkerley – asked if they could leave their luggage there for safe keeping. Aristide went to collect it later.’
‘By himself?’
‘I told her she was crazy,’ observed Wendy. ‘I know a crook when I see one. I should do. I’ve had the practice.’ ‘What’s all this mean?’ asked Bob. ‘Do you think this lad, Aristide, had something to do with the killing?’
‘It seems possible, yes.’
‘Well,’ said Bob with the gloomy envy of one who knows for certain that the interview rooms of continental police stations are fitted with built-in thumbscrews, ‘no doubt you’ll soon persuade him to talk.’
‘Difficult,’ said Contarini. ‘Regrettably he is dead.’
The music halted once more and all around them people applauded. It was as if they were clapping the captain’s announcement.
‘Dead?’ said Sarah. ‘Oh no.’
‘Silly sod. I should have let him drown,’ said Wendy.
‘If the poor bastard’s dead, he must be guilty of everything,’ laughed Wilf. ‘That’s police thinking. Waste not, want not.’
Molly said nothing.
‘Let’s have another drink,’ said Michael.
‘What of?’ said Bob.
‘Whatever you want,’ answered Michael.
‘No. I meant, what’d he die of?’
‘He bled to death,’ said Contarini. ‘There had been a struggle. He was hit with a broken chair, or perhaps fell on it. It pierced his spleen.’
‘Ugh,’ said Wendy, stubbing out a cigarette and immediately lighting another.
‘Any leads?’ asked Bob.
‘Nothing definite. The struggle was heard but no one investigated. It is not the kind of area where you poke your eyes into other people’s business. A little girl wandered in later and found him. He was dead then. The girl said she had seen a lady enter earlier, then a man.’
‘Ah,’ said Bob. ‘Descriptions?’
Contarini shrugged.
‘The lady we are not sure of. Even her existence is in doubt. The child has visions, or at least her parents are training her up to have a vision, perhaps perform a miracle. It is not uncommon, creates a small stir, provides an income while the interest lasts.’
‘Monstrous!’ said Sarah.
‘I think so. Anyway the girl says it may have been the Virgin Mary. She is pretty certain there was a halo. It is hardly evidence!’
‘And the man?’
‘That’s more promising. More reality, less vision. A fat man with a stubby beard and blue-tinted glasses does not transform so easily to a saint.’
‘Dunkerley!’ said Bob and Wilf together.
‘It may be so,’ said Contarini. ‘My men are looking for him now.’
‘But what about this Rimini business?’ insisted Bob.
‘Possibly a connection. This Roussel was a violent man, this we know. The evidence suggests he attacked Mr Masson today. A knife was found in his belongings. We are examining it and his clothes too. When Guido Falcone was stabbed, there was much bleeding. Some traces may remain even after a washing. Signora Masson.’
‘Yes?’ said Sarah.
‘I would be grateful if you would identify the shirt you gave to Roussel. There is only one with an English label, but your confirmation is needed.’
‘Of course,’ said Sarah.
Michael had attracted the waiter and ordered another round despite an inward shudder at the thought of the cost. The music had resumed, a lush romantic piece he almost recognized. As the waiter set the drinks on the table, the rich surge of melody was interrupted, a trumpet hiccoughed and missed a bar, other instruments wandered slightly from the melodic line and voices could be heard above the orchestra.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Molly.
‘I don’t know,’ said Wilf. ‘But one thing’s sure in this place – they’ll find a way of charging us for it!’
Whatever it was, the band now seemed free of it and euphony was restored on the dais, but in the crowd a ripple of chatter and laughter marked the progress of the disruptive element across the piazza.
‘I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,’ sang a rather pleasant lyric tenor, and the crowd parted to reveal Dunkerley, his face alight with the wonder of his own singing, being helped along by a policeman who was still at the stage of finding this drunk amusing.
‘Hey, poliziotto!’ cried Contarini rudely. The man looked angrily in their direction, Contarini spoke a few sharp words which were enough to convince the policeman of his authority, and Dunkerley was pushed towards their table.
Contarini stared at him narrowly as though convincing himself of his identity. Dunkerley returned the stare boldly and winked. Then his gaze flickered round the rest of the group.
‘All together, eh? Enjoying yourselves, eh? Doesn’t last long, does it? A few days’ boozing and screwing and getting your titties tanned; bang! there goes your holiday. Back to England, home and respectability, with all your best holiday slides locked away up here, inside your mind, bring ’em out at dead of night when your better half’s asleep, or on the bus to work in the morning! Something for the winter, keeps you going. Well, I’ll tell you something; I’ll tell you; you can keep it! All of it! Winters and woollies and no coal and income tax and reds under every fucking bed. Me, I know when I’m well off. We’ll be in the sun, me and Aristide, Tunisia, perhaps, Morocco, follow the sun, eighty in the shade, that’s the life for Ari and me …’
‘Mr Dunkerley,’ said Contarini.
Sarah grasped Michael’s hand and held it tight. For once he shared her sympathy. Poor sod.
‘Why, hello there! Fabian of the Yard. Is my gondola double parked?’
‘Your friend, Monsieur Roussel, Aristide.’
Everyone was looking away except Bob and Contarini. Only policemen watch your face when they tell you about death.
‘What about him? Come to his senses yet? He had it coming, but never worry about us. He’ll come to his senses.’
He should flee, thought Michael. The news will destroy him. He should flee to the top of the campanile, there peer out over the festive lights of the square till they dance in the dark like fireflies. Then big close-up, Dunkerley’s face through the grille, the music from the band rises to him, throbbing, gay. He clambers, like some great sad captive ape, up the protective grille till he reaches the gap. It is not easy to manoeuvre that bulk through, but he does it. He hangs outside for a moment, then lets himself go. Soundlessly, in slow motion the body falls, turning twice in the air. As it hits the ground the camera rushes back up the campanile, borne on a fountain of shrieks then freezes on the final shot, the golden angel which stands on top of the tower, against a sky of unflawed blue …
‘He is dead,’ said Contarini. ‘Aristide Roussel is dead.’
‘Oh Christ!’ said Dunkerley and, doubling up, he vomited all over the table.
PART III
LUTON
I
Half way down the green light corridor a Customs official halted their progress.
‘Sir. Madam. You are together? Would you mind stepping over here? You have read and understood the regulations, I take it?’
‘Oh damn! Why us?’ demanded Michael, looking after the fast disappearing back of Wilf whose bag was almost certainly weighed down with gallons of illicit booze.
‘Could you tell me if you have brought any of the items on the list into the country?’
‘No, we bloody well haven’t. I mean, only what we’re allowed. That’s why we’re coming out through this exit. I thought that was the whole idea.’
‘Michael, please.’
Sarah smiled beguilingly at the Customs man. Michael had noticed that any sign of antagonism from himself towards authority figures invariably brought out this gentle condescension in his wife, whereas whenever he tried the friendly approach, she would quickly begin to complain about neo-fascist attitudes.
The Customs officer smiled back.
‘Would you open your cases, please?’
They did so and watched in silence as the man began to remove articles one by one, squeezing, probing, unfolding. A carton of cigarettes caught his interest. When he put it down, Michael reached across, tore it open, removed a packet and opened it.
‘Smoke?’ he said.
The Customs officer continued searching without reply. Sarah’s neat efficient packing was now completely spoilt but she did not seem to mind. Looking at the growing mound of clothes on the table top, Michael was reminded of the pitifully scant pile of Aristide’s possessions laid out in the police headquarters in Venice. He had let Sarah identify and sign for the clothing the dead man had borrowed while he concentrated on trying to pump Contarini for information.
The captain had been surprisingly co-operative, conciliatory almost, as though, having decided Michael was clear of suspicion, he had begun to worry about possible complaints about his behaviour. Michael found it amusing, especially as he suspected an Italian in England could expect a much rougher passage if he ever fell into Bob’s hands.
‘The Frenchman, yes, he probably killed Falcone. Motive? Who knows? Roussel was a sexual deviant so perhaps having had his advances repulsed, he became angry. Such cases are not uncommon. But he had a knife which would fit the wounds on the boy, some traces of blood were found, we had enough, not to charge him perhaps, but to press him strongly for a confession.’
‘In the Roman Catholic sense?’ said Michael drily.
‘Scusi? Ah yes, I remember. In every sense, Signore Masson. But he is dead and the law has no more interest in him. Except as he was connected with the other, Dunkerley.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘Who knows? Who cares? He and his kind, vitelloni eh? He claims it was accidental. I think he may be telling the truth. What will happen now? A man from your consulate came to see him.’
‘They do occasionally take notice, then?’ said Michael.
‘I think so. Dunkerley says he was at school with this man. If so, is it not strange? The man looked so unhappy I feel it may be true! So perhaps English diplomacy will extract Dunkerley from our grasp, for – what is it you say? – for old times’ sake.’
‘I hope so,’ said Michael.
‘You hope? That is generous. They are not nice people, this old man, the dead one. Why did he attack you, I wonder? There are still mysteries. Here is Signora Masson. You have the clothes? Good. Be careful who you loan them to in future. Perhaps I may see you when next I come to England.’
‘Delighted,’ said Michael. ‘I’ll take you to the cinema. Fred Astaire.’
‘Astaire? That would be superb! Are there still cinemas where his films are shown? Remember Carefree? What is it you say? They don’t make films like that any more!’
The rest of the holiday had been subdued, but pleasant enough. He and Sarah had spent most of their time together viewing without concern the increasing fragmentation of the rest of the group. Now they were home and already it was all beginning to fade like last week’s second feature. Venice alone remained, powerful, unerasable, unique.
The officer had finished at last and was ostentatiously helping Sarah to re-pack. Michael ground out his cigarette and began shovelling his clothes back into the case, making no effort to emulate the neat way in which Sarah had packed them for the homeward journey. Almost finished, he paused and looked into his case with some puzzlement.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Sarah. ‘Ready, darling?’
‘I think so. This shirt. Is it mine?’
‘Let me see,’ said Sarah. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘It doesn’t look like mine. I mean the colour’s similar, but ... it doesn’t even look like a Marks and Sparks style though it’s got the label.’
