Deadly to the Sight (23 page)

The attack seemed to have taken place during Urbino's walk through the Dorsoduro. It wouldn't be easy to find out where certain people had been during this same period. For example, had Salvatore, Regina, and Frieda all been on Burano? If any of them had come to Venice, the night boat crew might remember, since the water bus between Burano and Venice was infrequent during those hours. But there was the possibility that someone could have hired a water taxi or even have had a private boat at his or her disposal, in which case there would be no trace.

As for Beatrix and Marie, they were within easy striking distance of the Dorsoduro from their apartment on the Fondamenta Nuove.

But all of these people could have been behind their own doors or in their own beds, with pleasant or troubled dreams, during the crucial hours. The only two who Urbino knew for sure had been out and about last night were Giorgio and Habib, sometimes together, at other times alone.

Urbino regretted that Rebecca was out of town. If he were lucky, she might be able to provide a necessary piece of information. He called her office and learned that she was staying at the Hotel d'Inghilterra.

The hotel informed him that she was out. He left a message for her to call him.

27

At ten-thirty that evening Habib's quick steps bounded up the staircase. He first went into his study for a few minutes, and then, in search of Urbino, he came to the library. When he entered the room, he stopped short.

“Something is the matter,
sidi
. I can tell from your face.”

“I'm fine. How was Verona?”

“It was interesting,
sidi
. I decided to go at the last minute. We saw Juliet's balcony. But I think you are angry that I am late. You would have been proud of me! I spoke Italian for almost the whole day. I learned a new Italian song. Do you want to hear it?”

“Not now. I have a few questions I want to ask you.”

Habib's expression was pained, as if he'd been wounded. He dropped into a chair and stared at Urbino from under his long dark lashes.

“The answers are important to me, and also to other people. Tell me, Habib, how often have you been to Burano? In addition to the time we went alone and when we all went to Frieda's party.”

“That German lady!” Habib burst out. “She is strange the way she looks sharply at me with her eyes squeezing out of her head. She looks at me, then she looks at you.”

“Have you been to Burano more than the two times?” Urbino asked again, refusing to be sidetracked. “As I said before, it doesn't matter if you have, but I'd like to know.”

For a few moments Habib's face became set in thought as he seemed to contemplate the arabesque patterns on the carpet. Then he looked up with an expression that was a little wary.

“Yes,” he admitted with a sigh. “Three or four times,
sidi
. But I had a good reason to go and also a good reason not to tell you. You must believe me! Or else I will be too sad.”

His voice was wistful and a little defeated.

“Did your reasons have something to do with Giorgio?” Urbino pursued. “You've been spending a lot of time with him. You helped him move to his new apartment last night. Did you spend all those hours going back and forth between there and Barbara's?”

“First you ask me about Burano. Now it is about Giorgio! I am sorry,
sidi
, but I am not accustomed to count the hours and the minutes the way that you are!” A note of truculence had entered his voice. “I helped Giorgio and the time passed, and then I came back here. There is nothing wrong with Giorgio. You have bad feelings against him. He is good to me,” he added with what was now almost a defiant air.

“I believe that you think he is. You have an open nature, but not everyone does, Habib. And you have to realize that I can understand people here better than you can. It's like the way I had to depend on you in Morocco, when I didn't understand things properly because it wasn't my culture. And if you haven't told me the whole truth—”

Habib sprang to his feet.

“No!” He swiped at a pile of books on the table and sent them flying to the floor. “You say I lie and deceive you! It is unfair! You don't trust me. You don't believe my words. I will show you instead. But then everything will be spoiled! And I am finished forever with that island of bad luck!”

He bolted out of the room. A few moments later the front door slammed.

28

Urbino remained seated, half-expecting Habib to come back. When he didn't, he gathered together the books and stacked them on the table again. He poured himself a generous portion of whisky and drank most of it down quickly.

He had done it all wrong, he berated himself. He should have known what Habib's reaction was going to be.

He remembered the time in a gold shop in the Fez medina when the owner had asked Habib to turn out his pockets. Habib had shouted and pushed the man against the counter. It had frightened Urbino because he was worried that it would get Habib into trouble with the police, but the episode was soon smoothed over. The ring was found, and fifteen minutes later all three of them were having tea in the back room.

Urbino went to Habib's studio. His satchel was lying on the divan. Inside was a photograph of a smiling Habib and two of his fellow students. Urbino recognized them as French girls whom he and Jerome hung around with. The picture had been taken in Verona, probably by an itinerant photographer who had an instant camera. Above their heads Urbino could make out Juliet's balcony.

On the table were Habib's passport, his Italian residency card, and his identity card from the language school, which he had forgotten in his haste. He carried them with him almost all the time. It was a habit he had formed in Morocco where any policeman could arrest you if you didn't have them—or even if you did, as Urbino too well remembered from the time he had managed to avert this from happening in the Fez medina.

It made him nervous to think of Habib being out of the house without them, even here in Italy. As an American, Urbino had never become accustomed to the need to carry around his own residency card all the time.

He checked his wristwatch. Habib had been gone almost half an hour.

What had he meant about showing Urbino something and everything being spoiled? When he had stormed out of the house, it had been with an aim in mind. And, Urbino realized, a destination.

He telephoned the Contessa. She picked it up on the second ring.

“Giorgio's address? You know the building, don't you? In the Calle Convertite right off the Fondamenta Pescaria. But why do you want it at this hour? Are you—”

“I'll explain tomorrow.”

He scribbled a hasty note to Habib on the off chance that he might return while Urbino was out. He put Habib's documents into his cape pocket and left the Palazzo Uccello.

It wasn't far to the Fondamenta Pescaria, which was along the Cannaregio Canal. He took the quickest route, which someone inexperienced with Venice like Habib would have considered the back route. It would gain him perhaps five minutes.

As he emerged on the embankment from beneath the Sottoportego del Ghetto, a blue police boat with its light flashing was visible in the canal. He hurried in its direction. Two policemen were leading Habib, handcuffed, to the boat.

“
Sidi
! Please help me! I did nothing wrong! He was dead when I got there. Giorgio is dead!”

As the policemen helped Habib into the boat, he threw Urbino a wild and desperate look. Unlike the time in Morocco, Urbino knew that nothing he might say to the policemen, in any language, would get them to release him.

PART THREE

PUNTO IN ARIA

1

On the second morning after the scene on the Fondamenta Pescaria, Urbino bought a copy of
Il Gazzettino
from the kiosk on the Strada Nuova. The events on the edge of the ghetto had occurred too late to reach the paper yesterday morning.

But Urbino didn't open the newspaper in the middle of the busy thoroughfare, tempted though he was. He was on his way to the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini. He would wait until he and the Contessa could read it together.

The past two days had been almost total confusion. The police were detaining Habib on suspicion of the murder of Giorgio. It was feared that if he were released before the full investigation was completed, he would escape to Morocco.

Urbino had failed, despite the services of one of the best lawyers and the intervention of Corrado Scarpa, to secure Habib's release. He hadn't been allowed to see or speak with him, or even send him a note.

Luigo Torino, the lawyer, said that Habib was being treated in the same manner as the other prisoners, which was intended to be a consolation. Urbino was tortured, however, by the thought of Habib locked away in a cell that he imagined not much more comfortable than the ancient ones attached to the Ducal Palace.

Three policemen had come to the Palazzo Uccello yesterday afternoon and gone through Habib's possessions. Urbino had opened the cabinet with the spare key. Nothing inside had looked even remotely suspicious to Urbino, but the policemen had taken away letters, photographs, a small appointment book, and, for some reason, Habib's language school notebooks.

Urbino was oblivious to the scene around him on the Strada Nuova. He returned greetings from friends and shopkeepers mechanically. He almost upset a table of socks displayed for sale, and collided with several people walking in the opposite direction.

Weary, distracted, he dropped into a chair in the Contessa's morning room and opened the newspaper. He found the piece on Giorgio's murder on the first page of the Venice news and read it out loud:

BOATMAN MURDERED IN CANNAREGIO

It was the Contessa who broke the silence after he finished reading.

“They would have to mention my name twice. I'm sorry,” she added. “That's a terrible thing to say. How's Habib doing?”

Urbino stared at her and shook his head slowly.

“The Moroccan embassy still hasn't sent anyone up from Rome. Habib in prison! It's inconceivable!”

The Contessa patted his hand.

“We'll get him out soon.”

“If I could only see him! He probably thinks I've abandoned him.”

“Stop this nonsense! He knows you're doing whatever you can. Here, have some coffee.”

Urbino declined. His nerves were already in a terrible state.

“I'll have some anisette.”

He poured himself a generous portion.

“Who do you think killed Giorgio?” the Contessa asked.

“All I know is that it wasn't Habib, and that whoever did, probably also killed Nina Crivelli.”

“You'll have a hard time convincing Gemelli of that. Be prepared for what he'll say. That you're blind to the truth. That you've lost a proper sense of proportion. That you're grasping at straws. You—”

“How easily all that comes off your tongue! I have no doubts about what he'll say. Gemelli and I have been on opposite sides of questions before, and once or twice it was because of your own interests, don't forget! Now I have something at stake.”

“Don't let it carry you away. Try to keep some kind of proportion.”

For the second time the Contessa mentioned his danger of losing a sense of proportion. It was good advice, of course, but even as he took it in, he feared that, although so short a time had passed since he had seen Habib hustled off by the police, he was already too far down the road to stop himself. He wasn't even sure that he wanted to. His need to believe in Habib was a rock that he clung to.

He tossed down the remainder of his anisette.

“I have to be going. I'll call you after I see Gemelli.”

“Why don't you come for dinner? Even better, why not spend the night, or as long as you like? Your room is always waiting for you.”

She sighed, for she must have been reminded of the last time he had slept in the room. It had been during a house party when the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini had been buffeted by the terrible storm and one of the other guests had been murdered.

“I don't want you to be alone.”

He gave a hollow laugh.

“Don't you think I'm used to it?”

“Things are different now.”

“Yes, well, at any rate, I don't think I'll be wandering around the Palazzo Uccello like some pathetic soul.”

2

But that was exactly what he did when he got back home. He roamed through the rooms, feeling oppressed by all the objects that used to give him so much pleasure. He sank into an armchair only to get up a few moments later. Natalia watched him silently with a sad look on her face whenever his steps carried him into the kitchen.

Knowing he wouldn't be able to eat a full lunch today any more than yesterday, she was preparing his favorite fillings for
tramezzini
. The scent of baking
pancarré
, however, gave him more pain than pleasure, for he remembered how much Habib delighted in the little sandwiches. He told Natalia he would eat in the library.