Death in a Serene City (24 page)

“I was right, you see. He died three weeks after one of her visits.
I polmoni.
”

She tapped her chest with a withered hand. “He knew what I was talking about! One time didn't he get the influenza twenty-four hours after she came? And another time didn't his granddaughter have a miscarriage a week later? Then back in November of sixty-six, right after the flood, his showroom burned down, the most beautiful one on the Fondamenta dei Vetrai. He had just remodeled it. I helped him with some of the historical touches. There were new cases and mirrors, a parquet floor, an old map of Murano, a framed, handwritten quotation about the glassmakers from that ugly little man D'Annunzio, photographs of his family, friends, workers, apprentices, famous visitors to the factory—oh, so many nice things! And almost all destroyed in an hour! I saw the flames in my mirror. Poor Lodovico was never the same. I told him to redo it just the way it was before but he didn't have the heart. I think he was afraid the same thing would happen again. Although the police and insurance people said it was an accident, he argued it was arson until the day he died. But believe me—it was Maria Galuppi!”

She picked up her glass and held it out for Urbino to refill. More grappa seemed to be the only reward she wanted for having given them the benefit of her knowledge.

23

“SO it was a glass bird all along,” Urbino said as the boat headed back to the Cannaregio and they went over again what they had learned on Murano. The day had returned to clouds brought in by the wind, darker ones this time that threatened rain before long. “No one seems to have seen it, which might mean that if she wore it around her neck she kept it concealed. But what do you think happened to it?”

The Contessa, who had slipped into a reflective mood since leaving Caterina Zanetti, looked back at him blankly.

“Maybe Beatrice didn't lose it as she thought,” he went on. “Couldn't Maria have taken it herself to punish her daughter? Or maybe she wanted to examine it more closely or show it to someone who might now not even want to admit having seen it.” He considered this latter possibility for several moments, going over in his mind the different responses to his question about Beatrice's lovebird. Deciding to think it through at another time he turned to the question of dates.

“Remember how you said yesterday that we might learn why the month of November keeps coming up—Beatrice's death, Maria's visits to Murano, the burglary of the Galuppi apartment? Well, we didn't, but we did find out that something else happened then—Lodovico Pignatti's showroom burned down. And it was in the November of the flood, the same November that Beatrice's artwork was stolen.”

The Contessa was looking out the cabin window at San Michele. She drew her sable coat more closely around her and finally said something, but not anything he expected.

“Do you want to be buried on San Michele?”

“That's a morbid thought,” he said, wondering if she had even been listening to him.

“I guess it's brought on by all this talk of death. And don't forget we've been there twice in less than a month.”

“Don't you visit Alvise's grave?”

“Not anymore. Seeing my own name and birth date next to his disturbs me too much.”

Although Urbino had never been to the da Capo-Zendrini mausoleum with the Contessa, he had sought it out one day with the help of a man from the cemetery office. It was an imposing structure with somber iron doors, two weeping angels, and statues of Catherine of Siena and Nicholas of Bari. He had found it romantic with its cracked, discolored marble and overhanging cypress but he could understand how disquieting it might be for his friend to see the empty space waiting for her own death date.

“There's the family plot back in New Orleans, of course, but I think I could see myself on San Michele, one among all the other foreigners who died at Venice.”

“Don't be silly,” she said as the boat slipped into the Misericordia Canal and the cemetery was lost to view. “Half of them probably had no choice and the other half had some grim notion of finally having a
pied-à-terre
in Venice. You've already got that.”

This ended the brief discussion between them and they said no more for the rest of the trip. When they reached the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini, Urbino declined the Contessa's offer of a drink or the convenience of continuing on in the boat and set out for home on foot.

At the Palazzo Uccello a tearful Natalia was in the upstairs hall with an
agente di polizia
. She hurried over to Urbino and put her hand on his arm.

“Signor Macintyre, it's not my fault! I came at my usual time, maybe a few minutes later than usual, that's all. I didn't—”

But he didn't wait for her to explain. He hurried down the hall to the library. Before he went through the door, he knew what he would find or—more precisely—what he wouldn't. The room was a mess of scattered books and papers, of pulled-out drawers and gaping shelves. Someone had been in a big hurry and hadn't bothered to be neat.

He went to the shelf where he had put the Venice notebook, having slipped it in the space above two of Margaret Quinton's novels. For the first time in his life he cursed his passion for order.

24

A quick call to the Contessa brought Milo within minutes to take him to the Questura but when they entered the Grand Canal from the Rio della Maddalena Urbino asked to be brought to the Europa e Regina first. The Questura could wait for as long as it would take to tell Voyd in person what had happened to the notebook the writer had entrusted to him.

A heavy rain had started but Urbino was oblivious to it.

Whoever stole the notebook had known or feared that there was incriminating evidence in its entries. As far as Urbino was concerned, its theft was yet one more argument for Carlo's innocence and even against the theory that Maria might have been killed during the snatching of Santa Teodora's body. He hoped that Commissario Gemelli would see the sense of this.

He assumed he had not misplaced his trust in the Contessa's discretion. He was less sure about Voyd, however, given his garrulity, although the writer certainly must know how important the notebook could be in relationship to Maria's murder.

That left Kobke. Maybe he was prejudiced against the Dane because of his supercilious manner but he seemed the most likely person to have said something in spite and anger before leaving for Florence. He remembered how much Kobke had disapproved of his taking the notebook.

After breaking the news to Voyd, he would broach the topic of Kobke. Perhaps without his young friend around, the writer would be more inclined to speak frankly about him.

When Milo left him off at the hotel landing, Urbino told him he could go back to the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini. After talking with Voyd, he would walk the rest of the way to the Questura despite the rain.

The door of Voyd's suite had a
Non disturbi
sign. After a few moments of wondering what he should do, he rang the bell. When there was no response, he rang again. Perhaps Voyd was dozing or couldn't get up easily from the sofa. When there was still no answer, he turned the knob. The door opened silently. The writer must have left it unlocked to avoid getting up for room service now that Kobke was away.

Urbino stepped into the foyer.

“Mr. Voyd? Are you here? It's Urbino Macintyre.”

There was no answer. He continued through the foyer to the sitting room. Once again the first thing he saw was the white baroque facade of Santa Maria della Salute, this afternoon slashed by driving lines of rain.

The second thing was Voyd lying just as before on the sofa—except that this time he had a small hole in his forehead.

The poor man's mouth was open as if he were about to say something or had just finished.

Part Four

THE BONES OF VENICE

1

“NOT only do you refuse to come here in the police boat,” Commissario Gemelli said several hours later, “but you don't even come directly. On the way you make a detour and discover a dead body. And now you're telling me that this man's death has something to do with the murder of Maria Galuppi! Need I remind you again that the case is closed?”

“I know it sounds incredible, but when you consider that Voyd was murdered and Margaret Quinton's notebook was stolen within hours of each other—”

“Even if I agree that there might be a connection between the two—other than yourself—there's no way you can convince me they're related to the Galuppi affair.”

“But Voyd told me himself that Maria Galuppi and Margaret Quinton had become friendly, perhaps even to the point of exchanging confidences. I'm sure that if you looked at her letters to Voyd, you'd find—”

“I'd find, perhaps”—he stressed the word—“that this Quinton and Maria Galuppi were acquainted, that they took coffee together on occasion, that they might even have taken a picnic basket to Torcello in good weather.”

“And there's another thing,” Urbino went on, deciding it best to ignore Gemelli's sarcasm. “Voyd mentioned only yesterday that Quinton had made some entries about Maria in her notebook. Voyd and his friend Kobke—”

“Now there you might have something. He's being brought back from Florence later tonight. There was more to that relationship than met the eye. They had a whole suite to themselves and Voyd paid for everything, even down to newspapers and gratuities. And there was an incident at the hotel restaurant a few nights ago, a heated exchange about a young American woman.”

“Adele Carstairs?”

“We don't know her name. Why do you mention this Carstairs woman?”

“She's Margaret Quinton's niece. They've all been seeing a lot of each other.”

“Yes, I remember the name now. She was very cooperative about her aunt's possessions at the Casa Silviano. Could it be that Kobke and Signorina Carstairs are on especially good terms? From what the headwaiter said Voyd was upset with his friend for always being at the Danieli when he was needed elsewhere. They had some words after the young woman left the table. I believe Signorina Carstairs is staying at the Danieli?” When Urbino didn't say anything, Gemelli smiled. “Why are you so shy of someone else's theories, Signor Macintyre? Would Signorina Carstairs wreck your own house of cards? There are many different kinds of crimes of passion, you know.”

2

THREE days later at four-thirty in the afternoon, Adele Carstairs, in a black dress with a beige lace collar, sat on the sofa in the small parlor of the Palazzo Uccello. Above her was a Bronzino the Contessa had given Urbino several years ago. The tautness and look of restrained inner agitation of the Florentine lady, in her pearls and brocade, mirrored those of the young American woman to an extent that was almost comical—even down to the way their long, thin fingers were splayed in their laps. Kobke, more casual than usual in a Missoni pullover in brown, beige, and blue, was pacing back and forth in front of the closed doors to the balcony. When he saw Urbino, he strode across the room to him.

“At last, Mr. Macintyre,” he said as if he had been kept waiting for hours. “We have very little time.”

Urbino took the young woman's hand.

“It's good to see you again, Miss Carstairs.”

“I wish the circumstances were different. The last time we saw each other it was with dear Clifford—” She reached in her pocketbook for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

When Kobke looked at her sharply, she slipped the handkerchief back into her purse.

“It was Adele's idea to come here this afternoon. I'm not sure that fool of a commissioner would approve.”

“He had to be that way with you, Christian.”

“That way with me! He had me there for three hours asking the same questions over and over again! I wouldn't even repeat some of the things he asked about Clifford.”

To Urbino's surprise Kobke colored.

“Don't forget he had me there for an hour myself. We shouldn't criticize him for doing his job so thoroughly.”

“I'm not talking about thoroughness. I'm talking about indiscretion.”

“But how is he going to find out who killed poor Clifford unless he asks all kinds of questions? Besides, Christian, what's indiscreet for you might not be for a Latin.”

Kobke turned away and went over to the balcony doors, pulling aside the drape to look down into the garden.

“Christian has been through a great deal, Mr. Macintyre. They told him he couldn't stay at the Europa e Regina any longer. The suite was closed off for a day, then there was a problem about the bill, so we thought he would move to the Danieli. He'll leave for Vienna as soon as he can. I'm sure something can be worked out with the Hotel Sacher.” She glanced nervously over at Kobke.

Vienna in winter, Urbino thought, not the best time for love under the lindens but yet it might indicate some finer discrimination. He was about to ask what had brought her to Vienna when she went on.

“Clifford owned the flat in Knightsbridge, you see, and poor Christian doesn't know if hell be able to get his things—there's lots of clothes and artwork—let alone stay there. Of course, we'll both go to London for the memorial service whenever that will be, but—”

“How you do run on, Adele dear,” Kobke said, dropping the drape and turning back to them. “I am sure Mr. Macintyre has little interest in our plans. Don't you think you should tell him why you came?”

Urbino asked if they would like something to drink but Kobke declined for them both and gave his companion a pointed stare. She opened her purse and took out some folded sheets of paper.

“Here, take these,” she said to Urbino.

There were six or seven sheets, some lined, others blocked in the Continental manner, covered with a small, crabbed handwriting, with a lot of deletions and insertions. A three-by-five file card almost slipped to the floor.