Empress Bianca (27 page)

‘Dear Clara,’ Bianca said, fixing the other woman with a gaze of concern and sincerity. ‘I wish I could put you up, but my whole family has descended upon me, and there just isn’t room for anyone else. I hope you don’t mind. I couldn’t very well tell my family they can’t stay with the widow in an empty house because I have to keep it vacant for the sister-in-law when she arrives. I’ll see that you’re booked into the Presidential Suite at the Hotel Imperiale. You’ll be very comfortable there. And, of course, the business will pick up the tab… I only bring up the money so that you’ll see that I’m doing everything in my power to make life as comfortable and agreeable for you as possible at this most difficult time.’

Deciding that it was better to say nothing, Clara simply glared at Bianca, scarcely able to believe her ears. Maybe Bianca wasn’t such a brainless opportunist after all. They got into the car.

‘Have the police had the autopsy results back yet?’ Clara asked.

‘Yes,’ Bianca said quietly and started to sniffle as if she were about to break down crying.

‘Well…what did they say?’

Bianca’s sniffles increased. ‘This is so painful…’ she said, trailing off.

‘I know it’s difficult for you, but it’s also difficult for me,’ Clara replied. ‘He was my brother, after all, and I knew him a lot longer than you did. If I can grit my teeth and face facts, then so can you.
Courage, ma cherie
.’

Bianca looked over at Magdalena as if she wanted to be rescued. ‘If Bianca finds it all too difficult to speak about,’ the younger woman said ‘maybe you should ask someone else, Mama.’

‘I think if Bianca knows the results, she should tell us,’ Clara said.

‘The autopsy shows that he shot himself through the heart,’ Bianca said with evident agitation, knowing that it was better if her sister-in-law heard it from her first. ‘You know how thorough Ferdie was. He made sure he didn’t botch the job. He shot himself twice.’

‘Twice?’ Clara said, shooting a look across at Rodolfo, who sat opposite her in the back of the Lincoln Continental. ‘What was the range?’

‘Point-blank.’

‘Twice through the heart at point-blank range?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s not possible.’

‘Anything was possible with Ferdie. He was the most exceptional human being…and nothing if not thorough. You of all people know that only too well.’

‘My dear Bianca,’ Clara said icily, ‘thoroughness is a matter of character. Death is a matter of fact. Dead people cannot shoot themselves. Anyone who is shot through the heart once cannot shoot himself again in the same organ.’

‘Why would anyone want to kill Ferdie?’ Bianca asked so innocently that Clara became convinced that she must have had a hand in her brother’s death.

Clara decided to play her cards close to her chest. ‘You know, Bianca,’ she said in an almost patronizing tone, as if she still took Bianca to be the imbecile, ‘Ferdie was a very successful businessman. He must have had many enemies. Any one of them could’ve killed him.’

Bianca’s response reaffirmed Clara’s earlier hunch that Bianca might have had something to do with her brother’s death. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head violently. ‘Everyone loved my husband. He was the most revered entrepreneur in Mexico. It’s not possible. And,’ she added, a triumphant note creeping into her voice, ‘to show you how completely wrong you are about anyone else having a hand in his death, did you know he cleared the house of everyone before he did the deed? That’s right. He sent me to Raoul d’Olivera’s house with Manolito. He gave all the servants the afternoon off. He made sure the house was empty. Is that the conduct of someone who intends to kill himself or someone who sits in wait for an imaginary killer? No, Clara, your theory defames and dishonours my
husband, and I will have none of it.’

‘You have a unique perspective,’ Clara replied witheringly, ‘but I don’t propose to get involved in a brawl with you.’

‘It’s going to be a busy few days,’ Magdalena said, hoping to channel the conversation away from controversy, ‘what with making the funeral arrangements and all that.’

‘Your mother very kindly offered to help when we first spoke, but I’ve been muddling through on my own. Decisions had to be made, and I couldn’t leave things until you arrived. The funeral’s scheduled for next Monday. The cathedral. Three o’clock. The archbishop will take the service. Philippe and Raymond will read lessons, and so will Raoul d’Olivera. The president and two of the Orleans-Braganza princes from Brazil are coming,’ Bianca said sweetly, looking at Clara.

At this point in the conversation the limousine pulled up in front of the hotel, and Clara hurtled out of the car before Bianca could even draw breath. ‘A wife of less than two years and about to be divorced, and she’s the one taking over the funeral arrangements of my brother? I don’t think I’ve ever encountered such gall,’ Clara said to herself, trying to shake off the dirty feeling that clung to her after this encounter.

‘There’ll be no need to come in,’ she said to Bianca. ‘You must be very tired. Go back to my family home and get a good night’s sleep. And thanks for coming to meet us at the airport. I appreciate what you did,’ Clara added, delivering the
coup de grâce
and hoping Bianca would understand the implications of what she was saying.

‘It’s so nice to be appreciated,’ Bianca said warmly, ‘and yes, I am very tired. I can’t wait to get back to my home and collapse into my bed,’ she continued, replying to Clara’s pointed claim to joint ownership of the family home. ‘Call me tomorrow when you surface.’

Of course Bianca had no intention of keeping someone as astute as Ferdie’s brainy sister at anything less than arm’s length, so, the following day, when Clara telephoned, Bianca had the butler inform her that she was not feeling well and was in bed. To maintain the illusion of family solidarity Clara in turn left an ostensibly friendly message, asking that her sister-in-law call her when she was up and about. The remainder of the day was so busy that Clara did not notice until ten o’clock that evening that Bianca had not returned her call.

The main reason why Clara had been so distracted was that word had spread in Mexico that she was in town, staying at the Hotel Imperiale, and by midday the trickle of friends and business associates had become a flood.

After that, even if Clara had wanted to get away from the many callers, it would have been difficult to do so. The Mexican custom of dropping in to pay their respects to the members of the deceased person’s family - and for that family to reciprocate by showing hospitality - ensured that she was constrained to uphold a custom that also conveyed the regard in which people had held her brother. The widow, on the other hand, was not receiving callers and remained cloistered with only her children, ex-husband and parents for company, having instructed the servants to direct all callers to Clara at the Imperiale.

By the end of that first day, Bianca had established a pattern that kept Clara out of her way while allowing her to present herself as the grieving widow to a wider public. Not that Clara was starved of information on what was going on in Bianca’s household. Magdalena was spending much of her time at the Piedraplata family home. Her daughter, like many of her peers in full rebellion against the authority symbolized by her parents, could see every side of every question except that of her own mother. ‘I feel sorry for Bianca,’ she said on the night before the funeral. ‘At a time when she needs all the help she can get, not only does she have to contend with a sister-in-law who doesn’t like her, but her son Pedro decides to flip his lid.’

‘I’d be a lot more convinced by this grieving widow act if I didn’t know that your uncle intended to divorce her,’ Clara replied, well used to Magdalena’s cutting remarks. ‘But what’s that you say about Pedro’s flipping his lid?’

‘He’s flipped his lid. Gone crazy. Loco. We were sitting around the pool having coffee after lunch. Bianca and Philippe came out to join us. Bianca said something to the effect that Uncle Ferdie could be a real bastard at times. Pedro said he’d always liked him, and she replied: “Of course you did. He was always very nice to you. But then, he would’ve been. He identified with you. He felt you were both victims. But the truth is, neither of you has ever been anyone’s victim.” Pedro just went crazy. He accused her of never loving him. Of never loving Uncle Ferdie. Bianca started to cry, but this only made Pedro even angrier. He said: “What are
you crying for? You never loved him, and you don’t love me. You only married him for his money. You broke up our family so that you could social climb.” Bianca started to cry even harder. Philippe tried to intercede, but Pedro wasn’t having any of it. He told him to keep out of it and said to Bianca: “You can’t fool me. I know the way you function. Don’t think we didn’t figure out what was going on between you and Uncle Ferdie this summer. You think we couldn’t tell that he was getting fed up with you? He could see through you just the way I can. He knew he couldn’t trust those smiles or tears of yours, and I’ll bet you had him killed because he wanted to be rid of you.” I tell you, Mummy, you could’ve heard a pin drop as far away from as Geneva when Pedro said that. Bianca looked as if he’d slapped her hard in the face. She was completely shocked and appalled…like a doe caught in the headlights of a car on a highway.’

‘What did Julio and Antonia say? For that matter, what did you say?’

‘Julio said Pedro should keep his voice down before the servants heard what he was saying. Antonia and I said nothing, but Philippe said: “This is a terrible accusation for a son to make against his mother. It’s immoral and obviously untrue. She was with the wife of the minister of the interior when Ferdie shot himself.” Pedro started to laugh and said: “You’re a man of the world, Philippe. You know as well as I do, you don’t have to pull the trigger yourself to kill someone. This is Mexico, man. You can hire anyone to solve any problem. Well, dearest Mama, your problem’s solved. You don’t have to put up with Uncle Ferdie any longer, and you’ve got his money, which is all you ever wanted from him in the first place. You even have the best alibi anyone in Mexico could come up with. The wife of the minister of the interior, indeed! Unfortunately, whoever shot Uncle Ferdie was too efficient, and only a fool would buy the explanation that he shot himself through the heart twice just to make sure he was dead.” Bianca was wailing like a baby by this time, so Philippe said: “You don’t have the right to speak to your mother like this.” Pedro looked at him very scornfully and said: “You’re just like my father. You’d swallow any line she comes up with. Well, work it out for yourself, Philippe. How is it possible for a right-handed man to shoot himself through the heart with the gun in his left hand? Then, to compound the impossibility of it all, he repeats the process a second time? Come on, this is bullshit. Someone killed Uncle Ferdie, and if Mama isn’t behind it, she’ll use some of that money she’s going to
inherit to get Uncle Ferdie some justice. The guy deserves it.”’

‘Well, I don’t believe it,’ Clara said, shaking her head before continuing, ‘Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings…so what happened next?’

‘Nothing really. Philippe took Bianca inside. Julio, Antonia, Pedro and I stayed outside, and Pedro and Julio lit up a joint.’

Magdalena, knowing that her mother disapproved of the custom of marijuana smoking, expected her to launch into her usual homily about the evils of the weed. This time, however, she totally ignored it. ‘Are you telling me that Julio and Antonia didn’t disagree with their brother,’ she merely said, ‘or argue with him or anything like that?’

‘No. They just ignored it.’

‘So they think Bianca killed your Uncle Ferdie too. Every word Pedro said was both true and fair. You do realize that, don’t you, Magdalena? Even down to the fact that Uncle Ferdie was going to divorce her.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because, my dear child, your uncle telephoned me two days before he was murdered and told me that that was what he was going to do. He said he was giving Bianca until Sunday to move out of the house. Two evenings later, he’s dead. Well, we’ll just have to see what we can do about bringing his murderers to justice. One thing’s for sure. This was no accident. And more than one person was involved.’

A
rich man’s funeral is always an event no matter how little or how much he was loved. It is his leave-taking of the world, the yardstick by which everyone measures him: the richer the man, the greater the event.

While Ferdie’s funeral was heartrending for those who loved him, they could take comfort from the small things, even as the humblest mourner does. Whatever her flaws, Bianca’s sense of showmanship ensured that the service had the flair that was already one of her most pronounced characteristics. There was only one word for the funeral: magnificent. It was a leave-taking fit for a king. The cathedral was packed. Not only was the president of Mexico there, along with five - not two, as Bianca had told Clara - members of the Imperial Family of Brazil but also people as disparate as Prince Johannes von Thurn und Taxis; Ferdie’s two ex-wives, Gloria and Amanda, and just about everyone else he had ever done business with, entertained or been entertained by.

The islands of people clustered around the cathedral told their own story, but by far the largest group consisted of the workers of Calorblanco who had drawn lots for places in the cathedral in the lottery which Raymond and Philippe, in conference with Clara, had judged to be the fairest way of deciding who should be inside and who outside. Those who lost out listened to the service over loudspeakers along with the thousands of Mexico City citizens who had come along to witness the spectacle of Mexico’s richest man taking leave of this world.

The Archbishop of Mexico, assisted by twelve priests, gave a rousing sermon about the transience of this world and the unimportance of its
goods. This message contrasted with the splendour of his robes, but what was even more striking was that he took the mass at all, for suicides were not supposed at that time to be buried according to Catholic rites in consecrated ground. The Archbishop, however, had circumvented that troublesome point by making a passing reference to the dangers of cleaning your gun and how easy it was for accidents such as this to be mistaken for something more ominous. This remark was greeted by a collective intake of breath on the part of the richer members of the congregation, all of whom started wondering how large a donation Bianca or Clara or Anna Piedraplata had been obliged to give to the church to ensure Ferdie a Christian burial. The answer was $30,000, paid out of Bianca’s own pocket.

This sum was insignificant compared with the $30,000,000 that was being paid into an account Philippe had opened for Raoul d’Olivera with the Banco Imperiale in Geneva at the same time as the minister of the interior was standing in the pulpit, reading the First Lesson from
1Corinthians
: ‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become as sounding brass or clanging cymbal…’

The morning after Ferdie’s death, Mexico City’s chief of police had arrived at the Piedraplata house to question Bianca. Not realizing that she was the prime suspect in her husband’s murder, she had invited him into the drawing-room and had offered him coffee.

He had started the interview by saying, ‘Señora, we’re not here on a social call. We have reason to believe that your husband may not have committed suicide. We need an account of all your movements for the last seventy-two hours.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ she said, startled by this new development.

‘Where were you yesterday morning?’ he continued harshly.

Harshness had always brought out the rebel in Bianca. As soon as the chief of police’s tone became abrasive, she felt her blood rise. ‘If you’re going to treat me like a common criminal,’ she said, jumping to her feet and crossing to the telephone, ‘you’ll have no objection if I wait until my lawyer and my husband’s business partners come here before answering any more of your questions.’ She called her lawyer, Juan Gilberto Macias, first. He said he would be with her in as many minutes as it would take for his driver to get him across town. He also warned her not to say anything to the chief until he arrived. Then she rang Philippe and asked
him to come over with Raymond. ‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll ring Raoul d’Olivera and get him to call his bloodhounds off the scent. Just stall for time until Raoul orders that creep to leave you alone.’

Philippe then telephoned Raoul d’Olivera, who had been waiting for this call and had already instructed his secretary to interrupt whatever he was doing if Señor Raymond Mahfud, Señor Philippe Mahfud, or Señora Piedraplata should ring him.

As far as the interior minister was concerned, this was the big one: his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make a killing. In a manner of speaking, he had been waiting all his professional life for this one telephone call. He had always taken bribes in the certain knowledge that one day someone would need so huge a favour that he would be able to throw caution to the wind and overcharge with the same degree of exactitude that he had limited his takings in the past. Year in, year out, he had garnered a reputation as someone with whom everyone could do business while patiently bearing in mind that his reputed lack of greed would ideally place him to demand the ultimate bribe.

Soon after the police had realized that Ferdie Piedraplata had died from a gunshot wound to the heart, the officer in charge had telephoned the chief of police, who had in turn alerted Raoul to the death. This was routine procedure. The fact that the richest man in Mexico had died from unnatural causes made it imperative that the minister of the interior and the chief of police would be involved, and, once the former was informed that Ferdie had died from unnatural causes, he instructed his subordinates to keep him closely informed. Before Ferdie’s body had even been transported to the morgue, Raoul d’Olivera knew that there was little prospect that his death was anything but murder. This belief was reinforced when the officers interrogating the servants provided the information that Bianca had given them the afternoon off, claiming that it had been upon Señor Piedraplata’s orders.

Raoul almost admired Bianca’s audacity in establishing an alibi for herself at his own house. Clever, yes - but not so clever that she hadn’t left her tracks uncovered elsewhere. Already Ferdie’s lawyer, Ignacio Ribero, had provided him with the information that Bianca and Manolito were the sole beneficiaries of Ferdie’s Mexican estate. That alone was motive enough for his widow to have him killed. ‘Had Bianca been a truly clever woman,’ Raoul reflected, ‘she would have persuaded Ferdie to give the
servants the time off himself. But she cleared out the house herself. In so doing, she’s made it easy for any prospective prosecutor to create a strong circumstantial case against her. The question isn’t whether a jury would find her guilty: it’s whether she would wish to be tried for murder.’

Having a crystalline view of Bianca’s predicament, the minister of the interior then ordered the chief of police himself to interrogate her. This was nothing more or less than the exertion of pressure, for who else could Bianca turn to for protection against the chief of police than his superior, the minister of the interior?

The timing of the plan was so smooth, so subtle, so sure that Raoul would have derived pleasure from its execution had he not genuinely liked Ferdie Piedraplata. Whatever his failings Raoul d’Olivera was not an evil man, nor was he a callous one. But business was business, so when the call that he hoped would change his life for all time came, Raoul answered chirpily.

‘Philippe, dear friend,’ he said, as if he had no clue what the other man might want from him. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve just had Bianca on the phone. She says the chief of police is interrogating her about Ferdie’s suicide in a manner that makes her wonder if he doesn’t suspect her of having a hand in it.’

As Philippe was speaking, Raoul remembered the gossip about him being in love with Bianca. Of course, it would make perfect sense for her to get Philippe to arrange the hit.

‘Have they detained her?’ he asked, deliberately keeping such things in mind.

The very idea filled Philippe with horror, as had Raoul hoped it would. ‘Good God, no,’ he replied. ‘They’re questioning her at home.’

‘That’s their job, Philippe. Don’t you know that more murder victims are eliminated by members of their own family than by third parties? Bianca is the person who profits most from her husband’s death. For what it’s worth, Philippe, the police are quite rightly looking at Ferdie’s death as a possible homicide.’

Philippe had to be careful - very careful. ‘Raoul,’ he said, ‘you’re a man of the world. A woman like Bianca simply isn’t used to being treated like a common criminal. As Ferdie’s partner and friend, I feel it’s my duty to protect her now that he’s no longer around to do so. I know you’re a man of kindness and understanding, and I’m prepared to show you my appreciation
in any way you’d like. My own suggestion is that you instruct the chief to desist from asking questions that only upset her. Put yourself in her shoes. Her husband’s just committed suicide. She’d worried that people will think that she drove him to his death by making his life miserable. She’s caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, so to speak. On the one hand, if she justifies his cause of death as suicide, she opens herself up to accusations of being a bad wife. On the other hand, if she argues that one of his enemies killed him, she’s dishonouring his memory. I’m sure Ferdie would want me to obtain your cooperation, to ensure that his wife doesn’t have to face that kind of lurid questioning, especially at a time when she’s coming to terms with such a sudden and tragic loss.’

‘There’s also another dimension to this,’ Philippe continued, without pausing for breath. ‘Think of the effects such an investigation will have financially. It will be disastrous. For Calorblanco. For the banks. For the employees. For the economy. For Mexico. Ferdie’s dead and gone. It’s never been a secret that he suffered from depression. It’s really best for all concerned that he’s left to rest in peace, which is what he wanted, after all.’

‘He’s good,’ Raoul thought. ‘He’s very good.’ The underlying hint of the bribe was unmistakeable. ‘I agree that this is a difficult time for Bianca,’ he replied, ‘and, of course, I feel for her as a friend. But just as I can’t allow my friendship with her to influence the police investigation, equally I have a duty to consider the wider issues, and how they affect the financial security of this country.’

‘The people of Mexico will be sincerely grateful to you for protecting their interests. I know how public-minded you are. I’ve been thinking of suggesting to you for a long time now that we establish a foundation for you to use to endow whichever charitable causes you wish to support.’

‘Your idea of funding a foundation for me to benefit the deserving in this country is just the sort of public-spirited initiative that we need,’ Raoul said. ‘It’s a brilliant idea, Philippe, but I think it would be better for the future recipients of the foundation if it’s set up outside Mexico, possibly in Switzerland, which is so economically stable. That way we guard against the economic downturns which have been such a feature in this part of the world over the last decade.’

‘Agreed. I’ll get in touch with my people in Geneva and make the
arrangements for the funds to be transferred into the name of a foundation of your choice…’

‘I suppose you’d prefer that we keep the existence of this foundation and the donations it makes to the needy secret?’

‘Of course,’ Philippe agreed. ‘We don’t want the taxman getting in on the act and taking his slice of a cake that should remain in the hands of the needy…’

‘Since it’s going to be doing such good work, I’d rather like the foundation to bear my name…’

‘Why don’t we make things even simpler? Geneva can open a numbered account with you as the ultimate beneficiary…that way you’ll have absolute control over all the funds and you can be as discreet or as open as you wish with your donations…no one but you and your bankers need ever know the source of any of your donations, unless, of course, you want to go public with them… If you have a numbered bank account, all the activities of the foundation will retain the element of anonymity. As you’re the only person who will have control over those funds, you’ll be, so to speak, your very own, personal charitable foundation…’

‘Good thinking,’ said Raoul.

‘Now all we have to do is agree on what the starting sum is.’

‘That’s right,’ Raoul said, letting his words hang in the air.

‘I think something in six figures would be a healthy start for all the good works you will do,’ Philippe replied, jumping right in.

Raoul did a quick calculation. Calorblanco and the banks in Mexico alone were known to be worth over $400,000,000. Bianca would be the beneficiary of half of that. He had no doubt that Ferdie would also have salted away vast sums abroad. Raoul laughed pointedly and without amusement. ‘My good friend, if one wishes to be charitable, one needs at least seven or eight figures. We must think of all the good we’re going to do for the needy.’

‘I don’t know that the funds will be available for an endowment on that scale…’ Philippe began, realizing that this was going to be harder than he thought.

‘That’s quite all right, my good friend,’ the politician said with an ease that he both did and did not possess. ‘We’re only bouncing around ideas that have emanated from you. If something isn’t to your taste, that’s fine by me. I needn’t remind you that everything, from the initiation of this
conversation to what we’re now discussing, has been at your instigation.’

Philippe was quiet on the other end of the line. Raoul, however, was used to the various techniques employed by people wanting favours. Sure enough, just before Raoul ran out of patience Philippe said, without any hint of emotion: ‘I suppose the party in question could rise to the low sevens if necessary.’

‘I myself was thinking more of the mid eights…’ Raoul said, so lightly they might have been speaking about $50,000 US instead of $50,000,000.

Once more Philippe took his time before replying. This time Raoul almost enjoyed the delay as he savoured the moment that might lead to the big one. He could taste adrenalin on his palate. He started to beat a jaunty rhythm on his desk with his index and third fingers.