The Death of an Irish Consul (18 page)

“Why do you think he would have wanted to kill your husband?”

“Moses?” She shook her head. “He might have killed Cummings, although I don’t really believe that.”

“I saw him pull the trigger,” said McGarr. “He’s since confessed. And twenty years of police work tells me he killed your husband and Browne too. Here is the transcript of that confession. If you don’t read Italian, I can read it for you.”

“Mr. McGarr, Mr. McGarr.” The old man wagged his head. “If you please, remain silent.”

Her mood had changed. “No—not Edward. He wouldn’t have killed Edward. Edward was too—inconsiderable. Edward had always treated Moses fairly. On the other hand, Browne and Cummings—”

“Had treated him badly?” Gallup completed.

“Yes.”

“But you aren’t the beneficiary of a hundred-twenty-five-thousand-pound life insurance policy on either of their lives, are you, Mrs. Hitchcock?” said McGarr. “How would Moses Foster have benefited from their deaths?”

“That’s enough! Interview’s over.” The old man began to stand.

But Mrs. Hitchcock was indignant. “If you mean to imply that Moses Foster will benefit through me from Edward’s death, you are wrong, Mr. McGarr.” She was on her feet now, fists clinched at her side. Her face was flushed.

“He was your lover, wasn’t he? You said you want to see him whenever you can. You even went to Siena three days after your husband was killed to be with Foster. Did you even have time to attend your own husband’s funeral, or was your lust so great you couldn’t find the time?” McGarr asked her. “I mean—what are your
plans?
”

The old man had his hands on his client’s shoulders. “Now, now, now—don’t let him badger you. It’s all a performance. He’s trying to get you angry. Gallup will hear from his superiors about this.”

But she wasn’t listening to him. “Do you mean now? After what you just said—if it’s true—”

“It’s true, all right,” said Gallup. “Here’s my report, in English.”

“—then, I have no plans. I wouldn’t, I
won’t
have anything to do with a murderer. I never want to see him again.” She took the report from Gallup’s hand. “Edward—he said he murdered Edward?”

“Not in so many words,” said Gallup.

She had begun to cry, not as most women do with sobs, but only with her eyes. They gushed tears, although her voice remained steady. “
Not
Edward. Oh,
no—not Edward.” She tried to look at the page. She then tried to wipe the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.

The barrister eased them from the room, saying under his breath, “That was a fairly masterful performance from youngsters like you two fellows, but, as gifted students of the human condition, you undoubtedly realize that my client is blameless. She’s as innocent in this matter as the driven snow. A little indiscreet from time to time, beset with a touch of Indian-summer fever perhaps, but guilty of these ugly murders—never. Are we agreed?”

Gallup seemed to want to nod, but McGarr said, “I’m not agreed on anything in this case. As far as I’m concerned your client is still a murder suspect in the Irish Republic. Also, if we choose to lay charges against her, it’ll be helpful to her for me to know your name. You seemed very anxious for me to identify myself; now it’s your turn.”

“Oh, tut-tut, young man. No need to get nasty. We’re all professionals here.”

That statement only made McGarr bridle more. Professing one’s professionalism, no matter the area of involvement, had always seemed to him the refuge of charlatans. He had always tried to be a professional human being, although he’d never think of telling even his wife that.

“The name is——” The old man seemed to cough. “Ned knows me well. Why, I remember when he started at the Yard.”

Gallup nodded and smiled.

“It’s what?” McGarr asked again.

The old man’s smile crumbled a bit. “Croft,” he said very low.

McGarr didn’t even blink. “Sir Sellwyn Gerrard Montague Croft, no doubt. The very same lawyer who represented Colin Cummings, who recommended he invest in Tartan Limited.”

Croft merely blinked.

“I suppose you also advised Hitchcock and Browne to do the same?”

He said nothing.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me whose conception Tartan was?”

Croft flushed. “Well—it was mine. I saw a chance for my clients and me to make a handy profit, and so I established the financial basis of the concern and then hired several managers and they in turn hired the technical personnel to build the platform and sink the well.”

“And you knew all along your information was privileged?”

Croft said nothing.

McGarr looked at Gallup. It was plain what Gallup had to do—initiate an investigation of Croft’s activities. And Gallup obviously didn’t relish the prospect. He said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to report this, Sir Sellwyn.”

The old man was standing on the top step of the
house, looking over McGarr’s head into the bleary street. His eyes had glassed. His lower lip quivered. “Of course.”

McGarr turned to leave. O’Shaughnessy was waiting for him in a car at the curb.

“McGarr,” said Croft.

McGarr stopped and turned to him.

“I don’t hold it against you. I admire your abilities. You are only doing your job. I guess I must be getting old.” He turned and walked into the house.

Gallup said, “You’ve kicked over a hornet’s nest this time, Peter. That old man represents so many powerful people it rather frightens me how this news will be received.”

“Think of it as a feather in your cap, Ned.”

“Nothing of the kind. You put it together. I wouldn’t think——”

“Don’t think. Do it. It’s my way of paying you back for not telling you I knew who Hitchcock was.”

“What?”

McGarr stepped into the car.

“You knew?”

“Of course. You don’t think everybody from Dublin’s a gobshite, do you?” He motioned to O’Shaughnessy, who drove away.

IT WAS THE MIDDLE
of a torrid afternoon by the time McGarr got back to Siena. He had rented an air-conditioned Alfa Romeo at the Florence airport and didn’t notice the heat until he parked in the Duomo tourists’ lot and stepped out onto the hot paving stones of the piazza. The heat seemed to rise straight through the soles of his shoes. In his rush to return, McGarr had forgotten to change into light clothes. Among the shadows which the
Prefettúra
made, he undid the button beneath his tie, doffed his bowler and suit coat. Across the piazza, all the small shops had lowered their heavy blinds. Not one window in the
Ospedàle
was showing. During the middle of the day like this, the Italians tried to wall out the heat with shutters, blinds, and heavy curtains.

Not so in the office of Carlo Falchi, however. There it was dark, all right, but the coolness resulted from an old air conditioner that groaned and pinged in the aperture of one window. As McGarr opened the door from the outer office, the thermostat kicked on the cooling unit, and the lights flickered warningly. Behind McGarr, a little man with wine-stained teeth rushed into Falchi’s office. He had a mop in his hands and swabbed the area in front of the straining machine. Out of the corner of his eyes, he kept glancing at Foster, who sat on a straight-back chair in the middle of the room. Perhaps on the theory that light and heat are related, Falchi had hung only a fifty-watt bulb from the ceiling and far over Foster’s head. This was the room’s only light. It made Foster’s face all shadow, except for his single gold tooth, which shone, as now, when he smiled.

The man with the mop rushed out of the room.

Falchi directed a jet of the air conditioner toward a dark corner of the room and sat on a chair in its path.

Near the large black man, McGarr turned a chair around and sat on it backwards. “I’ve been back in London for a few days, putting this case in order,” he said. “Do you mind if I speak English?”

“Pourquoi non? Vous me tenez à votre merci dans le procès. Les dés sont pipés contre moi,”
Foster said.

McGarr replied,
“Allez! Cessez cette comédie et soyez sérieux. C’est moi qui commande ici. Vous pigez?”

Foster nodded, but the conversation proceeded in French, much to Falchi’s chagrin.

McGarr allowed the interview to continue in that language on the off chance that Foster might want to make some admission to McGarr that he didn’t want the carabinieri commandant, whose knowledge of French was slight, to understand.

“Among other things, I talked to Graham Hitchcock.”

Foster’s eyes flashed at McGarr. He smiled a little.

“She gives you high marks as a stud, says you serviced her quite well whenever she was in need.

“That’s all you were to her, you know, especially now that she’s got that hundred twenty-five thousand pounds’ insurance payment. By the time you get out of prison here, she’ll be—let’s see—in her seventies and, I should imagine, she’ll have the money all spent. Of course, you’ll have the chunk of change that she put in the bank to make it seem as though Rattei was behind the whole thing, but that’s less than half of her take. And then, it’s you who’ll have to do the time in prisons that are somewhat less than disagreeable.”

Falchi looked down at the Tuscan cigar he was puffing. It looked like a piece of black twisted rope and gave off the smell of salt and pepper heated in an iron pan. The smoke was pale blue.

Foster’s smile was somewhat fuller now.

“Don’t believe me? Well, listen to this.” McGarr reached over and removed a cassette tape recorder from his jacket pocket. He pushed a button and it played Graham Hitchcock’s voice, saying in English, “I have no plans. I wouldn’t, I
won’t
have anything to
do with a murderer. I never want to see him again.” McGarr switched off the recorder. He had worn it strapped to his back throughout the entire interview with Hitchcock’s widow.

Foster had begun a low chuckle that rose slowly into a stunning laugh. The chair creaked as he shook. His gold tooth flashed whenever he craned back his head.

The office door opened and the little man rushed in to mop the puddle in front of the air conditioner.

Carabinieri strained to look in at the roaring black man.

The little janitor rushed out and shut the door.

Foster composed himself, saying,
“C’est bon, c’est bon.”

Falchi glanced at McGarr, who slipped the recorder back into his suit coat, stood, and walked to the air conditioner, a jet of which played cold air onto his face. It stank of dust and refrigerators and old city smells—diesel fumes, cooking odors, fresh wax, wash hanging on lines to dry.

McGarr straightened up. “Well, I guess you’ve got your retirement all secured. You’ve earned it, if you can call killing three harmless old men work.”

“Harmless?” he asked, still chuckling.

“Then you admit to killing them? Strictly off the record, of course.”

Foster shook his large black head. “I question only your use of the word harmless.”

“What was that?” Falchi asked.

McGarr shook his head to mean it was nothing.

Foster added, “Whoever killed Hitchcock and Browne did the world a favor.”

“How so?” McGarr asked.

“Like Cummings, they were scum.”

“You mean, they were disdainful of you. After all, you were worlds apart—you, a common nigger killer-for-pay and they, titled, wealthy, the very best of a very cultivated society.”

Foster laughed again. “You don’t believe that either, little mon. You’re nothing but riffraff in their eyes too. And you know that as well as I. We’re both fairly similar, you and I. We work with them because we have no other choice and we don’t have to like either them or the work we do for them.”

McGarr shook his head. “We’re in different boats entirely. I don’t murder.”

“Nor I, little mon. Nor I. Have you ever killed?”

McGarr nodded.

“As have I. My killings have had the sanction of the democratically elected representatives of large bodies of people. Your executions—both the ones you did with a gun and the others you put before juries to complete—are little different.”

“Not so,” said McGarr. He didn’t care for the direction of the interview, but at least he had Foster talking. “The persons I have killed or apprehended and who then were killed after a due legal process had violated moral strictures which have evolved among men of goodwill since humankind was sentient, and
not
be
cause some self-righteous politician or bureaucrat ordered me to murder and paid me a large sum of money to perform a deed that is so distasteful he couldn’t do it himself. And these last three murders of yours didn’t even have that pseudo-sanction.”

“Morals?” Foster laughed. “Don’t talk morals to me. You go and do your homework, and then come back and we’ll discuss morals. And if you’re not being paid large sums of money you’re even more of a fool than I think you are.”

McGarr waited until Foster quieted some, then asked, “Why did you feel you had to rape Graham Hitchcock? Was that just a concerted effort to get back at the Hitchcocks in your life?”

But that question just made him laugh some more. “Did she tell you that?”

McGarr nodded.

“Oh—that’s rich! Rich!” He kept chuckling. Finally, he said, “She might have thought it a rape because there’s such a noticeable difference in our sizes, understand? Otherwise, it was her idea from the beginning.”

“Even the open door in the laundry room?”

“Especially the open door. She wanted her husband or, for that matter——” He stopped speaking, then smiled at McGarr. “You’re good, do you know that? Not like some of these other——” He looked at Falchi.

McGarr said, “When I first saw you at the inn near Foynes on the Shannon with Rattei, had you planned to have me see you?”

He said nothing, only smiled.

“I know you were speaking Spanish. I heard you.” McGarr turned to Falchi. “Does Rattei speak Spanish?”

Falchi picked up a phone that was sitting on the window ledge near the air conditioner. He spoke into it. A few moments later, he said, “Not as far as anybody knows. Why? How important is it?”

“Extremely so.”

Falchi jiggled the cutoff bar in the yoke of the old black phone.

Foster cocked his head. “You’re very good. I could have killed you up on that roof. I thought about it, too, you know.”

“Fleetingly, I’m sure. You would then have been fired at yourself. They wouldn’t have missed.”

Falchi said, “The last time Rattei went to Spain on business he had to take along a translator.”

“So the man you were talking to wasn’t Rattei, nor was the man at Shannon, nor the man who deposited the money in the Monte dei Paschi.

“Carlo, what’s the name of the bank teller who set up the account for Signor Foster in the Monte dei Paschi?”

“Vincenzo Sclavi.”

“Could you get hold of him?”

While Falchi placed the call, Foster said, “This doesn’t prove anything, now does it?”

“Insofar as I’ve confirmed a suspicion in my own mind that Enrico Rattei was one of your ancillary targets, it matters a great deal.”

Foster said, “Rattei has already been indicted.”

“Falsely, so it seems.
There’s
the difference between you and me, Foster, the one I tried to tell you about earlier.”

Falchi had Sclavi on the line. McGarr introduced himself. Sclavi said he could remember seeing McGarr’s picture in the Italian newspapers years back when McGarr worked for Interpol out of Naples. McGarr asked, “Did the man whom you identified as Rattei have a Spanish accent?”

“How do you mean? In the manner that you have a slight English accent yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Well—now that you mention it—before he told me his name I thought he was Sardinian, you know, some wealthy mobster.”

McGarr knew nearly all Sardinians spoke Italian with a slight Spanish accent because Spain had held that island for centuries in the past. “You’d swear to that?”

“Surely.”

“Would you be willing to listen to Enrico Rattei speak?”

“Of course—I’ll do anything I can to help you and Commandant Falchi.”

Falchi looked glum. “I know I shouldn’t have let you speak to him.”

“It was part of your agreement.”

“At the time I didn’t know you were Mephistopheles.”

McGarr turned back to Foster. “After you were put
on that desk job, you started to make preliminary contacts with the official, London-based Communist party. That’s where you met Battagliatti, wasn’t it? When he came through on his speaking tour as one of the West’s leading Communists?”

Foster started laughing now. “No more, little mon. I think I’ve already said too much. And he”—he indicated Falchi—“surely doesn’t want you to say any more either. So, you’re outvoted.”

McGarr wasn’t put off so easily, however, and continued to question Foster for another half-hour, during which the huge black man said nothing.

It was then that McGarr’s attitude toward having cracked Foster’s story about Rattei changed from elation to gloom. Foster was too veteran at the business of question and answer to be caught so easily, and, what was more, to virtually admit to having been caught.

“And it wasn’t an ideological change that made you seek out the Communists, was it? No. It was because you had information and techniques to sell that might be injurious to the government that had treated you so badly. Also, when Browne, feeling sorry for you, offered you a job with ENI, you took it, if only to be close to him. You knew you could find some way to exact a little vengeance, if you were watchful.

“The Tartan information gave you what you wanted. But you didn’t quite know how to use it, other than getting Browne and Hitchcock sacked and maybe tried for
the theft of corporate secrets—until you met Battagliatti. He said he’d pay you that lump sum—fifty thousand pounds, was it?—if you helped him pin Cummings’s murder on Rattei. The situation was ready-made, wasn’t it? But you weren’t interested in Cummings; he had never done anything to you. You wanted Browne and Hitchcock.

“So, the plan was hatched. On some pretext, Battagliatti arranged to get himself invited to Hitchcock’s vacation home in Dingle. That’s who Hitchcock had been cooking for, wasn’t it? He wouldn’t cook for you, would he? He probably thought you only ate pig’s innards and carp.”

McGarr still couldn’t get a rise out of Foster, who kept laughing.

“Using your old supplies of ketobemidone, you prepared a bottle of wine which Battagliatti brought when he flew the helicopter over from London. You and whoever you hired to play Rattei were in the black Morris Marina rent-a-car down the road. After Hitchcock passed out, Battagliatti waved to you. You probably made the other fellow wait in the car while you bound Hitchcock, carried him to the shed, and dumped him in. You waited until the ketobemidone wore off, searching the house for the cork. Finally, you couldn’t wait any longer and one of you—Battagliatti, I’ll bet; one shot in the back of the head looks like something he probably learned in the Comintern—dispatched the poor bugger.

“Browne was easier. You probably told him Hitchcock wanted a meeting at Dingle. He went along willingly enough until he saw the dark house. You clubbed him, tied his hands, and then put him out of his misery. You then drove back to Shannon and stole aboard the American jet to Russia. That way Ignacio Garcia got out of Ireland without appearing on our computer, that way Moses Foster could return to London with the alibi he’d been in Russia all the time. Even the Russian authorities—against whom he had spied for nine years—would vouch for him.

“Here in Italy, Battagliatti had arranged all the incriminating evidence against Rattei. The idea was for you to give yourself up here where Battagliatti could help you enormously. The Irish authorities would be unlikely to win an extradition with Battagliatti and the Communist party against it. And in eight or ten years you’d be out again, and this time
with
a sizable pension. It was all very neat.”

Foster was still laughing. “Was?” he asked, and laughed even louder. He was holding his sides now. A tear had appeared in the corner of his right eye.