The Death of an Irish Consul (8 page)

The policemen shook their heads.

“That’s because ENI is so good at its job that yester
day we cut their pipe and pieced our own into it. Eventually a permanent well will be erected there.”

McGarr asked, “But what about ENI’s international financial position? Aren’t you overextended?”

Rattei smirked. “I’ve read that too in some financial journals. But that’s why those men must spend their time writing about men like me. They’re rabbits, afraid to take chances.”

“Unlike the men who founded Tartan. Certainly they weren’t afraid to take chances.”

“I think you know how I feel about them.”

“But in a large sense Tartan complicates your financial picture. You floated loans for further oil exploitation based on your purported success here.”

Rattei sighed, opened the desk drawer, and took out the pastille box again. “Signor McGarr, the oil industry is booming. ENI is opening more new wellheads than any other single entity in the world. If one half of these produce even moderately, ENI will dominate the oil picture in twenty years.”

“But if——”

“No ‘but ifs.’ I have no time for ‘but ifs.’ I personally examined all the research reports, and then made my decisions based on forty years of unequaled success in this industry. Fifty percent of the wellheads is my minimum estimate. It can go no lower.” Rattei said that with a conviction that would convince most investment bankers, McGarr believed.

“Now then,” said Rattei, “would you like to speak to my men and this Foster?” He picked up the phone.
“Afterwards, would you please ask Foster to get in touch with me immediately? He should be at our docks in Aberdeen.”

But when after five minutes of ringing Rattei got no answer, he called his job-site chief into the office. Also an Italian, he said he had not been able to reach Hitchcock for the past week and a half, Browne for several days, and had never, in fact, spoken to Foster.

Rattei shrugged. He was disgusted.

As McGarr and O’Shaughnessy put on their overcoats, they could hear Rattei and his job chief discussing their security arrangements. In a rush of Italian, Rattei was saying, “No wonder those bastards knew about that error. They weren’t doing a thing around here but looking for a way to bilk us. I want you to get that Foster in here as soon as you can find him, Maurizio. And have a severance check ready. I don’t care if he’s guilty of corporate theft or not. He had something to do with those——” Rattei couldn’t find an adequate descriptive term. “——and that’s enough for me. Get rid of him.”

For over two hours, the policemen checked Rattei’s explanation of his whereabouts on the days of the murders. McGarr’s Italian passed through a formal, rusty stage, and finally became colloquial again. They could not find one man who appeared to be telling anything but the truth. All corroborated Rattei’s story.

They reached the docks of Aberdeen at nightfall. The ENI office was dark; and the watchman, after
much convincing, finally called Rattei’s office on the oil derrick, received permission, and allowed the Irishmen to search Hitchcock’s and Browne’s offices. They discovered each to be as neat and as free from personal effects as one would expect of two former C.’s of SIS.

In fact, a film of dust covered the top of Foster’s desk.

McGarr picked up the phone and called Hugh Madigan in London.

“Peter! Where in hell have you been? I’ve been calling Dublin and half of Scotland trying to get in touch with you.”

McGarr said nothing. Madigan really never expected dialogue when he had something to disclose. “My contact in the Panamanian embassy got in touch with a certain record keeper in her country. Guess who else is listed as a Tartan officer?”

“Cummings.”

The line remained silent for a moment. “You knew?” Madigan was deflated.

“No—just a lucky guess. I figure Hitchcock, Browne, and Cummings were all part of the same set. When they needed money to launch a venture that might have proved lucrative, they would have kept it among themselves. It’s common knowledge that Cummings is quite wealthy.”

“Do you think, then, that ENI ordered their murders or that Cummings is next?”

Shaking his pack of Woodbines, McGarr placed his lips on the pack and drew out a cigarette. He flicked open the top of his lighter and lit it, holding the flame to the end of the cigarette. The smoke was sweet, relaxing. It was his first cigarette of the day. He was trying to cut down. The office was very quiet. McGarr could hear the slosh of water below them, underneath the docks. “Perhaps Cummings is also a target. It’s been made obvious that Foster is either the actual killer or an accomplice. It’s been made equally clear that Rattei had plenty of, let’s say, ‘overt’ motives to murder Hitchcock and Browne. But why would Rattei have been so careless about traveling with Foster, about being seen with him in public and even by me? Could he have wanted to kill them himself so badly that he couldn’t think of anything else? The crimes themselves were utterly devoid of passion, more
colpi di grazia
”—he used the Italian term instead of the French—“than murders.”

The Garda superintendent nodded once.

“And Rattei could be a consummate actor. Today he seemed so shocked, so completely surprised about the Tartan details.” McGarr was trying to remember something Gallup had told him about Rattei having appeared on television, smiling like a contented tiger. “And now it appears he has two motives to murder Cummings.
That
bothers me.”

“Why two?” Madigan asked.

“It’s complicated,” said McGarr, not wanting to
breach the trust Rattei had asked him to observe. “Lookit, Hugh—could you contact Ned Gallup at CID and tell him everything you know? That way he can provide Cummings with immediate security. This Foster fellow is certainly effective. If Cummings is Foster’s next target, he’ll need some protection.”

“Will do,” said Madigan.

McGarr imagined that giving Madigan the opportunity of calling Gallup with this information would be worth more to Madigan than a thousand formal introductions to the assistant commissioner of CID.

“And another thing,” said McGarr, knowing the time was ripe to ask for a favor. “Could you put a few feelers out about Rattei? You know, personal things, what he’s like as a human being, his passions, vices if any, his hobbies and preoccupations.”

“I wasn’t the only one who has been making inquiries about Tartan in Panama.”

“Really?”

“Lawyers in London by the name of Loescher, Dull, and Griggs made a query three weeks ago.”

“Could you find out who they represent?”

“For a fee.”

“Of course.” McGarr rang off.

“Hadn’t we better call Cummings himself?” asked O’Shaughnessy.

McGarr remembered that he had used operator 78-
H
and surmised that in the case of emergency she could connect the proper party with the C. of SIS. A half-
hour later, during which time both of them ransacked the office for a drink with no success, the phone rang. It was Cummings.

When McGarr told him his life was in imminent danger, Cummings scoffed, “That’s the nature of my profession, Mr. McGarr.” But plainly he was concerned.

“Well, the nature of mine is that of apprehending whoever killed Hitchcock and Browne. And for either of two reasons or both, I believe that you are the killer’s next target.”

“That’s rubbish—who would want to kill me and why?”

“I can explain it to you in detail.”

“Not now, you can’t. I’ve got a dinner engagement.”

“Where?” McGarr wanted the information in case Gallup was too late in reaching Cummings.

“Is that really any of your business?” Cummings was trying to act superior again, unafraid, on top of it all.

McGarr knew, however, the stance was feigned. He sighed. “Let me tell you a thing or two, Mr. C. of SIS. I really wish it weren’t. Everything I’ve seen in this case leads me to believe that you are being set up. Enrico Rattei—do you know him?”

Cummings paused. “Yes. What do you mean being ‘set up’?”

“You are being set up to be murdered. Why would Rattei want to kill you?”

“Well—all this is absolutely out of place over the telephone and I’ve got to rush, but I suppose it’s common knowledge in certain circles that, when I married
Enna, Enrico Rattei vowed he would kill me if I ever dared return to Italy.”

“And, have you ever?”

“No, but I plan to soon. I don’t think I’ve told you, but I’m being named ambassador to Italy tomorrow. One of my first official acts there will be to represent our country—excuse me—the United Kingdom at the Palio. Which reminds me. I’ve got to hang up. The dinner engagement I spoke of is at the Italian embassy. They want to welcome me and all that. I must go.”

“One more question,” said McGarr. “How long ago did you know you were going to be named ambassador?”

“At least six months. It was then that the ministry began screening candidates to succeed me in my present post. Satisfied?”

“One more.”

“McGarr!”

“How’s your investment in Tartan Limited working out?”

“In what?”

“Tartan Limited. You know—the Panamanian outfit.”

“Really now, you’re beginning to become difficult.”

“The oil company. The one that’s operating in Scotland.”

Cummings sighed. “For official purposes, all my money—that is, the money my father left me and the money I received as dowry from Enna’s family—was placed in a blind trust some twenty-eight years ago.
The only business that I concern myself with is that which might interfere with the operations of the British government in foreign countries.”

“But unofficially, did you know that you are listed as an officer of Tartan Limited?”

“Of course. It’s a splendid investment. My lawyer told me about it.”

“Did you know that Hitchcock and Browne were the controlling officers?”

“No—they couldn’t be. They work for ENI. My lawyer would have told me if they were.”

“Does your lawyer belong to your club?”

“Certainly. He’s an old school chum.”

“May I have his name?”

“It’s Croft. Sir Sellwyn Gerrard Montague Croft.”

“How long will you be at the Italian embassy?”

“I don’t know. Hours, I suspect—cocktails, dinner, and entertainment after that. Why?”

“I’m going to stop ’round.”

“What?”

“I won’t embarrass you, don’t worry.”

“You had better not. And I don’t want any talk about Browne, Hitchcock, or Tartan Limited, do you understand?” Cummings hung up.

“What’s worse,” O’Shaughnessy asked, standing, “a little embarrassment or a little lead?”

“Taken in the proper amounts, it only dulls the brain.” McGarr called a cab that took them to the airport.

There, waiting for a plane to Heathrow, McGarr called Noreen, who had been staying at the Carlton
since morning. Earlier in the day, McGarr believed that he would be busy in London for some time, at least until the Hitchcock and Browne murder investigations were solved or met some new impasse. Now, however, he wasn’t so sure. The Palio was only three days away. Besides getting a line on Foster’s whereabouts, McGarr believed Cummings was his only immediate lead, that is, if Foster tried to murder him. Also, McGarr firmly believed that Foster wasn’t alone in all of this, that he was just working for a payoff and no doubt a very large one indeed, some figure only a man like Rattei could afford. Thus, McGarr asked Noreen to put on her most formal gown and meet him at the Italian embassy in two hours. Noreen’s precise and diminutive beauty would make McGarr inconspicuous. He wouldn’t even be seen.

Next, he called Bernie McKeon in Dublin and asked him to assign a detail of men to tail Rattei. He said they’d require the use of a helicopter, automobiles, and a sizable amount of expense money.

Lastly, McGarr called the Irish embassy in London and arranged to have a limousine pick up Noreen at the Carlton and another one meet them at the airport. At the speeds McGarr planned to have the car move, they would require diplomatic immunity. Also, admission to the Italian embassy was probably no more than having arrived in a large, official automobile.

And McGarr was right. The semicircular drive was lined with Rollses and Bentleys, Cadillacs, an antique
Lamborghini, Lancias, and Citroëns. Noreen popped out of a Mercedes and met McGarr in front of the building.

And McGarr was indeed correct about Noreen as well. She was wearing the satin dinner dress that had cost McGarr nearly a whole month’s salary when they had gone to Paris on holiday the year before. In a small country like Ireland, the second-ranking police official was often invited to state affairs. The dark blue dress complemented Noreen’s copper hair; the cut emphasized her posture and precise features. In all, she seemed to be a creature from a more refined age, when beauty was a delicate arrangement of proportion. On her chest she wore three strands of pearls. The effect was stunning. Immediately, Cummings himself engaged her in conversation.

The dinner had just ended, and cigars and cognac were being served in the salon of the embassy. There, a small orchestra had begun playing a Scarlatti concerto.

McGarr and O’Shaughnessy gave their coats to a butler, and the two men weaved their way through the guests to explain their presence to the Irish ambassador.

Moments later, a woman approached the three men.

“Enna,” said John Frances, the Irish ambassador to England, “I don’t believe you’ve met Peter McGarr, Ireland’s premier sleuth, and his Watson, Liam O’Shaughnessy.”

The Garda superintendent blushed.

“I’m certainly pleased to make your acquaintance,
Chief Inspector,” Mrs. Cummings said in a voice that was low, at once throaty but soft, and just slightly accented. “My husband has told me much about you and your associate. Your competence astounds him. Scotland Yard, it seems, now has some competition at last.” It had been Enna Ricasoli Cummings’s face that the masters of the Sienese school had been trying to paint, McGarr imagined. Perfectly oval with a long, thin nose and dark eyes, she looked like a Matteo di Giovanni Madonna to him. He had often accompanied his own wife to Siena in pursuit of her hobby, art history. McGarr could imagine the young Enrico Rattei, having lived among the hundreds of Duccio, Simone Martini, Andrea Vanni, Sodoma, Sanno di Pietro, Bartolo di Fredi, and Lorenzetti Madonnas during the nine years in which he pursued his dottoria in economics, suddenly looking upon the youngest daughter of the revered Ricasoli family and loving her with a passion that his country’s culture reinforced.