The Venetian Affair (33 page)

“He was overdescriptive for a man who didn’t arrive on the scene until the two bodies were taken away,” Holland said coldly. As Claire looked at him, he added, “Keep your attention on Fenner! And for bodies, read dummies.”

Claire addressed Fenner obediently. “What’s wrong?” she asked frankly. Chris was usually good company, with a string of bright remarks. He could turn any situation, however grim, into comedy. Normally, he would have taken Bill’s gruesome joke and expanded it to something really hideously funny. “Chris—” She was inexplicably, and deeply, worried.

“I circled another paragraph, too,” he said, “on the next page.”

Fenner turned over the sheet quickly. He heard Claire’s
sudden gasp as she saw the ten lines of close type, headed
FATAL ACCIDENT ON PARIS–ZAGREB EXPRESS
. She drew back from him, her body rigid. Fenner stared at the lines. He knew, before he read them. He knew, and he didn’t want to read. But he read.

Last night, Emile Daubenton and Jean Lacordaire, cousins, both from the village of Darcey, discovered the body of a man lying beside the railway line over which the Simplon Express had passed less than one hour previously. From the contents of his pockets, the man has been identified as John McNally of New York City, travelling to Milan. It is thought that M. McNally slipped, or fell, from the express, about eleven kilometres east of Les Laumes, as it travelled at highest speed before starting the ascent through the Cöte-d’Or. M. McNally was travelling alone, and his tragic accident was unobserved.

Claire’s face had bleached white under its sun tan as she watched Fenner. At last she said, “It’s about Neill, isn’t it?” She held out her hand for the paper. She read it, her face masked; and when the reading was over she let the sheet of newspaper drop. She rose, looking at neither Fenner nor Holland, abruptly opening the small door that led to the prow of the boat.

“Let her be,” Holland’s quiet voice said, stopping Fenner as he rose, too. Claire was sitting, numbed and still, on a wooden bench, her body half-turned away from the cabin.

Fenner came back to his armchair. The two men faced each other grimly. Holland said, “We have been able to calculate the time of Neill’s death: I glanced at my watch when I saw him walking through the dining car, and the engine driver could give
us the exact time the train passed eleven kilometres east of Les Laumes. It’s a lonely spot, just before the line starts climbing the Cöte-d’Or hills. If it hadn’t been for a couple of poachers taking a short cut along the rails, we’d still be searching for Neill.” He paused, frowning down at the spilling ashtray.

“When was he killed?”

“Soon after he left the dining car. Who followed him into that goods van—did you see?”

The freight car, with its opened side door, with the cold wind rushing past... “Jan Aarvan.”

“You are sure?” Holland asked quickly.

Fenner nodded. “Didn’t you recognise him?”

“From where I sat, I could only see his back. I didn’t know he was on the train. Neill had made no contact with me at all. That was our arrangement: raise no suspicion, no alarm. It seemed safer—for everyone.”

For us, Fenner thought, for Claire and me and our innocent journey. But not for Neill Carlson. “He must have warned someone that he had seen Aarvan. I noticed some plain-clothes police board the train at Dijon.”

Holland nodded. “Neill did get a message through to Rosie, just before the train pulled out of the Gare de Lyon. He told Rosie to alert the Sûreté that he would be waiting for its agents on board the train at Dijon. He could identify Aarvan for them.” Holland frowned again. “I saw them get on the train. And wondered. And could do nothing—not even identify myself.” He looked at Fenner. “Jan Aarvan didn’t know you had recognised him?”

“I think not.”

“I hope not,” Holland said softly. “Be alert, will you, Fenner? At any other time, I’d be amused by the situation. Of
all the people we’ve got here in Venice, you’re the only one who could pick out Jan Aarvan in a crowd without any hesitation.” He remembered Claire’s remarks about Aarvan. Worriedly, he asked, “When did you tell Claire about Aarvan?”

“When we were well clear of the raft. I’m not such a fool as that, Holland.” He looked toward Claire. “I’m not going to leave her alone out there,” he said, and started to rise.

“Wait—what are your plans for this evening?”

“A drink at Florian’s around six-thirty. Then dinner at Quadri’s. At ten, we take a gondola ride with an old friend of Claire’s—his name is Zorzi. He parks his gondola at the bridge near your camera shop.”

“Zorzi,” Holland repeated. “I’ll let Rosie know.” He glanced out of the window. “Better bring Claire inside before we start cruising up the Giudecca. And take a look at the Soviet freighter that is docked there. She’s supposed to sail on Thursday.” Holland studied his hands. “She has been loading all day.”

“You think Sandra—” Fenner hesitated. A clever act put on for Rosie’s benefit in the Tuileries. A trick, a trap? “More lies?” he asked quietly.

“Not altogether. There must be some truth in her warning. Why else would Aarvan want to stop Neill from reaching Venice?”

Yes, there was that. But couldn’t Sandra tell the whole truth, honestly, just once in her life?

“Aarvan—” began Holland, and stopped. He was beginning to sound emotional, and that wouldn’t do, that wouldn’t do at all. We’ll get him yet, Holland thought, we’ll get him. He stared impassively ahead.

“How did Aarvan murder Neill before he threw him off the train? With a bullet in the back?”

Holland’s quiet mask slipped. He looked at Fenner. “Yes,” he said, watching the American with a new respect.

It would have to be a bullet, or a knife, in the back. Carlson hadn’t been the type to be pushed off a train, Fenner thought as he stepped through the door to reach Claire.

The motorboat was leaving the lagoon, making one last sweep around the small island of San Giorgio before it cut up the Giudecca Canal. He took Claire’s hands between his and sat down beside her. She had been crying silently, sitting so still, her face turned blindly toward the roofs of Venice. “Come,” he said gently, “back into the cabin. You’ll be frozen.” She didn’t seem to hear him. “Please, Claire,” he said very softly. At that, she looked at him, the tears ignored. When he pulled her to her feet, she didn’t resist. He steadied her with his arm firmly around her waist, and she didn’t notice. The broad waters of the Giudecca stretched before them. At its long quay, backed by antique houses, he could see the liner safely docked. And beyond it, a freighter, large, clean, efficient. And it was still loading.

He brought Claire into the cabin before they reached the freighter. Holland, making ready for his quick exit, only signed his approval. He had shredded the sheet of newspaper, and dropped it along with his cigarette stubs into the canal. His hand was on the rear door, his eyes watching the quay. “Change those rooms,” he reminded Fenner again, as his parting word.

Fenner nodded. Whatever had happened in Budapest had really seared itself into Holland’s mind. “Does Sir Felix shoot people in the back, too?”

“He does everything short of pulling the trigger. That,” Christopher Holland said bitterly, “would be against his
principles.” His eyes were still on the quay. The freighter was safely passed.

I’ll take that warning about Tarns, Fenner thought, watching the freighter, too. Claire noticed nothing. She hadn’t even heard their voices.

As the boat curved around into a small canal, Holland pulled the door open. “Goodbye,” he told them, “good luck!” He was out. “Quick as you like!” he said to Pietro as he climbed onto the broad stretch of quay. The boat backed into the Giudecca, pointed to the lagoon again, gathering the speed that delighted Pietro. Chris Holland was already out of sight.

They swept around the island of San Giorgio again, and entered the Grand Canal, slowing down for the increased traffic. Fenner looked at Claire anxiously. He couldn’t bring himself to remind her that they’d have to land in a few minutes, all smiles and general jollity, a happy couple returning from an afternoon in the sun. “There’s the Vittoria,” was all he said.

She nodded, opened her handbag, stared at a small mirror, combed her hair. Her normal colour had partly returned to give some life to her face. The pitiful bleached look had gone. She added lipstick. She looked up at him. “Will this do?” she asked bitterly.

“Very well,” he said gently. He remembered to pick up the swimsuits. Nothing else left, except his five cigarette stubs. “Ready?” he asked, and handed her out of the cabin.

“I’ll go straight to my room, do you mind?”

“No you don’t. You stay with me. I’m going to have the rooms changed immediately. We pack together. We keep
together.” I can take a warning, he thought. And Chris Holland gave me several in his own quiet way.

“All right,” she said, capitulating. “Now,” she added, watching the crowded hotel entrance as the boat eased broadside against the floating landing stage, “we smile, and smile and smile.” Oh, God!

The assistant manager was just about to leave. He looked at the two sun-reddened faces and the damp swimsuits. “Did you have a pleasant day?” he began politely, wondering what had brought this handsome couple to his office.

“Marvellous,” the lady said. Mrs. Langley, that was her name; a widow. And so young, so beautiful. Life was sad.

“It’s about our rooms,” the tall American said.

The assistant manager stopped looking at his clock. “Is something wrong?” And he must not be late, he thought worriedly. This evening he was entertaining his bank manager at his house.

“Not wrong. But not exactly right, either.”

“Please?”

“There must have been a mistake.”

“How—a mistake.”

“About Mr. York telephoning—”

“His secretary telephoned me. This morning. From Zurich.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure he did. But he didn’t telephone you about us. There must have been some mistakes in the names. I’m afraid we have these rooms on false pretences.”

The assistant manager’s English failed him. “
Prego?
”

“We don’t know Mr. York. When you spoke to us this
morning, I assumed he was a friend of Mrs. Langley’s. She thought he must be one of mine. It was only when we were on our way to the Lido that we discovered neither of us knew Mr. York.”

The assistant manager relaxed. He could even glance at the clock again. He said gaily, starting to shepherd them to the door of his office, “Ah, it is all a little comedy of errors? But if you like the rooms—”

“They are excellent.” The American was standing his ground.

“In that case, what is there to worry about?”

“Two things. First, Mr. York’s friends will expect to have these rooms when they arrive.”

The assistant manager’s dark eyes drooped tactfully. There had been no mistake about the names, he told himself. What was behind all this? “And secondly?” he asked.

The American lowered his voice, spoke with considerable embarrassment. “I’m afraid these rooms will be too expensive for me. I did, you know, book two rooms from Paris yesterday afternoon. I think they’ll suit my expense account.”

The assistant manager’s eyes opened wide. So there was the true explanation. Film stars were lordly and impulsive creatures, but they forgot that their friends’ expense accounts rarely measured up to theirs. “In that case,” he said, “let me see if your original rooms are still available. One second, please.” He picked up his telephone and made contact with the reception desk. There was a sharp volley of rapid Italian. The assistant manager was the winner. He replaced the telephone, eyeing the clock, and said, “If you will go to the desk, Mr. Fenner, they will be able to help you, I think.”

“Thank you,” the American said briefly as they left. But then, to be embarrassed, in this way, in front of the beautiful Mrs. Langley, did not help any man to be voluble in his expression of gratitude. The assistant manager followed them at a tactful distance, in a thoroughly good humour: so there were some Americans who had to worry about money, too.

“Neat,” Claire said, after Fenner had arranged the transfer of rooms at the desk, and they were on their way to remove their possessions from the terrace view.

“Easy,” he told her. “All I did was to lose face.” It was little enough, he thought grimly. That ought to make them believe our story, even if nothing else does. How much
is
believed, by this time: all the story we have so carefully built up around ourselves, half of it, none of it? Are all our precautions quite useless? If so, we are in a completely comic situation bound for a tragic ending. We shall have as small a chance as poor old Neill Carlson.

“I’m coming in while you pack,” he said as they reached her room. She’s going to break down again, he thought worriedly, she’s really going to let down every guard this time. He closed the door behind him. “Claire!” She was standing at the French windows, looking out on the terrace, seeing, hearing nothing. “Claire,” he said, coming over to her. She turned to him blindly, and he put his arms around her, holding her closely. He could feel the silent sobs racking through her body. He held her like that, saying nothing, letting the seconds slip away while he kept his arms tightly around her.

She took a deep, steadying breath. “It’s my fault.” She tried
to wipe away the tears with the back of her hand. “He is dead. It’s my fault.”

“No.”

“But it is,” she cried out. His assignment in Paris was over, she thought in anguish. He was going back to Germany. “He didn’t have to come to Venice. He wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t been here. He wouldn’t—”

“He would have,” Fenner insisted. He glanced around him worriedly, wondering if some visitor to Tarns’s room this afternoon had been able to come in here and plant another of those hellish contraptions to trap their words. So he didn’t risk speaking what he wanted her to hear: Neill Carlson had known what was at stake; he had come to Venice for the same reason that Chris Holland was here. More was involved than a letter, or Sandra’s escape. Much more. “Believe me, Claire!” he said. “Please believe me.”