by Q. Patrick
Trant’s gaze still rested on Adela Wentworth. “Molto piacere …”
* * *
The gondola slid from the moon-washed Grand Canal into the mysterious darkness of a sidewater where it tethered to a black and while pole. The palazzo was enormous. The Hunts, who came from one of New Orleans’s oldest and most impoverished families, must have hit real money. Probably Mrs. Hunt, reflected Trant. Gordon was the solid type to make a financially sound marriage.
It was Mrs. Hunt. Trant realized that the moment he saw her in the great picture-hung salone. Older and less well-preserved than Gordon, Katharine Hunt, with her emeralds and her gaunt chic, reeked of gilt-edged securities. As only the very wealthy dare to do, she ruled the conversation through cocktails and dinner, moaning about imaginary ill-health and imaginary poverty.
“There’s a dealer coming from Rome next week and I’m going to sell him some pictures. I had them valued when I bought this place and all the Venetian canvases are frightfully good, thank heavens. Otherwise, I can’t imagine how I’d make both ends meet.”
Trant, however, paid her but slight attention. All his interest had centered on Adela Wentworth from the moment she entered the salone in a simple black evening gown. Although it was obvious that she was merely Mrs. Hunt’s paid nurse-companion, she was the one who really belonged in all this vast magnificence. Why, why, was she so familiar?
Was it a Bronzino? One of those haunting Medici portraits in Florence?
No, it was something less remote, more human, and something—he was sure of that now—something dimly connected with danger.
She hardly spoke, but her presence was immensely felt. It built a tension which Trant could not quite interpret, although once, when her eyes met Gordon’s across the table, her whole face seemed to change as if kindled to a sudden warmth.
After dinner, Katharine Hunt expressed herself as “utterly exhausted,” but condescended to postpone going to bed for a few social moments with Trant. Mike poured them both a strega and she gulped half of hers, screwing up her mouth:
“These dreadful Italian liqueurs. Now when I had a villa at Antibes…”
Adela Wentworth had strolled out alone onto the balcony. As soon as he could escape, Trant followed. Lamplit gondolas were drifting by. Far off a sweet high tenor was singing Santa Chiara. The Grand Canal palely reflected the spectral palaces.
Trant said: “I’ve met you before, haven’t I?”
“I don’t think so.” Her voice was indifferent. “No.”
Later, his strega rescued from beside Mrs. Hunt, Trant was taken by Gordon on a proud but ill-informed inspection of their art treasures. Having legitimately praised the exquisite Lottos and Canalettos and politely refrained from mentioning that the Longhis were good modern copies, he asked:
“Where does Miss Wentworth come from?”
“Haven’t any idea. Katharine and I found her in Paris. Katharine is always under doctor’s orders, taking injections and heaven knows what. Miss Wentworth needed a job and she’s a trained nurse.”
Trant, who disliked the excessive sweetness of the strega, snatched the opportunity to secrete his half-full glass behind a marble satyr. “I’ve got the feeling I know something about Miss Wentworth—something I’ve forgotten.”
Gordon’s handsome face darkened with suppressed irritation. “Don’t you ever stop investigating—even on vacation?”
Katharine Hunt’s imperious voice trailed towards them: “Gordon, darling, help me up those ghastly stairs to bed.”
Husband and wife left and soon Gordon returned. “Adela, she’s ready for her injection.”
“All right.” Adela Wentworth rose obediently. “And I’m rather tired too. I think I’ll say good night.”
She gave Trant her hand without smiling. He had never seen her smile. Somehow he couldn’t quite visualize it. Quietly she disappeared, taking her mystery and the uncanny sense of impending disaster with her.
The evening without her had lost its relish for Trant, but he couldn’t leave because both Gordon and Mike were anxious to reminisce about Princeton days. Gossip flowed on.
“What a change in roles,” mused Gordon. “Trant—a policeman; Mike—a painter. Ten years ago Trant was going to be the great art expert and Mike was all set to be a top criminal lawyer.”
“You’re the only consistent one.” Mike’s puckish face crinkled in a grin. “Remember Gordon’s ambition, Trant? To be a man of property.”
Trant opened his mouth to speak, but his quick ears caught the sound of hurrying feet. Suddenly there was a scream. The footsteps clattered nearer. A terrified maid tumbled into the salone, calling shrilly:
“La signora Hunt. Quick, quick. La signora is dead!”
* * *
Trant ran with the two brothers up the great marble staircase. Mrs. Hunt was lying in a scarlet-canopied four-poster. An almost empty water glass stood by her side.
And she was dead. Trant, bending over her, was sure of that in a moment. In that same moment the policeman in him instinctively took control.
“Mike, get her doctor.” As Mike hurried off, he turned to the bleak-faced Gordon. “Was her condition really serious?”
“I—I didn’t think so. Slight anemia, nerves. The doctor said he …”
‘” What injection had he prescribed?”
“Some tonic—something with iron, strychnine, I think.”
“Strychnine!”
The word brought memory flooding back. With a tingle, half of excitement, half of horror. Trant realized the secret of Adela Wentworth.
“Listen, Gordon, this is terribly important. Miss Wentworth’s in love with you, isn’t she?”
“Don’t you dare involve Adela in this,” Gordon clenched his lists.
“So she is.” Trant whistled. “It’s the same pattern.
Gordon, do you know who Adela Wentworth is?”
“Who she is?”
“She’s dyed that red hair and she’s older now. I only saw one photograph of her anyway. That’s why I couldn’t place her. Gordon, she’s Laura Carewe, the Strychnine Murderess.”
“Laura Carewe?” The reply denied all recognition.
“Ten years ago—in Natchez. She was tried for murder and acquitted. Remember?”
“I never heard of any…”
“She was a nurse. Accused of murdering a woman patient with strychnine, so she could get herself the rich husband.”
Gordon looked as if he were going to crumple. Trant gripped his arm. “Where’s her room?”
“Down the passage to the left. Third door.”
Trant hurried out into the great corridor. As he reached the head of the staircase he stopped dead.
Running down it, like a fleeing shape in a nightmare, was the dark figure of Laura Carewe, the Woman of Ice.
She reached the hallway, crossed and plunged out through the door. In a few seconds Trant too was out in the world of moonlight and shadow. Venice, with its myriad canals, bridges, and crooked, narrow alleys, was confusing as a maze, but he glimpsed movement and ran in pursuit.
He caught up with her soon in a little deserted square. Above, topping an ornate church façade, a giant stone angel brandished a huge stone trumpet. There was a humped bridge above glittering water. He reached her at the bridge, gripping her by the arms. She didn’t struggle. She stayed there, still and cold to the touch.
“Laura Carewe,” he said. “So—so Gordon told you.”
“Then Gordon knows who you are?”
“Of course he does.” She started to tremble. “He was so kind to me. He gave me a home. He never let anyone else know.”
“Why did you run away?”
“Why?” The word seemed wrenched out of her heart. “I heard the maid, the uproar. Do you think I’m made of rock? The same dreadful pattern. I can stand anything but that.”
“You did give her the injection?”
“It was the right one—I swear it was!”
“That’s what you swore in Natche
z.”
“It was true then too. That woman in Natchez hated me. She was jealous, neurotic. She killed herself and made it look like me for spite. She … oh, what’s the use.” She broke off.” Then with a terrible, quiet bitterness she added: “Why don’t you let me go? Why don’t you let me kill myself?”
“When you say you’re innocent?”
“Would you believe me? Would Gordon …?” She started to cry very softly. It was as if the angel above them had shed stone tears. “I knew there could never be anything between us. His wife was dreadful to him, nagging, demanding, but he was the most loyal husband in the world. But—just to be near him, not to be lonely any more … ”
She stopped crying and drew herself up. Once again she was the magnificent Woman of Ice.
“I suppose you want me to go back and face the police?”
“I’m afraid you must, Miss Carewe.”
* * *
They returned to the palazzo. The carabinieri had not yet arrived. Upstairs in Mrs. Hunt’s room, Gordon and Mike were tensely watching the doctor who bent over the bed.
Gordon’s eyes leaped to Laura Carewe’s, but she did not seem to see him. She stood by Trant in pale, passive resignation. Like a sacrificial victim, he thought.
The doctor straightened.
“She died of an overdose of strychnine.” His English was carefully correct. “There seems to be no doubt about that. The convulsions, the risus sardonicus.”
“Then it was an accident.” The words came explosively from Gordon. “Somehow or other …”
“Don’t bother, Gordon.” Laura Carewe held her head very high. She turned to the doctor. “I admit it. I deliberately injected too much. I killed her.”
“No!” Gordon sprang to her side and gripped her arms. “That isn’t true.” His tormented gaze darted from face to face. “Don’t believe her. She’s only trying to protect me. And heaven knows, I don’t deserve it.”
He swung to Trant. “I lied to you. You’re a witness. I said I didn’t know she was Laura Carewe. It was a lie. That’s why I hired her. My wife’s left me all her money. I was planning to kill her and put the blame on Miss Carewe. I did kill Katharine, but now I can’t go through with it.” The travesty of a smile twisted his lips. “I guess I’m less of a heel than I thought I was.”
Mike was staring in shocked bewilderment at his brother. “Gordon!”
“It’s true. Mike. I’m sorry. I …”
“One moment.” Trant was very alert now. “’This is interesting, Gordon, but there’s just one little thing. How did you kill your wife?”
“How?” Gordon jerked his head toward the empty water glass by the bed. “She asked for a drink of water. I put the strychnine in it. Oh, you won’t find any traces. When you and Mike left me alone, I washed out the glass.”
“I see.” Trant smiled politely at the doctor. “Strychnine as I remember, Doctor, has a very bitter taste. It would be quite impossible, wouldn’t it, to administer a lethal dose in a glass of water without the victim realizing it?”
“Quite impossible.” agreed the doctor.
Trant shifted his attention to Gordon and Laura Carewe. “Thanks, anyway. Between you, you’ve told me all I wanted to know. Perhaps we could move downstairs for a moment.”
“Downstairs? Why?”
“Oh, nothing.” Trant shrugged. “Just a little formality.”
* * *
In the salone Trant stood under a cluster of Longhis by the chair where Katharine Hunt had sat. Gordon, Laura Carewe, Mike, and the doctor watched him uneasily. From the table by the chair he picked up a glass half-full of yellowish liqueur.
“I agree with Gordon,” he said quietly, “that Miss Carewe gave her patient only the regular innocent injection. I also agree with him that the lethal dose was administered earlier by mouth. But not in water. That bitter taste had to be masked. And how more effectively than by the outrageous sweetness of strega?”
He twirled the glass. “Just before she went to bed Mrs. Hunt drank half a glass of strega. That’s what killed her. She even complained about its taste. I was sitting with her at the time.” He paused. “Of course, we won’t find any traces of strychnine here because the murderer has had plenty of time to wash it out and substitute undiluted strega. But …”
He moved closer to the others. “I agree with a third point also in Gordon’s noble attempt to shield Miss Carewe. The murderer did know about her past and planned to use her as a scapegoat. Even I was cleverly used as a policeman-witness who could be invaluable in unearthing the old murder charge.”
He turned to Mike. “Remember our Princeton reminiscences tonight? Ten years ago you were planning to be a criminal lawyer. You used to follow murders like the comic strips. The famous Laura Carewe case took place in Natchez, right in your own backyard. Dyed hair or no, you’d certainly have recognized her the moment you arrived here and saw her.”
Mike Hunt stammered: “Trant, you’re not accusing me?”
“You gave the strega to Mrs. Hunt.”
“But—” Mike smiled weakly. “It’s absurd. It’s …”
“You mean there’s no proof?” Trant looked at his old classmate somewhat sadly. Putting down the glass, Trant moved to the marble satyr behind which he had lodged his own glass during his inspection of the pictures with Gordon. He held it up. “After my talk with Mrs. Hunt, I joined Miss Carewe on the balcony without my liqueur. When I came back for it to Mrs. Hunt, I foolishly took her glass instead of mine. I didn’t drink any more of it. Here it is.”
He dipped his finger in the liquid and put it to his tongue. “You can even trace the taste behind the sweetness. You’ll find the strychnine, all right. That’s the proof.”
His arm stretched toward the doctor, handing him the glass. The instant before the doctor’s fingers closed round it, Mike Hunt sprang forward and, jerking the glass loose, knocked it spinning. As it reached the floor, he viciously stamped on it and crushed the fragments into the thick carpet.
“Mike!” Gordon’s voice was hoarse.
But his brother was rushing towards the balcony. Trant and the doctor were just too late to catch him as he dived into the canal.
They saw his plunging body, saw his head crash against a gondola post before he reached the water.
He was dead when they pulled him out of the canal.
* * *
Gordon Hunt and Laura Carewe sat palely side by side. “… the strychnine injections,” Trant was saying, “… the potential nurse-murderess in the house … the sudden visit of a policeman friend who would know about her past … Mike had the perfect set-up. It must have been a great temptation.”
“I see all that,” said Gordon. “But there’s absolutely no motive.”
Trant had moved toward the opposite wall and was gazing at the cluster of Longhis.
“Your wife was developing delusions of poverty. She was going to sell some of these pictures next week to a dealer. Should be very valuable.”
“I don’t know anything about art. Neither did Katharine, but an expert told us …”
“Exactly—that all the Venetian canvases were priceless. Well, I guess the Lottos and the Canalettos are. But these Longhis, which are definitely Venetian, are nothing but competent copies. Recent too.”
He turned. “Mike never had a red cent, did he? As an artist …”
Gordon jumped up. “You mean Mike had been copying them and selling the originals?”
“Yes. When the dealer arrived, it would all have come out. You might have overlooked it, Gordon, but not your wife.”
“There was a moment of silence.”
“And there’d never have been any proof if you hadn’t mistaken Katharine’s glass for yours.” Laura Carewe’s voice was husky. “Isn’t that rather a—coincidence?”
“Not exactly a coincidence.” A faint flush spread over Trant’s face. “You see, I hadn’t really switched glasses with Mrs. Hunt. Because there was no proof, I had to improvise some. That was where I
faked.”
Gordon gasped. “So there wasn’t any strychnine in that glass?”
“Of course not. Only a guilty conscience would have thought there might be.” He smiled ruefully. “You had done your amateur best to save Miss Carewe. I thought you needed a little professional assistance.”
Laura Carewe was looking at him. She was no longer the Woman of Ice.…
Death and Canasta
The blonde stood outside the door of the penthouse apartment, smiling extravagantly at Lieutenant Trant of the New York Homicide Bureau. She was as pretty as her strapless white evening gown and probably just about as frivolous. “I’ve come to grab Bill Sommers,” she announced. “Sorry, but he’s away. He lent me this glamorous dump while my own rat hole’s being painted.”
The blonde pouted. “Oh, drat and fiddle-dee-dee.”
“It’s something important?”
“Desperate. Canasta.” She nodded to the adjoining penthouse. “I’m Arlene Wentworth. We’re all over there at the Evarts’, and Molly’s decided to take a headache to bed. I guess, if you’re as rich as Molly you can afford as many headaches as husbands, but it’s stuck us with three for Canasta. I loathe three-handed Canasta, particularly with a couple of men who’re dying to murder each other. I thought Bill might make a fourth.” She looked hopeful. “I don’t suppose that you …”
Trant glanced at his watch. It was early—9:30 o’clock. “Delighted,” he said.
In the luxurious living-room of the next penthouse, Arlene introduced him to the Evartses and to a dark, smoldering young man called Boyd Redfield. Trant, who kept a professional eye on the columns, knew Molly Evarts to be New York’s most recent and richest music patron, currently on her third husband and rumored to be trading him in for Boyd Redfield, the latest thing in concert pianists. She was tall, bony, and terribly self-assured.
“How kind of you to understudy me, Mr. Trant.” Above the soft Schubert on the radio, her voice sounded precise and affected. “Now I can go finish this symphony in a nice hot tub.” She turned off the radio. “Without me, you won’t be needing this.”
Jim Evarts—was it racing autos or speedboats? —kissed his wife’s ear. “Such a little music lover. She eats, breathes, and bathes New York City’s own radio station these days.”