“Thank God,” he answered.
“I know,” she said, “we are all so relieved. Now I’ll get off the line and you can speak to your wife.”
John sat up on the bed, stunned. What the hell did she mean? Then he heard Laura’s voice, cool and clear.
“Darling? Darling, are you there?”
He could not answer. He felt the hand holding the receiver go clammy cold with sweat. “I’m here,” he whispered.
“It’s not a very good line,” she said, “but never mind. As Mrs. Hill told you, all is well. Such a nice surgeon, and a very sweet Sister on Johnnie’s floor, and I really am happy about the way it’s turned out. I came straight down here after landing at Gatwick—the flight O.K., by the way, but such a funny crowd, it’ll make you hysterical when I tell you about them—and I went to the hospital, and Johnnie was coming round. Very dopey, of course, but so pleased to see me. And the Hills are being wonderful, I’ve got their spare-room, and it’s only a short taxi-drive into the town and the hospital. I shall go to bed as soon as we’ve had dinner, because I’m a bit fagged, what with the flight and the anxiety. How was the drive to Milan? And where are you staying?”
John did not recognize the voice that answered as his own. It was the automatic response of some computer.
“I’m not in Milan,” he said, “I’m still in Venice.”
“Still in Venice? What on earth for? Wouldn’t the car start?”
“I can’t explain,” he said. “There was a stupid sort of mix-up…”
He felt suddenly so exhausted that he nearly dropped the receiver, and, shame upon shame, he could feel tears pricking behind his eyes.
“What sort of mix-up?” Her voice was suspicious, almost hostile. “You weren’t in a crash?”
“No…no…nothing like that.”
A moment’s silence, and then she said, “Your voice sounds very slurred. Don’t tell me you went and got pissed.”
Oh Christ…if she only knew! He was probably going to pass out any moment, but not from the whisky.
“I thought,” he said slowly, “I thought I saw you, in a vaporetto, with those two sisters.”
What was the point of going on? It was hopeless trying to explain.
“How could you have seen me with the sisters?” she said. “You knew I’d gone to the airport. Really, darling, you are an idiot. You seem to have got those two poor old dears on the brain. I hope you didn’t say anything to Mrs. Hill just now.”
“No.”
“Well, what are you going to do? You’ll catch the train at Milan tomorrow, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” he told her.
“I still don’t understand what kept you in Venice,” she said. “It all sounds a bit odd to me. However…thank God Johnnie is going to be all right and I’m here.”
“Yes,” he said, “yes.”
He could hear the distant boom-boom sound of a gong from the headmaster’s hall.
“You had better go,” he said. “My regards to the Hills, and my love to Johnnie.”
“Well, take care of yourself, darling, and for goodness sake don’t miss the train tomorrow, and drive carefully.”
The telephone clicked and she had gone. He poured the remaining drop of whisky into his empty glass, and, sousing it with ginger-ale, drank it down at a gulp. He got up, crossed the room, threw open the shutters, and leant out of the window. He felt light-headed. His sense of relief, enormous, overwhelming, was somehow tempered with a curious feeling of unreality, almost as though the voice speaking from England had not been Laura’s after all but a fake, and she was still in Venice, hidden in some furtive pension with the two sisters.
The point was, he had seen all three of them on the vaporetto. It was not another woman in a red coat. The women had been there, with Laura. So what was the explanation? That he was going off his head? Or something more sinister? The sisters, possessing psychic powers of formidable strength, had seen him as their two ferries had passed, and in some inexplicable fashion had made him believe Laura was with them. But why, and to what end? No, it didn’t make sense. The only explanation was that he had been mistaken, the whole episode an hallucination. In which case he needed psychoanalysis, just as Johnnie had needed a surgeon.
And what did he do now? Go downstairs and tell the management he had been at fault and had just spoken to his wife, who had arrived in England safe and sound from her charter flight? He put on his shoes and ran his fingers through his hair. He glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes to eight. If he nipped into the bar and had a quick drink it would be easier to face the manager and admit what had happened. Then, perhaps, they would get in touch with the police. Profuse apologies all round for putting everyone to enormous trouble.
He made his way to the ground floor and went straight to the bar, feeling self-conscious, a marked man, half-imagining everyone would look at him, thinking, There’s the fellow with the missing wife. Luckily the bar was full and there wasn’t a face he knew. Even the chap behind the bar was an underling who hadn’t served him before. He downed his whisky and glanced over his shoulder to the reception hall. The desk was momentarily empty. He could see the manager’s back framed in the doorway of an inner room, talking to someone within. On impulse, cowardlike, he crossed the hall and passed through the swing-door to the street outside.
I’ll have some dinner, he decided, and then go back and face them. I’ll feel more like it once I’ve some food inside me.
He went to the restaurant nearby where he and Laura had dined once or twice. Nothing mattered any more, because she was safe. The nightmare lay behind him. He could enjoy his dinner, despite her absence, and think of her sitting down with the Hills to a dull, quiet evening, early to bed, and on the following morning going to the hospital to sit with Johnnie. Johnnie was safe too. No more worries, only the awkward explanations and apologies to the manager at the hotel.
There was a pleasant anonymity sitting down at a corner table alone in the little restaurant, ordering vitello allo Marsala and half a bottle of Merlot. He took his time, enjoying his food but eating in a kind of haze, a sense of unreality still with him, while the conversation of his nearest neighbors had the same soothing effect as background music.
When they rose and left, he saw by the clock on the wall that it was nearly half-past nine. No use delaying matters any further. He drank his coffee, lighted a cigarette, and paid his bill. After all, he thought, as he walked back to the hotel, the manager would be greatly relieved to know that all was well.
When he pushed through the swing-door, the first thing he noticed was a man in police uniform, standing talking to the manager at the desk. The reception clerk was there too. They turned as John approached, and the manager’s face lighted up with relief.
“Eccolo!” he exclaimed, “I was certain the signore would not be far away. Things are moving, signore. The two ladies have been traced, and they very kindly agreed to accompany the police to the Questura. If you will go there at once, this agents di polizia will escort you.”
John flushed. “I have given everyone a lot of trouble,” he said. “I meant to tell you before going out to dinner, but you were not at the desk. The fact is that I have contacted my wife. She did make the flight to London after all, and I spoke to her on the telephone. It was all a great mistake.”
The manager looked bewildered. “The signora is in London?” he repeated. He broke off, and exchanged a rapid conversation in Italian with the policeman. “It seems that the ladies maintain they did not go out for the day, except for a little shopping in the morning,” he said, turning back to John. “Then who was it the signore saw on the vaporetto?”
John shook his head. “A very extraordinary mistake on my part which I still don’t understand,” he said. “Obviously, I did not see either my wife or the two ladies. I really am extremely sorry.”
More
rapid conversation in Italian. John noticed the clerk watching him with a curious expression in his eyes. The manager was obviously apologizing on John’s behalf to the policeman, who looked annoyed and gave tongue to this effect, his voice increasing in volume, to the manager’s concern. The whole business had undoubtedly given enormous trouble to a great many people, not least the two unfortunate sisters.
“Look,” said John, interrupting the flow, “will you tell the agente I will go with him to headquarters and apologize in person both to the police officer and to the ladies?”
The manager looked relieved. “If the signore would take the trouble,” he said. “Naturally, the ladies were much distressed when a policeman interrogated them at their hotel, and they offered to accompany him to the Questura only because they were so distressed about the signora.”
John felt more and more uncomfortable. Laura must never learn any of this. She would be outraged. He wondered if there were some penalty for giving the police misleading information involving a third party. His error began, in retrospect, to take on criminal proportions.
He crossed the Piazza San Marco, now thronged with after-dinner strollers and spectators at the cafes, all three orchestras going full blast in harmonious rivalry, while his companion kept a discreet two paces to his left and never uttered a word.
They arrived at the police station and mounted the stairs to the same inner room where he had been before. He saw immediately that it was not the officer he knew but another who sat behind the desk, a sallow-faced individual with a sour expression, while the two sisters, obviously upset—the active one in particular—were seated on chairs nearby, some underling in uniform standing behind them. John’s escort went at once to the police officer, speaking in rapid Italian, while John himself, after a moment’s hesitation, advanced towards the sisters.
“There has been a terrible mistake,” he said. “I don’t know how to apologize to you both. It’s all my fault, mine entirely, the police are not to blame.”
The active sister made as though to rise, her mouth twitching nervously, but he restrained her.
“We don’t understand,” she said, the Scots inflection strong. “We said goodnight to your wife last night at dinner, and we have not seen her since. The police came to our pension more than an hour ago and told us your wife was missing and you had filed a complaint against us. My sister is not very strong. She was considerably disturbed.”
“A mistake. A frightful mistake,” he repeated.
He turned towards the desk. The police officer was addressing him, his English very inferior to that of the previous interrogator. He had John’s earlier statement on the desk in front of him, and tapped it with a pencil.
“So?” he queried. “This document all lies? You not speaka the truth?”
“I believed it to be true at the time,” said John. “I could have sworn in a court of law that I saw my wife with these two ladies on a vaporetto in the Grand Canal this afternoon. Now I realize I was mistaken.”
“We have not been near the Grand Canal all day,” protested the sister, “not even on foot. We made a few purchases in the Merceria this morning, and remained indoors all afternoon. My sister was a little unwell. I have told the police officer this a dozen times, and the people at the pension would corroborate our story. He refused to listen.”
“And the signora?” rapped the police officer angrily. “What happen to the signora?”
“The signora, my wife, is safe in England,” explained John patiently. “I talked to her on the telephone just after seven. She did join the charter flight from the airport, and is now staying with friends.”
“Then who you see on the vaporetto in the red coat?” asked the furious police officer. “And if not these signorine here, then what signorine?”
“My eyes deceived me,” said John, aware that his English was likewise becoming strained. “I think I see my wife and these ladies but not, it was not so. My wife in aircraft, these ladies in pension all the time.”
It was like talking stage Chinese. In a moment he would be bowing and putting his hands in his sleeves.
The police officer raised his eyes to heaven and thumped the table. “So all this work for nothing,” he said. “Hotels and pensiones searched for the signorine and a missing signora inglese, when here we have plenty, plenty other things to do. You maka a mistake. You have perhaps too much vino at mezzo giorno and you see hundred signore in red coats in hundred vaporetti.” He stood up, rumpling the papers on the desk. “And you, signorine,” he said, “you wish to make complaint against this person?” He was addressing the active sister.
“Oh no,” she said, “no, indeed. I quite see it was all a mistake. Our only wish is to return at once to our pension.”
The police officer grunted. Then he pointed at John. “You very lucky man,” he said. “These signorine could file complaint against you—very serious matter.”
“I’m sure,” began John, “I’ll do anything in my power…”
“Please don’t think of it,” exclaimed the sister, horrified. “We would not hear of such a thing.” It was her turn to apologize to the police officer. “I hope we need not take up any more of your valuable time,” she said.
He waved a hand of dismissal and spoke in Italian to the underling. “This man walk with you to the pension,” he said. “Buona sera, signorine,” and, ignoring John, he sat down again at his desk.
“I’ll come with you,” said John. “I want to explain exactly what happened.”
They trooped down the stairs and out of the building, the blind sister leaning on her twin’s arm, and once outside she turned her sightless eyes to John.
“You saw us,” she said, “and your wife too. But not today. You saw us in the future.”
Her voice was softer than her sister’s, slower, she seemed to have some slight impediment in her speech.
“I don’t follow,” replied John, bewildered.
He turned to the active sister and she shook her head at him, frowning, and put her fingers on her lips.
“Come along, dear,” she said to her twin. “You know you’re very tired, and I want to get you home.” Then, sotto voce to John, “She’s psychic. Your wife told you, I believe, but I don’t want her to go into trance here in the street.”
God forbid, thought John, and the little procession began to move slowly along the street, away from police headquarters, a canal to the left of them. Progress was slow, because of the blind sister, and there were two bridges to cross over two canals. John was completely lost after the first turning, but it couldn’t have mattered less. Their police escort was with them, and anyway, the sisters knew where they were going.
“I must explain,” said John softly. “My wife would never forgive me if I didn’t,” and as they walked he went over the whole inexplicable story once again, beginning with the telegram received the night before and the conversation with Mrs. Hill, the decision to return to England the following day, Laura by air, and John himself by car and train. It no longer sounded as dramatic as it had done when he had made his statement to the police officer, when, possibly because of his conviction of something uncanny, the description of the two vaporettos passing one another in the middle of the Grand Canal had held a sinister quality, suggesting abduction on the part of the sisters, the pair of them holding a bewildered Laura captive. Now that neither of the women had any further menace for him he spoke more naturally, yet with great sincerity, feeling for the first time that they were somehow both in sympathy with him and would understand.
“You see,” he explained, in a final endeavor to make amends for having gone to the police in the first place, “I truly believed I had seen you with Laura, and I thought…” he hesitated, because this had been the police officer’s suggestion and not his, “I thought that perhaps Laura had some sudden loss of memory, had met you at the airport, and you had brought her b
ack to Venice to wherever you were staying.”
They had crossed a large campo and were approaching a house at one end of it, with a sign PENSIONE above the door. Their escort paused at the entrance.
“Is this it?” asked John.
“Yes,” said the sister. “I know it is nothing much from the outside, but it is clean and comfortable, and was recommended by friends.” She turned to the escort. “Grazie,” she said to him, “grazie tanto.”
The man nodded briefly, wished them “Buona notte,” and disappeared across the campo.
“Will you come in?” asked the sister. “I am sure we can find you some coffee, or perhaps you prefer tea?”
“No, really,” John thanked her, “I must get back to the hotel. I’m making an early start in the morning. I just want to make quite sure you do understand what happened, and that you forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” she replied. “It is one of the many examples of second sight that my sister and I have experienced time and time again, and I should very much like to record it for our files, if you permit it.”
“Well, as to that, of course,” he told her, “but I myself find it hard to understand. It has never happened to me before.”
“Not consciously, perhaps,” she said, “but so many things happen to us of which we are not aware. My sister felt you had psychic understanding. She told your wife. She also told your wife, last night in the restaurant, that you were to experience trouble, that you should leave Venice. Well, don’t you believe now that the telegram was proof of this? Your son was ill, possibly dangerously ill, and so it was necessary for you to return home immediately. Heaven be praised your wife flew home to be by his side.”
“Yes, indeed,” said John, “but why should I see her on the vaporetto with you and your sister when she was actually on her way to England?”
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 98