Farewell to the Flesh

by Edward Sklepowich

  18

  Urbino read Proust for a while and then went to bed. He fell asleep right away but was visited by disturbing dreams.

  A scowling Xenia Campi lamented the destruction of Venice, handing out her ubiquitous flyers on which there was nothing but a bloody hand print, while Giovanni Firpo, dressed in his full Carnevale regalia, laughed and mimicked all her movements, except that he was handing out not flyers but photographs of himself.

  Hazel Reeve stalked the rooms of the Ca’ da Capo and approached the Contessa’s bedroom. When Hazel opened the door, however, it wasn’t the Contessa lying in bed but a man. His face was in profil perdu. The profile remained lost until he turned in his sleep, revealing Val Gibbon, his eyes closed, his face masklike but smiling. Suddenly, however, it was no longer Hazel approaching the bed but Nicholas Spaak, and the man in the bed wasn’t Gibbon but Tonio Vico, also smiling and with his eyes closed. When Vico started to get up from the bed, Urbino woke up.

  He looked at the clock. It was three-thirty. He wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep easily and was in no mood for lying in bed. Not until he started to put on his clothes, however, did he realize he was going for a walk.

  After leaving the Palazzo Uccello, Urbino turned in the direction of San Marco. The calli were almost completely deserted. He walked quickly and was soon in the Piazza. All the festival lights were off, and workers were clearing away the debris. A few drunken revelers were sleeping under the arcades until the carabinieri came along again.

  Urbino went past the Basilica and into the Piazzetta where Saint Theodore and the lion of Saint Mark on their columns looked off into the darkness. To the far right all the kiosks were shuttered. Fog was thick here by the water. He could see only the dark outlines of the moored gondolas, but could hear them creaking and hear the water slapping against their sides and against the wooden piers and the stones of the embankment.

  He turned left toward the Riva degli Schiavoni. He now realized where he was going, where he had been going ever since leaving the Palazzo Uccello.

  The Ducal Palace, phosphorescent in the fog, was more like a ghost of a building than the real thing, its heavy upper stories looming eerily above the ground as if supported by nothing but the air and fog beneath. Urbino went over the bridge, not bothering to look this time at the Bridge of Sighs. He went under the arcades and through the narrow gap between the old prison and the wing of the Danieli Hotel into the Calle degli Albanesi.

  It was completely deserted. He went into the service alley on the right where Spaak had caught a brief glimpse of someone in a cheap plastic mask. Urbino could see how someone standing in the shadows of this area could be fairly well concealed and yet have a good view of the entrance of the Calle Santa Scolastica across the way.

  Urbino stepped into the first section of the Calle Santa Scolastica. Near this spot Spaak had been frightened by Rigoletti hurrying out to phone the police. Farther along, the apartment windows of the courtyard were all dark except for one. It was Rigoletti’s window.

  Beyond the corte the alley continued at an oblique angle. It was this angle that prevented anyone on the far side of the courtyard from seeing what might be going on by the water steps. The Ducal Palace gleamed wetly across the canal.

  Why Urbino had felt compelled to revisit the spot at this time in the early morning he didn’t know, but he stood there for more than ten minutes, thinking.

  He suddenly remembered something that Mrs. Spaak had said. It hadn’t impressed itself on him at the time but now, standing on the spot where Gibbon had been murdered and with the fog drifting around him, it came close to chilling him.

  “He’s mine forever,” Stella Maris Spaak had said about her son.

  Was this a supreme confidence in her son’s devotion—or something else entirely? Could it be a comfort to this widow that her son was gay, and that by being gay he was, in a very real sense, “hers forever”?

  There was, of course, another way that someone could be yours forever—in death. Hadn’t one of Browning’s characters strangled his beloved with her own hair after she had said she wanted to give herself to him forever? That the name of the strangled woman had been Porphyria—the female version of Porfirio—seemed one of those peculiar coincidences meant to confuse and even mock with a meaning that wasn’t there. It was like a mask you were meant to take for flesh and blood.

  Urbino no longer wanted to be there at the end of the Calle Santa Scolastica where Gibbon had been found stabbed to death with all that money on him. He looked at his watch. It was almost five o’clock. He would get no more sleep, but it didn’t matter. He had a lot to consider. His dreams and this visit to the Calle Santa Scolastica had left him with the feeling that he might be close to an understanding of what had happened on the night Gibbon had seen the face of his murderer.

  Part Four

  BALLO IN MASCHERA

  1

  The next morning’s Gazzettino brought a surprise. There on the front page was Tonio Vico’s face.

  It stared up at Urbino as he took his caffelatte and croissant at the refectory table in the library. Although the black hair was closer to the head than Vico wore his, it was the same strong aquiline nose, sensuous mouth, and large eyes. Fortunately, Vico’s name wasn’t mentioned in the accompanying piece, but Rigoletti’s was. The article was brief, mentioning only that Ignazio Rigoletti of the Corte Santa Scolastica had given the Questura’s artist a detailed description of two men he had seen in the Calle Santa Scolastica shortly after the British photoggrapher was murdered. The police were conducting a search for the men who met the description and would appreciate any information.

  Next to the drawing that resembled Vico was another one of the light-haired young man Rigoletti had seen. It was less distinct and didn’t bring Nicholas Spaak immediately to mind.

  The Questura was playing it careful—and crafty. They didn’t have anywhere near enough evidence to arrest Tonio Vico and they couldn’t very well mention his name or provide a photograph. Instead, they had released the artist’s composite of the man Rigoletti claimed to have seen and identified yesterday as Vico.

  There were several aspects of all this that Urbino was turning over in his mind. Was Rigoletti telling the truth about the dark man in the Calle Santa Scolastica? Could he possibly be mistaken in some way? Did Vico only resemble the man or had he actually been in the calle immediately before Rigoletti discovered the body? Could Xenia Campi’s ex-husband have an ulterior motive in identifying Vico as the man? And how did what Spaak had seen fit into the picture?

  The Contessa believed Vico hadn’t been in the Calle Santa Scolastica. So did Hazel Reeve. Mrs. Pillow, however, was in a different position. For her it wasn’t a matter of belief but should be one of knowledge.

  He would have to talk with her again, but not with her stepson there. Fortunately, once again it was Mrs. Pillow who answered the phone when he called the Vico-Pillow suite at the Splendide-Suisse.

  “Mrs. Pillow, this is Urbino Macintyre. I was wondering if we might meet for a little while sometime today.”

  He hoped she would understand that he meant without Tonio.

  “Of course, Mr. Macintyre. I’ve been left completely on my own. Tony is giving Hazel a tour of the Palladian churches. He wanted to rent a car and go along the Brenta Canal but he wasn’t sure if he would be allowed.”

  Had Mrs. Pillow and her stepson seen the picture in the paper?

  Urbino suggested that they meet at a wine bar not far from the Teatro Goldoni and told her how to reach it from the hotel.

  After saying good-bye to Mrs. Pillow, Urbino went to the Casa Crispina. It was only nine o’clock but the calli were filled with maskers making their way from the train station and the hotels along the Lista di Spagna. The day was crisp and clear after last night’s fog. If the weather held through Tuesday, it was going to be a record crowd for the final days of Carnevale.

  In the Campo San Gabriele a group of schoolchildren were having a regata di carriole
, racing their wooden wheelbarrows across the uneven stones between the church steps and the covered well head in the center of the square. A muzzled terrier chased them.

  The same elderly sister from yesterday was at the reception desk again. This time she was reading a copy of Gente with a photograph of Lady Diana on the cover. As Urbino waited for Dora Spaak to join him in the lounge, Sister Teresa came walking from the direction of the chapel.

  “I’ll be visiting Signor Lubonski at the hospital this morning,” she said. “I called to see how he was doing. He’s better, but there’s a policeman outside his room. Do you know why that is?”

  “It has something to do with Porfirio’s accident in San Gabriele, I believe,” he answered vaguely.

  Sister Teresa was about to say or ask something else but they were joined by Dora Spaak, whose round face wore a worried look. She asked Sister Teresa if she had seen her brother, Nicholas.

  “Not since yesterday morning. Is something the matter, Signorina Spaak?”

  “It’s Mother. She’s having even more trouble breathing. It seems to be the beginning of one of her bad attacks.” She finally acknowledged Urbino when she looked at him and said, “She’s affected by the change in the weather.”

  “Would you mind if I stopped by to see her for a moment?” Sister Teresa asked.

  Before the girl could open her round mouth to say anything, Sister Teresa was already hurrying toward the staircase.

  “Don’t frighten her, please,” Dora Spaak called out after them as if the woman had some malevolent intent in going to her mother’s room. Her voice held an unmistakable note of tender worry.

  “You wanted to see me, Mr. Macintyre?” She looked up at Urbino with a troubled but guarded look in her dark-brown eyes. “It’s not the best time.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Spaak. This shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. Would you like to sit down?”

  She shook her head more vigorously than was necessary, her hair giving off a somewhat rancid, unwashed odor.

  “If it’s only going to take a few minutes, it’s just as well I stand. What is it? You want to know something more about Val Gibbon.”

  She said it almost defiantly.

  “Yes. Would you mind once more going over your meeting with him the night he was murdered?”

  “Why? To see if I tell it the same way again? I’ll never forget that night, or anything about it.” A momentary look of fear crossed her face. “As I told you, I wasn’t feeling well and was having some tea in the dining room when Val came by.”

  Once again, just as she had before, Dora Spaak went through the whole encounter—how Gibbon was obviously on his way out, carrying his camera case and wearing a scarf, how he had offered to stay in that evening to keep her company, how he had mentioned lines from Dante that still seemed to puzzle her. Urbino asked her for more details about the few minutes they had spent together in the guests’ dining room but either Dora Spaak didn’t remember anything more than she had told him already or chose not to share anything more with him.

  “Did Gibbon have anything else with him?”

  “Anything else?”

  “Anything besides his camera?”

  “I—I didn’t see anything else.”

  “He didn’t have a mask, for example? He was going to the Piazza, you said.”

  “I said I thought he was going to the Piazza. And he wasn’t wearing a mask!”

  Dora laughed.

  “He might not have been wearing a mask, Miss Spaak, but maybe one was around his neck or in his pocket.”

  “I doubt if photographers wear masks when they’re taking pictures.” She stared at him for a few moments as if considering something, then said, “I suppose he could have had one in his pocket or his camera case.”

  She said it as if to appease him.

  “Was your mother well when you looked in on her that night?”

  “As well as a person with a chronic asthmatic condition could be.”

  “Was she asleep?”

  “Yes, she was asleep, Mr. Macintyre.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m a nurse, Mr. Macintyre. I can tell when a person is asleep, I assure you. My mother was.”

  “And the other time you looked in on her that night—was she asleep then too?”

  Dora Spaak seemed flustered, her eyes wide.

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mr. Macintyre, but my mother is a semi-invalid. She was in her bed and asleep on both occasions. She wasn’t out and about, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “And your brother?”

  “Are you trying to make trouble for my brother, Mr. Macintyre? He was in all night—just as he told you.”

  Urbino stared at her silently. If she was aware of her brother’s walks, as Nicholas said she was, then she was deliberately lying—unless she actually believed her brother had been in that night. He might have told her that he was.

  Was Dora speaking out of knowledge, ignorance, or the attempt to deceive him? Could Nicholas actually have been in that night after only a short walk? If he had, then why had he told such an elaborate story about the Calle Santa Scolastica, the kind of story that could only make him a stronger suspect?

  Dora, obviously uncomfortable under Urbino’s silent scrutiny, was about to turn away when her attention was caught by the folded copy of Il Gazzettino that Urbino was holding under his arm. She went white.

  “That picture, Mr. Macintyre.” She pointed down at the newspaper—at the police artist’s drawing of the dark-haired man Rigoletti had seen. Urbino unfolded the paper. Both pictures were now visible. Dora Spaak looked at the picture of the light-haired man but her gaze went immediately back to the other picture. She was about to say something, then stopped. She seemed undecided if she should go on.

  “What about the picture, Miss Spaak?”

  “I—I’ve seen that man.” There was a hesitancy in the way she said it. “Yes, I’ve seen him.” She took a few moments to collect her thoughts before going on quickly. “I saw a man who—who looked just like him talking to Val a few days before he was murdered.” She took the paper from Urbino and studied the picture. “Yes!” she said with more force. “It’s the same man. I’m sure of it. I thought it was suspicious at the time but I’d forgotten all about it until this very minute.”

  “Where did you see him?”

  “Out in the square a day or two before Val’s murder. I’m not sure exactly when. I was going for a walk. Val was talking with this man”—she indicated the picture of the man who resembled Vico—“and he seemed angry with him.”

  “Did you hear anything they were saying?”

  “No, I just kept walking. I was too far away.”

  Urbino thanked her and told her that he hoped her mother’s condition would improve. As he watched her hurrying up the staircase, he wondered why he found it so hard to believe anything she had to tell him. Was it that she herself wasn’t sure of the truth of what she was saying or was it that she was making much of it up as she went along? In either case, he had a hunch that Dora could end up shedding more light on what had happened in the Calle Santa Scolastica than she already had—or than she ever would want to.

  2

  After leaving the Casa Crispina Urbino called the Questura from a public phone in a bar in the Calle dell’Arcanzolo. When the receptionist put him through right away, he took it as a further indication of Commissario Gemelli’s spirit of cooperation.

  He wondered if Nicholas Spaak had made his promised visit. Perhaps Dora couldn’t find her brother because he was at the Questura or on his way there.

  Urbino mentioned the pictures in that morning’s Il Gazzettino.

  “Remarkable likeness of your friend Vico, wouldn’t you say? Could hardly have been more like him if it had been a photograph taken by Gibbon or Buffone.”

  “I’m sure you would have liked to give Il Gazzettino a photograph if you could have.”

  “In time, in time—before the e
nd of Carnevale most likely. But even the Italian police have to do things in the proper, orderly way. And don’t forget Lubonski. He’s a strong suspect in Gibbon’s death even if he was rushed to the hospital in the middle of the night.” Gemelli paused. “I don’t think I have to tell you what I learned from your friend Lubonski, do I? I know you learned the same things during your visit to him but saw no reason to inform us.”

  “Have you had any response to the pictures yet?”

  “Not to the one of the blond man but the phone has been ringing off the hook about the other one. Quite a few people have said they saw the handsome Signor Vico the night of the murder. And Ignazio Rigoletti has called us two or three times. He seems to think he keeps seeing Vico parading around. Says he made an obscene gesture at him when Rigoletti’s boat was coming into San Marco—then he ran off in the crowd. He wants to know why we haven’t arrested the insolent young man yet. I think he’s trying to get us to pull him in as a public nuisance. It might not be a bad idea.”

  When Gemelli said nothing about Spaak, Urbino assumed he hadn’t been to the Questura yet. He realized he was once again withholding information. But what held him back was not that he wanted to keep the information for himself but that he wanted the Commissario to get the story first from Spaak. He had told Mrs. Spaak that he would try to help her son. This might be the best—and only—thing he could do for him.

  “Anyway,” the Commissario was saying, “aside from Rigoletti, Vico was seen by at least half a dozen people that night, and he was just where you would expect him to have been—along the Molo, in the Piazza San Marco—someone even saw him in the Mercerie not far from the Splendide-Suisse. He seems to have been having quite a good time. If he has nothing to hide, then why doesn’t he just admit that he was out? His stepmother is obviously providing him with an alibi. In the stories I read when I was a kid the stepmother used to throw her stepchildren to the wolves! I wonder if Vico knows how lucky he is to have the one he does?”