The Flying Boat Mystery

by Franco Vailati

  ‘So you took the plane?’

  ‘When you must, you must. It wasn’t the time to be miserly and meagre, Commissario. Strictly between us, Commissario, this uncle of ours has some savings, not so much, you know, we are all poor as church mice in the family, only cobwebs and flies in our pockets, but he promised to leave everything to my Augusto. He’s not a real uncle, but, you know, Commissario, there’s not so much of a family around, and my Augusto is the only leftover, as you might say… But you know, Commissario, he had that hag of a maidservant for ages, and we were afraid of some dirty trick on her part. Never trust servants, Commissario, they’re always ready to jump on the loot in the end. So, when a friend of ours cabled the sad news from Palermo, I immediately said to my Augusto: “Dearest, that uncle of yours will not live another day, the poor thing. Upon my soul, he has both feet in the grave, so don’t be mean as usual, open your wallet and let’s take the plane! Please, make an effort, we can’t arrive just for the burial, fresh and jolly as nightingales, we simply must arrive beforehand, and when you must, you must.”’

  The torrent suddenly dried up, and the subsequent answers failed to provide any explanations to poor Boldrin. The flow started again when he tried desperately to free himself of her overbearing presence. Maria Martelli was apparently trying not to irritate the policeman and she fought to contain her normal acrid and domineering voice:

  ‘As you can see, Commissario, we are good, honest and obedient citizens, very respectful of your authority. We’ve waited and waited and waited until now, even though this awful delay is a disaster for us, as you can readily understand. We took the plane, with a great sacrifice of our meagre savings, and now we are here in Naples when our wretched uncle is dying in Palermo, the poor thing, the wretched hag is plotting, the wretched clock is ticking…Now you’ve questioned us twice, so, Commissario, may we finally leave? We’ve lost a full day, Commissario, a full day, and planes aren’t as cheap as bread, you know.’

  Boldrin tried to reassert his authority. He raised himself from his chair with an official look on his face:

  ‘Signora Martelli, justice must always follow its course, its rules and procedures, always and in every case. You and your husband will be free to leave when, and only when, the circumstances allow it.’

  But, once she was out of the room, he looked anxiously at his supervisor, who nodded his approval immediately:

  ‘Well done, I leave you the husband. He’s yours!’

  Boldrin immediately faced the new witness:

  ‘Are you going to Palermo, Signor Martelli?’

  Martelli’s pale eyes wandered around the room, as if he was searching for his dear wife.

  ‘Why did you take a plane?’

  ‘Well, I have un uncle, my poor mother’s stepbrother… He lives in Palermo... Well, he lived because he’s dying... They cabled us… He’s very seriously ill, the poor man, a double—yes, a double—pneumonia… but the passing years are always a burden for everyone, aren’t they?’

  Luigi rolled his eyes, the words were buzzing in his ears, as if he’d heard them before…

  Augusto Martelli was continuing very slowly, as if he was weighing every single word cautiously:

  ‘You know, the poor man had some savings, not so much, and he promised to leave them to me… we have no other relatives, you know, but there is a hag of a maid…he had her for ages and we fear some dirty trick from her… So, when the cable arrived, my wife—.’

  The assistant commissioner’s sudden outburst stopped the methodical drip, drip of words:

  ‘If you want to give your fantasy a little rest Signor Martelli….’

  The other fluttered his pale eyes, even as his lips kept moving under the pressure of the coaching he’d received. Luigi continued with kind irony:

  ‘So you can be a bit more varied in your inventions.’

  He had suddenly understood why Martelli’s words were buzzing insistently in his ears with a curious sensation of déjà vu: he had heard them, equal and identical, only ten minutes before from his wife, word for word, comma for comma… So Martelli was only repeating what his dear wife had coached him to do.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘That’s not important. It’s far better to tell the truth in these cases, you know.’

  ‘Really, my poor uncle... ’ Martelli stuck to his story as desperately as a gluttonous boy clutching a piece of cake.

  Boldrin exploded with official violence:

  ‘Leave your uncle aside. We knew immediately it was all a story concocted by your wife. Do you understand what it means to lie to the police?’

  The only effect of the melodramatic outburst was to seal poor Martelli’s lips tightly; although he was, quite naturally, afraid of the police, he was even more terrified of his overbearing wife. So all they could do was to send the heroic husband away, at which Luigi commented that it would have been far more effective to attack Signora Martelli:

  ‘The only foundation in his wretched life is the terror inspired by his abominable wife. All we can do is to try to convince his boss that it’s futile to persist with their ridiculous story. Possibly, her husband will inspire an ounce of his holy terror in her! And now, we shall tackle Marchetti and Sabelli.’

  Boldrin was unhappy about his recent outburst, so he was quite happy to leave the job of questioning to his superior.

  Luigi asked Marchetti:

  ‘You’re going to Palermo with your friend, Signor Sabelli, aren’t you? And you’re signing a corn deal, I believe. Who arranged it?’

  ‘Sabelli.’

  ‘Why you, and not someone else?’

  ‘We’re friends, for goodness sake, and—well, Sabelli knows that corn is my field, my area of expertise.’

  ‘And what is Sabelli’s area of expertise?’

  Marchetti’s only answer was a ghost of a smile, but Luigi continued, as if he hadn't noticed it:

  ‘You weren’t surprised to hear a corn deal proposal coming from him?’

  This time Marchetti answered with a shrug, so Renzi changed the subject swiftly:

  ‘Do you know Francesco Agliati?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘And his bank, the Italy & Argentina Bank?’

  Boldrin suppressed his surprise, but Marchetti answered quietly and firmly:

  ‘Never.’

  ‘But we found the managing director's phone number in your suitcase.’

  ‘In my suitcase?’

  ‘In your suitcase!’

  Renzi could read only a frank and total astonishment in his eyes.

  Boldrin pushed the suitcase towards him and Marchetti responded immediately:

  ‘That’s not mine, it’s Sabelli’s! There’s been a mix-up with the labels, very possibly.’

  ‘So you don't know anything about these numbers?’ asked Boldrin.

  Marchetti shrugged his complete ignorance again.

  ‘You were both in a hotel in Rome this week, I believe?’ asked Renzi.

  ‘Yes, at the Continental, in adjoining rooms.’

  ‘And you both had telephones, didn’t you? Were there no calls, yesterday?’

  ‘Not for me.’

  ‘And for Sabelli?’

  ‘I don't know, I was out of my room for much of the time.’

  ‘And now for the mysterious Signor Sabelli....’

  Once Giuseppe Sabelli was in the office, Luigi asked him:

  ‘It's a very good time for corn, isn’t it?’

  Sabelli answered with a broad smile:

  ‘Never been better!’

  ‘Had you ever met Francesco Agliati before? Or have you dealt in the past with his bank, the Italy & Greece Bank? Oh, I’m sorry, it’s the Italy & Argentina Bank, isn’t it? They’re closely connected, and it’s easy to confuse them, you know.’

  ‘Never heard of either of them.’

  ‘So why is the managing director of the Italy & Argentina Bank’s number marked on your suitcase?’

  ‘On my... suitcase
?’

  Sabelli repeated the words several times, as if trying to grasp their meaning. His eyes briefly held a glint of terror and astonishment. But he recovered almost immediately and his eyes returned to being impenetrable bulwarks:

  ‘I'm really stunned by the news. May I look at the suitcase myself?’

  Renzi pushed it towards the hesitant Sabelli:

  ‘I don't understand. Couldn’t it be an annotation made in the factory, or in the shop?’

  Luigi turned suddenly to face the window:

  ‘Possibly.’

  Sabelli understood his exit cue and swiftly left the office.

  Boldrin gave his supervisor a friendly smile:

  ‘What do you think about him?’

  ‘Only that the corn market has been very low in the last two weeks.’

  Boldrin hesitated, waiting for a confirmation of his words:

  ‘Marchetti seemed sincere....’

  ‘Possibly,’ replied Renzi mechanically.

  The good chief inspector was quite irritated by Renzi’s evasive attitude. He seemed absent-minded, almost disinterested.

  ‘So what we are doing with all these people?’

  ‘Dear old Boldrin....’

  Renzi’s vague words seemed to suggest many things, and nothing at all, so the chief inspector sought to intervene with his solid common sense:

  ‘We’ll have to release all of them. We have nothing against anyone, do we?’

  ‘Quite so,’ the assistant commissioner smiled ruefully. ‘Things are not going well for us. We can choose between an impossible accident, an impossible suicide, and an even more impossible murder.’

  ‘And the murderer must have been on board,’ added the chief inspector bitterly. ‘But we haven’t a single clue and we can’t detain anybody. It would be quite dangerous to arrest someone without....’

  ‘Absolutely. We must release all of them... keeping them under strict surveillance, of course.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on my fake Bertieri, don’t you worry!’

  ‘But please don't forget Sabelli and Marchetti, either!’

  ‘And Larini the teller!’

  Renzi and Boldrin were each listing their own favourites, like two bookmakers before a race.

  ‘As for the others... I don’t think it could be the case for Signorina Arteni, or your friend, the reporter,’ insinuated Boldrin.

  Renzi bowed ironically.

  ‘Also, the lady in red seems now....’

  ‘Now you’re listing the white and black sheep,’ smiled the assistant commissioner. ‘But you must be careful: in every good mystery novel the culprit is the least likely suspect!’

  Boldrin looked askance at the merry glint in his superior’s eyes. He had never read a mystery novel; he was too busy with his own mysteries, thank you very much!

  Now the man was serious again, as he checked railway timetables:

  ‘Every passenger on the plane was flying to Palermo, I believe? Good. So we can release everybody now, including the crew; they’ll be grounded for several days by SANA, and the Rome police can keep an eye on them. As for the passengers... it’s half-past two now, and the first train to Palermo leaves at half-past six. However, ten minutes before that, there’s a train leaving for Rome, and if someone decides to interrupt his travel... can I have a couple of detectives on hand?’

  ‘Actually, I’m afraid I only have a couple,’ replied Boldrin. ‘Tonight there’s a stake-out of a big gambling den, where we’re hoping to surprise some very unsavoury characters.’

  ‘Don’t worry, two detectives are all I need for surveillance of the two trains.’

  ‘You don’t need them to fly to Palermo?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. They would have to pass the night in Naples and arrive the following day at dusk, whereas the night train will be in Palermo by noon. I’ll go to the station at six o’clock, so as to look every one of them in the eye before they board that night train. Only then will I decide whether I return to Rome or go to Palermo with them. Meanwhile, you can brief the Palermo and Rome police, so they will be able to help your detectives, and our friends will be kept under strict surveillance from the very moment of their arrival.’

  ‘I’ll take care of it, don’t worry. Since they’re all leaving Naples, my work here is ended, and I can only wish you….’

  ‘And I can only thank you for your great and very kind help. In any case, I will keep you informed, and possibly we shall meet again in Rome….’

  And they parted like two very old and very good friends.

  5-THE TRIP TO PALERMO

  6.23, 6.24, 6.25… the watch hands were making their patient and methodical daily trip. Giorgio and Luigi walked onto the platform, watching the passengers’ movements whilst exchanging the occasional vague observation. The night express to Sicily was ready to leave. The Flying Boat Mystery had not turned out as promised for Giorgio, and he had announced his intention to return to Rome, whereas Luigi had decided to follow the other passengers to Palermo.

  So, here the two of them were, awaiting the arrival of the others. The first to appear had been Signora Ferrari. She had arrived at the station half an hour too early, and Giorgio had commented:

  ‘Anxious and agitated as usual, our lady in red! She seems always to leave every place in a hurry.’

  The next to arrive had been Larini, gripping his official briefcase with his usual energy. Renzi had examined the many documents it contained with care. The most important ones concerned the possibility of a big joint venture involving the Palermo branch of Metropolitan Bank and the Corleone Regional Bank. The bank teller had chosen a second-class compartment, and he had been joined after a few minutes by the Martellis.

  After a momentary embarrassment, the formidable Signora Martelli had marked her total disgust for the recurring travel companion and had hastened to choose a different compartment, followed immediately behind by her faithful husband.

  6.25, 6.26... Here came Pagelli, the ex-convict, Boldrin’s great favourite. Luigi asked himself if he was really going to Tunis and instinctively moved towards the train.

  ‘So, are you really going to Palermo?’ asked Vallesi. ‘I'm only sorry not to have discovered anything about the two corn tradesmen. They’re the only two missing passengers, and possibly I might have discovered something about them in Rome.’

  ‘Marcella is missing, too!’

  ‘I thought you would have remembered her. But her name hasn’t been mentioned in vain, it appears. Look over there!’

  Marcella's blue dress fluttered whilst she nimbly passed amongst the crowd.

  ‘You’re very lucky, she’s still alone,’ joked Luigi. ‘And she’s going to Palermo, instead of returning to Rome with her dear father!’

  6.29, 6.30... Vallesi jumped when a booming voice announced the train's departure:

  ‘All aboard!’

  ‘Shall we go?’ he asked Renzi.

  The plural noun made Luigi smile, but he didn’t say anything.

  Slowly, the windows of the train passed before the eyes of the friends and relatives gathered on the platform for the last salutations.

  ‘Torre Annunziata, Nocera, Cava dei Tirreni... Six-minute stop in Salerno....’

  ‘Shall we walk a bit?’ asked Vallesi.

  ‘So that you can admire this beautiful train, now that you have decided to follow me to Palermo?’

  Vallesi appeared slightly hurt by his friend’s teasing.

  Luigi wondered if his friend was really considering a serious relationship with Marcella. Certainly she had plenty of admirers, but Giorgio, too had talked about many girls. Remembering the girl in blue’s slender figure, he gave a little sigh as he thought about his friend’s luck. If only... Yes, if only... But he raised his chin resolutely. After all, the girl had abandoned her father once again, in order to hurry off mysteriously to Palermo... Why?

  He walked silently with his friend along the grey platform of Salerno station. Even in that gorgeous summer evening, the
twilight was sneakily insinuating a sad vein of dreary loneliness. Giorgio’s motive became clear when they saw the restaurant-car’s small red lamps on the homely and inviting white table-cloths, with the ever- alluring possibility of a chance meeting with the beautiful Marcella....

  The train started once again on its trip to Sicily. The two friends followed the long, jolting corridor of the express in motion. The restaurant-car was noisy and gaily lit. The abstract, shapeless country landscape flashed swiftly past the darkened windows, framing the beautiful oval face of Marcella Arteni.

  Luigi was the first to reach her table:

  ‘My dear Signorina Arteni, I excuse myself again for my small professional mistake. It's so easy to confuse journalism and police procedure!’

  ‘Of course, Signor Commendatore,’ replied the girl in blue mischievously. ‘I like you so much. I tell you I am returning to Rome with my father, so when you meet me on the Palermo train you have every right to arrest me, but instead you excuse yourself gallantly... and I'm still free!’

  ‘Allow me to return your compliment by saying that I admire your frankness, which I’m not crass enough to label “brazen impudence.” Perhaps some day I shall be able to explain to you why I had to delay your arrest so enigmatically.’

  At this point, his friend attempted without success to change the subject of the conversation, which irritated Luigi, who usually tried to conceal what he was trying to discover behind jocular remarks. Nevertheless, he tried to continue in the same merry vein:

  ‘Please try to help me to entertain the young lady, instead of protesting. I understand that you are gaping in awe at her grace, but….’

  She smiled at Luigi, but also at his gaping, awe-struck friend. Possibly at that moment she preferred Giorgio’s silence to Luigi’s words.

  ‘So it appears that, as usual, I will speak for all of us,’ laughed Luigi.

  And he began to narrate the trip to Sicily he had made at the age of fifteen. Sicily had made a strong impression on the teenager: the titanic ruins of Selinunte; the suffused and quiet Monreale cathedral, so different from the garish Monreale of the art books; the splendid, serene, soft silence of San Giovanni degli Eremiti’s cloisters; and that masterpiece of bulwarks, Eurialo Castle, still protecting for ever and ever the Arethusa of the Greek coins….