By the time he finished, he had arrived at a theory of who had killed Gregg Baxter, and just how the murder had been accomplished.
Eager to get back to the hotel, and the telephone, he waited impatiently while the padrona fiddled with his Visa card. All thought of returning to San Zanipolo for the afternoon had vanished. A dead fashion designer had top priority for the time being.
CHAPTER
25
Closing In
Returning to the Cipriani, Frost was anxious to call New York but realized it was six hours earlier there and that it would be too early to reach his party. So he telephoned Alfredo Cavallaro to satisfy himself on another point.
Cavallaro met Frost in the lobby. “Your question is, what are the ways in and out of the hotel?” Cavallaro asked.
“That’s right. If someone comes here, he has to leave again. How can he do it?” Reuben was tempted to refer to the apple being brought in and the apple core being hauled back out, but decided not to complicate matters.
“You know them all, Signor Frost. There are only three exits, two by water, one by land—the front landing stage, the landing stage by the swimming pool and the back door, that takes you out to the Fondamenta San Giovanni.”
“No other doors, no secret side entrances?”
“Nothing like that. Only the ways I told you.”
“Are you absolutely sure, Alfredo? There’s no other way out?”
“Mr. Frost,” Cavallaro said, showing slight impatience. “Two of your presidents, Mr. Carter and Mr. Reagan, stayed here, when they attended the economic summits over on San Giorgio. Both times your Secret Service swarmed over this hotel like a thousand ants and both times they complimented us on how safe it was, with only the three means of ingress and egress.”
“I’m not doubting your word, Alfredo. I just wanted to make absolutely certain, that’s all,” Reuben said. “Now, tell me, what happens to these entrances at night?”
“It’s just as you know. The front landing stage is closed after ten-thirty—”
“—not physically closed, is it? A boat could still bring someone in or take someone out?”
“Technically, yes. But the entrance is under surveillance by the roving guard. Also by the closed-circuit TV at the concierge’s desk. Besides, all the doors, except the one here to the lobby, are locked, so anyone going out or coming in would have to pass by reception and the concierge.”
To prove his point, Cavallaro led the way into the front garden and showed Reuben that, when the other doors were locked, the garden became a completely closed space, except for the single entrance to the main building.
The assistant manager then took Frost to the swimming-pool landing stage. “The hotel boat runs to and from San Marco all night, leaving and arriving from here, as you are well aware,” he said.
“That leaves the gate out at the back,” Reuben said. “Can we have a quick look at that?”
They did so and Cavallaro explained that this approach was watched at all times. The guard on duty operated the electronic gate and scrutinized each person going in or out.
“Thank you very much, Alfredo,” Reuben said, as they went back inside. “I think you’ve told me all I need to know.”
“Pardon me for asking, but does this have anything to do with Mr. Baxter’s murder?” Cavallaro asked.
“I’m afraid I’m not quite ready to answer that,” Reuben said. “Will you be around later? I may need your help again, and I may be able to give you an answer then.”
“I’ll be here all afternoon and all evening. At your service, as always.” Cavallaro bowed stiffly as he left Reuben at the elevator.
Frost made his call to New York from his room. The recipient was barely awake, early morning not being her best hour. All of Reuben’s charm was needed to get her to answer the question he posed. But the effort was worth it. The answer was the one Reuben wanted or, more precisely, the one he expected.
Cynthia returned just as he was hanging up the phone.
“How was it?” he asked.
“Fascinating! I had no idea what a versatile fellow Mariano Fortuny was. It wasn’t just those divine silk dresses at all. He was also a stage designer and lighting expert, a photographer, a painter—not his strong point, I might say—and an architect. Quite amazing.”
“Well, I’ve had quite an amazing time myself. I think I now know who murdered Gregg Baxter.” He tried out his theory on his eager wife and described the confirmations of it he was seeking. Then he explained his one dilemma—getting his hands on an extremely unusual photograph of his targeted suspect. “It’s too much to hope that such a thing exists,” he said. “We can make do without it, of course, but it certainly would be easier to have a picture.”
“There is such a photo,” Cynthia said. “You’d have seen it if you read Spy magazine.”
“You know how I feel about that sheet.”
“All right, my dear, but they ran a story a few months back that featured pictures of the sort you’re talking about—including one of the person you’re so interested in.”
“How the hell can I get a back issue of Spy here in Venice?” Reuben asked, groaning.
“I doubt that you can. But, as you may remember, Arthur Qubrian’s daughter went to work there when she got out of Wellesley.”
“Do you suppose …”
“Why don’t you call Arthur? If his daughter cooperates, you could have a picture tomorrow.”
“Or perhaps even a fax,” Reuben said. “If we’re lucky, the fax would be clear enough to use.”
He soon was talking to his old friend, Qubrian, a New York architect, who confirmed that his daughter, Jennifer, was still employed at Spy.
Frost described what he wanted and, when he hinted at the purpose—“Having the photo right away might be very helpful in a police investigation here”—Qubrian said he would try to enlist his daughter’s help.
“She never gets up before eleven, so I should be able to catch her,” Qubrian said. Reuben carefully dictated the Cipriani’s fax number and thanked his old friend.
“Let’s hope it works,” he said to Cynthia. “I’d better get Valier before he goes home for the day.” He called the Commissario, who was eager to tell him that the movements of Luigi Regillo and Ceil Scamozzi on Wednesday had been “fairly well” documented.
“I don’t think it matters any more,” Reuben said. He added that it might be worth the Commissario’s while to join him at the Cipriani. “And don’t forget your handcuffs.”
Frost’s come-on brought Valier to the hotel with remarkable haste. Before he arrived, Reuben had taken counsel again with Cavallaro, explaining the need for a private room in which to meet. After scanning the chart at the reception desk, Cavallaro said that a front suite was vacant and proceeded to show it to Frost.
“This will do nicely,” Reuben said, looking around the large living room. “Commissario Valier is coming. I’ll wait for him here, if that’s all right.”
“The suite is at your disposition, Mr. Frost,” Cavallaro said.
“Oh, and there may be a fax for me from New York. If it comes, will you make sure it gets delivered right away?”
“But of course, Mr. Frost.”
Then, anticipating Valier, Frost asked Cavallaro to check the hotel’s records to see which motoscafista and which backdoor guard had been on duty the previous Thursday night.
“You will want to see them?”
“I’m pretty sure Commissario Valier will, yes,” Reuben said.
Soon after Valier arrived, Cavallaro called to say that the motoscafista and the guard working at the very moment were the ones who had been on duty exactly one week before.
“We’re in luck, if only that photograph comes from New York,” Reuben said to Valier, who had reacted with mild enthusiasm and a raised eyebrow to the theory that Reuben had propounded—neither doubting it nor suggesting that the murder was unquestionably solved.
They agreed that a “discreet” search
of one of the Baxter group’s suites probably would be necessary and, to that end, Reuben called the concierge to see if Dan Abbott or Tabita had asked to have restaurant reservations booked for the evening. The answer was negative, but a second inquiry to the dining room was more productive; Abbott had made a reservation there for three people at eight o’clock.
“Who’s the third, do you suppose?” Valier asked.
“Doris Medford, I assume,” Reuben said. “She was due back this afternoon, I was told.” Reuben looked at his watch. “I guess there’s nothing to do but wait. Shall we order a drink?”
“A nifty idea—but we shouldn’t,” Valier said.
Reuben called Cynthia in their room to ask her if she wanted to join the party. When she found out where her husband was, she said she would be over shortly.
“No hurry,” he said. “If there’s any real excitement I’ll let you know.”
To pass the time, Valier turned on the TV, to CNN. “I wish I could see your CNN every night,” he said. “But it’s only in the hotels, you know. I like to see the news from your country, even when your politics is crazy.”
“Our politics crazy?” Reuben asked. “Compared to yours?”
“Italian politics is not crazy, Avvocato Frost, just ineffectual. Unlike you, we have no pretensions, no illusions. We know that government will do nothing, or at least nothing of any value. Unlike your government people, who insist that they’ve got a method for solving things.”
“Hmn,” Reuben said.
Their discussion was interrupted by the delivery of an envelope. It was a fax of an eight-by-eleven-inch photograph—Jennifer Qubrian had obtained an original print, not the reduced image from the magazine. Both men looked at it with satisfaction. Considering the method of transmission, it was an excellent likeness.
“All right,” Valier said. “Let’s get the fellow from the boat up here.” He called Cavallaro to arrange this.
Soon Silvano Tagliapetra, the leathery-faced motoscafista, knocked at the door, marine cap in hand. He shook hands awkwardly with Valier, whom he did not know, and flashed a grin at Frost, whom he recognized.
Reuben did not take part in the conversation and wondered if perhaps he was not inhibiting matters by staying in the room. He did so anyway, curious to glean what he could from the conversation.
It seemed to him that Valier was almost trying to hypnotize Tagliapetra, to bring him back a week in time. Going over old ground, he confirmed that on the fateful Thursday night he had recognized Abbott, and Tabita and Garrison, when they returned to the hotel. When asked if any of them had showed up a second time on the boat—either going out again or coming back—the answer was negative.
Then the fax of the Spy picture was produced. Had he, Silvano, seen this person that night?
This question produced a different reaction—può darsi di sà, perhaps so.
Valier quietly explored the “perhaps.” The motoscafista recalled again how hectic the evening had been, with the American businessmen and their wives to be ferried across the water, complicated by the drunken safari to Il Campiello. Many had straggled back to the Cipriani boat after the foray to the late-night bar, exuberantly drunk, from about one-thirty until after three.
Tagliapetra thought that a person resembling the man in the photograph had been on a late shuttle trip back to the hotel. How could he remember this? Valier asked, ever so gently. “Because he sat away from the others. Most were drunk and sat outside. He went inside and wasn’t singing and shouting,” came the reply, as translated by Valier for Reuben.
“As if he didn’t know them, you mean?” Valier asked.
“Yes.”
“Ask what he was wearing,” Reuben said, once he had been brought current with the translation.
“All the men were in smoking,” the motoscafista said. “Molti pinguini,” he added, grinning his twisted smile.
“All were wearing dinner jackets? All were penguins? Even the man in the picture, sitting by himself? Ask him all that,” Reuben said to Valier.
Yes, he was sure of that. All were formally dressed, though some had taken off their ties, even their jackets. The man in the photograph? Yes, he now remembered, he had been wearing black tie but carrying his jacket.
“Could you identify this man again?” Valier asked.
He thought that he could. And, yes, now he was sure, the man was the one who had been on his boat a week earlier. After two in the morning, and perhaps even closer to three. Tagliapetra was thanked and sent back to work.
It was now almost eight. Cynthia arrived and was told of the positive identification that Tagliapetra had made. Then, after another call to Cavallaro, arrangements were set up with the bartender and the maître d’ downstairs to notify Frost and Valier when the Baxter group came into the bar or the dining room.
As they waited, Valier said he had “a technical detail” to take care of and called at home the Sostituto Procuratore in charge of the case. He received from him permission to search the Baxter suites.
“We will not have his mandato di perquisizione, his signed search warrant, in hand, but I am satisfied he has given his approval,” Valier said.
The phone call came a few minutes after eight, relaying a message from Walter, the bartender. The Baxter party had arrived, which meant their rooms were now vacant. Cavallaro was summoned and told that it was most important for the Commissario to be granted entrance to them. He said he would conduct Valier there personally.
“Should I wait here?” Reuben asked.
“Nosiree,” Valier said. “You’re going to be the lookout. One of them might decide to come back, you know. I’ll be the Lone Ranger. You’re Tonto, my scout.”
Cynthia did her best to keep from laughing when she heard her husband referred to as Tonto. “I’ll stay here and wait for you,” she said. There was no room for a woman in a Lone Ranger adventure.
Downstairs, Reuben was not precisely sure how to carry out his assigned duty—especially what he was supposed to do if Abbott or Medford or Tabita should appear, other than distract them somehow. Cavallaro, once he had given Valier access to the upstairs rooms, came back down and said that he would go and keep Mrs. Frost company, an assignment he seemed eager to carry out. Meanwhile Reuben waited, apprehensively but obediently, at the foot of the stairs leading to the Baxter suites.
Valier returned ten minutes later, his features set. “You were right, amico mio,” he said quietly. “Dan Abbott is Baxter’s killer, I have no longer any question.”
CHAPTER
26
Fine
Events moved rapidly after Valier’s announcement. He and Reuben returned to the borrowed suite. Valier immediately telephoned the Questura and called for a detail to come to the hotel subito. He also rang up the Sostituto Procuratore again. Then he explained that he had asked that the Ordine regarding Garrison be rescinded and that the former suspect be released from Santa Maria Maggiore at once.
“Will you have Claudio call us when Abbott leaves the dining room?” Valier said to Cavallaro, speaking English for Reuben’s benefit.
The reception manager seemed puzzled and hesitated, causing Valier to lose patience. “Look, I’m doing you a favor by not arresting Abbott in your dining room.” Cavallaro, now realizing what was going on, hurriedly left to deliver Valier’s instruction.
The Frosts and Valier waited nervously, making small talk. The Commissario startled Reuben and Cynthia by asking if they thought Bing Crosby was as good a singer as Sinatra. Reuben, who quite honestly said he’d never considered the question, nonetheless had no trouble in concluding that the answer was “no.” Once Valier had been set off, Frost was afraid they would have to comment on every crooner who had been heard on the man’s prison-camp radio. The queries had reached Perry Como (“Bland,” said Reuben) and Vaughn Monroe (“Couldn’t carry a tune,” said Cynthia) when the squad from the Questura called on their cellular telephone, announcing that they were in a patrol boat at the back landing stage.
Valier instructed them to stay where they were and then, when word came that Abbott and his party had moved to the bar near the pool, he told Reuben to “come on” and they went off to rendezvous at the police boat. Cynthia’s admonition to her husband to “be careful” echoed in his ears as he followed the Commissario out.
“I don’t want to be in the way,” Reuben said, as they walked through the lobby and out a back door, so they would not cross directly in front of the bar where Abbott was sitting.
“Don’t worry, I don’t think he’s going to shoot. Just stay a few meters behind us and if anything happens—duck,” Valier said.
The Commissario’s three colleagues resembled professional mourners in their dark suits when they came up the stairway from the back landing stage. Left aboard the blue boat, with POLIZIA and the identification “PS 475” painted in white on the sides, were three younger agenti in uniform, two men and a woman. The plainclothesmen conferred with Valier and then went with him to the bar. Frost stayed outside near the pool and observed the scene through the broad windows.
The Squadra Mobile officers went directly to the table where Abbott, an American coffee in front of him, was sitting with Tabita and Doris Medford. To the accompaniment of “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head,” played by Massimo, Valier spoke to Abbott, who got up and went out peacefully with the police. The maneuver was carried out so deftly that only Abbott’s companions were aware of what had happened.
Medford rose and started to follow the arresting party outside, but the police had moved so fast that they had Abbott inside the cabin of their launch before she could intervene. The boat left at once, a blue emergency light flashing atop the cabin roof.
A Very Venetian Murder Page 21