The Grand Tour: Four International Mysteries

by Michaela Thompson

  Glumly, Tom watched her finish her drink, shake back her hair as the man paid the bill, and stroll off with him, arm in arm. She was so intriguing, so sexy. If Tom were Rolf, he’d be screwing her by tonight.

  Which brought up the idea that there was a woman he could be screwing by tonight if he felt like it, and that was Olga. Rolf had said he found Olga attractive; he’d even stayed away from Tom’s place because she turned him on. Tom wondered. He couldn’t remember any specific times Rolf had refused to come over, and usually Olga wasn’t there, anyway.

  It could be true, though. Tom himself had found Olga terribly attractive at one time, although now the specific reasons were difficult to recall. He could check out of his hotel and get a plane to Paris, be there for a late supper. And Stefan would be slouching around studying, looking at Tom as if he didn’t care whether Tom came back or not, and Olga would be cheery and wanting to know all about Venice.

  He could be screwing her tonight, but he’d just as soon skip it.

  That left Francine. At times, especially when she was trying to get him to reminisce about his supposed acquaintance with Sartre, Tom had thought Francine was attracted to him. Lately, though, she’d treated him very badly, even considering they were all under a strain.

  Yet maybe she was attracted, and the hostility and hatefulness were the other side of the coin. If that were so, judging from how hateful she had been, the attraction would have to be pretty strong, too.

  Later, he might go to the place where Francine was staying and talk with her. He needed to do that, anyway, for his research, which was going more slowly than he’d hoped. While they were talking, he could reach over and touch her. He would put his hand on her hair or her shoulder. When he did that, he’d watch to see how she took it, whether she moved away or let it happen. After he saw, he’d know what to do next.

  Lulled in his fantasy, Tom felt almost happy. He almost felt Francine’s fingers brush the back of his hand, almost heard her voice, miraculously soft, no hint of how strident she could be, murmuring in her pretty accent.

  Because Tom was momentarily soothed, the shock of seeing two policemen walk purposefully past the pizzeria window and turn into the door of his hotel was doubly unnerving. Tom sat forward. They had gone into his hotel. And they looked as if they weren’t just strolling around keeping the peace. Tom pulled a handful of lire out of his pocket and dropped the notes on the table.

  Outside, he peered through the glass door of the hotel. He could see the broad, uniformed back of one of the policemen. He pushed the door open slightly. A brisk Italian conversation was taking place between, Tom guessed, the policemen and the desk clerk. Tom heard an Italianized version of his name. He let the door close softly and moved away from it.

  So it had happened. Running away from the hotel, losing himself in the darkening, rainswept streets of Venice, Tom could have shouted for joy. It was May of ’68 again, and he was one step ahead of the cops. He was a fugitive, an outlaw. He was free.

  URSULA WRITES A LETTER

  Ursula’s reactions, Francine had now realized, were consistent only in their unpredictability. When Rolf had shouted his last insult and kicked his last kick, when the neighbors had been apologized to and the dog quieted, Francine fully expected a scene of unparalleled jealousy and accusation. She had imagined herself running through the streets of Venice barefoot, in her dressing gown, and stumbling, drenched and half-frozen, up to Michèle Zanon’s palazzo and into his arms. The vision had been so appealing that although she was sure she was going to be thrown out, she hadn’t bothered to get dressed.

  But instead of evicting her Ursula, once all was restored to normal, had regarded Francine with admiration that seemed to border on awe. “What a handsome, cruel-looking lover you have,” she breathed. “He must love you fantastically, tremendously, to be so angry. And you sent him away because of me!”

  “Of course. He is nothing to me,” Francine said smugly.

  “He will beat you bloody when he sees you again.” Ursula sounded excited at the thought.

  “Ha.”

  “Oh, cara, you are wonderful!”

  Ursula had been so stimulated by Rolf’s visit that it had been nearly impossible to persuade her to return to the task at hand. Only after much cajoling did Francine persuade her to seat herself at her desk and pick up her pen.

  “Where was I?” Francine asked.

  Ursula bent over the scribbled sheet in front of her, running her finger down the much-corrected lines. At last she read, haltingly, “Point two. On the evening of the day her husband was murdered, this woman was observed in attendance at a fancy dress ball. She may have believed that her mask and costume concealed her identity, but—” She looked up at Francine.

  “Very well,” Francine said. “—concealed her identity, but in fact she was noticed and identified. Point three. The woman is currently living at— no, make that living in great luxury at—”

  “For God’s sake, go more slowly!” Ursula protested. “I’m not just writing it down, you know. I have to put it in Italian, too.”

  Francine watched Ursula’s bent head with a sense of déjà vu. She wondered if Sartre had ever been forced to resort to measures such as this, and if he had, whether he had found them as frustrating as she did.

  “I want some wine. Let’s finish tomorrow,” Ursula said.

  Francine made herself respond with angelic patience. “But we agreed to do it now. There’s only a little more.”

  They finished the first draft at last, but Ursula’s constant whimpering broke into a crescendo when Francine told her that the document must now be recopied. “No!” she wailed. “It’s too difficult! You do it!”

  “As you like,” said Francine coldly. “You said you wanted to help. Now I see how mistaken I was to believe you.” She picked up the paper and started toward the door.

  “Stop! I’ll do it!” Ursula cried.

  As the chastened Ursula continued to work, Francine stretched out on the sofa, hands clasped behind her head. This would give the police something to think about. In the meantime, she herself had to get back to the palazzo as soon as possible.

  It seemed hours before Ursula put her pen down and said, triumphantly, “It’s done.”

  Francine studied the letter. Ursula’s unformed hand slanted across the plain white paper. Francine hoped Ursula hadn’t made any stupid mistakes in translation, or in Italian spelling or grammar, but there was no way to check. “Wonderful,” she said, folding the document and putting it into a plain envelope. “Now, we must get dressed.”

  Fully prepared for Ursula’s howl of protest, Francine explained that the entire point of finishing the letter immediately was to insure that it be delivered as soon as possible, and that, therefore, Ursula should dress herself in disguise and get ready to carry out the next part of the plan.

  “Me? I must disguise myself and take it to the police? But why can’t—”

  “Because I must continue the investigation at the Zanon palazzo,” said Francine.

  Ursula eyed Francine. “This isn’t all a trick, is it, cara? You aren’t trying to fool me about you and Michèle?”

  “This matter is too serious for that,” said Francine. “Come along. We should be on our way.”

  IN JEAN-PIERRE’S ROOM

  Jean-Pierre was almost ready to leave, but he would rest five minutes first. He stretched out on the bed, and when he did he thought of the Jester.

  Although the Jester had stolen his money, Jean-Pierre was able to get more, since the automatic tellers in Venice would take his French plastic Carte Bleue. Jean-Pierre was a fairly wealthy young man, but he rarely divulged this fact. He had never even told Brian. He had often tortured himself by wondering if Brian would have loved him better if he had known.

  He didn’t have to wonder if it would have made a difference to the Jester. Had the Jester known, he would never have left Jean-Pierre so quickly, taking so little. He would be here with Jean-Pierre now.

&nbs
p; The Jester slid out of Jean-Pierre’s thoughts and joined in oblivion the other things for which Jean-Pierre had no time: a message to call the police as soon as possible; a visit from Rolf, asking for a place to stay. These did not have the power to hold Jean-Pierre’s attention.

  Jean-Pierre was thinking of Sally, and of Count Michèle Zanon. The two of them had conspired to take Brian away from him. Now that Jean-Pierre had met Count Zanon, he understood much better.

  Brian and Count Zanon must have met somehow in Paris, in the weeks before Carnival, and it was the progression of their secret relationship that had made Brian so jumpy, accusatory, and distant. Although Brian had said that he felt stifled by Jean-Pierre’s possessiveness, it was now clear that the truth was completely otherwise.

  Jean-Pierre hadn’t been possessive of Brian. He had wanted only to cherish him at all times, always.

  Jean-Pierre remembered very well the day Brian had said tiredly, “It won’t do you any good to try to make me uncomfortable, Jean-Pierre,” and when Jean-Pierre asked Brian to explain, Brian said, “Come on. Desire is defined as trouble? Slime is the agony of water?”

  Jean-Pierre had been baffled. He felt the gnawing in his gut that had started to accompany all their conversations. “What are you talking about?”

  Brian looked at him with a stinging disbelief and said, “Oh, nothing. Forget it.”

  Now, Jean-Pierre had heard Count Zanon say the same ugly words— “Slime is the agony of water.” The connection was established.

  Sally had probably abetted them. She didn’t want Brian for herself, as Jean-Pierre had thought, but preferred that he be with Michèle Zanon. Now the count returned the favor by taking care of her, Brian’s widow.

  Yes, it must have started in Paris. No doubt the count visited Paris from time to time. That explained, too, why Brian had been so eager to come to Venice. And on the day of his death, when Brian left the Piazza, it must have been at Michèle’s behest. Brian, rushing to meet Michèle, had tried to be sure he wasn’t followed, but he hadn’t counted on Jean-Pierre’s desperation.

  Jean-Pierre sat up. He looked out his window onto a world of rushing rain. Rain blurred the window glass, made the ivy climbing the wall sway and nod, splashed in the courtyard below. Jean-Pierre knew that he couldn’t hate Michèle Zanon. The count had betrayed him, but Count Zanon and Jean-Pierre were connected, irrevocably, through their mutual love for Brian. Jean-Pierre remembered the warm pressure of the count’s arm around his shoulders. The thought brought tears to his eyes.

  Jean-Pierre had only a few preparations left to make, and then he would go.

  TOM AND URSULA

  Tom’s pounding exhilaration carried him along. He barely felt the rain on his naked, now bristly, face, was barely aware of the droplets accumulating in the turned-up collar of his plastic raincoat and sliding down his neck. He was back in Paris, young again, lobbing paving stones at the cops.

  His photograph had been taken doing just that. He was behind a barricade, smoke or something was drifting around, and his arm was cocked ready to throw. Other people were in the picture, too, but Tom was the focus. He’d had a look of intense excitement on his face. The picture became symbolic. It was reproduced everywhere, including on the covers of both the English and French editions of Tom’s book, From the Barricades. Not long ago, Tom had seen it in a French history text, but the text hadn’t mentioned Tom’s name.

  Tom slowed his pace. He noticed for the first time how wet he was getting. In those days, he hadn’t cared about being wet or dry, hungry or fed. He’d sleep on somebody’s floor, spend the night in a café talking. At odd times, he wrote everything down in his journal — what people said, how they looked, how he felt, what he ate. That’s what everyone had liked about From the Barricades. It wasn’t philosophical, just gritty and real.

  He had a chance to do it again. If he didn’t do it now— well, he had to do it now.

  Tom had put a significant distance between himself and the cops at his hotel, but he wasn’t sure exactly where he was. Despite the steadily falling rain, the streets were clogged. He traversed a campo where a band played gamely on for dripping, persistent dancers.

  He had to do it again. The necessity was clear, so why hadn’t he gotten down to it? He’d barely even taken notes yet. He sneezed. Water dribbled out of his soaking hair and trickled off his bristly chin. Maybe it was time to look for shelter.

  He was considering what to do when he saw the notebooks. They lay, confetti-sprinkled and surrounded by long curls of paper tape, in the lighted window of a small stationery shop. They were bound in magnificently colored marbleized paper, and their pages were thick, creamy, and inviting. With one of those notebooks, writing would be easy. The shop, he saw, was still open.

  He emerged some time later with renewed determination and a carefully wrapped, angular package under his raincoat. The notebook he had selected, in tones of dark blue and gold with a few flecks of red, was the final impetus he needed to get started. He could hardly wait to begin.

  And he couldn’t think of a better place to begin than Francine. He had decided to visit her, anyway, both for his project and to test what Rolf had said about her attraction to him. He dug in his pocket, looking for the piece of paper where he’d written her address.

  Finding the place in the rain, even with his map, wasn’t easy, but Tom managed. When he rang the bell, though, a frightened-looking maid opened the door only a crack. Although he said Francine’s name several times, she refused to let him in, repeating in a hysterical tone words Tom took to mean that Francine wasn’t there. Tom said, “Can I wait?” and moved forward, but the maid gave a little shriek and closed the door in his face.

  Tom stood uncertainly on the landing. He wondered if Francine was really there, hiding out. He had no desire to plunge back into the storm. He’d wait awhile and see what happened. He got out his notebook and settled down on the top step of the staircase. He could get started right now. He opened the notebook and, on the inside cover, wrote his name and address, his pen gliding smoothly over the unblemished surface. He turned to the first page.

  He looked at the page for a considerable time. He couldn’t think of anything worthy to write down and spoil its virgin beauty. He should write about Brian. His feelings about Brian. His resentment when Jean-Pierre insisted that Brian, and by extension Sally, be part of Tom’s group. Brian’s indifference to everything Tom had been and stood for. Tom’s pen was poised, but the thought came to him that putting such things on paper could be highly incriminating. He re-capped his pen and was still staring at the creamy blankness when he heard someone coming up the stairs.

  Looking down through the banisters, Tom saw a nun wearing a long black habit and wimple and a semicircular white collar. Tom wondered if she were doing door-to-door canvassing for charity. He stood as she approached, and when she glanced up, he saw that she was wearing a mask.

  It wasn’t a pious, nunlike mask, either, but a tarty, lascivious woman’s face with red cheeks, a curling, Cupid’s bow mouth, and exaggerated eyelashes. Even Tom, who wasn’t at all religious and certainly not a Catholic, felt uncomfortable. Was this a real nun having a weird joke, or what?

  He was still trying to decide when she spoke to him in Italian. He said, “I don’t— Non parlo—”

  “Of course not. Who does?” said the nun. “We’ll speak English.” Her voice, with its fed-up, irritated tone, seemed strange issuing through the mask’s cheerful cherry-red grin.

  The nun had reached the landing. She stood with her hands on her hips, looking at Tom. “Who are you?”

  When Tom said, “A friend of Francine’s,” the nun’s eyes rolled upward. She pulled a key from the pocket of her habit, unlocked the door, and said, over her shoulder, “Come in.”

  As they walked through a luxurious anteroom into an even more luxurious living room, a greyhound bounded from somewhere and hurled himself at the nun. She caressed the dog. Tom, making conversation to cover the awkwardness he
felt, said, “That’s a beautiful animal.”

  The nun shot him a keen look. “At least he is faithful,” she said.

  Tom decided to shut up. The nun called out sharply, and the maid appeared and, after a couple of quick commands from the nun, disappeared again. The nun took a poker and jabbed at a fire that was already burning briskly. Finally, she removed her mask and wimple, tossed them on a chair, and sat down in another chair saying, “My God, how do they stand the discomfort?”

  She was a tanned woman with strong features and bleached hair. She wore bright lipstick and a lot of black eyeliner. Tom made his final decision that she wasn’t a real nun, which coincided with her saying her name was Ursula and asking him his.

  Tom told her and then asked nervously if it would be possible for him to see Francine.

  Ursula shook her head. “She isn’t here.”

  Tom was disappointed. He had worked himself up to this, and he didn’t want it to be for nothing. Besides, it was storming outside, and the maid was just coming in with what looked like brandy and little glasses on a tray. “Do you know when she’ll be back? I really wanted to see her.”

  “No doubt.” Tom caught a hint of sarcasm, he thought, in the two words, but Ursula went on amiably enough, “I don’t know when she’ll be back. She had important business to attend to.”

  Tom took a brandy. It tasted wonderful. He wondered what sort of business Francine had, and where she had it, but before he could ask, Ursula said, “You are a friend of hers?”

  She seemed to be studying Tom intently, and that plus the nun’s habit was throwing him off. “Yeah. Yes, I am.”

  “From Paris?”