The Grand Tour: Four International Mysteries

by Michaela Thompson

  But not for killing Brian.

  She thought about Michèle. He had frightened her and charmed her. He had danced with her at a masked ball. He had kissed her knuckles. What he hadn’t done was tell her the whole truth, and she had left too many questions unasked. They would be asked now. She started toward the library.

  Maybe he was dangerous. It seemed absurd, but she didn’t really know him. He was wearing his Harlequin costume, with the wooden baton at his belt. She would feel better if she had a weapon of some sort.

  She could take a vase, or a poker from one of the fireplaces. She thought of the green umbrella. If it wasn’t as good a weapon as Michèle’s baton, it was at least something to hold on to. She smiled grimly, thinking of the two of them bashing at each other with baton and umbrella.

  Sally had seen Michèle put the umbrella in a closet on the landing. She searched, but didn’t find it at once. As she spotted it leaning in a corner, she also saw, behind a pair of sturdy wading boots, a limp bundle of white satin and black net. She had seen it before, knew what it was even as she fished it from the bottom of the closet. She unfolded the bundle and saw the mask and skullcap, the long, extravagant ruff and the white satin blouse and trousers of a Pierrot costume. This was the disguise worn by the Pierrot she had seen in the dining room this afternoon. Had it been Michèle after all?

  Sally rebundled the costume, picked up the umbrella, and went to find Michèle.

  He was in the salon. A glass of red wine on a table beside him glowed richly in the lamplight. He had taken off his mask and hat, and his hair was ruffled. “There you are,” he said. “We must discuss what to do. It’s a nuisance, but Francine is downstairs, waiting to see me, and—”

  “I don’t care about Francine,” Sally said. She tossed the satin-and-net bundle in a chair. “Where did this come from?”

  Michèle raised his eyebrows. “Exactly where it came from I don’t know, but I suspect it belonged to Jean-Pierre originally. It turned up in a storeroom on the ground floor. Our intruder must have left it there after attacking Sandro and frightening— and being frightened by— you. We didn’t find it until after I talked with the police, so I put it in the closet to give to them.”

  He looked at her calmly. He’s in his element, Sally thought. “What did you do with the letters, Michèle?” she said.

  Did his face flush? In the lamplight it was difficult to tell. “Letters?”

  “The letters Brian got in Paris, that he hid in his shoe. Desire is defined as trouble. Slime is the agony of water. There were four of them. I found them, but the Medusa came after me and I dropped my bag. When you brought it back to me, they were gone.”

  “So instead of blaming the Medusa, your obvious enemy, you blame me.”

  “You read them. I heard you say Slime is the agony of water to Jean-Pierre.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, I see. You’re right. I took them.”

  Sally’s legs felt weak. She sat on the edge of the sofa, still clutching the umbrella. “But why?”

  “Clues. I only glanced into your bag quickly, making sure it was yours, but they were so obviously clues I thought I’d better take them.” He sipped his wine and said, “My God, I forgot to offer you wine. Would you like some?”

  Sally shook her head. “Why did you need clues?” she said. “You aren’t a policeman, are you?”

  “No. Although I think I would have been a good one. I discovered that Rolf was wearing the mirror disguise. I found out, too, that Tom was ordered out of your hotel the night before the murder because he was acting suspiciously. And Francine—”

  Sally put her hand to her face and realized she was still wearing her mask. She loosened it and took it off. “It isn’t a game, Michèle. It isn’t something for you to play around with to impress Antonia.”

  Michèle looked contrite. “It’s true,” he said. “Antonia thinks I’m completely irresponsible, but I thought if I could solve the crime—”

  The telephone rang. Michèle made an exasperated gesture and got up to answer it. While he was talking, Sally left the room.

  AN ALTERCATION

  Tom hated this even worse than he’d thought he would. He had never felt like such a jerk. To make it worse, Ursula kept jostling him and digging his ribs with her elbow, obviously trying to prompt him so he’d follow her plan to the letter. Tom cocked his own elbow and tried to jab back, but he didn’t make contact.

  Tom and Ursula were standing at Count Zanon’s back door. Water poured off the eaves and rattled down the gutter pipes. A young man in a blue smock peered out while an older man with a bandaged head hovered behind him. The two were obviously accustomed to strange sights at odd hours, as neither showed surprise at seeing two salacious nuns on the doorstep.

  As Ursula’s elbow landed in his ribs again Tom said, “Michèle Zanon, per favore.”

  The young man inclined his head politely and said something.

  “He is asking what is your name,” Ursula hissed to Tom.

  Tom said his name.

  The young man’s jaw sagged, and he stepped back. The older man, on the contrary, leaned forward and spoke in a loud, interrogatory tone.

  “He is asking your name again,” whispered Ursula, sounding nonplussed.

  Unnerved, Tom repeated his name, more loudly than he had intended.

  The man with the bandaged head gave an angry, inarticulate roar. He pushed the young man out of the way, reached out and grabbed Tom’s wimple and dragged Tom into the room. He shoved Tom into a corner and started to pound his head against the wall.

  Tom began to flail. He pushed his assailant, who, still roaring, pushed Tom back. Tom fell against a bench, lost his footing, and bumped painfully to the floor. The man jumped on top of him.

  Gasping and struggling, Tom became aware that other things were happening around them. Ursula was screaming. The young man was shouting and trying to pull Tom’s assailant away. As the young man pulled on the older one’s shirt, Tom managed to loosen the thick fingers from his throat. “Are you crazy?” he yelled furiously. As the man was hauled off him, Tom landed a punch and heard a satisfying click as the man’s lower and upper teeth made contact.

  “What the hell is going on?” Tom demanded as he staggered to his feet. His mask was askew, and he adjusted it, glaring at the man with the bandaged head, who seemed to have been considerably sobered by Tom’s punch. “You want to fight, I’ll show you a fight!”

  He heard Ursula’s voice, high-pitched, speaking rapid Italian. She was in a little side room, on the telephone. She made several vigorous, hysterical-sounding points before slamming the phone back into its cradle.

  She turned to face the doormen, and delivered another stream of words which left both of them looking sheepish and apprehensive. Then she spoke to Tom. “I have told Michèle that his doorman made a vicious, unprovoked attack on you,” she said angrily. “He has asked that all of us see him upstairs.”

  ROLF SUCCEEDS

  With swelling excitement, Rolf felt Sally struggling against him. It was beautiful, beautiful. The hysterical arch of her backbone, the shudders that seemed to come from her center and ripple outward, the pounding blood in her neck. It was as good as he’d hoped.

  She was breathing in long, ragged snorts through her nose, because, of course, he’d gagged her first. That was the beauty of having prepared beforehand. He had bought a large handkerchief for a gag, a coil of twine to tie her hands.. Now Sally could only tremble and arch away from him, her eyes staring and wide with the terror he had imagined so often.

  Her hair was falling down. A drop of perspiration crept along one of her eyebrows. Rolf watched, fascinated, as it slid to the corner of her eye.

  He had thought he would wait until the house was dark and quiet, but he hadn’t been able to wait any longer. When he heard her leave her room and go down the hall, he’d slipped downstairs. Crouched in her closet, he’d left the door open a little, and when she came in, very pensive, and tossed her hat on th
e bed, he had been watching. He had been ready, completely prepared, when she opened the closet door.

  She was trying, clumsily, to kick him. He almost laughed aloud. Give up, little girl. Behind the devil mask, his face pulsed with heat. He pushed open the closet door and dragged her with him to the door of the bedroom. Now to get her out of here. Everything was going his way, that much was obvious, so he knew they’d get out.

  She continued to pull and writhe. He opened the bedroom door a crack. Everything was quiet, but then Sally started to make a gargling noise. Rolf closed the door softly. He slapped her, medium hard, across the face, watching her eyes widen and then redden. “Shut up,” he whispered hoarsely.

  When he next opened the door, he heard faraway voices, and a few minutes later an army’s worth of footsteps on the stairs. He shrank back and watched as four people, two masked nuns and the two doormen, filed down the hall.

  Rolf couldn’t believe his good luck. The downstairs door, at least for the moment, was unattended. As soon as the four had disappeared he frog-marched Sally into the hall. The two of them stumbled, practically plummeted, down the marble stairs.

  They had reached the ground floor when Rolf heard pounding on the garden door. He stopped still. Now what? Somebody, or perhaps more than one person, was out there. He was trapped.

  He thought fleetingly of the storage rooms, but as quickly discarded the idea. He wanted out. Then he noticed the rowboat just inside the Canal door. This room had two outside doors, after all— one to the garden, and one to the Canal.

  The pounding on the garden door continued. Surely somebody would be coming down, but Rolf didn’t hear anyone yet. Maybe Count Zanon had had enough company for one evening. The door to the Canal was fastened with a long, heavy bolt. Rolf dragged against it, and it slid easily. The door swung open. Christ, the water was so high it was practically coming inside.

  The oars were in the boat. Rolf shoved the boat to the door with his foot. In his highly excited state he thought it weighed nothing. It slid over the mossy stone stoop and nosed a few inches down into the Canal. Rolf pushed Sally into the boat and jumped in himself. The boat rocked as he pushed them away from the stoop with his oar. He settled down, fixed the oars in the oarlocks, and began to row.

  FRANCINE PIERROT

  Breathing heavily, Francine stood, the bundled-up Pierrot costume in her arms, in a small but well-appointed bedroom. How had this happened? After her long wait she had had not even five minutes’ conversation with Michèle, and now she was hiding like a thief. She hurled the satin bundle at the bed, where it unfolded loosely. The mask, face down, rocked back and forth. She glared at it until it was still.

  Francine had waited downstairs an outrageously long time after Michèle and Sally ascended. At last she insisted, using sign language, that the doorman call Michèle and ask if she could come up. She had been considerably mollified when he indicated that she could.

  Michèle, still in his Harlequin garb, had mollified Francine further by being very apologetic, albeit in a harried way. He begged her forgiveness and offered her wine, saying he’d had complicated family matters to attend to.

  After that, matters deteriorated abruptly. There were noises from below, and then the telephone rang. Listening to Michèle’s end of the conversation, Francine could tell that something disturbing had happened. When he hung up he said, “How strange. Your friend Tom and Ursula, an acquaintance of mine, are downstairs, and they’ve had a terrible fight with Sandro and his son.”

  Francine jumped to her feet. “Ursula!”

  “That’s right, you know her, don’t you? The two of you were at the Scoundrels’ Ball together. Yes, she and Tom—”

  Francine could imagine. Ursula, storming into the palazzo in search of Francine, had already injured the doormen. “Oh, God. Don’t let her know I’m here,” she cried.

  Michèle looked confused. “But she’s on her way upstairs now.”

  “No!” Francine blotted her face. She forced herself to say, “She thinks I’m having an affair with you. She’ll make a horrible scene.”

  Michèle looked astonished. He darted to a chair, picked up a black-and-white bundle, and pushed it into Francine’s hands. “Go quickly,” he said. “Change into this in one of the bedrooms. Avoid Antonia’s, the second on the right, but any of the others will do. Then, if Ursula sees you leaving, you’ll be just a friend in costume who came to have a Carnival drink.” He led her through the dining room and pointed. Without thinking, Francine fled down the hall and through the nearest door.

  So here she was, thwarted once again by Ursula. Tears of rage filled her eyes as she stared at the Pierrot costume. There was nothing to do but take Michèle’s suggestion and put it on.

  The cap would be a problem. Francine would have to braid her frizzy and abundant hair and pin it up. She took comb and pins from her purse, parted her hair in the middle, and gave it an angry yank before she began to braid.

  Her hair secured, she pulled the satin trousers on over her jeans. The legs were far too long, falling in folds around her feet as she pulled in and tied the waist. She slipped the blouse over her head. It reached to her knees, and the sleeves fell past her fingertips.

  This was absurd. Making an effort to get hold of herself, Francine pinned the skullcap over her braids, tied on the mask, rolled up her pants legs as best she could, and left the room.

  In her disguise, makeshift as it was, she felt oddly safe. She could hear voices in the salon. In her head, also, she heard Michèle’s voice: Avoid Antonia’s, the second on the right—

  That door was standing ajar, and the room was dark.

  Francine, it seemed, had had some luck at last. She knew, because she’d seen Sally entering it earlier, that this room was not Antonia’s, but Sally’s. She had assumed that Sally would be in it, but obviously Sally was elsewhere.

  It was a risk, but it was also Francine’s opportunity to salvage something from the appalling comedy of errors this evening had become. She had to take that opportunity.

  Francine entered the room. She found the light switch, turned it on, and closed the door. She gazed around her at the carved furniture, the marble fireplace, the paintings, the silver-backed brushes on the dressing table, the half-open closet.

  Francine had an uncomfortable feeling that she might have been mistaken, that the woman in the señorita costume was Antonia, not Sally after all. Then she caught sight of Sally’s tapestry handbag lying on a chair. She picked up the bag and began to go through it methodically.

  She was briefly elated when she saw the folded paper, but it proved to be only a handwritten copy of the Medusa poem. Food for thought, but not what she was looking for. Francine put down the tapestry bag.

  Then she saw the suitcases, standing side by side in a corner by the dressing table. Here was the answer. Feverishly, she turned one of them on its side and opened it. It was Brian’s. What fantastic luck. Francine plunged her fingers into the side pockets, shook out the neatly folded sweaters and underwear. Totally intent on her task, she heard nothing. Only when Michèle’s hand touched her shoulder did she realize he had entered the room.

  “You won’t find what you are looking for here, but I may be able to help you,” he said. “Shall we have the talk you wanted?”

  MICHÈLE GETS READY

  “I thought they were from you. I suspected you all along,” Michèle said. He was putting on his Harlequin mask, looking at his reflection in Antonia’s dressing table mirror.

  Francine sat sullenly on the bed. The four letters she had sent to Brian lay on the dressing table. Desire is defined as trouble. Fear is a flight; it is a fainting. Slime is the agony of water. To be dead is to be a prey for the living. She had been found out. She was filled with disgust.

  “They’re quotations from Sartre, aren’t they? From Being and Nothingness?”

  Francine nodded. “You must know Sartre extremely well, to have guessed.”

  Michèle positioned his bicorne hat. “I don
’t know Sartre at all, but I thought there was a literary feeling about them. They sounded ominous and threatening, but not like the normal sort of threat.”

  “They weren’t meant to be real threats. I only wanted to put him off balance, reduce his arrogance.” From the first, it had been a laborious, ill-fated effort. Francine had gotten an English translation of Being and Nothingness from the library. After days of intense inner debate, she had selected the quotations on the basis of brevity and ominous tone. She had then had to bribe Sophie, her landlady’s daughter, with ice cream and nail polish and pieces of cheap jewelry to convince her to copy the quotations and address the envelopes. At the time, she had found it rather satisfying and had enjoyed seeing Brian grow jumpy and preoccupied.

  Michèle turned toward her, his disguise complete. “Very literary, and a bit passionless and hollow,” he said. “I considered also that they might be quotations from Tom’s book, which I know no better than Being and Nothingness. But Tom didn’t react to the line I said to him.”

  “That’s surely the only time Jean-Paul Sartre’s work has been confused with Tom’s,” said Francine.

  “So you sent the letters, and then Brian was murdered, and you were in the position of having sent him quasi threats. No wonder you wanted them back.” Michèle picked up the letters from the dressing table. He unbuttoned a front button of his diamond-patterned Harlequin jacket, tucked the letters inside, and refastened the jacket.

  Francine didn’t reply.

  Michèle looked around the room. “You didn’t see Sally at all? Or hear her leave?”