by Alan Hunter
Night, the darker hours.
Overmuch sleep at the Hotel Continental. One light only, that in the hall, where the two reporters hunch on their settles. The doors are bolted, the Aquarium locked. The big stairs have never a creak in them. The shadowy landing, the long corridors, have slippered silence built in. House silence: the silence of sleepers, arrested, contained by walls, bars: silence not quite silent, yet the listener hears no sound. Is there a listener? A reporter stirs, moans discontent, blinks at his watch; moans again and burrows at the settle: only its hardness has waked him. The other reporter, also uneasy, twists his head in the search for comfort, and by doing so provokes a choking snore, which spurs him to twist his head again. Overmuch sleep! But who should be waking in this building’s many mansions, in the deep shadow between sun and sun, before Brother Fred has shot his nets? Lovers have finished with their loving, talkers have had their talk out, worriers have worried themselves to slumber, there are none sick, in pain. Yet . . . overmuch sleep! Though that bell is not now ringing, though dead Breske stays dead, does not walk, and no thief stands by the window. Across at the village (and autumn is in it, as it was in the smell of the marguerite: a frost in the sound, frozen moonlight) hysterically laughs a little owl, and again, and again: the humour of some droll slaughter: and none to hear him, here or there, or cast a thought to his jolly murder. Or do the sleepers turn at the sound? In their dark oceans, does it start a dream? Is it this or some other that begins to beat and beat in their ear like muffled drum? Do they truly dream, or wake, hearing this sound far away, thumping, thumping, with behind it, more remote still, sleep-murdering . . . screams? Overmuch sleep! But sleep’s away, if not the dream, suddenly exploding. Doors slam, lights flash, and the screams go on, peal by peal. Shapes, rushing down the dim corridors, shapes, pounding up the stairs, calling, shouting, shrieks of women, and the screams, and the screams. Who is it screaming? Down by the landing, where is no light except from the hall, is the shape that screams, in the fecund shadows, pale, with a glistening darkness at her bosom. And the darkness spreads as she screams and the darkness spots on the carpet and on the wall which she hugs is the darkness, dripping, rolling in fat streaks. Lights, oh lights! Here’s bloody Frieda, tolling the skies with her throbbing throat, bleeding her life over her lap, sliding, gurgling down the wall. She’s stabbed, stabbed, and her screams go out, she crumples, sprawls, moans, bleeds: lays her head against the wall, shuddering, groaning through her teeth. Oh lights! They find the switch. Merciful God, the blood, the blood! What will stop it? Who can staunch it? How keep that little life from flowing out?
And comes the Man.
With never a word he takes the bloody girl in his arms, strides to her room, from which blood trails, and lays her on her dishevelled bed. He rips her bloody nightdress from her and wads it in a pad for her bloody breast, then jams it into the rippling wound and bears upon it, calling for bandages. Frieda’s white face turns and turns, her eyes roll. Who? he whispers. She doesn’t hear him, moans, turns, gives a shivering sigh and faints away. Bandages come: he lashes the pad, the oozing pad, tight to her breast. One of you keep pressure on it, he orders, and three step forward to be that one. Chiefie, I’ve rung the doctor, pants a reporter, he’s fetching an ambulance from town. Shall I ring your people? Yes, Gently says, tell them to get out right away. But he himself is standing still, staring about the meagre room, eyes, no longer mild, thrusting, stripping, eating up minute detail. The window is open top and bottom. He strides to it, stares out. Trudi comes flying in at that moment, falls on her knees, sobbing, at the bedside. Where is Mrs Breske, Trudi? God knows! Frieda – oh, Frieda! He is out of the room. Who has seen Mrs Breske? Nobody: nobody has seen that lady. He breaks through the crowd, begins to run, races down the long corridor, the corridor still reaching into shadow, and thunderously pounds on the Breskeian door. Mrs Breske! She must hear him! Nobody living can be so deaf! He crashes the door in – to find Mrs Breske sleeping, snoring, in a four-poster bed. Wake up, wake up, Mrs Breske! But no, she slumbers raucously on. He shakes her – still the snores come. Will anyone wake that woman again? He switches on the light. The rococo room, stuffed with treasures of old Vienna, with a certain scent of stale lavender, and a furtiveness, spreads about him. Here too the window is open. He doesn’t go to this window. On the lower frame of the window he can see, quite clearly, the marks of three bloody fingers. He glances at the door, where the guests are crowding, at the bed, where snores the unconscious woman; then, moving silently, he approaches the bed, and, with a great heave, sends it rolling.
What happens then? There are seven witnesses with a clear view through the door, and likely, if their testimony is taken, they will scarcely agree on two points. Certainly, Gently’s body is between them and whatever the bed conceals, and certainly, his act of heaving the bed, and the sight of it rolling, may surprise and divert their gaze for a moment. Yet still there are seven, with fourteen eyes, and a well-lit scene acting before them, and they, moreover, in a degree prepared for what may and does transpire when the bed is rolled. A snarl, or cry: can they agree to that? No! Three of the seven never heard it, one describes it as a shriek, one an oath, another a groan. The knife, then? One, one only – and he saw little else beside – can fix the knife, and fix it for ever, hovering in air, like Macbeth’s dagger. A kitchen knife, about a foot long – he can almost read the cutler’s name for you – with a black handle, bloodied, occupying a space nor’west of the lampshade. Who saw the hand with the knife struck up? Not a soul of the seven. The karate sweep which changed to a fist-blow? Yes, it was nailed in one pair of eyes. They saw the hand raised, flat, chopper-like, saw it flash on its deadly journey, saw, suddenly, the hand ball to a fist, divert from throat to a stockinged jaw. A hammering blow! The jaw jerked aside from it, then was jerked back by a hook as crushing. All done in a never-to-be-forgotten split second: murder: murder with one hand. And the man with the knife, though none saw him with it? If the door had been closed on those early impressions? Alas for the testimony of mortals! – but two of the seven had seen him single. Four, would have been the guess of the witness who could report the knife in such accurate image, and counting heads must have yielded, two, while a vociferous three would have mocked the poll. As well these impressions could be corrected, unlike many that come to court! Four, three, two inchoate assailants are chopped as one to the bedroom floor. And now they see (and may at last agree, though agreement may hold no longer than seeing) he is dressed in black, in a black track-suit, with a lady’s black stocking pulled over his head. He is dazed, but not senseless. Get up, Gently commands: Gently mighty in a fawn dressing-gown (point unimportant, yet which will be remembered with the hovering knives and oath/groans) – Get up. And the man claws to his knees: wobbles: holds out his hand: says hoarsely, Don’t, don’t hit me again. I won’t do anything, I promise. Don’t hit me. Take that thing off, Gently says. The man, who is shaking, can scarcely do this. He tugs hopelessly at the slinking nylon which rides taut over his chin. Then it gives. And so they see him. And thus they may answer, if called to witness, being asked: Do you see that man in court? – pointing to the dock, Yes: Carlo Gordini.
Carlo Gordini! For there he kneels, a mulberry bruise on his handsome jaw, his black eyes wide, expecting blows, on his hands, in his finger crooks, Frieda Breske’s blood. Handsome Carlo, gentle Carlo. Whose mistress has snored through all this commotion, and who slumbers on, may slumber ever, but dream no more of lost Vienna. And Gently says to him: I was bluffing you, Carlo. Your name wasn’t coming to me from America. You should have sat tight, Carlo. I knew you did it, but I couldn’t tie you in yet. But now you’re for it, Carlo, and that’s double trouble, puts you in the same boat as Martin Breske. So you’d better help us by coming clean, because at least, with us, you’ll stay alive. What did you give her? Carlo swallows, gazes, perhaps, you think, hasn’t heard Gently, but then says, very low and husky, Just aspirins. Ten. To make her sleep. And the same the last time? Maybe not so
many. Tonight I want her sleeping sound. While you tortured, then murdered, her daughter? – No, don’t answer that, Gently says.
And still night . . .
Brother Fred, with longshores flapping around his boots, catching silverily the hurricane’s yellow, sees the hotel lit up like a lighthouse. Vehicle lights sweep round and to it, each pair flashing out to sea: he counts two, three, four, but may have missed one while shaking loose the herring. Something up, he says to skinny Sid, blast, don’t say that bugger is at it again. I wouldn’t put it past him, says skinny Sid. They get a taste for it, that’s what I reckon. Wonder who he’s done this time. Brother Fred stops hauling, gazes, phosphorescence dripping from his hooked hands, across the slow sea, whose heaving hillocks splits the far lights in tremulous flakes. Get these bloody nets in, he says, Christ, it could as well be Brother Jim. If that sod has stuck a knife into him – These foreigners’ll do anything, skinny Sid says. And they haul and haul, but not yet may come where the starry lights burn their message, and where others are beforehand, including, could they know, hale though unshaven, Brother Jim. Halliday has been, done and gone, bringing, leaving with Trudi, young Stephen. Has she fetched up blood? was Halliday’s first question, and, being told, No, he’s optimistic. Not a stab, he reports to Gently, but more of a slash, though deep. I have her blood group, which saves time. Don’t think we’ll have a tragedy here. And Mrs Breske? Oh, she’ll live. She certainly snores as though she may. She snores down the stairs, through the hall, into the ambulance, and goes off snoring beside silent Frieda. Shelton meanwhile has come, with his leal team at his back. Staring at handcuffed Carlo, Shelton endures his bitterest pang of all this case. Because Shelton was there: he’d done his homework: had, near as a toucher, rung Gently: only hadn’t, to be able to say to Gently’s face, Of course, Gordini is our man, sir. And now, now . . . ! What wretched star is crossing the fate of unhappy Shelton? He had only asked to play second fiddle, just the once, to Gently’s first. Stody, who guards Carlo, and asked nothing, knows more felicity than poor Shelton, though Stody, too, has his bitters: Carlo’s hands wring Stody’s heart.
Night: but a paling out to sea, saying dawn is not far.
I must borrow the parlour again, Gently tells Trudi, who is sobbing quietly in Stephen’s arms. Into the parlour then go Carlo’s hands, Stody one pace behind, hands together, steel-linked, swelled, clenched, knuckle to knuckle. Sit there. The hands sit. The hands, like a stump, thrusting out before. Carlo, his black curls sweat-limp, hunches over the hands, may not turn from them his face. You guard the door, please, Gently says to Stody, and Stody goes gratefully to that station. Prepare to take a statement, Gently says to Sally Dicks, in case Gordini chooses to make one. Sally prepares. Gently sits before Carlo. Between them the hands go tight, pull apart. The black track-suit is shadow, head, face are both shadow; alone, not shadow, the trumpet hands. Gordini, Gently says. Carlo says nothing. Gordini, listen to me carefully. You are not obliged to say anything at this time, but if you do, it will be taken down in writing, may be used in evidence. Do you understand what I’m saying? The hands lift, Carlo nods. I want you to answer me in words, Gently says. Yes, Carlo says. Sally writes.
GENTLY
Now perhaps you’d like to tell me, Gordini, what you were doing on Tuesday night.
CARLO
I didn’t kill him!
GENTLY
Never mind that.
CARLO
But you gotta believe me about this! It was all a balls-up, they didn’t want him killed, they were going to take care of him after I’d left. Man, they use pros when they want to knock them off, not Johnny-on-the-spot. Ain’t that sense?
GENTLY
Your mission was limited to making him talk.
CARLO
Yeah, yeah, and I wasn’t to mark him where it showed. They didn’t want nobody poking their nose in before the stuff was out of the country. But the sonofabitch just kept on squealing, I couldn’t get him to open up. And he was a strong bastard. He kneed me plenty. I’m still sore where that bastard kneed me.
GENTLY
He escaped you.
CARLO
Isn’t that what I’m saying?
GENTLY
You chased him.
CARLO
Sure. He still hadn’t talked.
GENTLY
Over the cliff.
CARLO
Man, could I help it which way the sonofabitch ran?
GENTLY
But you didn’t try to stop him, I suppose, Gordini? Like shouting to him he was heading for the edge?
CARLO
Sure, I would have done if I’d thought, but I didn’t, did I? It happened too quick. He nearly creased me putting his knee in, he knew I’d cut him some more for that, and man, he just took off like a rabbit and went straight over. How could I help it?
GENTLY
An accidental death.
CARLO
Yeah, accidental. You gotta see that. I didn’t kill him. They didn’t want it that way, I was treating him soft, he’d’ve behaved like normal the next morning.
GENTLY
And just now was an accident?
CARLO
Sure it was an accident, I’d never have cut that bitch at all. You got me wrong, mister, I’m no killer. I didn’t go in there to cut her.
And his sweating face, the brows so loaded that he must frown not to spill their burden, turns up to Gently’s, glistening, still handsome, though marred by a bruise and the insolent eyes.
GENTLY
What made you suppose Miss Breske could help you?
CARLO
She had a better chance, she’d know where to look.
GENTLY
She knew what you were after?
CARLO
She caught me, the bitch, I had to tell her what it was about.
GENTLY
Caught you when?
CARLO
Tuesday night. She must have been watching from her window. She saw me climbing into the old girl’s room. I had to tell her or she’d’ve talked.
GENTLY
So she knew you were the man.
CARLO
Sure, she knew about everything. I was all shook up with Clooney and that or I might’ve figured an angle. But man, she wasn’t going to talk, not with all that dough lying around, and I reckoned if she found it first I could soon take it off her.
GENTLY
How much was it?
CARLO
Two hundred grand. They busted a bank vault some place.
GENTLY
They were sure he brought it here with him?
CARLO
Yeah. He didn’t stop running till he got here. They had a private dick pick him up soon as he set foot in this country. They’re big, man, big. You don’t cross them up and get away with it.
GENTLY
I imagine they don’t like incompetence, either.
CARLO
(With a quick glance round.)
But you promised—
GENTLY
Don’t worry. You’ll be very well protected for longer than Cosa Nostra will bother about you. You were only on probation, after all.
CARLO
It’s a lie! When I got to the States—
GENTLY
You were promised big things, no doubt. But I imagine Montelli was only using you.
Carlo shakes the sweat from his eyes and glares up at the Great Man, who knows everything, and who perhaps has just voiced a secret fear of Carlo’s own. But the Great Man has no expression, where he sits, fronting Carlo, so large, so heavy, so monumental, allowing Carlo to destroy himself.
GENTLY
When did he brief you for this job?
CARLO
(Sulkily.)
It doesn’t matter.
GENTLY
He would scarcely waste money calling you direct—
CARLO
As though that worried him! Giovanni!
GENTLY
/> Then we can trace the call.
CARLO
It was last month – why should I remember when? And again on Saturday—
GENTLY
Yes, of course. Your cousin was wondering if he could trust you.
CARLO
(Stares at Gently, strains at the handcuffs.)
GENTLY
With such a sum involved, it was natural. Once you got your hands on that you might well be tempted to double-cross him. Montelli gave you the job, he was answerable for you, he had pressure on him from higher up. When you didn’t show results he’d get worried, maybe start using threats.
CARLO
It wasn’t that way!
GENTLY
He didn’t threaten you?
CARLO
Sure, all right, he was acting heavy! But that don’t mean he didn’t trust me, he knew I’d come through in the end.
GENTLY
But he was getting worried.
CARLO
So he was. Maybe I hadn’t played it right. Maybe I should’ve got rough with Clooney sooner, not poked around looking for the dough. I hadn’t never done a job before, I didn’t figure the right way to do it, so he was getting worried, all right. That ain’t the same as not trusting.
GENTLY
Did he tell you to use the knife?
CARLO
Yeah, maybe. To cut him a little.
GENTLY
In the stomach.
CARLO
Ain’t that sense? It gets them scared, and it don’t show.
GENTLY
And you intended to treat Miss Breske the same?
CARLO
Sure, I wasn’t going to cut her bad. But the stupid bitch goes blowing her top and horsing around. I couldn’t help it.
GENTLY
You seem to have been unfortunate, Carlo.
CARLO
Yeah, unfortunate. I missed the breaks. But don’t never say Giovanni couldn’t trust me, mister, because that ain’t so. I just missed out.