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Empress Bianca

Page 26

by Lady Colin Campbell


  Magdalena, knowing that her mother disapproved of the custom of marijuana smoking, expected her to launch into her usual homily about the evils of the weed. This time, however, she totally ignored it. ‘Are you telling me that Julio and Antonia didn’t disagree with their brother,’ she merely said, ‘or argue with him or anything like that?’

  ‘No. They just ignored it.’

  ‘So they think Bianca killed your Uncle Ferdie too. Every word Pedro said was both true and fair. You do realize that, don’t you, Magdalena? Even down to the fact that Uncle Ferdie was going to divorce her.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because, my dear child, your uncle telephoned me two days before he was murdered and told me that that was what he was going to do. He said he was giving Bianca until Sunday to move out of the house. Two evenings later, he’s dead. Well, we’ll just have to see what we can do about bringing his murderers to justice. One thing’s for sure. This was no accident. And more than one person was involved.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  A rich man’s funeral is always an event no matter how little or how much he was loved. It is his leave-taking of the world, the yardstick by which everyone measures him: the richer the man, the greater the event.

  While Ferdie’s funeral was heartrending for those who loved him, they could take comfort from the small things, even as the humblest mourner does. Whatever her flaws, Bianca’s sense of showmanship ensured that the service had the flair that was already one of her most pronounced characteristics. There was only one word for the funeral: magnificent. It was a leave-taking fit for a king. The cathedral was packed. Not only was the president of Mexico there, along with five - not two, as Bianca had told Clara - members of the Imperial Family of Brazil but also people as disparate as Prince Johannes von Thurn und Taxis; Ferdie’s two ex-wives, Gloria and Amanda, and just about everyone else he had ever done business with, entertained or been entertained by.

  The islands of people clustered around the cathedral told their own story, but by far the largest group consisted of the workers of Calorblanco who had drawn lots for places in the cathedral in the lottery which Raymond and Philippe, in conference with Clara, had judged to be the fairest way of deciding who should be inside and who outside. Those who lost out listened to the service over loudspeakers along with the thousands of Mexico City citizens who had come along to witness the spectacle of Mexico’s richest man taking leave of this world.

  The Archbishop of Mexico, assisted by twelve priests, gave a rousing sermon about the transience of this world and the unimportance of its goods. This message contrasted with the splendour of his robes, but what was even more striking was that he took the mass at all, for suicides were not supposed at that time to be buried according to Catholic rites in consecrated ground. The Archbishop, however, had circumvented that troublesome point by making a passing reference to the dangers of cleaning your gun and how easy it was for accidents such as this to be mistaken for something more ominous. This remark was greeted by a collective intake of breath on the part of the richer members of the congregation, all of whom started wondering how large a donation Bianca or Clara or Anna Piedraplata had been obliged to give to the church to ensure Ferdie a Christian burial. The answer was $30,000, paid out of Bianca’s own pocket.

  This sum was insignificant compared with the $30,000,000 that was being paid into an account Philippe had opened for Raoul d’Olivera with the Banco Imperiale in Geneva at the same time as the minister of the interior was standing in the pulpit, reading the First Lesson from 1Corinthians: ‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become as sounding brass or clanging cymbal…’

  The morning after Ferdie’s death, Mexico City’s chief of police had arrived at the Piedraplata house to question Bianca. Not realizing that she was the prime suspect in her husband’s murder, she had invited him into the drawing-room and had offered him coffee.

  He had started the interview by saying, ‘Señora, we’re not here on a social call. We have reason to believe that your husband may not have committed suicide. We need an account of all your movements for the last seventy-two hours.’

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ she said, startled by this new development.

  ‘Where were you yesterday morning?’ he continued harshly.

  Harshness had always brought out the rebel in Bianca. As soon as the chief of police’s tone became abrasive, she felt her blood rise. ‘If you’re going to treat me like a common criminal,’ she said, jumping to her feet and crossing to the telephone, ‘you’ll have no objection if I wait until my lawyer and my husband’s business partners come here before answering any more of your questions.’ She called her lawyer, Juan Gilberto Macias, first. He said he would be with her in as many minutes as it would take for his driver to get him across town. He also warned her not to say anything to the chief until he arrived. Then she rang Philippe and asked him to come over with Raymond. ‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll ring Raoul d’Olivera and get him to call his bloodhounds off the scent. Just stall for time until Raoul orders that creep to leave you alone.’

  Philippe then telephoned Raoul d’Olivera, who had been waiting for this call and had already instructed his secretary to interrupt whatever he was doing if Señor Raymond Mahfud, Señor Philippe Mahfud, or Señora Piedraplata should ring him.

  As far as the interior minister was concerned, this was the big one: his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make a killing. In a manner of speaking, he had been waiting all his professional life for this one telephone call. He had always taken bribes in the certain knowledge that one day someone would need so huge a favour that he would be able to throw caution to the wind and overcharge with the same degree of exactitude that he had limited his takings in the past. Year in, year out, he had garnered a reputation as someone with whom everyone could do business while patiently bearing in mind that his reputed lack of greed would ideally place him to demand the ultimate bribe.

  Soon after the police had realized that Ferdie Piedraplata had died from a gunshot wound to the heart, the officer in charge had telephoned the chief of police, who had in turn alerted Raoul to the death. This was routine procedure. The fact that the richest man in Mexico had died from unnatural causes made it imperative that the minister of the interior and the chief of police would be involved, and, once the former was informed that Ferdie had died from unnatural causes, he instructed his subordinates to keep him closely informed. Before Ferdie’s body had even been transported to the morgue, Raoul d’Olivera knew that there was little prospect that his death was anything but murder. This belief was reinforced when the officers interrogating the servants provided the information that Bianca had given them the afternoon off, claiming that it had been upon Señor Piedraplata’s orders.

  Raoul almost admired Bianca’s audacity in establishing an alibi for herself at his own house. Clever, yes - but not so clever that she hadn’t left her tracks uncovered elsewhere. Already Ferdie’s lawyer, Ignacio Ribero, had provided him with the information that Bianca and Manolito were the sole beneficiaries of Ferdie’s Mexican estate. That alone was motive enough for his widow to have him killed. ‘Had Bianca been a truly clever woman,’ Raoul reflected, ‘she would have persuaded Ferdie to give the servants the time off himself. But she cleared out the house herself. In so doing, she’s made it easy for any prospective prosecutor to create a strong circumstantial case against her. The question isn’t whether a jury would find her guilty: it’s whether she would wish to be tried for murder.’

  Having a crystalline view of Bianca’s predicament, the minister of the interior then ordered the chief of police himself to interrogate her. This was nothing more or less than the exertion of pressure, for who else could Bianca turn to for protection against the chief of police than his superior, the minister of the interior?

  The timing of the plan was so smooth, so subtle, so sure that Raoul would have derived pleasure from its execution had he not genuin
ely liked Ferdie Piedraplata. Whatever his failings Raoul d’Olivera was not an evil man, nor was he a callous one. But business was business, so when the call that he hoped would change his life for all time came, Raoul answered chirpily.

  ‘Philippe, dear friend,’ he said, as if he had no clue what the other man might want from him. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve just had Bianca on the phone. She says the chief of police is interrogating her about Ferdie’s suicide in a manner that makes her wonder if he doesn’t suspect her of having a hand in it.’

  As Philippe was speaking, Raoul remembered the gossip about him being in love with Bianca. Of course, it would make perfect sense for her to get Philippe to arrange the hit.

  ‘Have they detained her?’ he asked, deliberately keeping such things in mind.

  The very idea filled Philippe with horror, as had Raoul hoped it would. ‘Good God, no,’ he replied. ‘They’re questioning her at home.’

  ‘That’s their job, Philippe. Don’t you know that more murder victims are eliminated by members of their own family than by third parties? Bianca is the person who profits most from her husband’s death. For what it’s worth, Philippe, the police are quite rightly looking at Ferdie’s death as a possible homicide.’

  Philippe had to be careful - very careful. ‘Raoul,’ he said, ‘you’re a man of the world. A woman like Bianca simply isn’t used to being treated like a common criminal. As Ferdie’s partner and friend, I feel it’s my duty to protect her now that he’s no longer around to do so. I know you’re a man of kindness and understanding, and I’m prepared to show you my appreciation in any way you’d like. My own suggestion is that you instruct the chief to desist from asking questions that only upset her. Put yourself in her shoes. Her husband’s just committed suicide. She’d worried that people will think that she drove him to his death by making his life miserable. She’s caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, so to speak. On the one hand, if she justifies his cause of death as suicide, she opens herself up to accusations of being a bad wife. On the other hand, if she argues that one of his enemies killed him, she’s dishonouring his memory. I’m sure Ferdie would want me to obtain your cooperation, to ensure that his wife doesn’t have to face that kind of lurid questioning, especially at a time when she’s coming to terms with such a sudden and tragic loss.’

  ‘There’s also another dimension to this,’ Philippe continued, without pausing for breath. ‘Think of the effects such an investigation will have financially. It will be disastrous. For Calorblanco. For the banks. For the employees. For the economy. For Mexico. Ferdie’s dead and gone. It’s never been a secret that he suffered from depression. It’s really best for all concerned that he’s left to rest in peace, which is what he wanted, after all.’

  ‘He’s good,’ Raoul thought. ‘He’s very good.’ The underlying hint of the bribe was unmistakeable. ‘I agree that this is a difficult time for Bianca,’ he replied, ‘and, of course, I feel for her as a friend. But just as I can’t allow my friendship with her to influence the police investigation, equally I have a duty to consider the wider issues, and how they affect the financial security of this country.’

  ‘The people of Mexico will be sincerely grateful to you for protecting their interests. I know how public-minded you are. I’ve been thinking of suggesting to you for a long time now that we establish a foundation for you to use to endow whichever charitable causes you wish to support.’

  ‘Your idea of funding a foundation for me to benefit the deserving in this country is just the sort of public-spirited initiative that we need,’ Raoul said. ‘It’s a brilliant idea, Philippe, but I think it would be better for the future recipients of the foundation if it’s set up outside Mexico, possibly in Switzerland, which is so economically stable. That way we guard against the economic downturns which have been such a feature in this part of the world over the last decade.’

  ‘Agreed. I’ll get in touch with my people in Geneva and make the arrangements for the funds to be transferred into the name of a foundation of your choice…’

  ‘I suppose you’d prefer that we keep the existence of this foundation and the donations it makes to the needy secret?’

  ‘Of course,’ Philippe agreed. ‘We don’t want the taxman getting in on the act and taking his slice of a cake that should remain in the hands of the needy…’

  ‘Since it’s going to be doing such good work, I’d rather like the foundation to bear my name…’

  ‘Why don’t we make things even simpler? Geneva can open a numbered account with you as the ultimate beneficiary…that way you’ll have absolute control over all the funds and you can be as discreet or as open as you wish with your donations…no one but you and your bankers need ever know the source of any of your donations, unless, of course, you want to go public with them… If you have a numbered bank account, all the activities of the foundation will retain the element of anonymity. As you’re the only person who will have control over those funds, you’ll be, so to speak, your very own, personal charitable foundation…’

  ‘Good thinking,’ said Raoul.

  ‘Now all we have to do is agree on what the starting sum is.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Raoul said, letting his words hang in the air.

  ‘I think something in six figures would be a healthy start for all the good works you will do,’ Philippe replied, jumping right in.

  Raoul did a quick calculation. Calorblanco and the banks in Mexico alone were known to be worth over $400,000,000. Bianca would be the beneficiary of half of that. He had no doubt that Ferdie would also have salted away vast sums abroad. Raoul laughed pointedly and without amusement. ‘My good friend, if one wishes to be charitable, one needs at least seven or eight figures. We must think of all the good we’re going to do for the needy.’

  ‘I don’t know that the funds will be available for an endowment on that scale…’ Philippe began, realizing that this was going to be harder than he thought.

  ‘That’s quite all right, my good friend,’ the politician said with an ease that he both did and did not possess. ‘We’re only bouncing around ideas that have emanated from you. If something isn’t to your taste, that’s fine by me. I needn’t remind you that everything, from the initiation of this conversation to what we’re now discussing, has been at your instigation.’

  Philippe was quiet on the other end of the line. Raoul, however, was used to the various techniques employed by people wanting favours. Sure enough, just before Raoul ran out of patience Philippe said, without any hint of emotion: ‘I suppose the party in question could rise to the low sevens if necessary.’

  ‘I myself was thinking more of the mid eights…’ Raoul said, so lightly they might have been speaking about $50,000 US instead of $50,000,000.

  Once more Philippe took his time before replying. This time Raoul almost enjoyed the delay as he savoured the moment that might lead to the big one. He could taste adrenalin on his palate. He started to beat a jaunty rhythm on his desk with his index and third fingers.

  Hearing that, Philippe understood that Raoul was giving him a message - that he could either take it or leave it. His aim was now to make the best of a bad deal for Bianca ‘I don’t see how it would be possible to manage more than five…’ he said, refusing to succumb to the pressure that his adversary was imposing upon him.

  ‘Tut, tut,’ Raoul said without missing a beat on his desk.

  Philippe, realizing that he had failed in his objective, decided to let Raoul wait before he upped his offer. It would be a petty victory, but a victory nevertheless, and a man of his stature required that he win at least some of the battles in any war, whether they seemed pointless or not.

  Therefore, Philippe dragged out the interval until it was almost unacceptably long before saying: ‘Well, maybe she can go to eight.’

  Raoul continued beating out his rhythm on the desk.

  ‘I don’t see how anyone could manage more than ten.’

  �
�It would be a real trial if the needy had to manage on such a small endowment,’ Raoul said, emphasizing his words carefully.

  ‘Not even Onassis could manage more than twenty-five,’ Philippe said in a pained tone of voice.

  ‘But Onassis isn’t the one who wants to share his wealth with the needy of Mexico,’ Raoul replied, still without closing the deal.

  Philippe now fell silent while he thought through the situation. There could be room for manoeuvre further up the ladder: with the president, if necessary. ‘Thirty is my final offer to you,’ he said, putting all his emphasis on the pronoun.

  Raoul got the message. ‘Done,’ he said. ‘You set up the deal as you suggested, with one proviso. Banco Imperiale Geneva must confirm to the Kritzler Bank in Zurich at the opening of business tomorrow that they have the sum available for account number 74963271.’

  ‘Good,’ Philippe said. Then, because he was sure the politician must be feeling magnanimous after such an astounding victory, he said: ‘You know, Raoul, it would honour Ferdie’s memory if you could give a eulogy or read a lesson or do whatever it is you Catholics do at funerals. I know it would mean a lot to Bianca.’

  ‘I’d be honoured to take part in the funeral service. Ferdie was a good man, and I was genuinely fond of him. Respected him too. Tell Bianca to get in touch with my secretary, who will then make all the arrangements.’

  Within minutes of their conversation the minister of interior telephoned the chief of police at the Piedraplata family house. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked without preamble.

  ‘We’re waiting for Señor Juan Gilberto Macias. When he comes, I’ll start.’

  ‘You know, I’ve been giving this some thought. The more I think about how things have gone, the more certain I am that Ferdie Piedraplata did indeed commit suicide.’

  ‘But Señor, it’s not possible…’

  ‘I knew him very well, and believe me, it’s possible.’

 

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