Black Bridge

by Edward Sklepowich

  “Perhaps they were interested in Casarotto-Re, or even in your relationship with him. After all, they had three encounters with you in one day, two of them touching on Casarotto-Re. And they were at his play and the Contessa’s reception. Either they knew him or knew who he was.”

  “Moss didn’t have a good opinion of the performance. Maybe he was jealous of the Barone. He was the jealous type. He snapped at Quimper when she said something about my jacket photograph, and Oriana mentioned how upset he became with her over Flint.”

  “There is something shifty in Flint—and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on some kind of drug or other. He is very good-looking, though. He could very easily have turned Quimper’s head. She wasn’t much of a looker, even before her face was smashed by a bullet. Was she flirtatious?”

  “I never saw any sign of it, but who knows?”

  He described the way Moss had been staring at the Barone at the Contessa’s reception, his own encounter with the couple in the Contessa’s garden, and Moss’s behavior at the bookstore. Saving it for last, he then told Gemelli about Moss’s midnight call to the Contessa.

  “The Contessa thinks he might have wanted to do some painting at the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini.”

  “And I suppose she just thinks it’s only a coincidence they were murdered?”

  Gemelli got up and went to the window overlooking the canal. He stared absently down at the canal.

  “If Moss was jealous, their deaths might have something to do with another man,” he said. “But who? Casarotto-Re? He suggested that Moss shot Quimper, then himself. What he doesn’t know—or maybe he does all too well—is that no gun was found near the bodies. In fact, no gun at all has been found. Casarotto-Re insists he never saw Moss and Quimper before he was introduced to them at the reception. He said nothing about seeing them in the gondola.”

  Gemelli turned from the window.

  “Not much love seems to be lost between you and Casarotto-Re. It can’t be any fun sitting on the sidelines and watching your Contessa gad about town with a man you find insufferable! Listen, Macintyre. I find him antipatico, too, but the difference between you and me is that you feel damned guilty about it. I take it as a sign he can’t be trusted, that he’s trying to prove he’s smarter than me. He’s hiding something—and he’s afraid.”

  This closely approximated Urbino’s own impressions, but he was perhaps more on his guard than Gemelli, who didn’t seem sufficiently aware of the extent to which the Barone, being an actor, was in control of appearances. Like all gifted actors—and Urbino gave him this—you always had to ask yourself if what you were seeing and responding to was true or if it was a performance.

  As Urbino silently went over what he had told Gemelli, it almost seemed a betrayal—or at least he knew it would be considered in this light by the Contessa. But surely the best way to help her—and also Bobo, if he was innocent—was to conceal nothing?

  There was a low knock at the door. It was a young officer, who handed Gemelli a folder and left. Gemelli looked at several photographs in the folder, then read two typewritten sheets. He nodded his head, closed the folder, and laid it on his already cluttered desk. He dismissed the stenographer.

  “We’ve had our differences in the past, Macintyre,” he said. “But I’d like to think that we’ve come to a meeting of minds. You’ve been of help to me. I admit I’ve taken credit for what you’ve done. I would even say that you have some regard for me. Am I right?”

  He didn’t wait for Urbino to answer.

  “We both want to find out if Casarotto-Re had anything to do with the deaths of these two people. There’s no doubt it was homicide.” He nodded down at the folder. “That’s the preliminary medical report. Take a look at the photographs. You might find them interesting.”

  Urbino had seldom seen the face of violent death. A drowning victim dragged from the Grand Canal and a man with an almost humorously neat bullet hole in the middle of his broad forehead had so far been the extent of it. But these photographs were different. Marie Quimper’s blankly staring eyes and twisted mouth foamed with blood were loud, mute testimonies to the horror and brutality of sudden violent death. Moss was worse, his face unrecognizable, a mass of blood, tissue, and bone. Urbino gave the photographs back to Gemelli.

  “They were found in the storehouse area of the green market at half past midnight by a tourist who had lost her way. The man in charge of locking up is a bit lax and the gate into the compound was left open. They must have wandered in because of the fog the way the woman who found their bodies did—or they might have had a rendezvous. The place is full of hidden little areas and cul de sacs just perfect for a bit of sex or romance—or, in this case, murder.

  “Moss was shot two times with a .32 Walther PPK automatic from a distance of three to five feet, one bullet piercing his heart, the other shattering his jaw. It’s impossible that he shot Quimper first and then himself. And Quimper could never have shot him and then herself. She was shot once in the back with the same gun as she apparently tried to escape. Nasty. The medical examiner says they both died instantly, sometime around fifteen past midnight. It fits in with Moss’s call to the Contessa at a quarter to midnight and the discovery of their bodies at half past. Two people in the area heard what they thought were firecrackers about ten or fifteen minutes past midnight. They didn’t think anything of it because some pranksters have been setting them off recently. We’ll know more in a couple of days. Do you want the person who did that”—he nodded grimly toward the photographs—“to get away with it?”

  “Of course not,” Urbino said, but he couldn’t help but be wary of the Commissario’s new spirit of cooperation.

  “This time around, Macintyre, I’m going to share what I know with you,” Gemelli said. “Those photographs are just the beginning. Between the two of us we’ll have a much better chance of rooting out the bastard who did this. The very fact that you don’t like Casarotto-Re will work to our mutual advantage. Given your obvious prejudice, I can be sure that whatever you come up with will be reliable. You’ll be scrupulous.”

  Gemelli was giving him a way of reconciling his bias against the Barone with his promise to the Contessa.

  “And if your own fair-mindedness fails you,” Gemelli went on, “your regard for the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini won’t, one way or the other. You want to get at the truth behind Casarotto-Re for her sake. She doesn’t find him antipatico at all. That’s easy enough to see.”

  He picked up a crushed pack of cigarettes, extracted one, and straightened it. He threw the pack back on the desk. He lit the cigarette and stood smoking for several moments, leaning against the filing cabinet behind him.

  “It’s not just my professional nose that scents something wrong with our Barone, but what we found when we searched Moss and Quimper’s room at the Hotel Flora.”

  He picked a book up from his desk that Urbino hadn’t noticed earlier because of all the clutter. Its red leather covers were faded and frayed, its marbleized page edges stained in various places. A thin, dark blue cloth bookmark, its end torn and wispy, stuck out from the bottom of the book. On the front cover in faint gold leaf lettering was Baedeker’s Northern Italy.

  Gemelli handed the guidebook to Urbino.

  “That’s one of the things we found in the room. Turn to page 363 in the section on Venice.”

  When Urbino did, he found several lines of text underlined in red pencil:

  SALA DELLA BUSSOLA, antechamber of the three Inquisitors of the Republic (view into the courtyard of the Carceri, p. 367). On the exit-wall (the former entrance) is an opening, formerly adorned with a lion’s head in marble, into the mouth of which (Bocca di Leone) secret denunciations were thrown.

  Urbino riffled through the other pages of the book. He didn’t see any other underlined sections.

  “We also found these,” Gemelli said.

  Urbino laid the Baedeker on the desk as Gemelli handed him several sheets of red typewriter-sized paper. On each wa
s printed in Italian in block letters, word for word, the same threat that had been placed in the bocca di leone at the Doges’ Palace and sent to the Gazzettino.

  “You see what all this means? Same paper. Same words. Same letters. Moss and Quimper—or maybe one of them—were circulating the threats against Casarotto-Re. When I showed him the book and these sheets, he said he had no idea the couple had been involved, but he knew all right, and he knew before the reception. He was being blackmailed. He wanted to put an end to it, but he wasn’t happy about having the police—or you—involved.”

  “But couldn’t those sheets have been planted in their room—and the passage underlined—by someone else?”

  “And this same person killed Moss and Quimper? Or maybe someone else just came along and killed them? Usually the simplest explanation is the right one. The accusation could have been a warning. After all, it doesn’t say very much, does it? It was probably meant to be provocative, a threat of what could—and would—follow if Casarotto-Re didn’t pay up, and pay up big. He would know what he was being threatened with. The question is: What is it about him that the couple might have been murdered for? The British and French consulates are providing information about them. But it’s essential to find out more about Casarotto-Re himself.”

  Gemelli took a last drag on his cigarette and snuffed it out in the stub-filled ashtray on his desk.

  “He can’t account for his time from ten forty-five when he left Festa at the Flora after they had a drink at Harry’s until he returned to the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini two hours later. Claims he was walking by himself and got a nosebleed. We’ll check his medical records to see if he has a history of them as he claims. We’re hoping the gun will turn up, but if it was thrown in the Grand Canal or the lagoon there’s little chance of that. Casarotto-Re has had more than twelve hours to conceal or destroy anything incriminating. He took almost all his things from the Gritti Palace to the Contessa’s, and his suite has been completely cleaned, but technicians are going over it. Some of my men are looking through his room at the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini. That’s where Casarotto-Re is now.”

  “You said he took almost everything from the Gritti Palace to the Contessa’s. What didn’t he take?”

  “The suede jacket, scarf, and gloves he was wearing last night. He’d already given them to the Gritti cleaning service.”

  4

  When Urbino got back to the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini, the Contessa was in the study dictating letters to Harriet with an abstracted look.

  “Finally! I’ve been going mad. That’ll be all, Harriet. I just can’t concentrate. Don’t forget to call the Municipality about the procession. They must allow it to begin at midnight. That was our agreement.”

  Harriet obviously hadn’t got much sleep after her late night return from Zeoli’s. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Uncomfortable under Urbino’s scrutiny, she hurried from the room.

  “Do you know what’s been going on around here since you’ve left?” the Contessa asked in an accusatory tone.

  “I know that some police officers came and searched Bobo’s room. But he consented.”

  “Consented! As if he had much choice! And what about me! Two times in one day the police have—have invaded the Ca’ da Capo!”

  “Now, Barbara, aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?”

  The Contessa eased herself back into the chair in front of her escritoire.

  “Melodramatic? Is that how you think of my pain? My outrage? Is that what it’s come to?”

  These words—and their histrionic delivery, complete with round-eyed disbelief—were equally, if not even more, melodramatic than her previous exclamation.

  “Where is Bobo?” Urbino asked as he sat down.

  “Thank God not in some dank cell! He’s resting. He went straight to his room. He didn’t even have the energy to tell me what happened at the Questura. After what he’s gone through even a man half his age would have collapsed. Neither of us has had time to eat a single bite.”

  She asked Lucia to bring some tramezzini. While they waited, she kept her silence with considerable noise, rearranging the papers and objects on her escritoire. After Lucia brought the tray, the Contessa selected one of the crustless sandwiches, but the next moment she put it down on her plate. Urbino picked up a Gorgonzola sandwich and started to eat it with considerable relish until he saw how the Contessa was watching him.

  “I’m glad to see that you still have your appetite. Usually it’s the opposite after you’ve seen Gemelli. Why the difference this time around?”

  The Contessa’s expression—concerned, slightly belligerent, but all the while also vulnerable—reminded him of how delicate his position was. Everything involving the Barone since Urbino had returned from his mud therapy had required tact and patience. The situation was much worse now.

  “Gemelli seems to be in a new spirit of cooperation. We won’t have to pull as many strings as we usually do. He’s already shown me the medical examiner’s report. Moss and Quimper were definitely murdered.”

  “‘A new spirit of cooperation.’ How interesting! And what, may I ask, is his reason?”

  “He wants my help. I was acquainted with Moss and Quimper and observed certain things about them—”

  “And some of those things involve Bobo! That’s it in a nutshell! I’m not that dull-witted! Between the two of you, you want to do him in! It’s a conspiracy!”

  “With that attitude you’re going to do Bobo more harm than good! Moss called you a short time before they were killed. You’re involved yourself from Gemelli’s point of view and don’t think it doesn’t give him satisfaction!”

  “It doesn’t matter a fig what he thinks of me! And Bobo had absolutely nothing to do with these murders! You’re a fifth column, a Quisling, a—a—oh, what’s your sad American equivalent? Yes!” she said forcefully. “A Benedict Arnold! Although he was a hero in my country.”

  For a moment the anger on the Contessa’s face ebbed away into confusion—as well it should have, given the convoluted logic of her last words—but she recovered herself and nodded with satisfaction.

  “Oh, how can I trust you? How can we trust you?”

  She looked forlornly at the door as if seeking out the about-to-be-betrayed Barone, who just might have wandered down to find out what all the excitement was about.

  “You can trust me, Barbara. But you’re right. I don’t like Bobo! I don’t know if it’s him or—or you and him. Even before he came into the picture I was out of sorts. I still am, with worries about this damn gout, silly and self-indulgent though it seems to you. Seeing you so wrapped up in Bobo makes everything even worse. I’m happy for you, but I don’t want you hurt in any way. And I keep bumping up against the fact that I just don’t trust him, and the crazy thing is that I don’t have much faith in my own reaction either!”

  “Why, you’re jealous!” the Contessa said with an inappropriate but nonetheless big smile. “You sweet, dear, little man! I want to come over and give you a kiss!”

  She didn’t, but instead kept beaming as if at a mischievous child.

  “So you see, Barbara, because I am aware of my bias, I’ll do whatever I can to be absolutely fair.”

  This struck his own ears as more than a little smooth and facile, not to mention naive. The Contessa didn’t look convinced.

  “To show you how bad things are for Bobo, you should know that copies of the threats were found in Moss and Quimper’s room at the Flora as well as other evidence.”

  The Contessa was stunned.

  “We have three possibilities, Barbara, and only three. One: Moss and Quimper were murdered for some unknown reason by someone who then planted those things in their room to implicate Bobo. Two: They were murdered by one person but the sheets and guidebook were left by someone else who wanted to take advantage of the murders to make trouble for Bobo. This person was blackmailing Bobo and underlined the pertinent passage in the guidebook. Three: Moss and Quimper were threatening Bobo, and
they’ve been murdered because of it in some way. Don’t delude yourself, Barbara. Bobo is involved—one way or another. The only question is how deeply.”

  “I’ll leave you to contemplate the possibilities on your own. I’m going to put a cold compress on my face and rest. And please let Bobo restore himself before you start badgering him with questions. Stay here if you like, but make good use of your time by reconsidering some of your wild notions.”

  5

  “Yes, two policemen came back here and went through my room,” Bobo told Urbino in the salotto blu an hour later. “I told them they could turn everything upside down as long as they didn’t cut the paintings from the frames or break the ceramic palm trees. Quite thorough, they were. They wanted to know what clothes I was wearing last night. I told them I gave my suede jacket, scarf, and gloves to the Gritti housekeeper. Then, when I said that Barbara’s maid had already washed some of my other things, they acted as if I had imposed on the poor girl in the middle of the night. It is her job!”

  Bobo ate one of the tramezzini, then emptied his wineglass. As Urbino filled their glasses from a bottle of Bardolino, he said: “You seem blasé about all this, but Gemelli is very serious. There have been two murders.”

  “I’m aware of that, but I can’t make myself worry about it when I know I’m innocent, can I?”

  “It would upset me very much if I were unjustly accused.”

  “As it would me, but I haven’t been accused of anything,” Bobo reminded him. “I could give a list of people who had as much contact with Moss and Quimper as I did.” He raised his glass. “I’m a lamb, Urbino, a true and veritable lamb.” After his sip he nodded as if in approval of either the Bardolino or his comment. “But although I might be a lamb I have no intention of being led to the slaughter—by anyone!”

  “That means you’ll make things as clear as possible about your relationship with Moss. It’s the only way you can protect yourself.”