Black Bridge

by Edward Sklepowich

  There was one passageway he hadn’t yet tried. It was even more shadow filled than the others. He made his way carefully down it. At its end was a fence of wooden slats, several of which were missing, others broken off. The opening was narrow and about three feet from the ground. He found a crate, climbed on it, and put one leg through the opening. So far so good, but this was the easy part. He next stuck his head and upper body through and for several moments didn’t quite know what to do, hanging as he was half in, half out. He must be a ridiculous sight—not to mention an easy victim. This latter thought got him pulling his other leg through the opening, but only to have the material of his pants get caught on a nail. The only thing he could do was pull and pull hard. Which he did, making a large tear in his pants but managing to free himself.

  He dropped to the pavement and hurried over the Rialto Bridge, feeling not a little proud of himself for an escape which, although not exactly graceful, had been agile enough to show him that his future might not necessarily be one of gouty immobility.

  17

  Gemelli called Urbino the next morning. Marie Quimper’s sister had arrived and wanted to talk with someone who had known her sister.

  “Didn’t learn much from her,” Gemelli said. “But see what you can do. As for Casarotto-Re’s clothes, no traces of blood at all were found on them. And his medical records show that he is susceptible to spontaneous nosebleeds.”

  Gemelli sounded irritated.

  Urbino told him about the postcard from Abano, saying he would bring it to the Questura later today or tomorrow. He said nothing about his own plans to go there today. His silence puzzled him. What was behind it? He felt that his judgment was becoming more and more mired.

  A few hours later, sitting across from Urbino in one of the frescoed public rooms of Hotel La Residenza, Anne Quimper seemed almost nunlike in her stillness. She was younger than her sister, with a smooth, pale face and short brown hair. She wore a simple black dress and kept her hands clasped loosely in her lap.

  “The concierge told me that Vivaldi was baptized in the church,” she said quietly, nodding down at the simple brick facade of the Church of San Giovanni in Bragora. “Marie loved Vivaldi. She was very talented,” she said. “Not only in languages, but in music, painting. I looked up to her. The Commissaire tells me that you knew her.”

  “She was very much like yourself,” Urbino said after he had described his contact with Marie Quimper. “Quiet and gentle.”

  “Oh, much better than I! It broke our family’s heart when she moved to London two years ago to teach. She would come back to visit us several times a year—until she met that dreadful man. No one in our family ever met him. She sent us photographs. She was crazy about him. They met at the school in London where they both taught. He was an artist, but I never heard of him. Marie said he would be famous someday. I admit he was good-looking, but he wasn’t good for her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean? She’s dead, isn’t she? I saw her body!” Her voice had risen, but only slightly, and now she put her face in her small hands. She must have been crying, for her small shoulders heaved, but she did it silently. She took her tearstained face from her hands and said: “It’s his fault, be sure of that! Whatever happened was because of him! He made her life miserable, but she was in love. In love!” she repeated scornfully.

  “What do you mean Moss made her life miserable?”

  “He was insanely jealous! He wouldn’t let her out of his sight! The one and only trip she made home after she met him was a horror! He called day and night to see where she was. God forbid, if she was out! Marie thought it was romantic. Proof of love! But I saw it for what it really was. Sick! I wouldn’t be surprised if he beat her, but of course she never would have told us that.”

  “When was the last time you heard from her?”

  “She called on my birthday three weeks ago.”

  “Did she say anything about her plans, or about Hugh Moss—or about anything at all—that might give us some idea as to what happened to the two of them?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “Nothing, but she always spoke well of him. She was afraid not to. I asked the Commissaire if he was sure that Hugh didn’t shoot Marie and then himself. He said it was impossible. Oh, Monsieur Macintyre, I hope they find out what happened so that Marie will be avenged! The Commissaire didn’t come right out and say it, but I could tell that he thinks Marie was doing something wrong. I told him that wasn’t possible, that it was something Hugh was involved with.” She touched his arm. “If there’s any way that you can help, please do it! My sister was innocent of any wrongdoing!”

  “You can help yourself, Mademoiselle Quimper. Tell me. Did your sister ever mention a place called Abano? It’s a thermal spa north of here.”

  “Abano? The name is familiar. She was here in Venice before, of course, but I’m not sure about Abano.”

  “She was in Venice before?”

  “About a year ago with Hugh—and to one or two other places in Italy, too. She sent postcards. Maybe I can find them at home if it’s important.”

  Urbino remembered how Moss said that this was their first trip to Venice. He took out the postcard of Abano spa. When he handed it to Anne Quimper, her eyes widened. She turned it over and looked at the address.

  “The Contessa da Capo-Zendrini? The Commissaire mentioned her name and the name of a barone. I never heard of either of them. But this is one of the cards I got from Marie that time!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I remember it very well. I thought it was a strange postcard to send.” She pointed to the photograph of the woman therapist holding a bucket of mud. “Marie said something about her. That she was upset because Hugh was spending a lot of time talking to her.”

  “Did she ever mention this woman again? Or a woman named Helen Creel?”

  “Nothing, Monsieur.”

  “And the printing. Do you recognize it?”

  “It’s not Marie’s. I never saw Hugh’s.” She thought for a second. “If Hugh sent it to this Contessa, might it have something to do with their murders?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out, Mademoiselle Quimper.”

  18

  Urbino recognized the woman immediately. She was older now and her red hair had considerably faded, but she was definitely the same woman. Her name was Stella Rossi and she was on her break at the café across from Zeoli’s thermal spa. A faint odor of sulfur surrounded her. Urbino introduced himself and the Contessa, who had insisted on accompanying him. When he showed her the postcard, she drew her breath in sharply.

  “Please! Don’t make any trouble for me.”

  “We have no intention of doing that, my dear,” the Contessa said. “Do we, Urbino?”

  She gave him an admonitory look.

  “Or for the center,” Stella Rossi added. “That would be just as bad. I’ve worked there for nineteen years. I don’t want to have to leave. Signor Zeoli told me that a man would come asking me questions and that I must watch what I said. We’ve always had a good relationship. He’ll be our next director.”

  Urbino and the Contessa hadn’t seen Zeoli—had in fact made a point of avoiding his office and making their initial inquiries at the reception desk.

  “I should tell you, Signora Rossi, that the Venice police will be coming here to talk with you and probably Signor Zeoli. You see, this involves murder.”

  “I know, Signor. Murder and suicide.”

  She said it wearily, as if it were an old and familiar tale. There it was again, wasn’t it? The assumption that Moss had killed Quimper and then committed suicide. Zeoli must have told her that Urbino would ask about the couple. But surely something was wrong, for Rossi was now saying, “It’s burned into my mind. I’ll never forget it.”

  “You were there?” the Contessa asked.

  “Of course I was! That’s why you’ve come to speak with me, surely? So that I can tell you all about it.” />
  She could see they were confused. She snatched up the postcard and turned it over, frowning down at the writing.

  “It’s addressed to you, Contessa. I don’t understand English, but it mentions poor Helen.”

  The Contessa’s puzzled expression deepened.

  “As well as you and a man called the Barone Casarotto-Re,” Urbino said.

  Rossi shook her head.

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “You see, Urbino, this whole thing is absolutely ridiculous. Bobo—”

  Urbino gave the Contessa a look and she fell silent. He now realized what Rossi was referring to. Oriana had brought the topic up at the Contessa’s reception in front of Moss and Quimper.

  “When you just mentioned a murder and suicide,” Urbino said, “you were referring to the murder of the woman in one of the therapy rooms, weren’t you?”

  “Of course! That’s what you want to know about, isn’t it?”

  “Urbino, whatever are you talking about? The murder of a woman here? I thought you wanted to ask her about Moss and Quimper.”

  “I’ll explain later. Please tell us about it, Signora Rossi. Tell us about Helen Creel.”

  After ordering another coffee, the woman began.

  “It was an August afternoon twelve years ago, right before Ferragosto. Signor Zeoli arranged Helen Creel to be my last appointment because I had to get to Rimini for my holiday. She was beautiful and spoke good Italian. I had given her two other treatments. She hurt her elbow playing tennis, but I think she came for a rest. Many of our patients don’t come only for the treatments. They come to get away from the world outside—their jobs, their families. We have strict orders to protect their privacy about schedules, treatments, even whether they’re staying at the spa at all.

  “Helen Creel was English but her husband was an American colonel from the base near Vicenza. They had a son about twelve or thirteen. He came to the spa with Helen, just the two of them. Very quiet, a nice-looking boy. Helen was crazy about him but not about her husband. Patients sometimes talk a lot, especially with me. Helen was a real talker. She told me her husband was insanely jealous, always suspicious, following her around, asking her to account for every minute of her time. I don’t know if she gave him any reason to be like that. I never saw any evidence of it but some men don’t trust the best of women, believe me.

  “She was going on the same way on that August afternoon. I had just finished applying the mud.” She nodded down at the postcard, on which her younger, smiling self held a bucket of mud. “Helen seemed nervous. She kept looking at the door.”

  Rossi was becoming more disturbed. She shook her head slowly, a strangely blank look in her eyes.

  “Suddenly the door burst opened. A man stood there, looking at her. Helen started to sit up. Then everything happened so fast. The man raised his hand and there was an explosion. Helen fell back on the bed. There was another explosion and her head twisted. She was looking straight at me and there was blood—and bone—and—and other stuff. Oh, it was terrible! My face was all spattered. There was another explosion and after that one, Helen just—just sank back on the bed and sighed. Her husband—that’s who it was, of course—stood there for a few more seconds, looking at her coldly. Then he ran down the corridor. He went up to her room and shot himself right in front of their son.”

  The Contessa had become increasingly aghast during Stella Rossi’s account and now she said accusingly to Urbino in English: “What a horrid tale you’ve subjected us to! Even to suggest that it might have something to do with Bobo is pure insanity and—and a betrayal of every trust I’ve ever placed in you!”

  Urbino ignored the Contessa’s outburst and asked Rossi in as unemphatic a voice as he could muster if she had ever seen Signor Creel before he came to the therapy room.

  “Never,” she said with an apprehensive glance at the Contessa. “He wasn’t staying at the hotel. I don’t know how he knew how to find Helen.”

  Urbino reached into his jacket pocket and took out the photograph of Bobo that Harriet had given him the night of the Contessa’s reception—the photograph he had shown to the guard at the Doges’ Palace. The Contessa paled.

  “Signora Rossi, have you ever seen this man before?”

  She looked down at the photograph and nodded her head.

  “Yes. He’s very handsome. I haven’t really met him but I’ve seen his photograph before.”

  “In the newspaper?” the Contessa asked, breaking her short silence with what was almost a shout.

  “Oh no. A young Englishman showed it to me. Not the same photograph, but it was him. More than a year ago. He came here with his girlfriend. French, she was.”

  Urbino and the Contessa exchanged a quick glance.

  “I never saw either of them before. They weren’t here for any treatments. Just for the day. The man showed me the photograph and asked if I knew who it was. I told him no. He was disappointed, but his girlfriend seemed happy, as if I had said what she hoped I would. He didn’t tell me who the man was or why he was interested in him.”

  “Did either of them mention the murder of Helen Creel?”

  “No.”

  Urbino thought for a few moments, then said: “Has anyone else been here recently who was interested in the story of Helen Creel?”

  “Yes, Signor, two weeks ago. An Italian gentleman here for treatments. An asthmatic. We have a new therapy for asthmatics—exercise and mud on the chest and back. It does wonders.” She seemed about to become sidetracked into a professional testimonial, but pulled herself back: “He asked me what I knew about Helen Creel. I never heard of her, I said. He was very persistent, but what could he do when I kept denying it? I warned my colleagues. He asked some of them questions but they didn’t tell him anything. After all, it’s my story,” she said with a sudden, perverse burst of proprietorship and pride. “I hope that nothing I’ve said is going to make any problems for me or the center?”

  “Not at all, Signora Rossi,” Urbino assured her. “Just be sure to tell the Venice police what you’ve told us. You’ve been a great help.”

  The look on the Contessa’s face, however, showed that she was nowhere close to agreeing with him.

  19

  A far from companionable silence dominated their return to Venice. The Contessa hoped the silence, mainly of her own making, would be more uncomfortable for Urbino than it actually was, but he was too lost in thought to feel it keenly. He was going over what they had learned from Stella Rossi, and what it meant to the murders of Moss and Quimper.

  Only when the motoscafo was pulling into the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini landing did the Contessa break the silence.

  “This has nothing to do with Bobo. It’s an elaborate web you were supposed to unweave, not get caught in!” She added, not able to resist in her passion gilding the lily, “And not add your own strands to, thank you very much!”

  The Contessa refused Urbino’s help and alighted from the boat. She made further, almost comical demonstrations of independence as she bustled ahead without a glance back at Urbino, who felt like a disgraced footman.

  He was several paces behind her and had a good view of the firm set to her shoulders and the upward tilt of her head. He caught up with her at the door of the salotto blu where she stood looking at the scene within. Bobo was on one knee in front of Festa, her face strewn with tears. He held one of Festa’s plump hands in his and was rubbing it. Peppino was yapping at his ankles as if he were assaulting his mistress. Festa was the first to recover from what seemed to be the shock of the Con-tessa’s arrival. At any rate, she spoke—or rather shouted—first.

  “Orlando is dead! Just like Rosa—and on the same day!”

  Bobo relinquished Festa’s hand and stood up, managing, with a deft but firm maneuver, to kick aside the still-yapping Peppino. He brushed off his pants.

  “The same day?” He seemed genuinely puzzled and disturbed. “Is it really, Livia?”

  The Contessa, finally deigni
ng to turn her head in Urbino’s direction, said: “Now see what’s happened!”

  Then she swept into the room with the air of leaving Urbino to contemplate his own culpability.

  20

  “There he was! Lying in the bed, his eyes wide open! Grasping a page of crumpled newspaper. It was terrible!”

  “How did you come to find him?” asked the Contessa, dropping onto the sofa next to Festa.

  “I have a key to his room. He insisted the desk give me one after he collapsed at your reception. I looked in on him every morning.”

  “What time did you find him?” Urbino asked.

  “Really, Urbino!” the Contessa said with a touch of exasperation. “Must you be so persistently yourself? Give us all a chance to adjust to this new blow.”

  “I—I didn’t know anything about that,” Festa said. “So you see, when he didn’t answer, I became very concerned. Poor Orlando. He might have fallen or had an attack, I thought. I went right to his room and let myself in with the key. I called his name but he didn’t answer. I found him just as I’ve described and went down to the desk.” She contemplated her clasped hands. “It was such a shock to me. You can imagine.”

  “Especially since he seemed fine last night about ten,” Bobo said, “but these attacks can come on suddenly.”

  Urbino noted the precision with which both of them gave the time.

  “He had his inhaler,” he said, remembering it within easy reach next to the photographs of Gava’s dead relatives. “Did you see it, Livia?”

  “It must have been there somewhere.”

  The Contessa’s mouth was set in annoyance as she glared at Urbino. Nonetheless, he risked another question.

  “Exactly when did Rosa die, Bobo?”

  “Rosa has nothing to do with any of this.”

  Bobo’s face was closed, as if guarding a secret.

  PART THREE

  Desire and Pursuit

  1

  The next morning at the Questura, after Urbino told Gemelli what he had learned at Abano, Gemelli said: “And now the man who seems to have been nosing around there is dead.”