Black Bridge

by Edward Sklepowich

  Gava had died of complete respiratory failure sometime between midnight and six in the morning. His inhaler was found in the garden beneath his open window. Only his fingerprints, and those of the hotel employee who found the inhaler, were on it.

  “Gava could have made those threats against Casarotto-Re and planted the evidence in the couple’s room,” Gemelli said.

  “But Gava didn’t kill them! If anything, he was killed because he knew who the murderer is or maybe he was killed to lead us down the wrong path.”

  “Perhaps.” Gemelli lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Something has surfaced. Your Contessa withdrew a large sum from the Banca Commerciale Italiana the other day.”

  A chill fell over Urbino.

  “Don’t forget that she’s assuming almost all expenses for the bridge of boats.”

  “It was a cash withdrawal.”

  “What you’re implying is that the Contessa has turned over this money to the Barone.”

  “We’ll just wait to see if the money turns up in the right hands. But you could find out more quickly. You’re her friend.”

  “The Contessa is far more likely to accept an intrusion by the police than by a close friend!”

  “True enough, but you’re in a better position for damage control. And however closely attached she is to Casarotto-Re, she’ll cut the strings immediately if she believes she’s being used for his own shady ends.”

  “You don’t know the Contessa at all,” Urbino said, wondering how much he himself could claim to know her these days. “She’s a faithful friend.”

  “A ‘faithful friend,’ yes, but what about a ‘woman scorned,’ even a ‘lover betrayed’?”

  The Commissario’s smile leered at Urbino through a thick cloud of cigarette smoke.

  “Livia Festa said that she has a key to Gava’s suite,” Urbino said, hoping to move things away from the Contessa. “But he didn’t seem to like her and didn’t want her poking around in his affairs.”

  “Had a key. We have it now. She says Gava got an extra one from the hotel but no one supports her story. We’re making the rounds of the likely places it could have been copied. Festa claims she didn’t touch anything in the room. Clear thinking under the circumstances. But why aren’t her fingerprints on the doorknob? Because she wore gloves! At eight-thirty in the morning to step down the hall? A maid saw her come out of Gava’s door. White as a sheet, she said, and carrying a large pocketbook. She didn’t say anything to the maid about Gava being dead. The maid went to make up the room next to Gava’s. Doesn’t know if Festa returned to her own room or not. We never would have heard about that key if the maid hadn’t seen her. The maid knows her work schedule precisely. Says Festa came out of Gava’s room about twenty minutes after eight. She didn’t show up at the desk until eight-forty. Claims she came directly down. I doubt it.”

  So did Urbino. Festa had made too much a point of saying she had found Gava’s body at exactly eight-thirty.

  “You think Festa murdered Gava?”

  “Possible, but maybe she was just checking to see if the deed had been done. Tidying up, so to speak.”

  Scattering ashes over the pile of papers on his desk, Gemelli fished out one sheet and handed it to Urbino.

  “A list of Gava’s possessions.”

  Urbino ran through the items. Near the top were the photographs Gava had called his “portable graveyard.” Gava had said they would probably be thrown away once he died, a day that he had said wasn’t too far away. A premonition? Or could he have had reason to fear for his life?

  “The lab is running tests on the medications. One bottle was completely empty. Thrown into the wastebasket in the bathroom. The bottle had the name of a drug that retards attacks.”

  Urbino continued to stare at the list, puzzled but not knowing exactly why.

  “It seems he had only one inhaler.”

  “Found in the garden two hours before Festa discovered his body.”

  “But why throw it out the window?”

  “To make it look as if Gava died because he didn’t have access to it after it had ‘accidentally’ fallen, I suppose.”

  “He seems to have died on the same day his sister did—and in the same way. He was depressed about the anniversary of her death coming up, maybe even afraid. And another thing. Moss knew who Gava’s sister was. And now Gava is dead as well as Moss and Quimper.”

  “Cherchez la femme! Or les femmes: Gava’s sister, Helen Creel, and Festa! And what man is in the middle of them all? Casarotto-Re, who’s now bestowing his favors on your Contessa! Maybe she’d be interested to know that a waiter at Harry’s says Casarotto-Re and Festa were holding hands the night Moss and Quimper were murdered.”

  “They considered marrying once. Maybe that explains their closeness.”

  “Depends on how you look at it. The waiter also says they were arguing furiously at points. About what he doesn’t know.”

  2

  On his walk from the Questura, Urbino suddenly realized how nervous he felt—nervous about what Gava’s death meant.

  It wasn’t just that he now had to reconsider the direction he had been moving in, perhaps retrace his steps to some crucial earlier point to prevent himself from becoming completely—disastrously—lost.

  Gava’s death, following so closely after Moss’s and Quimper’s murders, couldn’t be a mere coincidence. It had to be related to the bloody scene at the Rialto. Surely he couldn’t now be faced with two different murderers.

  Gava had died little more than thirty-six hours after their conversation at the Flora. Had this conversation led directly to his death? Had he passed something on to Urbino that someone wanted to be kept a secret?

  Urbino remembered only too well his feeling of panic when he had found himself locked in the area where Moss and Quimper had been shot to death. Had this been an accident? Or had someone deliberately locked him in, to stalk him, to do him serious harm? This had happened only a few hours before Gava’s death. Perhaps someone had wanted to get rid of him and Gava both as soon as possible. If this was the case, then surely the murderer was watching for another opportunity to get at him.

  If it were only himself he had to be concerned about, it would be bad enough, but there was the Contessa. She could be in danger, and much of it could be his own doing. He was going to have to proceed more carefully.

  He sat down on a bench in a quiet square. Laundry flapped in a chill wind. Dark clouds were reflected in large pools of water. A little boy ran away from his mother and splashed through a puddle, calling out, “Kwah, kwah, acqua!”

  He focused on the list of Gava’s possessions. Maybe one of the items would provide a clue. He wished he had copied them down and tried to remember them as best he could. The framed photographs, a box of loose photographs, medications, the empty bottle found in the bathroom, the inhaler, the previous day’s newspaper grasped in his hands—

  Suddenly he realized what had been puzzling him at the Questura about the list. He went into a café on the square and called Gemelli.

  “An address book? I don’t think so. Let me check.” After a few moments in which the only sounds were the striking of a match and the rustling of paper Gemelli said: “There isn’t any. Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I had to take it off my chair before I sat down. It was leather covered, about six by four inches.”

  “So someone took it, before or after Gava’s death.”

  3

  At that moment Livia Festa and the Barone Bobo were in the salotto blu of the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini. The Contessa was at the municipal offices on business involving the bridge of boats.

  “Damn it!” Bobo said. “It’s taking forever!”

  Bobo and Festa looked at the fireplace where the flames were consuming a small book with a leather cover. Peppino was asleep on the settle.

  “Couldn’t you have just taken the page?”

  “Ripped it out and left the rest? How long do you think it would take the police
to figure it out?”

  “You might have taken two or three pages. That would have set them back.”

  “I’m sorry that I don’t have your presence of mind! Remember that Orlando was staring at me! But I was very careful. I wiped everything, even the doorknob.”

  “Fool! Your prints would have been on the doorknob!”

  “I didn’t know I’d see the maid, though, did I? And I couldn’t just go back and put my prints back on! You’re being unreasonable. Besides, I told the Commissario that I was wearing gloves.”

  “Just as bad! Gloves to make a visit of charity first thing in the morning!”

  Together they watched the flames start to burn the leather cover. When it was finally unrecognizable they both breathed more easily.

  “Now for this,” Festa said, holding up a sheet of paper on which there were several handwritten lines followed by a signature. It didn’t take long to burn. “And this.” Festa added two typewritten sheets. They curled, blackened, and disappeared except for wisps of ash. The little book had been consumed.

  “A regular bonfire,” Bobo joked.

  “Let’s hope I found everything. If not—”

  Bobo kissed Festa’s plump, rouged cheek.

  “Think positively, cara. That’s the way I’m getting through this. It’s going to be all right. You’ll see. We’ll have smooth sailing before too long.”

  “Before too long! Years! I don’t see why you can’t be content with what I’ll have—what we’ll have—from Orlando.”

  “A drop in the bucket, cara, to what the Contessa has lying around the palazzo.”

  Festa stood up angrily.

  “That bitch thinks she can buy whatever she wants. She thinks she can buy you!”

  “No one buys me! Ever! And don’t forget it!”

  Once again they lapsed into silence. They were sitting like this, with the appearance of two longtime friends for whom conversation wasn’t always a necessity, when the Contessa came in.

  “Livia! What a delightful surprise!” The Contessa’s eyes darted around the room and seemed to pause when they took in the fireplace. “It is a bit chilly out.” Walking closer to the fireplace, she cast a quick glance into the fire. The face she turned to the couple didn’t reveal whether she had noticed anything unusual among the flames.

  4

  As Urbino approached the main door of the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini, Festa hurried out. She was frowning furiously and carrying Peppino with less ceremony than usual. The dog’s expression matched her own.

  “Livia! I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes.”

  “Not now if you don’t mind,” she said curtly, not even breaking her stride.

  Inside the palazzo Urbino found the Contessa about to go down to the motoscafo where Bobo was waiting with Milo. The Contessa looked radiant. She was wearing a new floral-print dress and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a new scent.

  “I’m sorry, Urbino. Bobo and I are on our way out. But I have something to tell you.” She lowered her voice. “I heard from Laura today.” Laura was her contact in the Milan fashion world. “She told me what she already knew and was able to find out about Flint. He appeared on the scene ten years ago. He had a good career going for about five years but then things started to fall apart. There was talk of drugs and big debts and some unsavory connections. He was on the fringes of Cinecittà for a while. Then he set himself up as an art consultant. He always seemed to be out of money, but he always had well-off friends, usually women. But I don’t think either of us should say a word to Oriana, not yet. She won’t thank us for it and—and well, people do change.”

  This facile observation ended their conversation and Urbino went down with her to the boat landing. As Bobo was helping her into the boat, she lost her footing slightly.

  “Careful, my dear! You’ve become a little careless lately. It’s a blessing you haven’t had a serious fall!”

  After the Contessa and Bobo had left, Urbino went up to the salotto blu to fix himself a drink. As soon as he entered the room, he caught the sharp odor of smoke. He went over to the fireplace and bent down to look into the fireplace where ashes smoldered.

  Hesitant footsteps entered the room. They paused and came toward the fireplace. Urbino stood up. Harriet jumped like a frightened cat and dropped several magazines. Urbino picked them up. They were health and fashion magazines as well as some brochures of the health spas at Abano Terme.

  “Oh, it’s you, Urbino!”

  “I’m sorry, Harriet. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Is—is Barbara here?”

  Her eyes strayed in the direction of the fireplace.

  “She just left with Bobo.” Urbino handed her the magazines and brochures. She seemed eager to leave. “Just a moment, if you don’t mind, Harriet. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  Fear raced over the woman’s plain features.

  “Does the name Helen Creel mean anything to you?”

  “Helen Creel?”

  “She was mentioned on the postcard you handed Barbara the other day. An English woman murdered at Marco’s spa twelve years ago.”

  “Marco Zeoli and I are only acquaintances. He doesn’t gossip about his spa, and if he did, I wouldn’t be interested!”

  “You’ve had occasion to visit him rather late in the evening.”

  “If you must know, it was about treatments.”

  This was what Zeoli had told him.

  “Actually, I’m more interested in your walk back from Marco’s that night. I was wondering if you might have seen something which, however farfetched, might throw some light on what happened? It doesn’t take anywhere near an hour and a half to get back here from San Polo. Maybe you were sitting at a café or looking down at the Grand Canal from the Rialto Bridge as I often do late at night.”

  “If I had noticed anything at all, I would have informed the police long before this. I never went anywhere near the Rialto Bridge. I crossed the Grand Canal by the bridge at the railway station. As I told you and Barbara that night, I got lost in the fog. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Outside, Urbino glanced at the lowering sky. A chill wind was blowing in from the lagoon. Wherever the Contessa and Bobo had gone, they would return before long. The Contessa hated being on the water in a storm. Violent weather could blow up very quickly at this time of the year. It was the season of the acqua alta, the treacherous high water that threatened the city and had done so much damage in ’66. He hoped that there would be good weather for the Contessa’s procession to the cemetery island, which was only three days away.

  At the bar, he ordered the Campari soda he hadn’t had in the salotto blu and went over what the Contessa had learned about Flint. Not much of it surprised him, least of all the man’s need for money and his association with well-to-do women. Could Flint have been somehow involved in the threats against Bobo, have seen it as a source of financial gain? He had had more contact with Moss and Quimper than anyone. He and Oriana had met them at the Grassi exhibit, introduced them to Urbino at Harry’s Bar, and accompanied them to Bobo’s opening night. He had even gone with Oriana to the Flora the morning after the couple had been murdered to see if they wanted to join them on their jaunt to Chioggia. And Flint lived not far from the Rialto green market. Urbino had to find out what he had been doing on the night of the murders, but first he had to talk to Marco Zeoli again.

  5

  By late afternoon, when the weather had finally turned to storm, the Contessa and Bobo hadn’t returned. As his water taxi made its choppy way on the Grand Canal, Urbino peered through the window to see if he could catch a glimpse of the Contessa’s boat. All he could see was a rain-lashed, impressionistic blur, and he soon gave up.

  The water taxi left him on a fondamenta near the Zeoli apartment. As he was dashing through the rain past a trattoria, he saw Zeoli sitting inside, his only company a liter of red wine. Urbino went in. He took off his dripping coat and wiped his face with a handkerchi
ef.

  “May I sit down?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer but slipped into the seat across from Zeoli.

  Zeoli, his elongated Goya face more somber than usual, got another glass and poured some wine. The aromas from the kitchen made a nauseating mixture with his sulfurous odor.

  “You’ve come here about Helen Creel,” he said in his cold, exact voice.

  “Stella Rossi told you.”

  Zeoli nodded. There was a greater air of weariness and sickliness to him today. He obviously needed a rest far away from sulfur, mud, and restorative waters.

  “But I saw you and the Contessa. It didn’t take much to figure out why you were there. I suppose you want me to corroborate her story.”

  “Yes, but I could have done that in other ways. What I want to know is why you didn’t tell me yourself.”

  “You must be joking! I didn’t want the Creel story dredged up. It’s long since forgotten.”

  “Obviously not. Don’t forget the postcard. And Rossi said that a couple—apparently Moss and Quimper—were asking about the Barone a month ago. They showed her his photograph. Did they speak with you?”

  “No.”

  Zeoli poured the remaining wine into his glass.

  “What about Orlando Gava? Did he ever ask you about the Creels?”

  “No.”

  The mention of Gava’s name had brought no discernible reaction. Urbino studied Zeoli’s face as he asked: “Do you know that he’s dead?”

  It hadn’t been in the paper yet.

  “Dead?”

  He seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Livia Festa found him in his suite at the Flora. It seems he died of pulmonary failure sometime between midnight and six yesterday.”

  Relief flooded Zeoli’s long face.

  “That means that three people associated with the Creels are dead,” Urbino said.

  Zeoli smiled without any humor.

  “Is that a warning to me? Good thing I was with my mother in the apartment from ten on last night or else I might have been set upon in a dark calle by this roving, mad murderer you have in mind who kills by shooting and causing pulmonary failure. As for Helen Creel, I hardly knew her. It happened right after I came to the spa. She was staying with her young son. Her husband—an officer in the American Air Force—shot her in Rossi’s therapy room. Then he went up to her room and shot himself in front of the son. That’s it.”