The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories
Page 93
Thank heaven Laura hadn’t turned up before he had put through his call, or they would have told her he was on his way to Milan. The porter was still waiting with the baggage and it seemed simplest to walk with him to the garage, hand everything over to the chap in charge of the office there and ask him to keep it for an hour, when he would be returning with his wife to pick up the car. Then he went back to the landing station to await the next ferry to Venice. The minutes dragged, and he kept wondering all the time what had gone wrong at the airport and why in heaven’s name Laura hadn’t telephoned. No use conjecturing. She would tell him the whole story at the hotel. One thing was certain: he would not allow Laura and himself to be saddled with the sisters and become involved with their affairs. He could imagine Laura saying that they also had missed a flight and could they have a lift to Milan?
Finally the ferry chugged alongside the landing stage and he stepped aboard. What an anti-climax, thrashing back past the familiar sights to which he had bidden a nostalgic farewell such a short while ago! He didn’t even look about him this time, he was so intent on reaching his destination. In San Marco there were more people than ever, the afternoon crowds walking shoulder to shoulder, every one of them on pleasure bent.
He came to the hotel and pushed his way through the swing door, expecting to see Laura and possibly the sisters, waiting in the lounge to the left of the entrance. She was not there. He went to the desk. The reception clerk he had spoken to on the telephone was standing there, talking to the manager.
‘Has my wife arrived?’ John asked.
‘No, sir, not yet.’
‘What an extraordinary thing. Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely certain, sir. I have been here ever since you telephoned me at a quarter to two. I have not left the desk.’
‘I just don’t understand it. She was on one of the vaporettos passing by the Accademia. She would have landed at San Marco about five minutes later and come on here.’
The clerk seemed nonplussed. ‘I don’t know what to say. The signora was with friends, did you say?’
‘Yes. Well, acquaintances. Two ladies we had met at Torcello yesterday. I was astonished to see her with them on the vaporetto, and of course I assumed that the flight had been cancelled, and she had somehow met up with them at the airport and decided to return here with them, to catch me before I left.’
Oh hell, what was Laura doing? It was after three. A matter of moments from San Marco landing stage to the hotel.
‘Perhaps the signora went with her friends to their hotel instead. Do you know where they are staying?’
‘No,’ said John, ‘I haven’t the slightest idea. What’s more, I don’t even know the names of the two ladies. They were sisters, twins, in fact – looked exactly alike. But anyway, why go to their hotel and not here?’
The swing-door opened but it wasn’t Laura. Two people staying in the hotel.
The manager broke into the conversation. ‘I tell you what I will do,’ he said. ‘I will telephone the airport and check about the flight. Then at least we will get somewhere.’ He smiled apologetically. It was not usual for arrangements to go wrong.
‘Yes, do that,’ said John. ‘We may as well know what happened there.’
He lit a cigarette and began to pace up and down the entrance hall. What a bloody mix-up. And how unlike Laura, who knew he would be setting off for Milan directly after lunch – indeed, for all she knew he might have gone before. But surely, in that case, she would have telephoned at once, on arrival at the airport, had the flight been cancelled? The manager was ages telephoning, he had to be put through on some other line, and his Italian was too rapid for John to follow the conversation. Finally he replaced the receiver.
‘It is more mysterious than ever, sir,’ he said. ‘The charter flight was not delayed, it took off on schedule with a full complement of passengers. As far as they could tell me, there was no hitch. The signora must simply have changed her mind.’ His smile was more apologetic than ever.
‘Changed her mind,’ John repeated. ‘But why on earth should she do that? She was so anxious to be home tonight.’
The manager shrugged. ‘You know how ladies can be, sir,’ he said. ‘Your wife may have thought that after all she would prefer to take the train to Milan with you. I do assure you, though, that the charter party was most respectable, and it was a Caravelle aircraft, perfectly safe.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said John impatiently, ‘I don’t blame your arrangements in the slightest. I just can’t understand what induced her to change her mind, unless it was meeting with these two ladies.’
The manager was silent. He could not think of anything to say. The reception clerk was equally concerned. ‘Is it possible,’ he ventured, ‘that you made a mistake, and it was not the signora that you saw on the vaporetto?’
‘Oh no,’ replied John, ‘it was my wife, I assure you. She was wearing her red coat, she was hatless, just as she left here. I saw her as plainly as I can see you. I would swear to it in a court of law.’
‘It is unfortunate,’ said the manager, ‘that we do not know the name of the two ladies or the hotel where they were staying. You say you met these ladies at Torcello yesterday?’
‘Yes…but only briefly. They weren’t staying there. At least, I am certain they were not. We saw them at dinner in Venice later, as it happens.’
‘Excuse me…’ Guests were arriving with luggage to check in, the clerk was obliged to attend to them. John turned in desperation to the manager. ‘Do you think it would be any good telephoning the hotel in Torcello in case the people there knew the name of the ladies, or where they were staying in Venice?’
‘We can try,’ replied the manager. ‘It is a small hope, but we can try.’
John resumed his anxious pacing, all the while watching the swing-door, hoping, praying that he would catch sight of the red coat and Laura would enter. Once again there followed what seemed an interminable telephone conversation between the manager and someone at the hotel in Torcello.
‘Tell them two sisters,’ said John, ‘two elderly ladies dressed in grey, both exactly alike. One lady was blind,’ he added. The manager nodded. He was obviously giving a detailed description. Yet when he hung up he shook his head. ‘The manager at Torcello say he remembers the two ladies well,’ he told John, ‘but they were only there for lunch. He never learnt their names.’
‘Well, that’s that. There’s nothing to do now but wait.’
John lit his third cigarette and went out on to the terrace, to resume his pacing there. He stared out across the canal, searching the heads of the people on passing steamers, motorboats, even drifting gondolas. The minutes ticked by on his watch, and there was no sign of Laura. A terrible foreboding nagged at him that somehow this was prearranged, that Laura had never intended to catch the aircraft, that last night in the restaurant she had made an assignation with the sisters. Oh God, he thought, that’s impossible, I’m going paranoiac…Yet why, why? No, more likely the encounter at the airport was fortuitous, and for some incredible reason they had persuaded Laura not to board the aircraft, even prevented her from doing so, trotting out one of their psychic reasons, that the aircraft would crash, that she must return with them to Venice. And Laura, in her sensitive state, felt they must be right, swallowed it all without question.
But granted all these possibilities, why had she not come to the hotel? What was she doing? Four o’clock, half-past four, the sun no longer dappling the water. He went back to the reception desk.
‘I just can’t hang around,’ he said. ‘Even if she does turn up, we shall never make Milan this evening. I might see her walking with these ladies, in the Piazza San Marco, anywhere. If she arrives while I’m out, will you explain?’
The clerk was full of concern. ‘Indeed, yes,’ he said. ‘It is very worrying for you, sir. Would it perhaps be prudent if we booked you in here tonight?’
John gestured, helplessly. ‘Perhaps, yes, I don’t know. Maybe…’
The only thing left to him was to try to track down the sisters. Their hotel could be anywhere amongst the hundreds of hotels and pensions scattered through Venice, or even across the other side at the Zattere, or further again on the Giudecca. These last possibilities seemed remote. More likely they were staying in a small hotel or pension somewhere near San Zaccaria handy to the restaurant where they had dined last night. The blind one would surely not go far afield in the evening. He had been a fool not to have thought of this before, and he turned back and walked quickly away from the brightly lighted shopping district towards the narrower, more cramped quarter where they had dined last evening. He found the restaurant without difficulty, but they were not yet open for dinner, and the waiter preparing tables was not the one who had served them. John asked to see the padrone, and the waiter disappeared to the back regions, returning after a moment or two with the somewhat dishevelled-looking proprietor in shirtsleeves, caught in a slack moment, not in full tenue.
‘I had dinner here last night,’ John explained. ‘There were two ladies sitting at that table there in the corner.’ He pointed to it.
‘You wish to book that table for this evening?’ asked the proprietor.
‘No,’ said John. ‘No, there were two ladies there last night, two sisters, due sorelle, twins, gemelle’ – what was the right word for twins? – ‘Do you remember? Two ladies, sorelle vecchie…’
‘Ah,’ said the man, ‘si, si, signore, la povera signorina.’ He put his hands to his eyes to feign blindness. ‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Do you know their names?’ asked John. ‘Where they were staying? I am very anxious to trace them.’
The proprietor spread out his hands in a gesture of regret. ‘I am ver’ sorry, signore, I do not know the names of the signorine, they have been here once, twice, perhaps for dinner, they do not say where they were staying. Perhaps if you come again tonight they might be here? Would you like to book a table?’
He pointed around him, suggesting a whole choice of tables that might appeal to a prospective diner, but John shook his head.
‘Thank you, no. I may be dining elsewhere. I am sorry to have troubled you. If the signorine should come…’ he paused, ‘possibly I may return later,’ he added. ‘I am not sure.’
The proprietor bowed, and walked with him to the entrance. ‘In Venice the whole world meets,’ he said smiling. ‘It is possible the signore will find his friends tonight. Arrivederci, signore.’
Friends? John walked out into the street. More likely kidnappers…Anxiety had turned to fear, to panic. Something had gone terribly wrong. Those women had got hold of Laura, played upon her suggestibility, induced her to go with them, either to their hotel or elsewhere. Should he find the Consulate? Where was it? What would he say when he got there? He began walking without purpose, finding himself, as they had done the night before, in streets he did not know, and suddenly came upon a tall building with the word ‘Questura’ above it. This is it, he thought. I don’t care, something has happened, I’m going inside. There were a number of police in uniform coming and going, the place at any rate was active, and, addressing himself to one of them behind a glass partition, he asked if there was anyone who spoke English. The man pointed to a flight of stairs and John went up, entering a door on the right where he saw that another couple were sitting, waiting, and with relief he recognised them as fellow-countrymen, tourists, obviously a man and his wife, in some sort of predicament.
‘Come and sit down,’ said the man. ‘We’ve waited half an hour but they can’t be much longer. What a country! They wouldn’t leave us like this at home.’
John took the proffered cigarette and found a chair beside them.
‘What’s your trouble?’ he asked.
‘My wife had her handbag pinched in one of those shops in the Merceria,’ said the man. ‘She simply put it down one moment to look at something, and you’d hardly credit it, the next moment it had gone. I say it was a sneak thief, she insists it was the girl behind the counter. But who’s to say? These Ities are all alike. Anyway, I’m certain we shan’t get it back. What have you lost?’
‘Suitcase stolen,’ John lied rapidly. ‘Had some important papers in it.’ How could he say he had lost his wife? He couldn’t even begin…The man nodded in sympathy. ‘As I said, these Ities are all alike. Old Musso knew to deal with them. Too many Communists around these days. The trouble is, they’re not going to bother with our troubles much, not with this murderer at large. They’re all out looking for him.’
‘Murderer? What murderer?’ asked John. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve not heard about it?’ The man stared at him in surprise. ‘Venice has talked of nothing else. It’s been in all the papers, on the radio, and even in the English papers. A grisly business. One woman found with her throat slit last week – a tourist too – and some old chap discovered with the same sort of knife wound this morning. They seem to think it must be a maniac, because there doesn’t seem to be any motive. Nasty thing to happen in Venice in the tourist season.’
‘My wife and I never bother with the newspapers when we’re on holiday,’ said John. ‘And we’re neither of us much given to gossip in the hotel.’
‘Very wise of you,’ laughed the man. ‘It might have spoilt your holiday, especially if your wife is nervous. Oh well, we’re off tomorrow anyway. Can’t say we mind, do we, dear? He turned to his wife. ‘Venice has gone downhill since we were here last. And now this loss of the handbag really is the limit.’
The door of the inner room opened, and a senior police officer asked John’s companion and his wife to pass through.
‘I bet we don’t get any satisfaction,’ murmured the tourist, winking at John, and he and his wife went into the inner room. The door closed behind them. John stubbed out his cigarette and lighted another. A strange feeling of unreality possessed him. He asked what he was doing here, what was the use of it? Laura was no longer in Venice but had disappeared, perhaps forever, with those diabolical sisters. She would never be traced. And just as the two of them had made up a fantastic story about the twins, when they first spotted them in Torcello, so, with nightmare logic, the fiction would have basis in fact, the women were in reality disguised crooks, men with criminal intent who lured unsuspecting persons to some appalling fate. They might even be the murderers for whom the police sought. Who would ever suspect two elderly women of respectable appearance, living quietly in some second-rate pension or hotel? He stubbed out his cigarette, unfinished.
‘This,’ he thought, ‘is really the start of paranoia. This is the way people go off their track.’ He glanced at his watch. It was half-past six. Better pack this in, this futile quest here in police headquarters, and keep to the single link of sanity remaining. Return to the hotel, put a call through to the prep school in England, and ask about the latest news of Johnnie. He had not thought about poor Johnnie since sighting Laura on the vaporetto. Too late, though. The inner door opened, the couple were ushered out.
‘Usual claptrap,’ said the husband sotto voce to John. ‘They’ll do what they can. Not much hope. So many foreigners in Venice, all of ’em thieves! The locals all above reproach. Wouldn’t pay ’em to steal from customers. Well, I wish you better luck.’
He nodded
, his wife smiled and bowed, and they had gone. John followed the police officer into the inner room.
Formalities began. Name, address, passport. Length of stay in Venice, etc., etc. Then the questions, and John, the sweat beginning to appear on his forehead, launched into his interminable story. The first encounter with the sisters, the meeting at the restaurant, Laura’s state of suggestibility because of the death of their child, the telegram about Johnnie, the decision to take the chartered flight, her departure, and her sudden inexplicable return. When he had finished he felt as exhausted as if he had driven three hundred miles nonstop after a severe bout of ’flu. His interrogator spoke excellent English with a strong Italian accent.
‘You say,’ he began, ‘that your wife was suffering the after-effects of shock. This had been noticeable during your stay here in Venice?’
‘Well, yes,’ John replied, ‘she had really been quite ill. The holiday didn’t seem to be doing her much good. It was only when she met these two women at Torcello yesterday that her mood changed. The strain seemed to have gone. She was ready, I suppose, to snatch at every straw, and this belief that our little girl was watching over her had somehow restored her to what appeared normality.’
‘It would be natural,’ said the police officer, ‘in the circumstances. But no doubt the telegram last night was a further shock to you both?’
‘Indeed, yes. That was the reason we decided to return home.’
‘No argument between you? No difference of opinion?’
‘None. We were in complete agreement. My one regret was that I could not go with my wife on this charter flight.’
The police officer nodded. ‘It could well be that your wife had a sudden attack of amnesia, and meeting the two ladies served as a link, she clung to them for support. You have described them with great accuracy, and I think they should not be too difficult to trace. Meanwhile, I suggest you should return to your hotel, and we will get in touch with you as soon as we have news.’