Black Bridge (14 page)

This was the place and the hour Moss and Quimper had met their deaths. They too might have walked over the bridge and paused like this to look down at the untroubled scene, have peered into the same window, little knowing that in a matter of minutes they would both be brutally murdered a short distance away.

But perhaps they hadn't been blithe at all that foggy night, but filled with trepidation and some presentiment of what was about to happen. Surely they realized the danger they had put themselves in by threatening Bobo?

Urbino turned from the parapet and went down the bridge toward the green market. He walked beneath the shadows of the Church of San Cassiano, with its huge twenty-four-hour clock, then past the crouching stone figure of the hunchback of the Rialto. Had Moss and Quimper peered nervously beneath the arcades of the Fabricche Vecchie very much as he himself was now doing?

A few moments brought him to the Erberia on the Grand Canal. Wooden and cardboard crates, wooden price signs, and stray pieces of fruits and vegetables littered the darkly shadowed stones. There was a deathlike stillness.

He walked along the water's edge to the
traghetto
station from where passengers were ferried to the other side of the Grand Canal. It closed every night before nine so there was no chance that, even if the fog hadn't been a problem the night of the murders, one of the
traghetto
men might have seen something.

But this wasn't exactly where Moss and Quimper had been murdered, and he felt he needed to go there. He crossed the marketplace to the roofed area of wooden storerooms. Despite the hour the door was still open and Urbino thought he heard voices from somewhere among the warren of storerooms. He went in. The urinals were still illuminated so perhaps the attendant hadn't forgotten to lock up but was still there.

A church bell tolled the first hour of the new day. Hoping that he might be somehow inspired by the grim associations of his surroundings, he walked past the rows of slatted and wired-enclosed storerooms to the bank of the Grand Canal where it made a sharp curve by the massive stone arch of the Rialto Bridge. It took little imagination to add to the scene Moss's and Quimper's bloody, lifeless bodies sprawled on the stones, thick fog drifting around them.

But who else had been there? Who had lain in wait or stalked them? Bobo came too easily to mind. It couldn't have been him, even if he couldn't account for his time during the crucial period. No, Bobo couldn't have been the one—although perhaps he hadn't called Festa on the Flora telephone but Moss and Quimper to set up a deadly rendezvous. But if he hadn't called Festa, why had she lied? Perhaps she desperately needed to protect herself as well. She had been out with Peppino after Moss and Quimper had left the hotel. Maybe she and Bobo were acting in concert? They could even—

Urbino stopped himself from building his house of cards any higher. It was his dislike of Bobo that was enticing him on. He had to keep an open mind—yet surely not if it meant ruling out Bobo when he should be putting him as squarely within the picture as anyone else.

Pits and traps all around him. Urbino turned away from the Grand Canal. Being here, perhaps a little foolishly, at the exact hour of the murders had brought him little more than confused thoughts. Maybe tomorrow at Abano he would start to get the kind of answers he needed. With this hope, he walked back in the direction of the main door.

Urbino picked his way carefully through the area of storage rooms. He heard a sound behind him as if one of the wooden crates had been pushed a short distance against the stone pavement. He stopped and listened, but the sound didn't come again. Then suddenly a cat darted past him. Giving a silent little laugh of relief, Urbino continued toward the door. When he saw that the lights were now off in the urinals, he quickened his pace, fearing what he might find. Yes, the door was now locked tight as several pushes and nudges showed him.

“Is anyone there? I'm locked in.”

His own voice echoed back at him. He waited a minute or two by the locked door. Maybe there was another way out. He searched among the storerooms but didn't find any, then went back to the Grand Canal. But he realized there was no way out here either. The other door was locked and the massive Palazzo dei Camerlenghi at the foot of the Rialto Bridge walled him in.

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.