The Pigeon Project (8 page)

Irritated with himself, he lifted the slip of paper, stuck it into his jacket pocket to give Marisa a laugh, paid his bill, got up, and was starting to leave for his office in the building behind him when he remembered the poor dead bird. He stopped, picked up the pigeon in one hand, and carried it up the aisle of Quadri’s Gran’ Caffé to the bandstand. He sought and found his musician friend, Oreste Memo, hidden by a row of green planters that surrounded the ledge of the stand. Memo was busy polishing his violin.

“Oreste,” Jordan called.

The musician saw him, sprang to his feet, and came toward him inquiringly.

“Oreste, I found a dead pigeon,” Jordan said. “What do I do with it?”

“Give it to me. HI dispose of it.”

Jordan handed the bird over. “Careful. It’s sticky around the belly. Someone shot it.”

Memo took the pigeon. “That’s horrible. Who in the devil would do a thing like that?”

“God knows,” said Jordan. “Thanks. Now I’m the one who is late for work.”

He headed for the black gate that opened to the stone staircase leading to his upstairs offices, and one thought accompanied him.

The pigeon carrying the desperate message—if it was all a joke, why would anyone on earth want to shoot the pigeon carrying it?

All at once it didn’t seem funny.

And maybe not a joke at all.

* * *

As he passed through the yellow-painted anteroom, in which four
commessi
, or doormen, in dark gray uniforms sat with several persons waiting for their appointments, Jordan was conscious once more of the exotic environment in which he had been toiling for almost two years. This 15th-century Renaissance building on the Piazza San Marco had, five centuries ago, housed the offices and private apartments of old Venice’s Procuratori, the nine men elected for life to assist the Doge in his administrative work. In 1831, the Assicurazioni Generali, the foremost insurance company in Italy, had bought the building for its international headquarters. Five years ago, just after the Venice Must Live Committee was formed, the insurance company had donated a dozen of its offices in this building for the use of the committee. Jordan occupied one of these offices, Marisa another, and Gloria, the secretary they shared, maintained the office between them.

His mind still on the message that he had taken from the pigeon’s leg, Jordan made his way up the corridor to the glass door to his office and went inside. Marisa, in a tight pink sweater and flared blue skirt, her shining black hair down to her shoulders, was busily poring over the contents of some folders in the open drawer of his green file cabinet. On his entrance, she pivoted to meet him, tilting her head back to offer him her lips. He gave her a perfunctory kiss.

“How are you, darling?” he asked. He moved thoughtfully to his oak desk beside one of the three windows overlooking the Piazza.

Marisa eyed him quizzically. “How are you? Something on your mind?”

“Always something on my mind,” he said lightly, pushing around the memorandums on his desk.

Marisa came closer. “I hope sometimes it is me.”

“I’m sorry, Marisa. I’ve just been tied up lately. I want to see you.”

“When?”

“Why—why, tonight. If you’re free tonight, we can have dinner at Harry’s.”

“For you, I am free.”

“Fine. We’ll arrange it before I leave. Anything urgent today?”

“Generally quiet. The correspondent for The New York Times in London called. He wanted some recent photographs of our miniature Pirelli-Furlanis inflatable dam, especially shots showing it in action. I’m digging them up now. He would not tell me what they are for.”

“All right. Keep digging.”

Marisa stared at him a moment. “Something is troubling you. Can I be of help?”

“Thanks, but no. I’ll see you later.”

She was about to leave the office when his voice caught her. “Marisa, please tell Gloria to hold off incoming calls and all visitors for the next hour. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

No sooner had she gone, and he was alone, than his mind fastened on the so-called message for help from the so-called Professor Davis MacDonald. In retrospect, it seemed more sinister than cranky. Yet its implications were so melodramatic, so far removed from his humdrum workaday world, that he could not accept it as genuine.

His hand had gone into his jacket pocket and come’ out with the message. He lowered himself into his swivel chair and placed the slip of paper on the desk before him.

Am British scientist illegally imprisoned on San Lazzaro…

His eye skipped to Call Dr. Edwards Plaza Athénée Paris to tell world.

Why not? The worst he could do was make a gullible fool of himself. It would not have been the first time. On the other hand… if the message was authentic…

His instinct told him to act.

He pressed down his intercom button and buzzed his secretary. She answered. “Gloria, get me the Plaza Athénée Hotel in Paris.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Just the switchboard. I’ll take it from there.”

Jordan thoughtfully fingered the piece of paper, saw a push button light up on his telephone, and waited. Seconds after, Gloria could be heard on the voice box. “Mr. Jordan, I have the Plaza Athénée in Paris.”

Jordan pressed down the lighted button and picked up the receiver. “Operator, I’m calling from Italy. Do you have a Dr. Edwards registered in your hotel? If so, I’d like to speak to him.”

“Attendez,” said the operator. A pause. Then, “I am ringing.”

Two, three, four rings, no answer. A fifth ring. Someone had picked up the phone at the other end. A low feminine voice said, “Hello.”

“Hello,” said Jordan. “I’d like to speak to Dr. Edwards. I’m calling long distance. Is he in?”

“You are speaking to Dr. Edwards,” replied the feminine voice, with mild exasperation. “I’m Dr. Alison Edwards.”

Somewhat taken aback, Jordan was immediately apologetic. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know why I assumed Dr. Edwards was a man. Professor MacDonald’s message didn’t give your first name.”

“Did you say Professor MacDonald?”

“Yes, I have a message from him for you. You do know Professor MacDonald?”

“Certainly. I work for him. I’m his research associate. Did you see him in Russia?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” said Jordan hastily. “I’m calling from Venice, from Italy. I’ve never set eyes on Professor MacDonald. But I do have a message from him—or I think I do—I’m not sure.”

There was a tinge of impatience in Dr. Edward’s voice. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Mr… Her voice dropped off.

“My name is Timothy Jordan,” he said quickly. “It is a little complicated. I think I’d better explain. By accident—today—fifteen minutes ago—I got a message, signed Professor Davis MacDonald, asking the finder of the message to get in touch with Dr. Edwards at the Plaza Athénée in Paris.”

“Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Jordan? It makes no sense at all.”

“It will or it won’t, once I tell you what happened. You’ll have to be the judge. Now, here is what happened. I’m an American living and working in Venice. I’m the press officer for the Venice Must Live Committee—”

“The what?” she interrupted.

“An organization that is trying to save Venice from sinking, being destroyed. This noon, on my way to work, I stopped in a café to have some tea, and I started feeding the pigeons—”

“Mr. Jordan or whoever you are, is this some kind of joke? If so, I don’t have time—”

“Please listen to me, will you?” he said with a flare of annoyance. “This could be deadly serious. Your Professor MacDonald could be in trouble. Now, please, listen.” There was a silence on the other end. Jordan resumed. “I was feeding some pigeons—yes, Venice is filled with pigeons—that’s part of what happened—and one pigeon fell over dead in front of me. When I examined it, I found a note tied to one of its legs. The note was signed Professor Davis MacDonald. You say you work for him?”

“I do. He is one of the most eminent scientists in the world. But all you are telling me—pigeons—a note from him—in Venice… I mean, I can’t—”

“It’s true, Dr. Edwards. It just happened to me exactly as I’m telling you. I read the note, and—look, I have it right in front of me on my desk. I’ll read it to you.”

“Please,” she said with bewilderment.

Receiver to his ear, he bent closer to the strip of paper. “It is written in ink, and it reads—these are the exact words—‘Am British scientist illegally imprisoned on San Lazzaro by Communists.’”

“Illegally imprisoned by Communists? On—what? San Lazzaro? What’s that?”

“A little island with a monastery just a few minutes outside the city of Venice. Here, let me read the rest of it. I’m reading ‘Planning to send me to USSR in 2 days. Save me. Call Dr. Edwards Plaza Athénée Paris to tell world.’ It is signed, ‘Prof. Davis MacDonald. Aug. 18.’ Then—”

“But it still doesn’t make sense. Professor MacDonald is in the U.S.S.R. I heard from him just before coming to Paris. I’m terribly confused.”

“Wait, Dr. Edwards. There’s more to the note. Two more sentences. Let me read them. He writes—or someone writes—‘Have discovered Ft. of Youth. Reds want it.’” Jordan paused. “That’s the entire note I found. That’s why I called you.”

“Fountain of Youth,” she said in a hushed voice. “Read that to me again, that line.”

“‘Have discovered the Fountain of Youth.’”

“My God, if this isn’t a hoax, he’s trying to say—he’s made the discovery.”

“What discovery? Now I’m the one who’s in the dark.”

“The secret to the prolongation of human life, to human longevity. He’s a renowned gerontologist. You mean you’ve never heard of him? He’s been experimenting on this for twelve years. He’s currently in the Soviet Union, in the area of the Caucasus Mountains near the Black Sea. doing his research—and now he’s saying… My God, this is tremendous news, no news on earth could be greater, if, if he really wrote that note—”

“If he wrote this note,” repeated Jordan. “That’s the question. Would anyone else besides you and MacDonald know of his research?”

“Oh, yes. Many people know of it through scientific journals through his writings.”

“Then someone else could have written this note as a practical joke.”

“Possibly. Still…” There was hesitancy in Dr. Edwards’ voice. “Mr. Jordan, I am a scientist. I have a precise and logical mind. Before we examine the authenticity of this note, let us logically figure out how the professor could have written the message, assuming he did write it. Let me think.” There was a brief silence. “All right. I believe I have a logical scenario. The professor is in the Soviet Union. He makes his discovery. The Communists want it—in fact, he says in the note they want it—for themselves, I would guess. Professor MacDonald wants it for the world. That would be in character. He leaves the Soviet Union for wherever he can go. In this case he comes to Italy. The Russians learn he has left. They chase him or intercept him near Venice. They keep him on this island, before taking him back to the Soviet Union. Are there Russians in Venice? Is that logical?”

“A few, since Venice elected a Communist government recently.”

“In the note—he speaks of being imprisoned by Communists. Could he mean Italian Communists?”

“He could,” admitted Jordan, “but it doesn’t seem likely. I can’t see Italian Communists behaving this way. It’s possible, but hard to believe.”

“Still, if the Russians made them a promise—said, Look, well share his long-life discovery with you if you hold on to him until we can return him to the Soviet Union—that could have happened.”

“It could have,” conceded Jordan. “But it’s hard for me to accept. It’s all too fantastic. It sounds as if someone is having fun with whoever finds the note.”

“It sounds real enough to me,” said Dr. Edwards slowly. “I mean, everything in the message is factual or possible. He uses my name. He knows I am going to be at the hotel I’m at in Paris. He announces his discovery, when in fact his recent letters to me hinted he was onto something big. It very much sounds as if Professor MacDonald wrote that note.”

Jordan remained skeptical. “But the information in his message—would anyone else know the same facts? Would anyone else know your name, that you were going to be at the Plaza Athénée in Paris right now? Would anyone else know he could be on the verge of so great a discovery?”

“Yes, any number of people would know all that.”

“Then the note could have been written by someone else who happened to be in this area?”

She hesitated. “I suppose so. Although why anyone would do such a thing I can’t imagine.”

“Don’t try to be logical about human motives, Dr. Edwards.”

“I guess you are right.”

Jordan glanced at the slip of paper again. “The note says he is being sent to the Soviet Union in two days—the day after tomorrow. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” she wavered. “Could you—can you go to the local police in Venice and get them to investigate?”

Jordan considered the move. “No,” he said, “I don’t think that would be wise. If it is a hoax, I’d be laughed out of Venice. I’m willing to help a damsel in distress to a point, but I don’t want to be made ridiculous. On the other hand, if it is not a hoax, I might be getting myself and the professor into real danger by going to the Italian police, who may have cooperated with the Russians in a kidnapping. What about you? Why don’t you go to someone in authority in France? The note asks you to ‘tell the world.’”

She was silent once more. Finally, she spoke. “I’m hesitating, because—well, if it proved to be a hoax, I don’t mind being ridiculed, but what I’m afraid of is—if he is still in the Soviet Union going about his normal work, and this got out—the big plot, imprisonment, derring-do—and it weren’t true, it would endanger his position there. At the same time, if I went to the Sûreté or Interpol or some of the important United Nations people the professor knows, and the news was leaked—the Communists on San Lazzaro would be alerted, and might rush him back to the U.S.S.R. before anything could be done, and then claim they’d never had him. It seems there is no way to act safely.”

“Not as long as we don’t know if this note is authentic or not.”