Farewell to the Flesh (18 page)

“That's unusual!”

“It is, especially since Gibbon doesn't seem to have any immediate family who might be putting on pressure. I suppose it could be Hazel's doing, although she didn't say anything about it. Her family has some prominence.”

He quickly filled the Contessa in on Hazel's family background.

“It would be more than a little embarrassing,” Urbino went on, “for these men to come down and learn not only that Gibbon is dead but that another British subject—the woman engaged to marry the murdered man—has disappeared and the police can find no trace of her.”

“What do you think happened to her?”

“Maybe she got ill,” he said without conviction. “She might have fallen. She could be in the hospital.”

“In that case the Questura should know soon.” She paused. “You don't think the obvious possibility is the answer, do you?”

Urbino knew this had to be faced. He had been avoiding thinking about it, so etched in his mind was the image of Hazel disappearing into the crowd.

“That whoever killed Gibbon has done something to her,” he said.

Little relief came from saying it, from getting it out in the open. He took the Contessa's silence for an acknowledgment of the gravity—and the sad logic—of his fear, but when she spoke he realized he had been mistaken.

“That's not what I meant, Urbino.” She said it gently. “You're not seeing things clearly. A man is murdered—a man who refused to sign a prenuptial agreement—and then the woman disappears only a few days later. You can be sure that Commissario Gemelli can see what this might mean.”

She paused, giving him the opportunity to complete her thought. To do it, however, would have been to betray not only Hazel but his own strong conviction—or was it only his hope? He waited. The Contessa took in and expelled her breath before going on. When she spoke, she gently couched her suspicion in the conditional.

“She could have been involved in Gibbon's murder and she could have disappeared because of it.”

The way she had tentatively expressed her suspicion provided him with an escape as well as suggested yet another possibility.

“She might know something about Gibbon's murder—she might even know who the murderer is. She could have gone away for her own safety.”

His satisfaction at having routed the Contessa—having turned her suspicion around in this way—was soon dissipated when his friend added, rephrasing his own earlier fear, “Or whoever killed Gibbon might have decided it was best to make her less of a threat.”

The Contessa's euphemism, though quietly spoken, screamed at Urbino across the line. The Contessa seemed right either way. Either Hazel Reeve had run off because of her direct involvement in Gibbon's murder or she had been “made less of a threat” by the real murderer.

25

After his conversation with the Contessa, Urbino could think of nothing but Hazel. He couldn't ignore the fact that she had changed so abruptly during the short time he was away from the table. Had she spent those moments reflecting on some of the things he had said—or perhaps hadn't said? Had it been his poorly concealed disapproval of Val Gibbon that had made her want to punish him by terminating their evening?

Urbino pulled himself back from these speculations when he realized that there was a high proportion of the egotistical in them. He was presuming that Hazel's disappearance had something to do with him, with his treatment of her. Surely he was assigning himself an importance that he certainly didn't have in her life.

Yet he couldn't help going back over their time at the Montin, trying to find some reason for her changed behavior. It might have nothing to do with her subsequent disappearance but it was something that needed an explanation.

Urbino decided to call Porfirio. Hazel could have come back. Porfirio answered.

“It's Urbino. Commissario Gemelli just left and told me that Hazel didn't come back there last night.”

“So it would seem—unless she slept on the floor or made her bed perfectly. What happened between the two of you last night?”

“We had dinner and then she wanted to take a walk by herself before going back to your place.”

“And you let her?”

“It wasn't a question of letting her. It was what she wanted to do and there was no reason for her not to.”

“You don't think so? The man she loved is murdered and you think it's all right if she just goes off in a crowd?”

“I don't know what you're getting at, Porfirio. I didn't call to have an argument over this. I called to find out if you might have had word of her.”

“I would have mentioned it right away.
Albertine Disparue,”
Porfirio insinuated, referring to Proust's novel in which the narrator's beloved, Albertine, disappears and later dies in a fall from a horse. “Or should I say
La Petite Hazel Disparue?
At least we know she has little chance of dying in a fall from a horse—not here in Venice, anyway, unless she climbed to the top of the Colleoni monument. I suggest that the next time you have a young woman in your charge you see that she doesn't elude you.”

26

Berenice Pillow and her stepson had already arrived. When Urbino walked into the Contessa's,
salotto
, the scene seemed to be set up for a repetition of his first meeting with Berenice Pillow two nights ago. The tall, an gular American woman was wearing the same belted dress with thin violet and black vertical stripes and the same chains and pendants. Her hair was pulled back in her characteristic bun, except that renegade strands had slipped out and were brushing against the nape of her neck. It gave her a less severe look and for a moment Urbino could see in her the mischievous, romantic young girl of the Contessa's reminiscences.

Berenice Pillow was even standing looking up at the Veronese as she had the first time. Her stepson—this evening, however, dressed in black trousers and a black turtleneck—was once again sitting in the rococo chair next to the sofa of which the Contessa had taken her usual gracious possession.

Here, however, all similarities to that first meeting ended. Berenice Pillow wasn't actually looking at the Veronese but staring blankly at the allegory of love with its buxom Venus flanked by two handsome courtiers. The frown on her face tonight wasn't one of aesthetic disapproval but of worry. Tonio Vico looked uncomfortable and a little afraid.

Urbino's entrance into the
salotto
made an understandable change in the scene. As Berenice Pillow turned in his direction, she exchanged her frown for a smile of welcome in which there seemed to be relief. Tonio Vico stood up, as if to attention, looking less apprehensive now than a little defiant, although the element of unease was still there.

Only the Contessa remained where she was and how she was.

“We couldn't be happier that you've finally come, Urbino,” she said. “Fix yourself a drink.”

Urbino went over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of Corvo. He had already had more whiskey tonight than was good for him.

“We've all been waiting for you with more than our usual anticipation,” the Contessa said. “Not that you're late,
caro,”
she added. “In fact you're right on time”—she glanced at the Louis Quatorze clock on the mantel—“but it's just that Berenice and Tonio were even more punctual.”

Urbino walked over to a chair, waiting for Mrs. Pillow to reclaim hers before sitting down. Only Vico remained standing. He seemed to want to pace the room but the Contessa's
salotto
wasn't designed for anything more energetic than spirited conversation. Vico compensated by negotiating the cluttered space between his chair and the liquor cabinet, where he poured himself another whiskey. Then he went over to stand beside his stepmother's chair. Mrs. Pillow reached up to pat his hand.

“Before you came, Berenice said she had something to tell us.”

“We both have something to tell you,” Berenice Pillow corrected, looking up at her stepson. Having said this, neither of them said a word. With a deep intake of breath, Mrs. Pillow went on to explain. “My stepson knew this man who was murdered a few days ago.”

The Contessa's gray eyes widened in astonishment.

“Whatever do you mean, Berenice? Tonio knew Gibbon?”

As soon as Berenice Pillow had spoken, certain things fell into place for Urbino about last night at the Montin. How blind he had been! He now realized what had been suggesting itself to him earlier as he had walked back to the Palazzo Uccello by way of the Salizzada degli Specchieri. His first feeling was satisfaction and relief. His second was fear for Hazel.

“Through Hazel Reeve, wasn't it?” Urbino directed the question not to Mrs. Pillow but to Tonio Vico. The young man exchanged a quick nervous glance with his stepmother.

“You're right, Mr. Macintyre,” Vico said. “I knew him through Hazel Reeve. But how do
you
know Hazel?”

Either Vico was an expert at dissimulation or the young man really didn't know.

“She's here in Venice. I've met her.”

He didn't think it would be a good idea to mention Hazel Reeve's disappearance. He hoped that the Contessa would realize this as well and say nothing.

Astonishment raced across Mrs. Pillow's pale face at the mention of Hazel Reeve.

“She's in Venice? But why?” She looked at her stepson for an answer but the next moment provided one herself. “She came down from London after the murder.”

“She's been here for a week,” Urbino explained. “She was at the same restaurant you and your stepson were at last night with Barbara, Mrs. Pillow. Didn't you see her?”

“We most certainly didn't. We didn't have a clear view of the entrance.”

“Would someone please have pity on me and tell me what you're all talking about?” the Contessa asked.

Urbino, verbalizing the connections his mind had been quickly making, told her that Tonio was the man Hazel had been seeing before she met Gibbon.

“Yes, I knew him through Hazel,” Vico repeated. “Or it would be more exact to say that I knew
of
him. I never met him. But I didn't kill him!”

“Of course you didn't!” his stepmother said.

“But Berenice dear, why didn't you mention that Tonio knew Gibbon? Gibbon was killed more than two days ago. You were here when Sister Teresa came over to tell us.”

“I know, Barbara, but you don't understand. I—”

“Let me explain, Mother.” Vico had put his glass down and seemed more in control of himself now. “My mother wasn't aware that I knew Gibbon. I didn't even mention his name to her until this afternoon. I didn't want her to know.”

“Why?” Urbino asked. “Because you were embarrassed to admit that Hazel Reeve was in love with someone else?”

He was deliberately trying to provoke Vico.

“It wasn't that way at all! Hazel and I would have worked things out. She was just a little confused. Gibbon was a Svengali. Hazel would have eventually realized what he was really like. There was no reason to say anything to my mother. It would only have upset her and—and she might have held it against Hazel.
I
didn't.”

Vico picked up his glass and came close to draining it. Mrs. Pillow was shaking her head.

“You should have told me, Tony. I had the feeling there was something strange about Hazel ever since Christmas but I believed you when you said she had been working too hard, and needed time by herself.”

“I'm sorry, Mother. All that was true—I just didn't tell you about Gibbon. I didn't know him—except what I gathered from Hazel, and that was enough! She told me all about him on Boxing Day.”

“On Boxing Day!” Mrs. Pillow said contemptuously. “She might have told you earlier than that if she was involved with him.”

Temper flared behind Mrs. Pillow's words and Urbino could understand why her stepson might have feared that she would hold things against Hazel for having hurt him. It was an understandable reaction for a mother—and that was what Mrs. Pillow had been to the motherless Tonio.

“Please, Mother,” Vico said. “It doesn't do any good now. Gibbon's dead and I knew about him. I can't deny that.”

He looked at Urbino. What Vico was really saying was that Gibbon had been murdered and he had an excellent motive. Not only that, but Vico was appealing to Urbino for help. That was why they had both come tonight to the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini.

As if to demonstrate the validity of what he had just been thinking, Mrs. Pillow said, “Mr. Macintyre, we don't know what to do. It's not as if Tony has anything to hide, but he hasn't gone to the police yet. He didn't even know about this man's murder until today.”

“Today?” It was the Contessa. “But he was murdered on Wednesday night. Today's Saturday!”

“Tony usually doesn't read the papers. And all I had was
The International Herald Tribune
. They didn't cover the story, of course.”

“But, Berenice dear, surely you must have mentioned the murder to him. You learned about it here.”

“She
did
say something about the murder of some Englishman but she had no idea that it could be someone I knew. Someone else might have run to the papers but I didn't. If she had mentioned Gibbon's name or even that a photographer had been murdered, it would have been different. As it was, I only found out about it when I was looking through the paper for the television schedule.”

“What should we do, Mr. Macintyre?” Berenice Pillow asked again, furrows of concern across her forehead.

“It's obvious, Mrs. Pillow. He should go to the Questura at once.”

“Isn't that what I said, Tony? You see, Mr. Macintyre, when Tony told me this afternoon that he knew this Gibbon fellow I didn't see that he had any choice but to go to the police. If he doesn't, he might be in trouble.”