The Pigeon Project (31 page)

It must not happen.

She had inadvertently betrayed Jordan, miscalculated the madness of her houseguest, and now she was about to be responsible for the loss of C-98 to the world.

The room reeled about her. She felt a helpless old lady. Yet she must avert the disaster she had provoked.

She teetered beside the stable, trying to rally her senses, trying to think.

VII

The Piazza San Marco was bathed in sunlight once more. Pigeons and tourists were swarming everywhere throughout the vast square. A group of German visitors, carrying a wide homemade banner protesting their confinement, marched through the middle of the square attracting some attention.

From the shadows of the arcade beneath his office, Tim Jordan watched the panorama. At last, he started down the aisle toward the front of Quadri’s café in search of his luncheon date. Passing the bandstand to his left, he slowed and peered under the awning to see if Oreste Memo was there. Oreste, in his white jacket with red epaulets, white bow tie, holding his violin, was talking to the accordion player and the bass fiddler. He saw Jordan and lifted his fiddle, and Jordan saluted him back and continued past the six rows of tables seeking his date.

Felice Huber had just arrived at one of the round gray Formica tables in the front row, had dropped her bulky purse onto a yellow plastic chair, and was about to settle herself in another one when Jordan spotted her. He went directly to her.

“You’re right on time,” he said.

“I’m Swiss,” she said.

She tilted her dour, angular face to accept his kiss, and then he settled down opposite her.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He caught the eye of a waiter and beckoned him. She ordered two of the small salami sandwiches with mustard and an espresso. He ordered one salami sandwich and hot tea.

He considered her as she poked through her voluminous maroon leather purse for her cigarettes. She was absolutely a double for Virginia Woolf, he was again reminded. Her short brown hair matched her brown pleated skirt. Her muscular tanned legs were bare, and she wore scuffed brown sandals.

Finding his pipe, Jordan filled and lighted it, after he had put a match to her cigarette.

“Well, Felice,” he said, “how’s it going for you?”

“Rotten,” she said. “Couldn’t be worse.”

“Emotional or financial?”

“It’s always financial, Tim, you know that. And financial affects everything else. Those dumbheads running this city have really botched it this time. This was going to be a big summer. I expected to get ahead. Instead, they declared this embargo on all incoming tourists, and every agency—CIT, American Express, Cook’s, Italtravel, Svet—is suffering, and the ones suffering most are the poor tourist guides like me. Thousands of tourists trying to get in are being kept out. The ones stranded here are running out of money or they’ve seen everything. The average tourist spends a day and a half in Venice, right? These people have been here almost a week and they’ve had it. There’s nothing to be happy about, I assure you.”

Jordan puffed on his pipe and studied her. “You still want to get out of it?”

“You know I do,” she said unhappily. “I admit when I got into being a tourist guide three years ago, I was excited. I thought it would be glamorous. I couldn’t wait to finish my training at the Scuola del Turismo and get going. First of all, as you know, I love art. It’s my whole life. Second place, I love meeting new people every day. Then, it’s a seasonal job. March to November. The rest of the time free to pursue my studies and writings on French art. And, of course, I thought it paid well enough.”

“What do you make a day?”

“In season—between June and September—I can handle two or three tours a day. That means 100,000 lire. How much is that in your numbers?”

“About $120 a day, give or take rate fluctuations.”

“Good money, you’d think. It wasn’t and it isn’t Living is expensive here. The money is just enough for living fairly well. But the whole idea was to save, to get tuition to go to Grenoble, where I could study French art and become a teacher. The way it’s going, I’ll never get there. And now, after three years, the job itself just doesn’t make it. The people you escort are boring or stupid or drive you crazy. The sights become repetitious. I sometimes think if I have to explain another Tiepolo or Tintoretto, I’ll scream. Also, it’s physically exhausting tramping about with those groups. One’s legs just want to give out. But the worst part is the nervousness engendered by those fruitcake tourists. Job would need the patience of Job to handle them every day. You know, the Ufficio Turismo made a study of the sixty independent tourist guides in Venice. Ever hear what they found out? The most frequent illness among guides is a nervous breakdown.”

“You don’t look as if you’re going to have a nervous breakdown.”

“I will if I don’t get enough to get out of here and get off to Grenoble. Want to help me rob a bank?”

Jordan laughed. “Where would we go with the money? No one can get out of this city.”

The waiter appeared with the sandwiches, and after he had slipped the check under a paper napkin, he left them.

Felice Huber fell on the first of her sandwiches immediately, taking a bite, then remembering to spread mustard on both.

Watching her eat, Jordan was quietly aware of the reason he was meeting with Felice this noon. He felt unpressured. Professor MacDonald was in a safe hiding place. But Bruno Girardi’s effort was still a question mark. Felice held the hope of an alternative escape route. He nibbled at his salami sandwich, drank his tea, and wondered how he might best approach her.

“I was just saying no one can get out of the city, Felice,” he resumed. “I hear you’re getting out of the city tomorrow.”

She was surprised. “What a small town. Everyone knows everything. How did you know?”

“I guided a tour of my own yesterday. Showed a distinguished visitor our model of the inflatable dam out in Voltabarozzo. I had the columnist Schuyler Moore as my charge. He told me he was covering a factory in Mestre with you tomorrow.”

“That’s right. I didn’t think he’d remember my name.”

“How did you manage it?”

“Not easy,” said Felice. “But I guess my boss did it the way you did it. Played on civic pride. Both Venice and Mestre still want favorable publicity. My boss had a terrible time with the authorities, but at last he got to the mayor, told him he had these important industrialists who were restless and eager to see the advanced technology in that newly built plant in Mestre, and the mayor finally gave a go-ahead.”

“How many are in your group?”

“Eleven, I think. Schuyler Moore makes it twelve.”

“Is security very tight?” Jordan asked casually. “I mean, for your group?”

Felice finished her first sandwich and started on the second. “Not especially. There’s a list of approved names. Three carabinieri guards will accompany us. We’re allowed two hours on the mainland.”

“What if someone came along and requested you to add one more name to your list or group—one more industrialist? Would that be possible?”

She looked at him sharply. “I don’t think so. Not officially. Of course”—she hesitated—“no one would notice if I added one more person to the list and the group unofficially. In any case, that would be tricky. If I were found out, I’d lose my job. Still, I suppose I might chance it for someone I trusted.”

“Like me?”

“Well, yes, like you.” She fixed on him. “Why did you ask?”

He squirmed slightly. “I thought of someone I know who would like that tour. I wondered if it was possible.”

“It’s possible. But I hope you don’t ask.”

“I probably won’t,” he said. As they talked, he considered trying to get Professor MacDonald a definite place on Felice’s Mestre tour, but now he decided against it. Mainly because it might be pointless, since Bruno could come through today. Also because it was a truly dangerous and difficult means of escape, and he did not want to press it unless there was no other choice. Still, he wanted the option. “No,” he repeated, “I probably won’t ask. But I might.”

“Then I’d consider it.” She tried her espresso. “You mentioned last night you wanted to see me on business and pleasure. Was that the business?”

“It was, Felice.”

“Of great importance to you?”

He gave a flick of his hand. “Not great importance. Just to do someone a favor, if necessary. But no need pursuing this further now.”

That instant, he thought he heard his name and glanced back over his shoulder. He saw a shapely young woman in slacks approaching rapidly, and then he realized that it was Alison Edwards. This was unusual, and he rose to greet her.

“I hate to interrupt you,” Alison said quickly, “but something’s come up and you’re rather urgently needed at the hotel.”

“All right, Alison,” he said, puzzled. “Uh, I’d like you to meet Felice Huber. Felice, this is Dr. Alison Edwards, an old friend from the States.” He sought the check. “I’m sorry, but I have to get back to the Danieli “

Felice balled up her paper napkin and rose. “Timing is perfect. We’ve finished lunch, and I have to get to the agency. Thanks for the sandwiches, Tim. Let’s do it again soon.”

“We will, Felice. And—thanks.”

He waited until she was gone and then wheeled toward Alison, troubled. “What’s going on?”

“Let’s get back to the hotel fast. I’ll tell you as we walk.”

She had his elbow, allowed him to leave money for the snack, and then began to propel him across the Piazza, heading for the Doges’ Palace and the turn to the Danieli.

“Something’s gone wrong,” she said as they hurried along.

“For God’s sake, what?”

“I don’t know exactly. I only know this. Fifteen minutes ago, the Contessa De Marchi telephoned. She was looking for you. I told her you were out in the Piazza having lunch with someone. She begged me to get you and bring you right back to the hotel. She wanted me to do so at once. She said something has gone-terribly wrong. She’ll be waiting for you in the Danieli lobby.”

“It was a perfect setup,” said Jordan. “I can’t imagine what could possibly have spoiled it.”

When they entered the lobby of the Hotel Danieli, going between the police sentinels, there were numerous persons gathered around the concierge’s counter. The Contessa Elvira De Marchi was not among them.

Jordan signaled Alison to follow him. “The real lobby is off to the left. It extends from the bar in back to the front of the hotel. If she’s here yet, she’ll be in there.”

She was indeed there, almost lost in an armchair in a secluded corner of the lobby near the hotel’s front windows. The contessa saw them at once, stood up, and then, as they reached her, sat down as they sat across from her.

Jordan could see that she was distraught.

“What’s happened?” he asked at once.

“Cedric Foster found out I’m harboring Professor MacDonald in the palazzo,” she said.

“How could he?”

“I’m afraid it was my fault,” said the contessa.

Haltingly, she told Jordan and Alison what had taken place at late breakfast between Cedric Foster and herself in the past hour.

Jordan was dismayed. “Contessa, how could you have let him know MacDonald was under your roof? You’d promised—”

“Timothy, believe me,” she pleaded, “it was accidental. I just blurted it out. You would have understood if you’d been there. It was the result of a highly charged, emotional scene. Cedric was a wild man, out of control. He confessed to me that he’s afraid he will lose his lover—the young fellow, Ian—because he’s growing older. He’ll do anything to hold back his aging. When he found out Professor MacDonald was the one person who could save him, and was staying upstairs, he demanded to see him. I refused. He threatened to break in on him. I warned him I’d have him thrown out. Then Cedric shouted, ‘If you won’t help me, I’ll find other means. I’ll do what I have to do.’ And he ran out, left the palazzo.”

“Dammit,” said Jordan. “Obviously, you think he’s gone to the police?”

“I’m certain of that.”

“But Foster is your houseguest, your friend.”

“No matter. He was too upset, not at all rational. Getting that youth formula first, immediately, means more to him than anything on earth. I have no doubt he went to the police. He’s probably with them right now, making a deal. If they will guarantee him priority in getting the formula, he will lead them to MacDonald. The minute I realized that, I telephoned you.”

Jordan felt crushed. “It’s probably too late to save MacDonald now. The police are probably on their way—”

The contessa straightened. “The police won’t find a thing. I kept my head. It was the least I could do to rectify my blunder. I have Professor MacDonald with me.”

“Where?”

“In my motor launch, in the back, tied up right near the Cipriani wharf not far from here.”

“Thank God, Contessa,” said Jordan gratefully. “But is he safe?”

“Temporarily. Once the police start looking for me, they’ll spot my launch. It’s one of the few privately owned ones of its type in Venice.”

“What about your driver?”

“He wouldn’t know anything. He’s an old man who dreams, ignores so many people who go and come, and does his job. But you’ll have to move the professor to a safer place as soon as possible, Timothy. That’s why I rushed over here to alert you. There may not be much time.”

Jordan looked blankly at Alison. “I just don’t know where to turn.”

The contessa came forward in her armchair. “Timothy, you have so many friends. There must be someone you can trust.”

“I’ve used most of them.” He shook his head. “And they’ve not all been dependable. It’s hard to think.”

The contessa was silent for long seconds, ruminating. She raised her head. “I’ve been thinking too. Last night at my place, at one point, someone told me how much he likes you, how much he’s pleased to have you for a friend.”

“Who?”

“Oreste Memo.”

“The musician? Sure, we’re old acquaintances, but—”

“He has great affection for you, Timothy. I’ve found him a most reliable human being. You might ask him—”

“I’m afraid I have no choice,” said Jordan, rising. “It’s an excellent suggestion. I’ll try to see him now. You and Alison go to the boat. I’ll find you. Just wait for me and hope I come back with good news.”