A Very Venetian Murder Read online

  “Possibly because he had left it in Gregg Baxter’s gut,” Frost said sternly.

  “No, I tell you! We were at the Cipriani when Gregg was killed.”

  “Hmn,” Reuben said, pausing to absorb all he’d been told. Then he said, “You know, your Tony is the most likely suspect. That’s why he was arrested. But if by some chance he’s innocent, the next most likely one is the hustler Baxter picked up. You realize that your stolen-dagger theory not only rules Garrison out but the hustler as well. At least it seems very unlikely that a young operator off the streets would be rifling your luggage at the Cipriani.”

  “I can’t help that,” Tabita said. “I’m just telling you what I know.”

  “If it wasn’t Tony, and it wasn’t Pandini, the hustler, who was it?”

  “I haven’t any idea,” she said.

  “Who knew about the dagger except you?”

  “Tony told everybody about it at dinner one night, before Gregg was killed.”

  “Who is ‘everybody’?”

  “Doris Medford, Dan Abbott, Ceil Scamozzi and Luigi Regillo. It was a restaurant right near here, I think. Franz’s.”

  “Ah, yes, Da Franz. It’s right back there,” Reuben said, indicating the Fondamenta San Isepo.

  “They all wanted to see it, so he showed it to them at the hotel the next morning.”

  “Let me go back. When did Tony buy the dagger?”

  “Let’s see. We got here Saturday. It wasn’t the next day, Sunday, and it wasn’t the day of the party. It must have been Monday.”

  “And when was the dinner at Da Franz?”

  “That same night. Monday.”

  “And then Tony showed it around on Tuesday?” Reuben said. “After which he put it back in the suitcase?”

  “Yes, to both questions.”

  “And did the others see him put it back?”

  “They did. All of them—Doris, Luigi, Ceil and Dan. Gregg, too.”

  “The theft. You don’t know when it occurred?”

  “No.”

  “You say everyone saw the dagger last Tuesday. What were Ceil Scamozzi and Luigi Regillo doing at the Cipriani?”

  “Our suites were kind of a headquarters, you know, for getting ready for the dinner. People were in and out all the time. Mostly we camped in Doris Medford’s suite, planning the party, but we had the whole floor and we used all of it. Ceil hated the rooms because of the Fortuny fabrics on all the furniture. It was kind of funny.”

  Reuben paused and stared out at the water, ostensibly to watch a passing Yugoslav ferry, but really to give him time to figure out how to pose his next question. “You’re absolutely sure Tony Garrison is not the murderer?” he finally asked, looking Tabita squarely in the eye.

  “Positively, Mr. Frost. Don’t you need a reason for killing someone? I can’t think of a single motive for Tony to murder Gregg.”

  “I’m afraid I can,” Reuben said. “I can even think of a motive for you—Baxter’s ham-handed interference in your love life.”

  “You mean you think I might have killed Gregg Baxter?” Tabita said incredulously.

  “It’s perfectly plausible. Wasn’t Baxter making your life miserable because you’d stolen Tony away? And you knew where the dagger was. In your case, you didn’t even have to steal it.”

  Tabita laughed. “Do you really mean what you just said?”

  Reuben didn’t and realized it would be unfair to pretend otherwise. “No, I don’t, Tabita. I don’t think you killed Baxter. But I’m damned if I know who did.”

  They sat and contemplated the water for what seemed a long time. Then Reuben said he was going to try to find Valier. “The Questura isn’t far from here, you remember. I’m going to tell him what you’ve told me, though I fear it won’t be enough to spring your boyfriend.”

  “Can I come along?” Tabita asked. “I’ve got to see Tony if I can.”

  Frost told her of his efforts to get a lawyer for Garrison, and said, “Of course you can come. But do you want to be seen with me?”

  Tabita shrugged. “I feel safe with you, Mr. Frost.”

  What a desperate creature, Reuben concluded. Looking for protection and comfort to a very old man and, at the moment, a very confused one.

  CHAPTER

  21

  A Busy Day: II

  At the Squadra Mobile, Frost and Tabita encountered a communications problem. Reuben asked for Commissario Valier and received every kind of Italian negative in reply. The officer who greeted them at least purported not to speak a word of English; although, as Reuben now noted for the first time and with some amusement, the building’s exit signs were both in Italian and English. Reflecting the nationalities of the P.S.’s best customers, he thought.

  Reuben persevered and eventually the uniformed agente went to the phone and disgustedly told the party on the other end about the due inglesi he was unable to get rid of.

  After a promised—and long—momentino, a second officer, heavyset and also in uniform, appeared. Again Frost was informed, as he had been earlier, that Commissario Valier “è in riunione.”

  “Possiamo disturbarlo?” Reuben asked, pushing to the outer edge of the envelope that was his Italian. “Can we disturb him?”

  “Non è possibile,” came the direct, curt reply. Tabita appeared to be on the verge of making a try of her own, but decided not to. Frost ripped a sheet from his notebook and wrote out another message for Valier, saying that it was imperative that he call as soon as he could. Without any great confidence that it would be delivered, he and Tabita went out to the Fondamenta.

  “He’s probably questioning Tony right now,” Tabita said.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Reuben agreed. “Our constitutional niceties unfortunately don’t have extraterritorial effect.” If Valier were “in conference” all this time grilling Tony, it was the real third degree.

  “Shall we walk back to the boat separately?” Frost asked. “It’s up to you.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be seen together,” Tabita said.

  “Okay, you go out there to the water and walk down the Riva degli Schiavoni,” Reuben directed. “I’ll go around the back way.”

  Eight minutes later, they arrived at the Cipriani dock at the same time. They greeted each other extravagantly for the benefit of the strangers who were also waiting. With similar excess they loudly engaged in empty conversation about the weather and the likelihood of rain.

  Back at the hotel, Gianni told Reuben that Cynthia had been looking for him. “She’s having her hair done now, but she said to be sure and have you wait.”

  Frost relaxed on the bed in 201 with the morning Herald Tribune until Cynthia appeared, hair neatly reorganized. “Shall we go down to lunch?” he asked. “I’m starving.”

  “First I’ve got to tell you what I learned at Ceil’s this morning,” she said. “It can’t wait.”

  “Why don’t you tell me over lunch?”

  “No. I’m going to tell you here, now, and I want you to listen carefully.”

  “Yes, dear,” Reuben said dutifully, wondering what he was in for.

  “Let me begin at the beginning,” Cynthia said. “When I got to the workshop, Ceil was there alone. There was no sign of Luigi. She began showing me around and it was fascinating, Reuben, what she’s done with Friar Talier’s techniques, all out of that book she showed us the other night. Absolutely gorgeous fabrics, mostly silks, but some cottons. Incredible, rich colors.”

  “Anyway, while we were walking around, I noticed a shelf of old-fashioned bottles, including one that said ARSENICO. That of course piqued my curiosity and I remarked on it. ‘Is that poison?’ I asked. ‘Oh yes,’ she replied. She got quite nervous and started babbling on, really babbling, about what it’s used for. If you care, you apparently need something called a mordente—I think that’s right—when you dye or print certain fabrics, because the cloth itself doesn’t take the dye or the ink. So you treat the cloth with a mordente, which does absorb it. Do
you follow me?”

  “I’m not sure,” Reuben said.

  “It doesn’t matter. The important thing is that she has used the arsenic compound as a mordente in some of the monk’s old formulas. When she’d finished her explanation, Ceil still acted skittish—to the point where I asked her if anything was wrong. When I did that, she dissolved. ‘I haven’t told anybody this,’ she said, ‘but half the contents of that bottle disappeared not long ago. It is molto tossico and I’m very nervous about what might happen.”

  “Does she think someone stole it?”

  “Yes, but all she knows for sure is that some time between the first of the month and last Friday, when she went to use the arsenic with some of her dyes, the contents had depleted badly.”

  “Was she aware of Baxter’s poisoned insulin?”

  “Unless she’s a wonderful actress, I would say not. When I told her, she went into hysterics—dramatic, very Italian hysterics, but I’d say genuine ones.”

  “I suppose everybody and his brother had been in and out of her studio.”

  “All the ones we’re interested in. I asked her specifically. Except Eric Werth and his pal. And Pandini.”

  “I’d eliminated them already. It didn’t seem likely that they would have stolen the dagger—”

  “—stolen the dagger?”

  “Oh my God, I haven’t had a chance to tell you.” He made up for his lapse by quickly relating Tabita’s story.

  “Do you believe her?” Cynthia asked, once he had finished.

  “I’m inclined to. Though of course it could be a red herring. It’ll be interesting to see what Garrison tells the police about the theft. If there was one.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I’ll faint if I don’t eat. I noticed that lasagna is the special this noon. That’s what I need—and I need it now.”

  While eating, Reuben and Cynthia exchanged theories about Tabita’s story in very low voices. Together they decided that it might be true, and X, identity unknown, had stolen Garrison’s dagger and killed Baxter with it. Or Tabita might have invented the tale as a means of trying to clear Tony. Or she and Garrison might have conspired to commit the murder and were using the theft as a part of their alibi. Or Garrison might have killed Baxter and fabricated the theft to fool Tabita. Or Tabita might have done the killing and told the story to protect herself.

  The possibilities seemingly exhausted, Reuben had an espresso. A double. As he finished it, Cynthia announced that she was going off to Burano.

  “To buy lace?” Reuben asked.

  “No, it’s just that I feel like a long boat trip on this beautiful day, and I haven’t been to Burano in years.”

  “Good—about the lace. I understand most of it comes from Hong Kong these days.”

  “If I feel energetic, I might even go on to San Francesco del Deserto. I could use a little calming today. If it worked for St. Francis, maybe it’ll work for me.”

  “I have an idea,” Reuben said. “Why don’t you take Tabita along with you? She’s nervous as hell—scared, too, I’m pretty sure—and you might cheer her up.”

  “It’s all right with me. Actually, I’d enjoy the company.”

  “And who knows what you might learn.”

  “Ah, I should have known you had a hidden agenda.”

  “I have to wait for Avvocato Mancuzzi,” Reuben said, as a porter came out to announce the lawyer’s arrival at the front desk. Reuben called Abbott and again they arranged to meet in the latter’s suite.

  Avv. Mancuzzi turned out to be a dapper man of perhaps sixty, compact and balding and wearing an expensive olive-tan suit. He carried a sagging, soft-leather briefcase and turned out to be all business. From television, he already was aware of Baxter’s murder and Garrison’s arrest, but Abbott and Reuben supplied him with what details they knew.

  “We’re not even sure where Garrison is,” Abbott complained, as the three men sat down in his suite.

  “I would guess he is still at the Questura,” he said, in clear English. “They have detention cells there and that is usually the first stop after being arrested.”

  “How do we get him out, counselor?” Abbott asked.

  Mancuzzi gave a small, rather sad smile. “For twenty-four hours, there is very little we can do. The P.S. can hold him without any cause whatever.”

  “But what about questioning him? Can they do that?”

  “I fear the answer to that is yes and no. If they put questions to him, he does not have to answer. Or he can refuse to answer unless his lawyer is present. Often, however, except for some motorboat questioning, the police do not interrogate a suspect but hold him for twenty-four hours. To give him a proper chance to ponder his situation.”

  “I don’t understand your reference to motorboat questioning,” Reuben interjected.

  Mancuzzi smiled. “A term unique to Venice. A suspect must be taken to the Questura by patrol boat, no? This gives the arresting officers a brief opportunity to question him.”

  “You mean grill him without anybody watching? With perhaps a little physical encouragement to answer?”

  “Precisely. Of course, any answers the fellow gives to such interrogations may not be admitted in court. But they may be helpful to the P.S. in their investigations. In this case, since the person arrested speaks English, I doubt that the P.S. would learn very much. There would be an interpreter present only at the Questura.”

  “Garrison also speaks Italian,” Reuben said. “Of course he may have been clever enough to conceal that.”

  “I see,” Mancuzzi said.

  “From what you say, I gather that Garrison may be sitting in some isolation cell—‘pondering his situation’?” Abbott said.

  “Yes. Or the Commissario and his colleagues may interrogate him from time to time. But, as I say, he does not have to answer.”

  “How would he know that?” Abbott inquired.

  “Oh, they are obligated to tell him, Signore.”

  “And there is nothing you, a lawyer, can do about it?”

  “There are two things I can do. One is to call, or have you call, the American consul general. His legal officer can make known to the police his interest in the case. Your government cannot seem to afford such an official in Venice, so one must call Milan. It is, however, a useful step. To let the P.S. know someone is watching them. Also, if I am retained to look after il signor Garrison’s interests, I will bring that to the attention of the P.S. immediately. So they will be aware that I, too, will be observing their conduct.”

  “Avvocato Mancuzzi, what happens when twenty-four hours are up?” Reuben asked.

  “A new twenty-four-hour period begins. At this time the authorities must give notice that they are holding a person and within that second period must present a rapporto to the Procuratore della Repubblica, identifying the suspect and the accusations against him.”

  “Who the hell is he?” Abbott asked.

  “The Procuratore is a magistrate, a judge, who supervises the investigation of the P.S. In actuality, his deputy, a Sostituto Procuratore, will be in charge.”

  “Then what happens, after the rapporto?” Frost asked.

  “The Sostituto Procuratore must decide whether to hold the suspect. If he does, he will issue an order, an Ordine di Custodia Cautelare, remanding him to the carcere, the jail. In this case our Carcere di Santa Maria Maggiore.”

  “Pretty name for a prison,” Frost said. “And what happens if an Ordine is not issued?”

  “If an Ordine is not issued within the second twenty-four hours, the suspect must be released.”

  “And what is the likelihood of one of those orders in this case?” Abbott asked.

  “Sadly, I must say very high,” Mancuzzi said. “The P.S. will have the deposizione of the antique dealer that sold Mr. Garrison the pugnale, the instrument of death. That alone would be enough to hold him, in my opinion.”

  “For how long?” Abbott demanded.

  Mancuzzi only shr
ugged. The shrug set Abbott off. He bounded from the chair and started pacing the room, then pounded the television set with his fist.

  “What can we do?” he shouted. “How are we going to get a spring line on display?”

  “Line?” Mancuzzi asked, puzzled.

  “Clothes—a line of clothes. Baxter Fashions’ dresses for next spring!” Abbott shot back.

  “I cannot help with that problem,” Mancuzzi said. “I can only notify my representation to the P.S., and try to find out what they are thinking. And if Mr. Garrison is imprisoned, to consider with you an appeal of the Ordine to the Tribunale della Libertà. That may or may not be a fruitful path. We must see.”

  “How long does such an appeal take?” Reuben asked.

  “Not long,” Mancuzzi said. “It is an appeal of an imprisonment, after all, so it is very quick.”

  “What chance would you have?”

  “There would have to be doubts raised,” Mancuzzi said. “If there was evidence pointing to someone else, for example. Not necessarily enough to have someone else arrested, but facts to make some smoke.”

  “Right now, though, you’ll be talking to the police?” Abbott asked. “And to the American consul?”

  “There is only one small detail, Mr. Abbott. Have I been retained?”

  A short discussion of fees took place. Mancuzzi was hired, promised a six million lire retainer, his expenses, 250,000 lire an hour once the retainer was exhausted and a “success fee,” amount to be negotiated, if Garrison were promptly released and allowed to return to the United States. The lire amounts sounded enormous, but Reuben realized they were reasonable by American standards—a down payment of $5,000 and an hourly rate slightly over $200.

  The terms agreed, Mancuzzi shook hands and said he would make an appearance at the Questura at once. He also said he would call the American consul when he knew Garrison’s exact status with the P.S.

  After seeing Avv. Mancuzzi out, Frost remained behind for a moment to talk to Abbott. Both agreed the unclear situation was out of their hands and that they must, reluctantly, wait to hear from the newly hired lawyer. Unless, of course, Reuben could get through to Valier.