by a substantial oak desk. “May I ask who you are and how I can assist you?”
The interruption had stayed his hand in its movement towards the telephone. Selena, sitting on the floor beside the kettle, contrived to amalgamate in a single movement of great rapidity the act of rising to her feet and that of crossing the room: most graceful and attractive if one had leisure to observe it. She lifted the receiver.
“My name,” said our visitor, “is Stanford Bredon and I want to know where my wife is. I want to know what the hell’s going on round here. I want to know—”
“Yes, Henry, of course I’m here,” said Selena. “Do please put Mr. Shepherd through as quickly as possible. No, Henry, I know you don’t know what it’s about. But I do, and it’s a matter of some urgency. Please, Henry.”
“I want to know,” continued Stanford, “why when I got home last night I found a note from my wife saying she’d had to go stay with her mother’s cousin Alice, because Alice was very sick. And when I called my wife’s mother in New York, because Alice is not on the telephone but I figured if something was wrong with her my wife’s mother would know about it—”
The resonance of his indignation prevented me, though I was now standing next to Selena and within twelve inches of the telephone, from hearing the other end of her conversation.
“She told me that her cousin Alice was right there with her in New York on a visit and had never felt better in her life.”
“Mr. Bredon,” said Ragwort, “the good health of your wife’s relative is a matter for rejoicing rather than condolence. If, however, it displeases you, you should surely address your complaint to her doctor, rather than myself.”
“Hilary,” said Selena, “there seems to be some difficulty with the police. Timothy says he must talk to you.” She handed me the receiver, relieving my frustration at being unable to hear what Timothy was saying — only partially, however, for Timothy also seemed to be speaking against a background of considerable noise, including, in particular, a baritone voice, which I took to be that of the Vice-Quaestor, complaining indignantly about the English.
“For heaven’s sake, Hilary,” said Timothy, “will you please explain to me what to tell the Vice- Quaestor?”
“Timothy,” I said, “what exactly has happened?”
“The English,” said the background baritone. “Always the English, always they make trouble. We are quiet, peaceful people in Venice, we do not have crimes, we do not have scandals. And then the English come—”
Stanford was now leaning across Ragwort’s desk, disposed, it seemed, if he could reach him, to throttle Ragwort with his bare hands.
“Ah,” said Selena, in her most placatory manner, “you must be Marylou’s husband. We’ve heard so much about you.”
“My dear Hilary,” said Timothy, “what has happened is that on your instructions I have diverted half the police force of Venice from its proper dudes—”
“We have no murders,” continued the baritone, “and then the English come here and murder each other —”
“And why,” said Stanford, “when I look in our address book, which is a joint address book, because Marylou and I believe that marriage is a relationship of absolute trust—”
“And that the Vice-Quaestor,” continued Timothy, “has noticed an alarming rise in the number of violent deaths within his jurisdiction—”
“And corrupt the morals of our young,” said the baritone.
“I find in that address book,” said Stanford, “a name and address which were not there before, of a person whom I do not know—”
“And the Vice-Quaestor,” said Timothy, “would, quite naturally, like to know how I knew what was going to happen. And since, as I have explained to the Vice-Quaestor, I have been acting entirely on your instructions, Hilary, and have no idea—”
“And eat sandwiches,” said the baritone, in tragic crescendo, “in the Piazza San Marco.”
“And that name,” said Stanford, “is Desmond Ragwort and his address is 62 New Square.”
“I say,” said Cantrip, “if you don’t take your hands off my learned friend Mr. Ragwort—”
“And the Vice-Quaestor is not prepared to let any of us leave Venice—”
“And I am not leaving this room—”
“Until he has a complete explanation.”
“Until I have a full explanation.”
“Hoocha!” cried Cantrip — poor boy, he had been longing for days for an opportunity to demonstrate his karate.
Palazzo Artemisio.
Friday afternoon.
Dear Hilary,
Since my telephone call this morning was made in rather difficult conditions and apparently coincided with the outbreak in Chambers of some sort of riot, I was unable to give you as full an account of the morning’s events as you would no doubt have liked. Well, I suppose you are entitled to one, and I have ample time for the task: the Vice-Quaestor declines to let any of us leave Venice until the whole affair is clarified to his satisfaction; and he does not expect this before Monday.
I called at the Consulate, as usual, a little after ten o’clock, to see if there were any messages for me and to discuss with Signor Vespari, in view of the unfavourable forensic report, what arrangements should be made for Julia to be represented by an Italian lawyer experienced in criminal matters. I found him waiting for me with great impatience, being curious to know the contents of your telegram, which he handed to me as soon as I arrived. I read it, I must confess, with considerable irritation. Though not noticeably brief, it gave me, of course, no indication of what you were hoping to prove; I thought it highly probable that you were introducing unnecessary complications to gratify your taste for amateur theatricals. On the other hand, not knowing what other arrangements you might have made, I could not be sure what the consequences might be if I failed to comply.
My first impulse was to telephone and demand an explanation. I was not sure, however, where to find you at that time, and you had left me with less than an hour and a half in which to secure the cooperation of the Vice- Quaestor. I resigned myself with the utmost reluctance to acting blindly on your instructions. I decided, moreover, since you had gone into such detail, that I had better follow them to the letter — though the only thing that really seemed to matter was that Marylou and I should be outside the Basilica San Marco at twelve o’clock and that we should then be under discreet observation by the police.
You do not seem to realize, Hilary, that it is unusual for a senior police officer to be peremptorily summoned by a foreign lawyer to attend with two of his men at a particular time and place at an hour’s notice and without explanation. I am still not sure how we managed it — or rather, how Signor Vespari managed it, since he did all the talking. He told the Vice-Quaestor that my “investigations in London” had been conducted by three members of the English Bar, under the personal supervision of a scholar of international repute — meaning, God help us, yourself — and added, rather grandly, that if your instructions were not carried out he could not be answerable for the consequences. Whether because he was really impressed by all this nonsense, or out of mere curiosity, the Vice- Quaestor eventually agreed to do as we asked.
Leaving the Consulate at twenty past eleven and walking towards the Accademia Bridge, I saw that Marylou was already sitting at one of the tables outside the cafe. It seemed absurd to delay approaching her; but since you had insisted that I should not do so until exactly half past, I spent the next ten minutes pretending to choose postcards from the newspaper stall outside the Accademia Gallery. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the Vice-Quaestor and two other policemen standing near the door of the Gallery, making rather a success of looking as if they had nothing to do.
At exactly half past, I went up to Marylou and asked if she was Mrs. Bredon. Although I had recognized her easily from seeing her at Heathrow, I assumed that you would not have mentioned that occasion to her. She acknowledged that she was, but invited me to call her Marylou. After I had briefly explained to her what you wanted us to do, we set forth across the Accademia Bridge. She suggested that it would be more convenient to go by
