Death in Autumn Read online

  'On the night in question you were on duty alone?'

  'Yes . . .'

  'Would you mind speaking up.'

  'Yes. Alone.'

  'At what time did you go up to visit the deceased woman?'

  'I didn't ... I didn't see her. I didn't see anything.'

  'We know that you were in the habit of visiting this woman's room. You have already admitted to a relationship with her that could hardly have developed in the foyer. I quote: "I used to massage her neck when she had a headache." Do you now deny that statement?'

  'I didn't see her that night.'

  The Substitute inclined his head slightly to the left. 'Avvocato, would you be kind enough to inform your client that he must answer the questions put to him.'

  The young lawyer murmured something in Querci's ear but the latter gave no sign of having heard or understood him. Nevertheless, when the question was repeated he answered: 'No, I don't deny it.'

  'And did you massage her neck in the foyer? Behind your counter, perhaps?'

  'No.'

  'Thank you. You also, according to a statement made by the day receptionist, made a pet of this woman's dog. The animal was not permitted to wander about the public rooms and especially not in the foyer since the hotel did not normally allow pets of any sort. You were on duty at night. Are you asking me to believe that she brought the dog down to visit you in the middle of the night? In the small hours of the morning?'

  'No . . .'

  'I must ask you again to please speak up. Did she bring the animal downstairs to pay you social calls during the night?'

  'No.'

  As if he hadn't heard the first time! There were hardly two feet between them. The Captain was more than ever repelled by these methods. So much so that he was surprised the Substitute couldn't sense the waves of disgust hitting the back of his neck. Not that he would have cared . . .

  'Did you meet outside the hotel?'

  'No! Never . . . never.'

  'In that case, my dear Querci—' he threw himself back in the chair with a light laugh—'you visited her room!'

  For the first time Querci looked hesitatingly at his lawyer whose existence he had barely acknowledged until then, but the Substitute gave him no time to speak.

  'Yes or no, Querci, yes or no! Did you visit her room?'

  'Yes.'

  'Ah!'

  And that was that. Instead of the expected question about the night of the murder, he suddenly changed tack, picked up one of the envelopes and, with a sweeping gesture emptied its contents on to the desk, swooped on the tiny photograph and flourished it under Querci's nose.

  'You recognize it?'

  'I . . . yes, of course.'

  'Of course! It's a picture of you, isn't it?'

  'Yes.'

  'I wouldn't want to make a mistake on that point. You see, it's important! A picture of you, Querci—who took it?'

  'My wife.'

  'Your wife? She wasn't on the picture, then? There were other people on it, I imagine, before you cut it up?'

  'My in-laws . . . and Serena.'

  'Serena?'

  'My little girl.' Querci's eyes were focused now and filling with tears. His face was deep red.

  'Very touching. Of course it would be more convincing if it weren't for the fact that you cut your little girl off the picture so that you could give it to your mistress!'

  'She wasn't ... it wasn't like that . . .'

  'Then tell us how it was, Querci.'

  'I . . . nothing . . . She asked me for a photograph and I saw no reason . . . only I didn't have one, not just of me. There was no harm in it. She was a lonely person.'

  'Exactly! And not only was she lonely, she was rich. What better opportunity was a night porter likely to come across!'

  'It wasn't—'

  'It wasn't like that, as you keep on saying. But we now know that that's exactly how it was, Querci, because we now know about the will!'

  Querci's lawyer gave a visible start and then shot his client a resentful glance. But Querci himself was utterly confused.

  'I don't understand you . . .'

  'Then I'll explain. This woman left you money—and since, by a coincidence very fortunate for you, her son happened to be killed shortly before she herself was killed, you inherit everything.'

  Querci looked from one to the other of the faces around him as if trying to understand what was happening. 'I didn't know. I didn't know . . .'

  'What didn't you know? About the will? About the son?'

  'The will. I didn't know! I swear it!'

  'A moment ago you were swearing you'd never been to that woman's room, Querci, so how can you expect anyone to believe you now?'

  Without giving him time to reply, the Substitute suddenly spread the photographs of the naked Hilde Vogel fanwise, like a conjuror. He didn't speak. Querci's eyes scanned them quickly but shifted almost immediately to the other, unopened, white package.

  'Look at these photographs, please,' snapped the Substitute. 'Look at them carefully. Have you seen them before?'

  'I . . . yes.'

  'Did you take them?'

  'No!'

  'You're not looking at them. You're impatient to know what's in the other package? We'll come to that. I'm asking you about these photographs.'

  'I didn't take them.'

  'Who did?'

  'He did . . . somebody she knew. It was years ago, in Germany.'

  'What time did you go to see her that night?'

  'I didn't.'

  'Then let's satisfy your curiosity!' And he snatched up the other package and tipped the necklace on to the photographs.

  'Do you recognize this as the property of Hilde Vogel?'

  There was a silence so profound that the rain could be heard falling in the courtyard outside. The Substitute was leaning forward, his forearms flat on the desk, his back rigid. He didn't repeat the question. Nobody in the room moved. Querci continued to stare at the necklace in silence, and then in silence, very slowly, he began to shake his head.

  'No,' he said at last. 'No.'

  And that was when the Captain knew he had to intervene. He took a step forward and bent to murmur something in the Substitute's ear. The latter looked up sharply and then hesitated, but only for seconds. After all, when the case came into court he would be the only one there to take the credit. Swinging sideways in his chair, he inclined his head and waved the Captain on as though he were traffic. But the Captain stepped back to his place without a word. Judging by the faces of all the others in the room, it might have been the bookcase itself that had suddenly decided to speak when the Marshal stepped forward.

  'It wasn't hers, was it?'

  'No.' Querci met the Marshal's expressionless stare like someone hypnotized.

  'It belonged to Walter Becker?'

  'I never knew his name.'

  'But you know who 1 mean?'

  'Yes.'

  'And who came back the night she was killed and went up to her room. You didn't want to tell us that because the necklace was his, wasn't it?'

  'If it had been hers I wouldn't have^'

  'Of course not. He used to dress her up in that sort of stufFand when she was younger he used to take photographs, photographs like these, is that right?'

  'He was a bit weird. She told me about it.'

  'During your little chats. I imagine she used to ring for you during the night and you would go up to her room?'

  'It's true—but even so there was nothing—'

  'It doesn't matter. She rang for you that night, or somebody did, and you went up in the service lift. When you got there, there was nobody there. Did you realize what had happened?'

  'No! If I had . . .'

  'She was dead by then. You know that by now. He took her down to his car in the other lift as soon as he'd got you away from your desk.'

  'I didn't know! How could I have?'

  'But you must have known she was afraid, of Becker and of her son.'

 
'Even so, I never thought . . . When they found her in the river I was sure she'd killed herself because of what had happened with the boy.'

  'What happened?'

  'That was when it all started, when he came. It's true that I didn't know she had a son. In all those years she'd never said. Then he turned up. She was so agitated and she had nobody to tell except me. That was when she showed me the photographs—not those, I'd already seen those, but the ones of her husband and the little boy. When he turned up she changed completely. She wanted to make a new life for herself and the boy. She talked of nothing else. She said it would make up for everything.'

  'Did she tell you the truth about her father?'

  'No. She didn't explain herself. She was very agitated and she talked more about the future than the past.'

  'She intended to break off with Becker?'

  'Yes, she wrote and told him so.'

  'And he came to see her?'

  'Yes. It was the first time he'd ever been, I wasn't lying. But by the time he arrived everything had changed.'

  'Because she'd found out the boy was an addict?'

  'Not just that. All he wanted from her was money. She said he hated her for having abandoned him. In the end she was afraid of him. He'd asked her for an enormous sum and said he'd leave if she gave it to him.'

  'Did she believe him?'

  'I don't think so. In any case she was terrified.'

  'Did she admit to you that he was blackmailing her?'

  'Blackmailing? No, just that he demanded money. It's not the same thing.'

  'As demanding money with menaces? No. But that's what he was doing. She was frightened, you say, so I suppose when Becker arrived she told him?'

  'She'd decided to give him the money in the hope that he'd really go.'

  'But she was afraid of him and she let Becker go and meet him in her place?'

  'Yes. He took cash. That was the end of it. She never heard from the boy again. After that Hilde resigned herself to going on with the old life.'

  'Where was the necklace that night? On the bed?'

  'On the floor.'

  'You've never stolen anything in your life before, have you?'

  'No.'

  'What on earth did you intend to do with it?'

  'I didn't think, not then. I just saw it lying there . . . Afterwards I thought of selling it at one of those auctions they do on the private TV stations, but I didn't even know how to go about it.'

  'It's worthless, do you know that?'

  Querci only stared at him, uncomprehending.

  'It's worthless,' the Marshal repeated. 'Junk.'

  There was silence for a moment. The registrar and Querci's lawyer were both writing rapid notes. It was Querci himself who broke the silence. Perhaps he wanted to get it over with.

  'I knew you hadn't found the photographs, or you would have . . . That day when I came in for my shoes and heard about the seals being removed I went up there. I knew she kept them hidden but I wasn't sure where.'

  'Nobody saw you go up?'

  'Nobody noticed. The receptionist went in the back, to the bathroom, I suppose, and I said goodbye to him, but instead of leaving I went upstairs. I only intended to get my own photograph but then somebody came in. In the end I took the whole packet and ran.'

  'And then you thought of getting rid of the necklace?'

  'Later. I thought of throwing it in the river but if somebody had seen me ... I wanted to put it back in the room, to undo what I'd done. And I knew you couldn't have looked in her hiding place or you'd have seen the photographs. I was too scared to try and sell it, anyway. Does my wife know?'

  'Yes.'

  'She'll be better off without me.' He didn't mention the little girl.

  When they took him away the embarrassed young lawyer stood up and looked about him uncertainly, as if wondering whether he should shake hands with some of the others who were present, but since only the Marshal noticed his hesitation he left with a vague 'good morning' addressed to nobody in particular and unheard by anyone.

  The Substitute dismissed his registrar, indicated the chairs opposite his desk to the Captain and Guarnaccia, and sat looking at them, his hands clasped beneath his chin. Maestrangelo was in no hurry to explain himself. He took time first to observe the raised eyebrows, the slightly pursed lips, and decided that the Substitute was more amused than annoyed. It was stupidity and dullness that annoyed him, not cleverness, and he was well aware ofjust how clever the Captain had been, Maestrangelo was sure of that. For not only had he produced the solution to the Querci case, he had engineered things in such a way as to put one over on the Substitute himself and had made Guarnaccia the protagonist so as to disarm him in the case of a complaint from Sweeton's father.

  The two men looked at each other. The Marshal looked at his knees.

  'Was there any problem with the English judge?' inquired the Captain, as though nothing of note had transpired in the last half-hour. Which amused the Substitute even more.

  'No,' he said, pausing to glance at the Marshal, 'there wasn't. The boy explained the circumstances of his little accident to his father in my presence. He's now out of hospital and both he and his father are prepared to remain here until such time as we call the boy as a witness. And now, if it wouldn't be asking too much, perhaps you'd tell me something about the case in which he it a witness. I'm a little vague on that point.'

  'The Becker case,' replied the Captain equably. 'You'll have my report in a few days.'

  'Ah. A double homicide, I take it. And do we have a motive?'

  'Suppression of witnesses, sir.'

  'Suppression of witnesses. Witnesses to what? Maestrangelo, you don't have another corpse tucked away that you haven't found time to mention to me?'

  'No, sir. I don't.'

  'Good. You seem to me to be capable of anything—though perhaps it's the Marshal here I should be asking.'

  The Marshal only raised his big eyes and stared at him in silent incomprehension. The Substitute abandoned his flippant tone.

  'Well, Captain? Witnesses to what?'

  'Theft, sir. Or rather, a series of thefts perpetrated in thirteen European cities over a period of approximately twelve years.' He took a telex from his pocket. 'I got in touch with Interpol early this morning. That's a very brief summary, the full information should come through later today.'

  The Substitute glanced at the telex and then put it to one side. 'You'd better begin at the beginning.'

  The Captain began in Mainz, with the highly intelligent, cold-blooded practical joker who liked an audience and who had openly kept two mistresses.

  'He and the two women left Mainz, not together and not at exactly the same time but all within a year. Hilde Vogel came to Florence, where she hoped to settle with her father. The other woman whose name was Ursula Janz we know nothing of. According to rumours among the people of Mainz, Becker went either to New York or to Amsterdam. My guess is that it was Amsterdam, that he already had his new life planned. He had dealt in jewellery for years and knew his stuff. He needed to learn cutting.'

  'If that's true, it won't be difficult to check.'

  'In the eight years or so that this case has been on file at Interpol I imagine that the police of the countries concerned must have tried to check. Whoever taught him would have been very highly paid for both his skill and his discretion.

  And judging by Becker's recent form, I doubt if the cutter was allowed to outlive his usefulness.

  'Once he had the skills he needed Becker's method was very simple. He would enter a jeweller's shop and choose a stone which he wanted to have set for his "wife". He knew the jewellery business and would talk with the jeweller at some length. He was well dressed, distinguished-looking, intelligent and eminently respectable. Having ascertained the weight and cut of the stone and examined it carefully he would leave, promising to return in a day or so with his wife. Then he would make a copy of the stone. Back in the shop, the original stone would pass from the jewel
ler to Becker to the wife. The stone they passed back was the false one. Becker and his wife would leave the shop to arrange for payment through a bank, perfectly normal since no one carries that sort of cash about and a cheque from an unknown person wouldn't be accepted. In some cases the theft wasn't discovered for many weeks, in one case it was six months. It all depended on when that particular stone came to be sold or set.'

  'Hm . . .' The Substitute leant back a little in his chair and thought for a moment. 'What makes you so sure Becker's your man?'

  'A number of things. His accomplices, first of all. As you see from the telex, there must have been two of them, in some instances a tall blonde, in others a small dark-haired woman. In each case the accomplice was fluent in the language of the country where the theft took place. We don't know about all Hilde Vogel's trips over the last twelve years but the ones we do know about coincide with thefts in those countries. It's probable that she was fluent in French as well as Italian. We know from Querci's statement that the other woman in Becker's life spoke perfect English. That stuck in my mind, I must say, since it seemed an odd thing to be so jealous about.'

  'He must have paid them well—they couldn't have had much of a life, these women.'

  'In my opinion, sir, he had a much stronger hold on them than just money. They must both have been in love with him and perhaps even afraid of him. Not only did they have no life of their own because of working for him, they had to tolerate each other's existence, as they had all those years ago in Mainz. Obviously money came into it too. Hilde Vogel hadn't enough to live on when she left home and her father had nothing and didn't want her anyway/ 'A strange life to choose, even so.'

  'She had nothing else. Then her son turned up.'

  'And Becker killed him, in your opinion?'

  'Yes. She must have confessed everything to the boy. We know from John Sweeton that Christian was sure of getting a large amount of money from her because of something he knew about her. By the time Becker turned up, having received her letter saying she wanted to break with him, she was frightened enough and, I suppose, upset enough to tell him what she'd done and let him take over. The day after Christian's death, the morning after, to be exact, Becker walked into a jeweller's shop on the Ponte Vecchio, returned there two days later with his accomplice and committed another theft.'