The Riddle of Monte Verita Page 11

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ sneered Lippi. ‘I’d never have worked that out by myself.’

  ‘There’s nothing to laugh about,’ said Prokosch, obviously irritated. ‘Harvey has put his finger on an important detail. I hope you can see the implications. First of all, she took the trouble to lock the door. Why did she do that? For the same reason she closed all the shutters? We have no idea. Secondly, she must, as a consequence, have had a key in her possession.’

  ‘O.K. She had a key. So what?’

  ‘Nothing. Except she didn’t have one.’

  ‘Could you please explain?’

  ‘Willingly,’ replied Prokosch amicably. ‘Remember what Mestre told us: the bungalow key, which agent Fantoni found, was lying on the table in the lounge.’

  ‘Dammit!’ exclaimed Lippi, totally exasperated. ‘Let’s agree there must have been another and get this whole business over with.’

  Prokosch shook his head.

  ‘That’s the first thing we thought of. But the hotel manager is adamant: there are only two keys per bungalow, one for the clients and the other shut up in the safe in his office. The concierge hands it out every morning to the maid doing the cleaning and she returns it when she’s finished. I know what you’re going to say: someone could have made a copy. Dismiss that idea from your mind: they’re specially made keys and the only way to get a duplicate is to contact the manufacturer.

  ‘Now, about the lock: it’s double-action and practically burglar-proof, activated by a key on the outside and a knob on the inside. If you’re thinking of some of the tricks familiar to readers of detective fiction, like the string through the keyhole or under the door which turns the lock, let me inform you that: a) there’s no keyhole on the inside of the door, just a knob and b) the door, which is made of heavy wood, fits so tightly in the frame as to be hermetically sealed. It’s the same for the shutters in the lounge and bedroom – even though that’s irrelevant because the agents never took their eyes off the windows.’

  ‘I don’t wish to be a bore,’ ventured Harvey, ‘but there’s still that bathroom window….’

  ‘I thought of that as well and I interrogated the agent who examined the bathroom. There’s a simple latch inside the window. Simple, but the same problem: impossible to lock from the outside.’

  ‘I know one trick that would have worked,’ said Harvey, more than happy to display his knowledge. ‘I read about it in one of Edgar Wallace’s books. You break the window, activate the lock, then simply replace the broken pane.’

  ‘I can see it in my mind’s eye,’ scoffed Lippi. ‘The murderess perched on a stepladder with her little bag of glazier’s tools.’

  ‘Don’t laugh!’ Mestre fired back. ‘You claimed in your lecture that this kind of thing couldn’t happen in real life. Well, reality just threw a cream pie in your face. Can’t you see what’s happened? A murder has been committed in a room from which escape was impossible. Like it or not, we are well and truly faced with a locked room problem!’

  Pierre stayed silent. He had felt the intrigue enveloping him inexorably, as if predetermined by some evil guiding hand. And now the moment of truth was on him and he felt the noose tightening. Nevertheless he managed to view the scene with a certain detachment: the backdrop of the lake above the trees in the park; the sun-drenched terrace; the five people – including himself – grouped around the table. He watched the others out of the corner of his eye and asked himself which author had written the words they were speaking. Mestre was wrong, this couldn’t be reality. Everything fit so perfectly: the action was too calculated, too logical. It was as if they were all in a novel. That’s it, he said to himself, I’m reading a novel. All I have to do is close the book and step back into my life.

  He didn’t hear the roar of the car coming up the ramp, nor the sound of the tyres on the gravel, nor the heavy silence after the motor stopped. He didn’t hear the clicking of high heels on the flagstones. But the scent of the familiar perfume reached him and enveloped him. And when he looked up, Solange was standing there.

  ***

  Pierre Garnier was the person most directly affected by the events. He knew he would never forget the moment his wife appeared before him. Solange’s expression reflected a genuine emotional upheaval, but he couldn’t help thinking that, had it been calculated, it would be no less convincing. She looked distraughtly at each of the five men who had stood up at her approach. Her lower lip was trembling.

  ‘So the bastard’s dead,’ she said, slowly and clearly. ‘Someone managed to bump him off.’

  She had never spoken so roughly. Harvey winced. As a well-bred Englishman, he detested hearing women uttering vulgarities. Pierre felt his heart skip a beat. He wondered if she was about to burst into tears. He moved forward and instinctively took her hand. Just as instinctively, she clung to him and allowed herself to be led to the chair Lippi was offering her.

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ she implored them, ‘don’t all stand there looking at me. Tell me what’s happened.’

  They sat down and Mestre, in a measured tone which seemed to calm her, recounted all that had happened. She shook her head from time to time as if to chase the cobwebs from her brain and repeating: ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything at all.’

  Pierre noticed that Prokosch had kept quiet ever since she had arrived. He watched through narrowed eyes as if he were studying an egregious example of incomprehensible behaviour. The others affected detachment in a vain attempt to hide their embarrassment. It was obvious they didn’t know what to think of her attitude and were asking themselves why she was behaving in that manner.

  “Let’s keep calm and think about this,” Pierre told himself. “If the unthinkable had happened and she really was guilty, she wouldn’t be behaving in such a way, drawing attention to herself in front of everyone.” And yet… It was impossible to be absolutely sure. Maybe she was a very good actress. Maybe she marched to her own drum and didn’t allow her sentiments, whatever they were, to get in the way.

  But it was futile to torture himself this way he thought, yet again. The most important thing was to take her away and shelter her as much as possible. As if she had read his mind, Solange turned in his direction.

  ‘Pierre,’ she said in a low voice, ‘I don’t know what came over me just now. What I said was dreadful. I’m sorry, truly sorry.’

  He leant over and gently put his arm on her shoulder.

  ‘You’re at the end of your tether, darling. We all are this morning. Would you like me to take you to the hotel?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied, pulling away from his grip, ‘but I can find my own way back. Stay with your friends and don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine, I assure you.’

  She stood up, nodded at everyone and, without another word, left.

  He stood up. Deciding to go after her, he was just about to leave when he saw two men come out of the Albergo. The first was Superintendent Brenner. The other, a shortish individual, was the man he had glimpsed several times and whom he now knew to be one of the two agents charged with the surveillance of Hoenig.

  What took place next happened so fast that Pierre wondered whether his anxiety had sharpened his eyesight. The agent had just stopped and was peering intently at Solange who, because she was walking diagonally across the terrace, didn’t see him as she went by. He gave a slight cough to attract the superintendent’s attention and whispered something in his ear which caused him to turn and look quickly at the young woman. They exchanged a few words more as she took the gravel path that skirted the Albergo.

  If Pierre hadn’t been holding on to the back of his chair, his legs would have folded under him as the policeman made his way to the table, where he stopped and looked at each of the five men in turn. In a polite voice he announced:

  ‘My name is Brenner and I’m a police officer. Which one of you is Monsieur Garnier, Monsieur Pierre Garnier? I’d like to talk to him.’

  ***

  The two men had
just sat down face to face at a table at the rear of the bar. Pierre looked around and noted that they were alone save for the barman, standing motionless in front of several shelves of liqueurs with multi-coloured labels. The indirect lighting gave a spectral air to Brenner’s fair complexion and accentuated the dark rings around his clear blue eyes. He seemed to have slept badly or not at all. His hat and briefcase were next to him on the bench. He removed his gloves slowly and took a packet of oriental cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one to Pierre, who refused, whereupon he lit one for himself with a silver lighter that clicked when he closed it. Florentine Brenner, top criminal investigator and idol of the popular press, looked at the younger man sitting opposite him with a mixture of amiable cynicism and benevolent irony. He seemed to be deciding how to start the discussion and, noting that Pierre was waiting with an almost palpable anxiety, he began to laugh quietly.

  ‘I’ve no intention of submitting you to a full police interrogation, Monsieur Garnier. To be frank, what I’d really like to do at the moment is shave and take a bath. I landed here at dawn and I’m completely disorganised. Please understand: I haven’t been here long enough to have formed a clear idea of the situation. Can you imagine that I haven’t even been inside the crime scene? It’s most unusual, but I’m under instructions to await a high-ranking official from Berne before opening the bungalow. And, on top of everything else, I’ve lost my watch. Have you the time, please, Monsieur Garnier?’

  ‘It’s almost eleven thirty,’ replied Pierre.

  ‘Thank you. He’s arriving on the noon train and, given the time he needs to get here, that leaves us three quarters of an hour to kill. Let’s use the time to talk things over. You need to be aware that it’s a complex business involving powerful interests, and I tell you frankly, from where I’m sitting now I don’t understand very much.’ He shook his head despondently. Then he looked pleadingly into Pierre’s eyes. ‘Now you know why you’re here: I desperately need your help.’

  ‘You’re a funny kind of policeman,’ said Pierre, laughing despite himself.

  Brenner laughed in turn.

  ‘Yes, I understand what you must have felt when I asked you to follow me. You probably expected me to shine a floodlight in your eyes and heap abuse on you, all the while blowing smoke in your face.’ He exhaled and elegantly waved away a thin filament of smoke that escaped from between his pursed lips. ‘No, believe me, that is not my custom – at least not when I’m dealing with a member of a prestigious university who’s a guest of my country, as you are, Monsieur Garnier. Did I make myself understood?’

  Pierre nodded, but remained wary. He had rarely witnessed such a polished performance. Florentine Brenner was a clever man.

  ‘But why me?’ asked Pierre. ‘And how can I help?’

  Brenner appeared nonplussed at the question. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers covered with a hasty scrawl, which he consulted as he spoke:

  ‘I could say: why not you? One has to start somewhere. But there must be a better reason.’ He pulled out a piece of paper and attempted to decipher the scribble on it. ‘Here – I made note of a remark by Agent Fantoni. It seems that of all the attendees, you’re the only who had any dealings with Hoenig.’

  ‘“Dealings” is too strong a word,’ replied Pierre. ‘I bumped into Dr. Hoenig a couple of times and we talked of one thing and another. What’s unusual about that?’

  ‘Nothing. That’s exactly what I told myself. But then why would Agent Fantoni take the trouble to report an unimportant fact? That’s the kind of question I’d like your advice on. Why?’

  Pierre shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. Haven’t you asked him?’

  Brenner searched through his papers again.

  ‘I should have done that, of course. Ah, yes. I did ask him that. I crave your patience, Monsieur Garnier. Here: he says that it struck him because he had the impression that the victim, Dr. Hoenig, had been ostracised by his colleagues. A sort of quarantine. Nobody would talk to him. Except you.’

  Pierre couldn’t see where this was going. He was bemused by the convoluted approach this “funny kind of policeman” was taking. He decided it was time to get to the point, even at the risk of playing into his interrogator’s hands.

  ‘I didn’t approach him,’ he said, in the firm tone of someone who has nothing to hide. ‘He approached me. I have to say he was remarkably friendly, rather to my surprise. Should I have turned my back on him? I had no reason to treat him rudely. I confess that when he invited me to have a drink in his bungalow, I couldn’t think of a reason to refuse. Now, if you want to know what we talked about….’

  ‘Tut, tut,’ replied Brenner, waving his hand as if to dismiss the thought. ‘I’m not asking you to say anything, Monsieur Garnier. But, since you brought up the subject….’ This time he didn’t go through the pantomime of consulting his notes. ‘It’s true that you visited Dr. Hoenig on September 24th, a little after two o’clock, apparently for a drink. I imagine you chatted for over an hour about this and that: stories about your colleagues, or the political situation, or else subjects way above my head such as literature or philosophy. Is that what you were going to tell me?’

  Pierre forced a smile. Brenner stared at him with his blue eyes.

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘I take it you have nothing conclusive to tell me about Dr. Hoenig’s personality?’

  ‘Nothing beyond what everyone already knows. You’ve certainly got much more information about him than I could provide.’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ agreed Brenner, with a sigh. ‘To tell you the truth, I never expected you would be of any great help, but I had to try. Hopefully, I’ll have better luck with your colleagues.’ He looked at a list which he had just pulled out of his briefcase. ‘Professor Umberto Lippi, for example. We know he had a violent disagreement with the victim.’

  ‘Oh, it was purely academic,’ exclaimed Pierre, more enthusiastically. With the change of subject he felt a great load had been lifted from his shoulders.

  ‘That is to say…?’ prompted Brenner.

  ‘The argument – this will make you laugh – concerned locked room murders. The professor claimed in his lecture that they were a purely literary invention and couldn’t happen in real life. The doctor argued the opposite and promised to bring the proof to his forthcoming presentation. Lippi defied him to do it and –.’

  ‘And killed him the day before to prevent him revealing what he knew. Your friends are very amusing Monsieur Garnier: I’ve never laughed so much in my life. However, I mustn’t leave any stone unturned, so I shall ask him if he has an alibi. I don’t suppose anyone could mistake him for a small woman but it’s a matter of principle. And, as for yourself, I’m sure you have a solid alibi for the whole time….’

  ‘Quite so,’ replied Pierre, looking him in the eye. ‘I was with my wife in our room at the Grand Hotel and we went to bed early.’

  ‘So, a mutual alibi,’ observed Brenner with satisfaction. ‘I’ll make a note of that.’ He tapped his pockets and looked up with an embarrassed air. ‘I seem to have left my pen in my raincoat. I don’t suppose you have one you could lend me?’

  Pierre handed him his Waterman and, while Bremmer was scribbling something on one of his bits of paper, he felt obliged to add:

  ‘You should make a note that we had a hot drink sent up to the room. The hotel must have a record of that.’

  ‘But I believe you, Monsieur Garnier, I believe you.’ He replaced the cap of the pen and handed it back. ‘That’s a very elegant pen you have there. Now, regarding the young person I saw on the terrace a short while ago….’

  ‘That’s my wife.’

  ‘Congratulations, she’s charming. Well, I shan’t keep you any longer. Thank you for giving me so much of your time.’

  Pierre stood up. Brenner remained seated, his hands in his pockets, his eyes still on Pierre. His face was expressionless. He simply said:

  ‘My reason for ask
ing for your help was that, if you’d been able to assist, I wouldn’t have found it necessary to ask someone else.’

  He paused briefly, then continued:

  ‘I’m given to understand that your wife – it is she I’m talking about – has made friends with Madame Hoenig. They were seen walking together. It’s quite possible they’ve confided in each other – you know how women are….’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ exclaimed Pierre angrily, falling back on to the chair. ‘If you need intimate details of Hoenig’s life, why not ask his wife instead of bothering mine?’

  ‘There’s nothing I’d like better,’ said Brenner, wearily. ‘But she’s had such a shock, or so I’ve been informed, that the good doctor’s assistant, a certain Strasser or Stratter who claims to be a doctor himself, has had her transferred to a clinic in Locarno and has remained at her bedside. It happened just before I arrived. The police let them go, and I can’t blame them because neither of them was under suspicion. For now, Madame Hoenig is under sedative and can’t be questioned. What time is it?’

  Pierre glanced at his brand new Cartier watch.

  ‘Five to twelve.’

  ‘That’s a very elegant watch you have there.’

  ‘It’s a gift from my wife,’ said Pierre, almost blushing.

  ‘And also a very elegant wife. My congratulations again. So, our man from Berne will be here in twenty minutes. While we’re waiting, shall we have a drink?’

  Pierre spoke firmly.

  ‘I have to go back to the hotel. My wife is expecting me for lunch.’

  ‘Tut, tut. You’re not going to leave me all alone?’ He gestured to the barman. ‘What’ll you have? It’ll be a Scotch for me. How about you? Would you care for a cigarette?’

  He held out the packet with an engaging smile. Pierre hesitated. He wanted to get up and leave. One the other hand, the policeman seemed so friendly that he was afraid of hurting his feelings. ‘I’ll make an exception,’ he conceded, taking a cigarette. Brenner leant forward to light it. The smoke, warm and mild, tasted vaguely of roses. There was an almost palpable silence, broken by the clinking of the glasses the barman placed in front of them. Brenner drew on his cigarette and leant back on the bench seat with a look both dreamy and ironic in his half-closed eyes.