After the Fine Weather (6 page)

The thought of Joe was still in her mind when a key clicked in the lock and, as she jumped to her feet, Charles came in, followed by a stout little man whom she remembered seeing seated next to him at the parade.

“My colleague, Dr Pisoni, Italian Consul General,” said Charles.

Dr Pisoni bowed from the area which, in a differently constructed man, would have been his waist. He looked badly worried.

“Am I glad to see you!” said Laura to Charles. “Did you have any trouble getting back?”

“No trouble at all. And I hope it stays that way. Schatzmann seems to have everything under control.”

“What happened?”

“The crowd tried to lynch Boschetto. The Colonel had half a dozen truckloads of gendarmerie in reserve, and he whistled them up. They got Boschetto away, but they had to shoot to do it.”

“Who is Boschetto?”

Dr Pisoni took this question. “He is an Italian from Bolzano. I understand that he has just been released, after a three-year prison sentence for assault and robbery.”

“He must be mad,” said Charles.

“No other explanation is possible,” agreed Dr Pisoni. It was a statement of diplomatic faith. “It was an unbelievable outrage. A Prince of the Church.”

“And particularly unfortunate that it should have happened when–”

“Yes.”

“When what?” asked Laura.

“Dr Pisoni told me just before the parade. There was an unhappy incident in the South Tyrol last night – not far from Bolzano. A group of terrorists attacked an Italian police station. Two policemen were killed and three were injured. It would have been serious enough as an isolated incident. But now–”

Laura said, “Would Boschetto have known anything about it? If Dr Pisoni had only learned about it through official circles?”

“News travels quickly in this part of the country.”

“Especially bad news.”

“All the same,” said Laura, “a man like that. It’s hard to believe that he would hear about it before it got into the papers.”

“There was a personal involvement here,” said Dr Pisoni. “It is possible that Boschetto may have been given this news in advance of the general public. One of the policemen who was killed was his brother.”

It was clear to Laura that this was news to Charles as well. For a moment the embryo diplomatic mask slipped and a look of honest excitement had taken its place. It made him look years younger.

Laura said, “That doesn’t tie in very well with your first conclusion, does it? You said he was mad. If he had a brother killed by the Austrian terrorists, and got to know about it before it came out in the papers, and got hold of a gun, and got his own back by shooting an Austrian bishop – all inside twenty-four hours – he sounds to me a pretty smooth performer.”

“Smooth?” said Dr Pisoni anxiously.

“She means efficient,” said Charles. And to Laura, “You seem to be taking all this very calmly. I suppose you realize that we’re in the middle of the biggest diplomatic crisis in Austria since Dollfuss was assassinated.”

Dr Pisoni nodded energetically. “If it was thought that Boschetto had official support in this matter – that it was a reprisal – it could lead to almost any consequences.”

“I thought he’d been in prison until yesterday,” said Laura. “How could he possibly have any official support. He’s a criminal.”

“Governments have used criminals before now,” said Charles.

“Well, I don’t believe it. I think you were right the first time. He’s just a madman. He’d probably had too much to drink. And he couldn’t be stopped from waving his arms and shouting. His friends were trying to hold him down. I saw him. He was right opposite me.”

“You saw him do the shooting?”

“Now look, Charles,” said Laura, “let’s get this quite straight. Boschetto did not shoot the Bishop.”

“He was taken with a gun in his hand,” said Dr Pisoni. “Many people standing near him saw him pull it out, and saw him fire it, twice.”

“I’m not denying that,” said Laura. Now that the crisis had arrived she felt surprisingly calm. “But the shots he fired went nowhere near the Bishop. He was struggling with the people standing around him. The shots probably went straight up into the air.”

“It is more probable, I agree,” said Dr Pisoni, “but we have the fact. The Cardinal Bishop was shot. If not by Boschetto, then by whom?”

“He was shot twice, quite deliberately, from a turret window beside the portico of the theatre. I saw the gun.”

Dr Pisoni looked at her. His round face had become suddenly shrewd. It was as if he was weighing her as a witness in a court of law.

“You saw the gun?”

“I saw more than the gun,” said Laura. “When I was getting away from the square I saw the man who had used it. He was slipping out of the theatre by a side door. And I not only saw him, but I recognized him. And I should be able to recognize him again.”

“Vienna for you,” said the exchange.

“Lienz consulate here,” said Charles. “Is that you, Piers?”

“Nice to hear your voice, Charles,” said Piers Marrinder, First Secretary of the British Embassy at Vienna. “What can I do for you?”

“Is Uncle Horace there?”

“He’s in his room.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Last time I was in there he was gnawing his nails.”

“I meant, is he tied up with anyone?”

“No, he’s quite alone. Would you like me to put you through?”

“That was the idea.”

“When you’ve finished talking to him, ask the switchboard to put you back to me.”

“All right, but why?”

“I met a girl at a British Council drink party last night, called Penelope. She said she knew you at Oxford.”

“I knew three girls called Penelope at Oxford.”

“This one’s got bronze-coloured hair, and a tiny, tiny little mole in the middle of her shoulder blades.”

“Oh, that one.”

“Was she – did you find her forthcoming – you know what I mean?”

“I know exactly what you mean. And the answer’s no.”

“Oh. Well, I’d better put you through.”

“Good morning, sir,” said Charles. “I was ringing to find out if you’d read my yesterday’s dispatch.”

“Yes,” said Sir Horace Lowry cautiously, “I read it.”

“I didn’t intend to discuss it – not on the telephone–”

“Naturally,” said Sir Horace. They were both perfectly well aware that the line on which they were speaking was an open one and that everything they said was being recorded verbatim, and probably translated into three different languages.

“What I did wonder was whether the commercial aspects of it had struck you. I hardly had time in my preliminary report to stress them, but–”

“I hadn’t thought about that, no. But now that you mention it, I think you’re right. There are bound to be trade repercussions. I don’t know a lot about that side myself. Would you like me to send our commercial adviser?”

“I think it might be an idea, sir. You’ve got a new man, haven’t you?”

“Evelyn Fiennes. He came out last month. He used to be in Ankara.”

“I should think he’d be just the sort of man we’d want,” said Charles. “A good, practical man, I’ve always heard.”

“Oh, yes. Extremely practical. I’d better give him his marching orders at once. Another twenty-four hours, and he won’t be able to get to you by the direct route.”

“It looks pretty threatening from here,” said Charles.

“It’s snowing on the Grossglockner now. They can usually keep the road open for a bit. I’ll tell Evelyn to pack straight away.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Charles. “I wonder if you could put me back to Piers for a moment.”

“I heard all that,” said Piers. “I gather you’re pinching Evelyn. Don’t keep him too long.”

“You should have him back as soon as he’s done his stuff.”

“Watch out if he tries to get you into a game of liar dice. I owe him thirty-seven pounds already.”

“That doesn’t mean Evelyn’s crooked. It just means you’re a bad player. There was something I wanted to tell you. I believe I was wrong.”

“Wrong about what?”

“About that girl. The one with the mole on her back was forthcoming.”

“There’s a man called Evelyn Fiennes coming out from Vienna,” said Charles at lunchtime that day. “That’s to say, if he doesn’t get stuck on the Grossglockner.”

Laura looked out of the window. Out of a leaden sky the snowflakes had begun to slip down, fat, lazy, and solid.

“Who’s he?”

“He calls himself a commercial counsellor.”

“When you say he calls himself that, I suppose you mean he’s something quite different.”

“He’s actually our cloak-and-dagger expert. I’ve never met him but I’m told he’s very experienced.”

“Secret Service, do you mean?”

“That sort of thing. I thought he might be a useful man to have around if anything starts. Anything involving us, I mean.”

“What sort of thing?” It was very cosy in the flat, with its English sofa covers, and cushions, and shelves of books, and family photographs, and Charles’ old pipes in a rack, and a watercolour on the wall of Penzance painted by their mad aunt Sylvia.

“I’ve no idea. At the moment it’s a sort of private fight between the Austrians and the Italians. Dr Pisoni’s taking it very seriously. So is his government. The border of Sillian and the Brenner had been closed.”

“Closed? How could they?”

“Not officially closed. But they’ve instituted a special visa, which you can’t get at the frontier. So anyone who wants to get through has to go back to Bolzano. It amounts to the same thing.”

“I see,” said Laura. She looked out again at the drifting snow. “If the frontier’s shut at Sillian, and the Grossglockner’s blocked by snow, just how does anyone get to Lienz – or out of it, for that matter?”

“There’s a lower road, to Villach and Klagenfurt. But if we get any real snow, that gets blocked too.”

“Could you fly?”

“There isn’t an airfield near Lienz that I’d care to land on. Not in this weather.”

The telephone in the entrance hall rang, and Charles went out to answer it. Laura resumed her inspection of the street. The centres of the road were still black and shiny, but the snow was piling in the gutters and on the outer edges of the pavement.

Charles came back.

“Better get your hat and coat,” he said. “We’re wanted. That was Colonel Julius.”

“He wants us?”

“Actually, it’s you he asked for. But I think I’d better come along too, don’t you?”

Laura said, “You needn’t imagine I’m going alone.”

“She is the younger sister of the British Vice-Consul, Hart. She spent three weeks in Rome before coming here.”

“In Rome!”

“That is so, Colonel.”

“Where before that?”

“She came straight from England. Or so she said. She was recuperating from an illness.”

“That is the first time I have ever heard of Rome as a sanatorium,” growled Colonel Schatzmann.

“I understand that the illness was not very serious. It was more a holiday than a convalescence.”

“Hm. And what had her brother to say to his superiors in Vienna?”

Major Osler consulted his notes. “Ostensibly,” he said, “the object of the telephone call was to ask for the assistance of the commercial adviser. That was clearly a blind.”

“Yes.”

“The real message was in code. The significant words were ‘Penelope’ and ‘mole’. There was also a reference to the game of dice.”

“And the meaning of it?”

“Our cipher department is working on it now.”

“Good.” The buzzer on the Colonel’s desk sounded, and he picked up the receiver and listened to the message. Then he said to Osler, “It is Miss Hart. Her brother is with her. I do not think we can refuse to allow him to be present.”

“It might be more proper.”

The Colonel rose to his feet. He really did look remarkably like a bear balancing on its hind legs. He scratched the back of his thick neck and said, “I was not thinking of propriety. I was thinking of tactics. If her brother is with her, I think I will have Inspector Moll here – get him, will you? – and Dr Kippinger.”

It looked like a selection board, thought Laura, when she was shown into the room. The huge man in the middle must be Colonel Schatzmann. The stolid, flat-faced person on his right was a policeman in any language. The third man looked like a scientist. He had white hair, a trim mouth, and inverted semicircular glasses which had slipped down the knife-edge of his nose.

“It was kind of you to come,” said the Colonel. Like many Austrian officials, he spoke very passable English. “I am afraid that Inspector Moll–” the man, hearing his name, inclined his head briefly – “does not speak English, and I shall have to interpret for him. Your brother will see that I do this fairly.”

“We would not for a moment imagine that you would do anything else,” said Charles.

“I am a policeman. You are a diplomat. We are both used to being misinterpreted. Now, Miss Hart. You were a witness of the shocking affair this morning. I understand that you have important evidence to offer.”

Laura took her courage into her hands.

“When you say you understand that, Colonel, do you mean that you have had some report about me?”

“Yes, I have had a report.”

“Am I allowed to ask from whom?”

“You are allowed to ask.” The Colonel’s face broke into an alarming smile. “And I will tell you. It was your brother’s Italian colleague, Dr Pisoni.”

Charles said, “It was quite improper of him to repeat a private conversation. If I had wished him to make a statement to you, we should have done it through the ordinary channels.”

“Most improper,” agreed the Colonel. “But I doubt if Dr Pisoni was troubling about the niceties of diplomatic procedure. He was concerned with the fate of the assassin. Boschetto is an Italian-speaking citizen of the South Tyrol, and as such it is Dr Pisoni’s duty to assist him – if he can.”

“All the same–”

“But we are allowing ourselves to be diverted.” He turned back to Laura. “Have you any objection to repeating, officially, in front of us, what you have already said, unofficially, to Dr Pisoni?”

She took a quick look at Charles, but there was no help there. The decision was hers.

“No,” she said, “I have no objection.”

“Very well, then–”

“Just before the shots were fired, I happened to be looking at the theatre. There are three circular windows in the left-hand turret – the left-hand as you look at it, that is.”

“Yes?” said the Colonel.

The flat-faced policeman was writing steadily.

“As I looked at it, it was opened a fraction, and I saw the barrel of a gun come through.”

“What colour is the paint on the window?”

“What – I’m not sure. Yellow, I think. Why?”

“You were sitting – what? – thirty yards away from a window – the paint is dark green, in fact – it opened a fraction – and you saw the barrel of a gun coming through. Saw it, and were able, in a flash, to identify it. Really, Miss Hart. How did you identify it?”

“The light was reflected from it.”

“And if the light is reflected from an object–” the Colonel absent-mindedly picked up a silver pencil from his desk as he spoke – “it follows that it must be a gun barrel?”

“I have quite exceptional eyesight.”

“Most exceptional,” agreed the Colonel. “Did you see the bullets leaving the gun and flying toward the Bishop?”

“Of course not.”

“I think,” said Charles, “that you would be well advised to take my sister’s story seriously. Whether what she says is correct or not, she certainly saw something. It is, to put it at its lowest, an odd coincidence that it should have happened when it did. And I think it should be investigated.”

“If I did not take it seriously,” said the Colonel, “I should not have asked you to come here. And the story has been investigated, to the best of our ability. I shall hope to be able to convince your sister that what she saw was an optical illusion – an effect of light and shade – not a reality at all.” He turned to his right-hand companion. “Inspector Moll, would you be good enough to tell Miss Hart the result of your investigations so far?”

Inspector Moll spoke quietly. After three or four sentences the Colonel held his hand up.

“Allow Mr Hart to translate,” he said.

“The inspector says that immediately after the shooting he ran across, himself, to the centre of disturbance, under the lamp-post. Three men were hanging onto a fourth – Boschetto – and Boschetto had, actually in his hand – an automatic pistol, which the others were preventing him from firing. He says that he took the pistol from him and, after Boschetto had been arrested, handed the pistol straight over to the head of the police laboratory for testing.”

“Proceed, Inspector,” said the Colonel.

“After that,” said Charles, “he says he had a thorough search of the scene made and one bullet was found embedded in the woodwork of the pillar, about eight feet up from the base point of the pillar. The inspector says he – I didn’t quite get that bit.”

Inspector Moll spoke at length, demonstrating with his hands.

“Yes, I see. He cut out a small, cubic section of the woodwork of the pillar, containing the bullet, and handed it over to Dr Kippinger here. The doctor is in charge of the forensic science department.”

Dr Kippinger said, in rusty, unaccented English, “I have the bullets.” He extracted from a briefcase a large envelope and shook from it two smaller, transparent containers.

“This I designate ‘A’. It is the bullet that lodged near the spine of the Bishop. It was taken from the body by our pathologist, Dr Krauss, and you will see that he has identified it by his initials on the envelope. This I designate ‘B’. It is the bullet handed to me by Inspector Moll.”

“Had he taken it out of the wood?” asked Charles.

“No. It was still embedded in the wood, which it had penetrated in an upward direction.”

“How do you know that?”

“I do not follow.”

“If the inspector gave you a small square of wood with a bullet in it, how do you know what angle the bullet came from? Unless you, yourself, went back to the pillar and fitted the piece of wood into it, to see which way up it went.”

The doctor looked surprised, and spoke to Inspector Moll, who answered him in rapid German.

The Colonel said with a smile, “Your point was well made, Mr Hart. But it appears that the inspector, being a careful police officer, when he cut the piece of wood from the pillar, marked the top.”

“All right,” said Charles. “I just wanted to know.”

“I then,” said the doctor, “fired a bullet from the gun which had been removed from the prisoner Boschetto. The bullet was fired into a closed box, and recovered. I placed it with exhibit A, in a comparison microscope, and I have here photographs – they are six times enlarged–”

He laid on the table a mounted photograph. Laura and Charles peered down at it. It looked like a stereoscopic slide, except that the two halves of the photograph were nearly, not precisely, identical.