The door closed behind Kalganov.
He found a frowning Lenoir standing beside the telephone.
“She will confess the truth,” Kalganov said. “The whole truth, this time. I’m going upstairs. You would like to be present, of course, when I question Claire Langley?” His heavy sarcasm ended. “What’s wrong?” he asked testily as Lenoir’s frown deepened.
Lenoir gestured toward the telephone. “Ballard—he hasn’t got the letter.”
“So he has already passed it to Fenner!”
“He would not tell us.”
“He did not talk?” Kalganov was scandalised.
“No,” Lenoir said quietly, “he didn’t talk this time. Odd, isn’t it? He was the biggest talker I ever met.”
Kalganov was outraged. “They did not keep him alive to talk?” he asked unbelievingly.
“There was an emergency. He tried to escape.” Lenoir waited for Kalganov’s outburst, but it didn’t come.
“I know one who will talk,” Kalganov said very quietly, and moved to the door. He waited there for Lenoir.
“I am going to call Zurich, to find out if Trouin has been arrested,” Lenoir said quickly. Kalganov’s methods are his; mine are mine, he thought. I will not go upstairs. I will not go into that library next door.
“I did not forget Trouin. But there is a quicker way of finding out if the assassination plan has been discovered by Fenner. The answer to that question lies no farther away than your attic room. Are you coming?”
“First,” Lenoir said evasively, “I must send out a general alert for Fenner. He may still have the letter.”
“Scrap that letter! Forget it! It’s lost to us—for good!”
“I want Fenner,” Lenoir said grimly.
“And so do I.” But, thought Kalganov, I do not use that as a subterfuge to evade what has to be done. These intellectuals are always the same: they talk of sending in the tanks to shoot down rebellion, of using firing squads and bulldozers to plough traitors into massed graves, of forcing prisoners into screaming insanity for the sake of information, but they do it from the end of a telephone, from the committee table, from the anonymous distance. There he is, Comrade Lenoir, about to order torture if need be, death eventually, for the American called Fenner. But he will command it from this quiet room, among his books and records. And he is looking at me as if I were the monster. “Are you coming?” Kalganov demanded, opening the door on to the landing.
“Shortly,” Lenoir said. “I have to—”
“Indeed you have,” Kalganov said contemptuously. He walked out. Lenoir was picking up the telephone receiver with a great flourish of urgency.
Kalganov passed the library door, halted—that was Martin’s voice, raised in anger—and retraced his steps. More trouble, was it? He entered quickly. Yes, more trouble. Martin was standing over the desk, threatening. Sandra Fane was cowering back, yet strangely determined.
Kalganov picked up the confession. One paragraph was all she had added, a very bald statement, but adequate enough. The names were there. That was what mattered. Fenner would never escape from that indictment. Even if, tonight, he slipped out of reach, his name would stand on file. Fenner’s end was only a matter of time and convenience. His death was written on this sheet of paper. But there was no signature. “You have forgotten something,” he said, too gently.
“I’ll sign it when I reach Moscow.” Her voice was still faint, but her eyes were sullen, steady. He won’t kill me until it is signed, she thought again. And when I reach Moscow, I’ll write a new confession. I’ll denounce him as a Stalinist, a Leftist deviationist, terroristic opportunist, dogmatist. There are plenty of phrases to pin on Kalganov. I’ll pin them all.
Still planning to escape, Kalganov thought as he watched her. He glanced pointedly at the clock. Twenty-three minutes past eleven o’clock. “Sign it,” he said, smiling. He drew a revolver from inside his jacket. “If you wish to sail from Venice, Sandra, you must sign.” His voice was most reasonable.
She looked at the revolver. She saw its strong barrel. She remembered Lenoir telling her in amusement about it: specially made, custom built like Robert Wahl’s suits, to shoot the terrible bullet with the grim name: Jugular—a Harvey Jugular bullet. And Lenoir and she had laughed: Kalganov and his fads; Kalganov, the great producer of real-life dramas, action guaranteed.
“After all,” he was saying, “a signature is a mere formality. The confession is in your handwriting, isn’t it?” He glanced over at Martin. “I won’t shoot you if you sign. I shan’t touch you. You will rise from that desk and walk away. I promise you. I keep my promises. And my threats. You know that.”
Yes, he kept his threats. She looked at the revolver, so casually held, so deadly. And he had kept promises, too. Something about this promise seemed—seemed—what? She was too tired, too cold, too sick, to hold on to the small warning. It faded; she couldn’t even remember what had troubled her. He had promised: he wouldn’t shoot her; she could rise and walk away. She picked up the pen, fumbling, and signed her name.
Kalganov nodded, slipped the revolver back into its hiding place, lifted the two sheets of paper, folded them neatly, placed them in an inside pocket. “Thank you, Sandra. You can go to your room. Martin will put you on board the ship at midnight.”
The blue eyes, once so beautiful, so confident, looked up at him thankfully. She rose, began her slow painful walk toward the door. Martin was waiting for her. He held out his arm as if to help her. She saw something like a black fountain pen in his hand, pointed at her face; and suddenly, a little cloud of vapour, of—
That was all she ever knew. She dropped where she stood.
There was a slight, bitter odour in the room. Martin opened the window quickly, flung back the outside shutters. “It soon dissipates,” he said reassuringly. He smiled. “I’ll put her on board the motorboat at midnight.”
Kalganov had clamped a handkerchief over his mouth and nose. He knelt to feel Sandra Fane’s pulse, to make sure.
“Fatal heart attack,” Martin said, “you can depend on it. And you don’t need that handkerchief. It is only the first impact that is deadly.”
Kalganov rose. “Quick and efficient.” He glanced for the last time at Sandra Fane. “Too quick,” he said, “for a traitor.” He avoided the door near which she lay. He didn’t have Martin’s trust in the rapid dissipation of that gas. “You did a good job, Comrade Colonel,” he told him as he left by way of the sitting-room.
Lenoir was still at the telephone. He seemed to be waiting for his call to be answered.
As Kalganov passed through the room, he said, “I’m expecting you upstairs. Don’t forget that!” He paused at the door. “Come up in ten minutes. And bring the news that Fenner has admitted everything.”
Lenoir stared at him.
“We’ve caught Fenner, didn’t you know?” Kalganov smiled widely. “I’ll tell her that. She’ll try not to believe me. But your news will add just the right pressure. Psychologically—”
“Yes, yes,” Lenoir said irritably. He looked at the receiver. “It’s this damned connection to Milan. I seem to have been cut off. I’ll have to try again. I am extending the alert on Fenner. I think he has left Venice. But he can’t have got very far.”
“You are wasting time,” Kalganov said sharply. “The answer is upstairs. Ten minutes?”
Lenoir was complaining into the telephone. He nodded to Kalganov, and glanced at his watch to check the hour. It was almost half-past eleven. No, Fenner could not have run very far, as yet.
27
Fenner said softly, “One minute to go.” He edged his way carefully over the crest of Ca’ Longhi roof toward the concealing shadow of a large and ornate chimney on the Grand Canal side of the house.
“Keep off the sky line,” Holland whispered warningly. He gave a brief wave to the men, Marco’s experts, who were waiting farther back, by the kitchen chimney. They were too busy to acknowledge. They had been warned by their miniature radio,
anyway, to expect two more on the roof. The blessings of scientific invention, thought Holland; a pity that there were no similar aids to crossing three roofs, climbing a parapet, dropping down a short gable end. He shook his head, remembering how he had slipped in spite of his rubber-soled shoes. Dust-coloured sand shoes they were, compliments of Marco, along with the old dungarees he had provided—Fenner called them sneakers and overalls. Logical enough: the shoes sneaked along, the one-piece outfit went over all. But words aside, Fenner’s actions were quick, instinctive. Holland had not ended in a bottom-down slide into the canal. And I came to keep an eye on him, Holland thought, and grinned. Also, Marco wasn’t going to let Fenner climb up alone. Also, I still like Fenner’s idea. So here we are, up on the roof of Ca’ Longhi, slightly bruised and bleeding at the knuckles, and two minutes to go.
Either Fenner’s watch was fast or he was just forcing the time as he had forced the pace. He was still forcing it. He left the chimney and started along the red fluted tiles, silvered into faint pink by the moonlight. Dammit, he should have waited for that large batch of light clouds to start sailing over the quarter-moon, Holland thought. That might take too long, though. And Fenner was moving slowly, being careful (as Marco had warned them) not to scrabble above the attic corridor, where there might be someone on guard outside the room.
The attic windows had their own small roofs emerging out of the gently sloping tiles. Fenner’s plan was good. He had approached the second room at the point where it met the pitch of the main roof. He was sliding on to it, taking shelter behind the decorated arch that jutted up over the window beneath him. From the canal, he would not be noticed.
Not bad, thought Holland approvingly, not bad at all; the only bad thing is getting there. He set out, following Fenner’s route. And the part that had looked the easiest, that small slide on to the attic’s roof was, astonishingly, the worst. But Fenner may have had the same experience, for although there was a welcoming grin on his face, there were beads of sweat on his brow as he blocked Holland’s unexpected momentum.
“The immediate problem,” Holland whispered, regaining control, feeling a sharp edge of tile bite into one knee as he braced his hands gingerly against the back of the window arch, “is whether this holds.” It felt solid enough. It was only the elaborate curlicues and cutouts of stone that had given this piece of Venetian Gothic its fragile look. He sucked his skinned knuckles and studied Fenner’s next move with sympathy. “We must look like a couple of gargoyles,” he added as they raised their shoulders cautiously to look over and down.
Fenner was noting the two pillars that decorated each side of the window beneath him and pretended to hold up its arch. They were slender, and fluted twistingly. They would give him enough grip as he pulled himself on to the narrow balcony from the slope of the main roof. He couldn’t drop directly on to the balcony from where he knelt. There wasn’t enough breadth on that glorified ledge to allow for any lost balance. It had a balustrade, but that could have developed a weak patch or two in the last four hundred years: and below it there was only a short stretch of sloping tiles to the roof’s edge. No, he would have to back up to the main roof—thank God its slope was gentle—and come down it by the side of this outcrop of attic, and then swing around its front corner, holding that pillar, on to the balcony’s balustrade. After that, it was simple. The balcony was narrow, but there was room to manoeuvre.
He sign-languaged his plan quickly to Holland. “It’s only a dormer window with some fancy trappings,” he added to encourage himself.
“That’s all. Nothing to it,” Holland agreed with a small smile. His whisper strengthened in alarm. “Hey, wait! Still seventy seconds to go.”
“It’s time.” Fenner was already backing on to the main roof.
“Take this—” Holland unbuttoned a pocket.
“I’ve got one,” Fenner whispered up, as he started down the side of the attic roof.
“What calibre?” Holland leaned over and gripped his arm.
“A .25. It’s Claire’s.”
“You may need more than that peashooter.” Holland passed down a .38/32 Smith and Wesson. “Straight and true,” he murmured. “You may need this to shoot out the lock on the shutters. You’ll only have time for one shot if there is any guard around to hear it.” He watched Fenner stick the short-barrelled revolver deep into a pocket, button it. “Slowly does it,” he whispered as Fenner moved on. He spread-eagled his body, face down, on the slope of attic roof, dug in his toes, leaned over near its front corner, held on with one hand, held out the other for an emergency grip as Fenner worked his way toward the pillar. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on the top of Fenner’s head, descending step by step down the main roof, his hands flat against the rising attic wall. Fenner was reaching up for Holland’s hand. He grasped it, and their two arms, fully extended, let him swing around the corner to catch hold of the pillar.
My God, how I hate heights, Holland thought as his body strained against the pulling arm and he felt his eyes drawn down to the canal far below. He closed them quickly; Fenner released his grip, whispering, “Okay, okay,” and Holland could have both his hands to clamp on those comforting curlicues of carved stone. From away behind him, on the other side of the roof, came a long, clean whistle. He called softly down to Fenner, “Thar she blows!” Eleven-thirty it was. He settled back contentedly on the tiles. He was imagining, with considerable enjoyment, the little scene from hell that was now bursting into Ca’ Longhi’s kitchen.
Fenner caught his breath and balance. This was a devil of a time, he thought, as he held on to the pillar, to discover he had lost his head for heights. But if he had got this far, the return could be managed: climbing up was always easier than coming down, and Holland would be there to grip Claire’s hand. He moved carefully along the narrow balcony—it shook a little under his weight, but held. There was no light from the small opening in the shutters. The fear he felt now was for Claire. Had they taken her away? Was she no longer—? At that instant, the room light flashed on. And it was Claire he saw. Claire. Thank God.
She was standing opposite the window, her hand on a light switch. Her coat, thrown on the floor at the door beside her, covered the threshold. So there was a guard, outside in the corridor.
Gently, he rattled the shutters, called, “Claire!” softly. She seemed to freeze against the wall. Her eyes stared at the window with disbelief, her face tense and white, so tense and white and exhausted. Then she was running toward him. She slipped her fingers between the shutters. “Bill?”
He touched them. “It’s Bill.” That was all he could say.
From somewhere, not too far distant in the house, there came a roaring shout.
“They’ve found out!” she whispered in anguish. She glanced back at the door, expecting to hear the key turn in the lock, the guards burst in. There was a movement in the corridor, but the footsteps weren’t coming here. They were running away from the room. Another shout, fainter...
“No. It’s a fire,” Fenner said quickly. “What’s holding these shutters?” A large black iron band was all he could see. “Is there a padlock behind this thing?” He tried to grope for it.
“It is tight up against the hasp to let the shutters open.”
“Take this and shoot its lock out.” He pushed Holland’s revolver between the shutters. It stuck. It wouldn’t go all the way through. It needed another half-inch for clearance. He tried to force the shutters farther apart. They wouldn’t move. “Take your automatic, Claire. Shoot twice, quickly.” Would twice be enough?
She whispered, “The guard is coming back. I hear his footsteps.”
“I’ll. keep the door covered with the thirty-eight. Shoot quickly.”
“Stand away from the shutter,” she told him anxiously. “It’s dangerous—”
“Shut up. And I love you, too.”
She gave a smothered laugh, and looked at the automatic as she raised it. It was so small, so light, not even comforting any more. The padlock
was small, strong. Would two bullets be enough? Perhaps three? She wished her hand would stop this nervous trembling.
It is always the same, thought Fenner grimly; if anything can go wrong, it will. Always? No. There was another side to that coin: if something could go right, it might. It just might.
“Quick,” he whispered as he heard the piercing shriek of a fireboat’s siren, far below in the Grand Canal. “Hurry, Claire!”
It was Kalganov who had shouted.
He had reached the third floor of Ca’ Longhi on his climb to the attic. He was still thinking contemptuously about Lenoir. The Frenchman ought to have handled that confession himself. He should have dealt with Sandra Fane. Instead, he hadn’t even asked what had happened to her. He knew, all right, but he wanted no share of the responsibility; so he hadn’t asked. Lenoir would never—
What was that? Some disturbance. Far downstairs.
He looked over the yellow marble balustrade. He heard the cries more clearly: “Fire!” Down in the hall, a billow of black smoke gushed from the kitchen quarters; it spread and thickened, pouring over the flagstone floor far below him. As he stared at the forming cloud, the cook came running out from the kitchen corridor still screaming, “Fire, fire!” The cloud enveloped her, and turned her scream to a choking cough.
Kalganov shouted.
The guard, posted outside the girl’s door, started to his feet and came running along the attic’s corridor. Kalganov, turning to race downstairs, signalled to him to stay where he was. He shouted again, bringing Lenoir away from his precious telephone and Martin out of the library. Lenoir stared over the balustrade. “Fire!” he cried, as if he had discovered it. “Look! Fire!” He pointed down to the hall.
“You amaze me,” Kalganov said bitingly as he passed Lenoir at a run. Then he halted, really amazed, when Lenoir didn’t follow: just stood, hands on the balustrade, looking over into the hall. There were three figures down there now, running around in the cloud of smoke like chickens with their heads chopped off. “Get them organised,” he told Lenoir sharply. “Come on, get moving! It’s only a kitchen fire. We can deal with it.”