She heard Pascal give a low exclamation and swung around.
“Gini,” he whispered. “Gini, look at this.”
The door had been unlocked since their earlier visit. It stood open an inch.
Beyond the door was darkness, and silence. Pascal seemed to hesitate. Gini approached. By the open door, the smell of damp decay was sickeningly strong. She recoiled from the stench. Pascal’s face hardened. He put his arm across the doorway.
“You wait here. Wait here on the landing. I’m going in.”
“You’re not leaving me here. I’m coming too….”
“No! You stay right here.”
In the torchlight she saw the pallor of his face, and the anxiety in his eyes. The smell made her want to vomit. She covered her mouth with her hand, walked away a few paces, and drew in a deep breath.
“Gini, please. I don’t want you to come in here.”
“I’m afraid. I’m afraid, Pascal.” She grasped his arm. “I’m too afraid to stay here alone. Someone might be in there….”
“Oh, someone’s certainly in there,” he replied, his face grim. “And they’re unlikely to harm us, I think….”
He switched off the beam of the flashlight. Leaning against the door with his arm, and keeping to the side, he eased it back. There was a shuffling sound at their feet; a few pieces of paper, faded bits of card, lifted against the passage of the door, then fell back. Pascal shone the flashlight on them, then again switched it off. He stepped forward into the dark, feeling ahead of him as he went. Gini, following close behind him, also fumbled in the darkness. On either side of her she felt a wall: They were in a long, narrow corridor. There were bare floorboards underfoot.
After twenty or thirty feet—in the darkness she lost all sense of distance—the walls on either side gave out. There was no door, just an archway, hung with a heavy curtain. Pascal eased the drapery aside. She heard the rattle of wooden rings on the rail above her head. She stopped, clutching her mouth.
Later, she would tell herself that she must have known what they would find. But at the time her mind was working slowly: All she could think of was that this space, wherever they were, was terrible, filled with the sweetly sour smell of rotten meat.
Pascal, having worked in war zones, knew precisely what it was. He knew what they must inevitably find. He switched on the flashlight and directed its beam away from the center of the room, toward the walls. He ran the beam along them, until it pinpointed a light switch.
In a quiet voice he said, “Gini. I want you to turn away. I’m going to switch the light on. Don’t look.”
She closed her eyes, and felt the light against her lids. Behind her somewhere, she could hear Pascal’s footsteps, the creak of the floorboards. She heard him say something under his breath. She turned, opened her eyes, and looked.
There were two bodies in the room. Their wrists and their ankles had been bound tight with tape. They had been positioned in a macabre proximity, seated side by side, their backs propped up against a chest. Apart from a table and a chair, it was the only furniture in the room.
The body nearest her she could scarcely bear to look at. She saw the lividity, the discoloration in the face, glanced away, then forced herself to look back.
This body was male, a middle-aged man, fair-haired and slightly built. He was well dressed, in casual but expensive clothes, the condition of his body in stark contrast to the elegant sport jacket, silk tie, and button-down shirt. He wore jeans, loafers, and yellow socks. His body was bloated. Gini covered, then uncovered her face.
The other body, also male, was virtually naked. It was golden-haired, and wore only a pair of blue briefs. There was a single gold earring in its right ear. One of his hands was outstretched, frozen in some last convulsive gesture toward his partner in death. He lolled against his partner’s shoulder in a parody of affection, his head slumped forward. At the base of his skull, where his longish hair had fallen forward, there was a neat hole the size of a quarter or a ten-pence piece.
There was very little blood, just a small encrustation around the wound. Averting her eyes, Gini saw that before he had been killed, this man had been made to undress. His clothes lay on the bare floorboards a few yards from his body. They had been neatly folded and stacked in a pile, the two discarded shoes balanced on top. The clothes outraged her. Had he been made to fold them and stack them, then made to sit down to be shot? Or did someone take the trouble to stack them, as if for a military inspection, after the man was dead?
Pascal was kneeling on the floor beside the men. He examined their wounds, both alike at the base of the head. He examined the inch-wide sticky tape that bound their wrists and ankles. He straightened. He turned to her with a white face. “They were professionally killed. One shot each.”
“But they didn’t die at the same time…”
“Oh, no. This one has been dead a day, perhaps two. The other…” He gave a gesture of anger. “Longer. Considerably longer. It’s cold in here, no heating. …I’d say ten days. Maybe two weeks.” He bent to the clothed man’s body, and examined his fair hair, the signet ring he wore on his left hand.
“McMullen,” he said. “And he’d been dead for some time before the other man was shot. A pleasant way to kill someone, to make them sit down next to that.”
He frowned, as if an idea had just come to him, and looked around the room. “The parcel,” he said, “where’s the parcel? Don’t you see, Gini? McMullen must have been dead before it was even sent…so where is it? Someone took it in.”
He moved quickly across the room, and opened a door at its far side. Gini could see into a small bedroom. Its only contents were a mattress and rugs on the bare floor. Pascal went into the room; she heard the sound of cupboard doors being opened and shut. She knelt down on the floor next to the two bodies. The smell made her retch. She examined the clothed man’s signet ring, and forced herself to look at the distortions decay had made to his face. Easing back his sleeve, she saw he was wearing a gold bracelet, and that the naked man wore another, identical in design. She gave a low moan, and rose to her feet.
Pascal did not hear her reaction. He came back into the room, opened a cupboard door to reveal an electric kettle, some moldering bread, a few cups and plates. He closed it again.
“Where is it?” he said urgently. “The parcel was received all right—by someone. The wrapping is still on the floor in the bedroom. The box is empty.”
“I know what they sent him, Pascal,” she said in a low voice. “It’s there on the floor, just by those clothes. Whoever killed them made use of it. Look. They’ve applied it…” Her voice was shaking. With a muttered exclamation, Pascal bent and retrieved a small gold object. He opened it, and held it up.
“A lipstick? They sent McMullen a lipstick?”
“I think so. Look. They’ve smeared that man’s face with it. It’s horrible, Pascal. Look.”
Pascal bent. Gently, he lifted the naked man’s head. Someone had applied the lipstick, a bright scarlet one, to his lips. They had drawn a crude cupid’s bow around his mouth; they had used it to rouge his cheeks. It gave him a cruel femininity. His blue eyes were still open. Pascal swore under his breath. “Who would do this? Who is he? If that’s McMullen, who’s this?”
“It’s not McMullen.” Gini turned back. “I know who they are. Both of them. The one wearing the clothes is Johnny Appleyard. I think the other one is his friend. Stevey.”
“Stevey? It can’t be. You spoke to him two days ago—in New York.”
“I think it is him. Do you see—the tape half hides them, but they’re both wearing bracelets. They’re love tokens, Pascal, look.” She turned away. “They have their names on them, and two hearts pierced with an arrow. Johnny and Stevey, Stevey with a ‘y.’ It’s him.”
Pascal’s face grew hard. He said nothing. He examined the bracelets, straightened. “We have to check this place,” he said. “Thoroughly. McMullen could have been here—” He paused. “McMullen could have
done this, come to that. Gini, won’t you wait outside?”
“No.” Averting her eyes, she crossed the room. “I’ll check through here. There might be something you missed.”
There was nothing in the bedroom she could see, just that mattress, a few blankets. She lifted them to one side, but they concealed nothing. They smelled of decay, and damp. Beyond the bedroom there was a primitive bathroom: a lavatory, a leaking shower, a cracked washbasin. No towels, no soap.
She returned to the main room. Pascal was kneeling beside the dead Appleyard; she saw him reach inside his jacket and extract a wallet. She averted her eyes; sickness rose in her stomach. She crossed to the cupboard Pascal had already opened. An electric kettle, some moldering bread, cups and plates, all washed. There was a small sink, and above it two wooden shelves with some battered containers.
She opened each one in turn: instant coffee, tea bags, sugar, a packet of salt, some rice, and some pasta. She stared at these objects, trying to read them. Someone must have meant to stay there for a while. If you were staying just a night or two, would you provide pasta, rice? Had McMullen meant to stay there, then changed his plans in a hurry? She moved the box of damp salt an inch or so, and then she saw that behind it was a paperback book.
She took it down and stared at it. Milton’s Paradise Lost. That book, that same book, had been one of those on the desk in his London flat.
Her hands trembling now, she began to turn the pages, but there was no piece of paper concealed inside the leaves of the book, nothing written there that she could see, no name, no markings of any kind.
“Gini.” Pascal called to her in a low voice. “Come here. Look at this.” He had been kneeling by that neat pile of clothes. Now he stood. “Both their wallets are here, with money, credit cards, everything. I thought there was nothing else. Then I found this. It was under this pile of clothes. Look.”
He held out to her something small, which glinted. Gini saw it was a button, a brass button, possibly a regimental button, or one of the kind worn on blazers. It was decorated with a garland of leaves.
“Military?”
“Possibly. It’s not from either of their jackets. It belongs to someone else. The one who shot them, perhaps.” He saw the book. “What’s that?”
She told him, but the instant he realized it contained no message, he moved away from her, then bent to his camera bag.
“Go and stand in the corridor, Gini,” he said. “Don’t move. I’m sorry, but I have to do this.”
Gini did as he said. She leaned against the wall and clutched the book. She closed her eyes; the floor felt as if it moved; the heavy, decay-laden air was making her faint. Against her closed lids she saw light flash as Pascal took his photographs. She knew it had to be done, but the flashes made her want to be sick. Pascal was swift. Only minutes later he was back at her side.
“That’s it,” he said. “I have some proof. Now we leave. Gini, come on.”
Gini hung back. “Leave?” She said. “We can’t just leave them. We have to do something. We have to call the police.”
“There’s nothing we can do for them. They’re dead. Doctors, ambulances, police—they’re not going to make any difference to them.”
“We can’t leave them! Not like this. It’s horrible. It’s obscene. Someone should stay here—”
Pascal began to push her toward the archway. He said, “If we call the police, we’re involved. They’ll question us. We’ll be stuck in Venice for days—maybe weeks. How do we follow up this story, then? Don’t you want to find out who killed them, Gini? If we owe them anything, don’t we owe them that?”
“Yes, but it’s still not right—just to leave them alone here. Pascal, it’s so cruel and so sad.”
“Out,” Pascal said. He switched off the light. He began half pushing, half pulling her down the corridor. In the doorway, he stopped. “Don’t you see, Gini? Think. We come here earlier—the door’s closed and locked. We come back this evening, and it’s been opened. While we were chasing around Venice half the afternoon, someone came back. Came back and opened the door. They left it open—for us. Now will you come with me? Or do you want to wait here till they come back again?”
They went down the stairs. They crossed the silent courtyard and paused by the canal. Gini gave a low cry: Somewhere in the distance, a fearsome wailing began.
The sound was magnified by water. A siren had started up. The wail rose in pitch. Peering into the darkness, they glimpsed approaching lights on the water, through the mist.
“Of course. Of course. I’m a fool…” Pascal caught hold of her and drew her down a dark alleyway out of sight. “Call the police, Gini?” he whispered. “We don’t need to call the police, don’t you see? Someone’s already called them. Someone with a very accurate sense of timing too. They gave us just enough time to get into that apartment and do what we had to do. Then they gave us just enough time to get out. Look.”
The lights were drawing nearer, their brilliance made a haze by the mist. Closer, then closer; they heard shouts. Pascal held her pressed back against damp stone: She could just see the quay outside the Palazzo Ossorio, then, emerging from the mist, the white prow of a launch. Suddenly light dazzled her eyes. Pascal dragged her farther back into the shadows. She heard the slither of ropes as the police launch tied up. She heard the sound of booted feet running across the quay, then their echo on the flagstones of the courtyard. Boots rang on the stone staircase, then the sound became muffled and died away.
Pascal stood silently listening, an intent frown on his face. “Now, why should they time it that way?” he said under his breath. Then suddenly his face cleared. “Of course. Of course,” he muttered. “They don’t want us arrested or held for questioning. We’re too useful to them. I understand, Gini. I begin to understand….”
There was silence then, the only sound the wind, the drip of the rain on stone, and the slap of water against the sides of the canal.
Gini closed her eyes. She let the rain wash her face.
Pascal took her back to her room. When Gini could not stop shivering, he wrapped the eiderdown around her like a cloak. He went downstairs and persuaded the desk clerk to provide some brandy and some food: soup and bread. He brought it back to the room and locked the door. He went to close the interior shutters, but Gini said, “No, leave them open. I want to watch the moon and the sky and the water. It helps.”
Pascal turned back to look at her. Only one dim lamp was lit; it threw shadows and stripes against the ceiling. Moonlight patched the floor by the window. Gini’s eyes were shadowed and her face white. She was still trembling. Gently, he crossed to her side; then, with some firmness he made her eat. He produced the brandy, poured a small glass, and made her drink.
“That’s better.” He crouched down in front of her, took her hands in his, and chafed them. He looked anxiously into her face. “Much better. You’re still cold, but there’s some color in your cheeks.”
He hesitated, then drew her closer. “This changes everything,” he began in a quiet voice. “You must understand that, Gini. Before it was ugly, threatening—all right. But now—” His voice hardened. “Now it’s murder. Someone killed those two in cold blood. And we were intended to find them. I’m certain of that.”
He paused, holding her gaze. “Gini, I was right—someone is beside us, every step of the way. We’re being used. Maybe they think we’ll lead them to McMullen eventually. Well, enough. I won’t let you continue to work on this. Tomorrow I’m going to talk to Jenkins, and I’m going to tell him just that.”
Gini lowered her eyes; she said nothing. It was better to let this pass, and besides, she could not think about tomorrow, or Jenkins, or a newspaper office. They had no reality: She could not see beyond the room they had just left.
“Who killed them, Pascal?” she asked. “Who would do that in such a terrible way? Appleyard was just a gossip-column tipster, Stevey had nothing to do with this. What could anyone gain from their deaths?”
“I think someone wanted to assure their silence—it’s as obvious and simple as that. Appleyard must have known something. Presumably they thought there was a risk he’d told Stevey. So it was safer if both of them were dead. …”
“But why like that?” Gini bent her head and covered her face. “If they intended to kill Stevey, why lure him here to do it? Did they have to bring him here, make him sit next to the dead body of someone he loved? Did they have to paint his face? It’s so cruel. It’s monstrous, Pascal!”
“Cruelty is central to this case,” he said. He crossed back to her and took her hands again. “Gini, you know that, you’ve seen it. Humiliation, subjugation. Sex—and now death. Whoever is behind this enjoys inflicting pain. Did you doubt that when you saw what they’d done to your apartment? When you listened to that man on that tape? Did you doubt it tonight?”
“No,” Gini replied. “I didn’t doubt it, of course not. But when you actually see the evidence. To make that poor boy undress, to fold up his clothes like that. To deface him!”
“They made him look like a woman. Or like a parody of a woman.” Pascal’s voice had gone ice cold. He looked at her closely. “Someone here hates homosexuals, hates women, and hates sex too—at the same time as desiring it. Gini, you know the answer. Who does that suggest?”
“Hawthorne?”
“I would say so, yes.”
She began to answer him, to argue, but Pascal cut her off.
“All right, all right,” he said impatiently. “I know all that. Nothing proven, just allegations, sure. But just take a look at the logistics, Gini, if nothing else.” He rose and began to pace again. “Someone is well informed, yes? He knew we’d be working on this story before we did. He knew when your apartment would be empty, and how to enter it easily. He knew we were coming to Venice, and made sure we could get into that apartment when it suited him. We are being watched and followed and listened to, Gini. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. Now, just who can organize that kind of operation? Who could employ an executioner so he never needed to set foot in Venice himself? Come on, Gini, who’s the one person who could possibly gain from all this?”