Foundations of Fear Read online

  “I’ll be down right away,” he told her.

  He joined her by the reception desk. She no longer looked anxious and drawn, but full of purpose. She was on her way. He kept wishing they were going together. He couldn’t bear to stay on in Venice after she had gone, but the thought of driving to Milan, spending a dreary night in a hotel there alone, the endless dragging day which would follow, and the long hours in the train the next night, filled him with intolerable depression, quite apart from the anxiety about Johnnie. They walked along to the San Marco landing stage, the Molo bright and glittering after the rain, a little breeze blowing, the postcards and scarves and tourist souvenirs fluttering on the stalls, the tourists themselves out in force, strolling, contented, the happy day before them.

  “I’ll ring you tonight from Milan,” he told her. “The Hills will give you a bed, I suppose. And if you’re at the hospital they’ll let me have the latest news. That must be your charter party. You’re welcome to them!”

  The passengers descending from the landing stage down into the waiting launch were carrying hand-luggage with Union Jack tags upon them. They were mostly middle-aged, with what appeared to be two Methodist ministers in charge. One of them advanced towards Laura, holding out his hand, showing a gleaming row of dentures when he smiled. “You must be the lady joining us for the homeward flight,” he said. “Welcome aboard, and to the Union of Fellowship. We are all delighted to make your acquaintance. Sorry we hadn’t a seat for hubby too.”

  Laura turned swiftly and kissed John, a tremor at the corner of her mouth betraying inward laughter. “Do you think they’ll break into hymns?” she whispered. “Take care of yourself, hubby. Call me tonight.”

  The pilot sounded a curious little toot upon his horn, and in a moment Laura had climbed down the steps into the launch and was standing amongst the crowd of passengers, waving her hand, her scarlet coat a gay patch of colour amongst the more sober suiting of her companions. The launch tooted again and moved away from the landing stage, and he stood there watching it, a sense of immense loss filling his heart. Then he turned and walked away, back to the hotel, the bright day all about him desolate, unseen.

  There was nothing, he thought, as he looked about him presently in the hotel bedroom, so melancholy as a vacated room, especially when the recent signs of occupation were still visible about him. Laura’s suitcases on the bed, a second coat she had left behind. Traces of powder on the dressing table. A tissue, with a lipstick smear, thrown in the wastepaper basket. Even an old toothpaste tube squeezed dry, lying on the glass shelf above the washbasin. Sounds of the heedless traffic on the Grand Canal came as always from the open window, but Laura wasn’t there any more to listen to it, or to watch from the small balcony. The pleasure had gone. Feeling had gone.

  John finished packing, and leaving all the baggage ready to be collected he went downstairs to pay the bill. The reception clerk was welcoming new arrivals. People were sitting on the terrace overlooking the Grand Canal reading newspapers, the pleasant day waiting to be planned.

  John decided to have an early lunch, here on the hotel terrace, on familiar ground, and then have the porter carry the baggage to one of the ferries that steamed direct between San Marco and the Porta Roma, where the car was garaged. The fiasco meal of the night before had left him empty, and he was ready for the trolley of hors d’oeuvres when they brought it to him, around midday. Even here, though, there was change. The headwaiter, their especial friend, was off-duty, and the table where they usually sat was occupied by new arrivals, a honeymoon couple, he told himself sourly, observing the gaiety, the smiles, while he had been shown to a small single table behind a tub of flowers.

  “She’s airborne now,” John thought, “she’s on her way,” and he tried to picture Laura seated between the Methodist ministers, telling them, no doubt, about Johnnie ill in hospital, and heaven knows what else besides. Well, the twin sisters anyway could rest in psychic peace. Their wishes would have been fulfilled.

  Lunch over, there was no point in lingering with a cup of coffee on the terrace. His desire was to get away as soon as possible, fetch the car, and be en route for Milan. He made his farewells at the reception desk, and, escorted by a porter who had piled his baggage on to a wheeled trolley, made his way once more to the landing stage of San Marco. As he stepped on to the steam ferry, his luggage heaped beside him, a crowd of jostling people all about him, he had one momentary pang to be leaving Venice. When, if ever, he wondered, would they come again? Next year . . . in three years . . . Glimpsed first on honeymoon, nearly ten years ago, and then a second visit, en passant, before a cruise, and now this last abortive ten days that had ended so abruptly.

  The water glittered in the sunshine, buildings shone, tourists in dark glasses paraded up and down the rapidly receding Molo, already the terrace of their hotel was out of sight as the ferry churned its way up the Grand Canal. So many impressions to seize and hold, familiar loved façades, balconies, windows, water lapping the cellar steps of decaying palaces, the little red house where d’Annunzio lived, with its garden—our house, Laura called it, pretending it was theirs and too soon the ferry would be turning left on the direct route to the Piazzale Roma, so missing the best of the Canal, the Rialto, the further palaces.

  Another ferry was heading downstream to pass them, filled with passengers, and for a brief foolish moment he wished he could change places, be amongst the happy tourists bound for Venice and all he had left behind him. Then he saw her. Laura, in her scarlet coat, the twin sisters by her side, the active sister with her hand on Laura’s arm, talking earnestly, and Laura herself, her hair blowing in the wind, gesticulating, on her face a look of distress. He stared, astounded, too astonished to shout, to wave, and anyway they would never have heard or seen him, for his own ferry had already passed and was heading in the opposite direction.

  What the hell had happened? There must have been a hold-up with the charter flight and it had never taken off, but in that case why had Laura not telephoned him at the hotel? And what were those damned sisters doing? Had she run into them at the airport? Was it coincidence? And why did she look so anxious? He could think of no explanation. Perhaps the flight had been cancelled. Laura, of course, would go straight to the hotel, expecting to find him there, intending, doubtless, to drive with him after all to Milan and take the train the following night. What a blasted mix-up. The only thing to do was to telephone the hotel immediately his ferry reached the Piazzale Roma and tell her to wait—he would return and fetch her. As for the damned interfering sisters, they could get stuffed.

  The usual stampede ensued when the ferry arrived at the landing stage. He had to find a porter to collect his baggage, and then wait while he discovered a telephone. The fiddling with change, the hunt for the number, delayed him still more. He succeeded at last in getting through, and luckily the reception clerk he knew was still at the desk.

  “Look, there’s been some frightful muddle,” he began, and explained how Laura was even now on her way back to the hotel—he had seen her with two friends on one of the ferry services. Would the reception clerk explain and tell her to wait? He would be back by the next available service to collect her. “In any event, detain her,” he said. “I’ll be as quick as I can.” The reception clerk understood perfectly, and John rang off.

  Thank heaven Laura hadn’t turned up before he had put through his call, or they would have told her he was on his way to Milan. The porter was still waiting with the baggage, and it seemed simplest to walk with him to the garage, hand everything over to the chap in charge of the office there and ask him to keep it for an hour, when he would be returning with his wife to pick up the car. Then he went back to the landing station to await the next ferry to Venice. The minutes dragged, and he kept wondering all the time what had gone wrong at the airport and why in heaven’s name Laura hadn’t telephoned. No use conjecturing. She would tell him the whole story at the hotel. One thing was certain: he would not allow Laura and himself t
o be saddled with the sisters and become involved with their affairs. He could imagine Laura saying that they also had missed a flight, and could they have a lift to Milan?

  Finally the ferry chugged alongside the landing stage and he stepped aboard. What an anticlimax, thrashing back past the familiar sights to which he had bidden a nostalgic farewell such a short while ago! He didn’t even look about him this time, he was so intent on reaching his destination. In San Marco there were more people than ever, the afternoon crowds walking shoulder to shoulder, every one of them on pleasure bent.

  He came to the hotel and pushed his way through the swing door, expecting to see Laura, and possibly the sisters, waiting in the lounge to the left of the entrance. She was not there. He went to the desk. The reception clerk he had spoken to on the telephone was standing there, talking to the manager.

  “Has my wife arrived?” John asked.

  “No, sir, not yet.”

  “What an extraordinary thing. Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely certain, sir. I have been here ever since you telephoned me at a quarter to two. I have not left the desk.”

  “I just don’t understand it. She was on one of the vaporettos passing by the Accademia. She would have landed at San Marco about five minutes later and come on here.”

  The clerk seemed nonplussed. “I don’t know what to say. The signora was with friends, did you say?”

  “Yes. Well, acquaintances. Two ladies we had met at Torcello yesterday. I was astonished to see her with them on the vaporetto, and of course I assumed that the flight had been cancelled, and she had somehow met up with them at the airport and decided to return here with them, to catch me before I left.”

  Oh hell, what was Laura doing? It was after three. A matter of moments from San Marco landing stage to the hotel.

  “Perhaps the signora went with her friends to their hotel instead. Do you know where they are staying?”

  “No,” said John, “I haven’t the slightest idea. What’s more, I don’t even know the names of the two ladies. They were sisters, twins, in fact—looked exactly alike. But anyway, why go to their hotel and not here?”

  The swing-door opened but it wasn’t Laura. Two people staying in the hotel.

  The manager broke into the conversation. “I tell you what I will do,” he said. “I will telephone the airport and check about the flight. Then at least we will get somewhere.” He smiled apologetically. It was not usual for arrangements to go wrong.

  “Yes, do that,” said John. “We may as well know what happened there.”

  He lit a cigarette and began to pace up and down the entrance hall. What a bloody mix-up. And how unlike Laura, who knew he would be setting off for Milan directly after lunch—indeed, for all she knew he might have gone before. But surely, in that case, she would have telephoned at once, on arrival at the airport, had the flight been cancelled? The manager was ages telephoning, he had to be put through on some other line, and his Italian was too rapid for John to follow the conversation. Finally he replaced the receiver.

  “It is more mysterious than ever, sir,” he said. “The charter flight was not delayed, it took off on schedule with a full complement of passengers. As far as they could tell me, there was no hitch. The signora must simply have changed her mind.” His smile was more apologetic than ever.

  “Changed her mind,” John repeated. “But why on earth should she do that? She was so anxious to be home tonight.”

  The manager shrugged. “You know how ladies can be, sir,” he said. “Your wife may have thought that after all she would prefer to take the train to Milan with you. I do assure you, though, that the charter party was most respectable, and it was a Caravelle aircraft, perfectly safe.”

  “Yes, yes,” said John impatiently, “I don’t blame your arrangements in the slightest. I just can’t understand what induced her to change her mind, unless it was meeting with these two ladies.”

  The manager was silent. He could not think of anything to say. The reception clerk was equally concerned. “Is it possible,” he ventured, “that you made a mistake, and it was not the signora that you saw on the vaporetto?”

  “Oh no,” replied John, “it was my wife, I assure you. She was wearing her red coat, she was hatless, just as she left here. I saw her as plainly as I can see you. I would swear to it in a court of law.”

  “It is unfortunate,” said the manager, “that we do not know the name of the two ladies, or the hotel where they were staying. You say you met these ladies at Torcello yesterday?”

  “Yes . . . but only briefly. They weren’t staying there. At least, I am certain they were not. We saw them at dinner in Venice later, as it happens.”

  “Excuse me . . .” Guests were arriving with luggage to check in, the clerk was obliged to attend to them. John turned in desperation to the manager. “Do you think it would be any good telephoning the hotel in Torcello in case the people there knew the name of the ladies, or where they were staying in Venice?”

  “We can try,” replied the manager. “It is a small hope, but we can try.”

  John resumed his anxious pacing, all the while watching the swing-door, hoping, praying, that he would catch sight of the red coat and Laura would enter. Once again there followed what seemed an interminable telephone conversation between the manager and someone at the hotel in Torcello.

  “Tell them two sisters,” said John, “two elderly ladies dressed in grey, both exactly alike. One lady was blind,” he added. The manager nodded. He was obviously giving a detailed description. Yet when he hung up he shook his head. “The manager at Torcello says he remembers the two ladies well,” he told John, “but they were only there for lunch. He never learnt their names.”

  “Well, that’s that. There’s nothing to do now but wait.”

  John lit his third cigarette and went out on to the terrace, to resume his pacing there. He stared out across the canal, searching the heads of the people on passing steamers, motorboats, even drifting gondolas. The minutes ticked by on his watch, and there was no sign of Laura. A terrible foreboding nagged at him that somehow this was prearranged, that Laura had never intended to catch the aircraft, that last night in the restaurant she had made an assignation with the sisters. Oh God, he thought, that’s impossible, I’m going paranoiac . . . Yet why, why? No, more likely the encounter at the airport was fortuitous, and for some incredible reason they had persuaded Laura not to board the aircraft, even prevented her from doing so, trotting out one of their psychic visions, that the aircraft would crash, that she must return with them to Venice. And Laura, in her sensitive state, felt they must be right, swallowed it all without question.

  But granted all these possibilities, why had she not come to the hotel? What was she doing? Four o’clock, half-past four, the sun no longer dappling the water. He went back to the reception desk.

  “I just can’t hang around,” he said. “Even if she does turn up, we shall never make Milan this evening. I might see her walking with these ladies, in the Piazza San Marco, anywhere. If she arrives while I’m out, will you explain?”

  The clerk was full of concern. “Indeed, yes,” he said. “It is very worrying for you, sir. Would it perhaps be prudent if we booked you in here tonight?”

  John gestured, helplessly. “Perhaps, yes, I don’t know. Maybe . . .”

  He went out of the swing-door and began to walk towards the Piazza San Marco. He looked into every shop up and down the colonnades, crossed the piazza a dozen times, threaded his way between the tables in front of Florian’s, in front of Quadri’s, knowing that Laura’s red coat and the distinctive appearance of the twin sisters could easily be spotted, even amongst this milling crowd, but there was no sign of them. He joined the crowd of shoppers in the Merceria, shoulder to shoulder with idlers, thrusters, window-gazers, knowing instinctively that it was useless, they wouldn’t be here. Why should Laura have deliberately missed her flight to return to Venice for such a purpose? And even if she had done so, for some reason
beyond his imagining, she would surely have come first to the hotel to find him.

  The only thing left to him was to try to track down the sisters. Their hotel could be anywhere amongst the hundreds of hotels and pensions scattered through Venice, or even across the other side at the Zattere, or further again on the Giudecca. These last possibilities seemed remote. More likely they were staying in a small hotel or pension somewhere near San Zaccaria handy to the restaurant where they had dined last night. The blind one would surely not go far afield in the evening. He had been a fool not to have thought of this before, and he turned back and walked quickly away from the brightly lighted shopping district towards the narrower, more cramped quarter where they had dined last evening. He found the restaurant without difficulty, but they were not yet open for dinner, and the waiter preparing tables was not the one who had served them. John asked to see the padrone, and the waiter disappeared to the back regions, returning after a moment or two with the somewhat dishevelled-looking proprietor in shirtsleeves, caught in a slack moment, not in full tenue.

  “I had dinner here last night,” John explained. “There were two ladies sitting at that table there in the corner.” He pointed to it.

  “You wish to book that table for this evening?” asked the proprietor.

  “No,” said John. “No, there were two ladies there last night, two sisters, due sorelle, twins, gemelle”—what was the right word for twins?—“Do you remember? Two ladies, sorelle vecchie . . .”

  “Ah,” said the man, “si, si, signore, la povera signorina.” He put his hands to his eyes to feign blindness. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Do you know their names?” asked John. “Where they were staying? I am very anxious to trace them.”