Joseph Kanon - Alibi

“Her partner.”

“In Gianni’s murder.”

“What are you talking about? She wasn’t even in Venice when-”

“I said partner. The one who encourages, urges him to do it.”

“Why would anyone believe that?”

“Signor Miller, she’s the obvious person. I thought so from the first.” I lay back again, slightly dizzy, caught in another maze. “Only one person survived in that house, only one. Who would have a better motive? Moretti ran errands for her in the war. Again, the obvious person to turn to. The father’s son. So, together-”

“You can’t. She was a good person. A war hero, for chrissake.”

“Was, yes. Now she serves a different purpose. These are bad people, Signor Miller. Godless. Bad for Italy. It’s important for the country to see what they are like, what they are willing to do-even to their friends. Innocent foreigners, who don’t understand what they are.”

“You killed her.”

“Not according to you,” he said, nodding to the night table. “You have signed it?”

“No.”

“There’s a difficulty?”

“It’s not true.”

He sighed and sat down in the chair. “Signor Miller. True? The important thing is, what purpose does it serve? This story, a good purpose. Good for everybody.”

“Especially for you. You’ll be sitting pretty at the Questura.”

“Yes. A successful case, what I said from the beginning.” He looked over at me. “With your help. Now I help you.”

“Help me.”

“There are other stories. Things people could believe. Signora Miller, for instance. A scene at a party, so many witnesses.”

“I’ve already told you about that.”

He held up his hand. “Signor Miller, please. I believe you. I’m trying to explain what other people could say. You know at the Questura they ask all these questions again. Your mother, for instance, you know they called her. So interesting. The night of Signora Mortimer’s party, she’s so anxious-where is my fiance? She telephones Ca’ Venti. And you’re there with Signora Miller, but you don’t answer. Making love, I remember you said. So you don’t answer.”

“Yes,” I said, my throat dry, closing. The smallest thing.

“But she calls again-did you know this? An hour later. Still no answer. Of course, it’s possible, a young man. But even I-”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“But it could, if someone asked this. Where was she?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Me? Nothing. I already know the true story,” he said, gesturing at the statement again. “To look for another now-so many confusions. But someone could believe it. Unless they believe this. What you say. And what I say.” He had been staring at me, his voice smooth, explaining something to a child. Now it hardened. “Which is better for her? A woman like that.”

“A woman like what?” I said quietly, feeling a shiver on my neck, like a draft.

“Who could kill Vanessi.”

“They can’t prove that.”

“Yes, there is proof,” he said simply.

Even my shoulder was cold now, as if my blood had stopped running.

“Then why was it never used?”

Cavallini shrugged. “To what purpose? Such a man-and Italian. Not German. An Italian who would do that to Italians. So many were already on trial. Why make more shame? A robber kills him, there’s an end. And you know, there was a certain amount of sympathy for Signora Miller. For her suffering. Even now I feel that. You see, it’s better to arrange things this way, so they serve a purpose.”

He reached over for the paper, then took a pen out of his pocket.

“What about her prints?” I said, watching him. “On the gun.”

“There were no prints on the gun,” he said, all business. “Someone must have wiped it.”

“And you never saw it in her hand.”

“No, never. Only in yours.” He held out the pen, meeting my eyes now, locked on them. “You see, I’ll be her alibi,” he said. “And you’ll be mine.” He moved the pen closer.

“Your accomplice,” I whispered, my throat dry again, squeezed shut. I took the pen, wincing as I raised my bad shoulder. The end of the maze. Cavallini kept looking at me, his eyes as cool and determined as they had been last night when he had aimed the gun. He smiled a little when he heard the scratch of the pen.

“Good,” he said, taking the paper. “It’s for the best. I’m very good at arranging these things. You can put yourself in my hands.”

I glanced down at them, casually putting away the pen. A wedding ring, thick, blunt fingers, oversized hands, big enough.

“What’s that?” He pointed to the papers on my bed.

“German testimony about Gianni. He helped them attack the safe house.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You see how well we work together. More proof that Rosa would do it. But maybe we won’t need to use it. Think of Giulia’s feelings. She’ll be so grateful if it’s finished. It’s important to put these things behind us.” A doctor’s daughter, used to keeping other people’s secrets.

He got up and straightened the chair, watching me. “You’re in pain?” he said. “That nurse-”

“Was there really proof? About Vanessi.”

“Yes. Of course, even proof is a matter of-how you tell the story,” he said, glancing at Bauer’s transcript. He opened his hand. “Signor Miller, she’s your wife.” A piece of advice, let it go, meant to reassure, unaware that we had already left each other.

He was gone by the time she came back with the nurse, so he didn’t see me avoid her eyes, not wanting to talk anymore, not even to tell her she was finally safe. I looked instead at the syringe, waiting for the drug to take effect, let me drift away from all of it.

Bertie came in the afternoon.

“I hope you’re satisfied. Cops and robbers. How are you?”

“Peachy.”

“Mm. I expected worse, I have to say. Given the papers.” He tossed Il Gazzettino on the bed. “Shootouts at the Lido. What in god’s name-?”

“Here,” I said, handing him the Frankfurt envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Read it. Page three.”

He walked over to the window, reading, then looked out for a minute before folding the paper up and putting it back in the envelope.

“Well, you would poke and pry,” he said softly, his head down.

“You were afraid I’d find out, weren’t you? That’s why you didn’t want me-Christ, Bertie.” I breathed out. “Christ.”

He leaned back, taking out his cigarette case.

“It’s not allowed,” I said.

“Oh, tut,” he said, lighting his cigarette and putting his arm on the sill, using the open window as an ashtray. “A condemned man’s always allowed. That’s what I am now, isn’t it? In your eyes.”

I said nothing, waiting.

“All right. I admit it’s not the sort of thing you want to see in your obituary.” He looked up. “Or have to explain, for that matter.”

“You worked for them.”

“I didn’t work for them,” he said. “Sometimes-well, sometimes we do things we never thought we’d do. Oh, not you, of course. You’re always on the side of the just and the good. But the rest of us. I’m a guest in this country, Adam. I stay at the pleasure of whoever happens to be running things. I don’t choose them, I just stay out of their way.”

“Not all the time.”

“They could have taken my passport in a second. Then what? Ship me off to Switzerland. If I was lucky. Maybe worse.”

“Then why stay?”

“It’s my home. Anyway, I didn’t have the luxury of sitting out the war somewhere and coming back after, bright as a penny. I didn’t have the time.” He looked down at his cigarette, then threw it out the window. “It wasn’t much, you know. We all had to report, all the foreigners, tell them where we were living, what we were up to.”