House of the Hanged. Mark Mills
Tom asked suddenly.
The question just slipped from his lips. It was as unexpected to him as it was to Olivier, who pushed his lank, dark fringe from his eyes before replying.
‘We tried. It didn’t happen.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why are you sorry? You don’t have children either, and at least I have a beautiful wife I love.’
‘Point taken,’ Tom conceded, reaching for his coffee.
‘Actually, we’re still trying. I think Nadine might be too old. Don’t tell her that, though, or she might want to stop trying.’
Tom laughed, and as he did so he caught sight of the woman from Room 312 stepping from the dining room into the glare of the terrace. She was now wearing a light summer frock along with the raffia sun hat he’d seen lying on the bed upstairs. A large beach bag swung from her hand.
He had only ever viewed her from behind, and he saw now that she was in her forties, but wearing the years extremely well.
‘Frau Wissmann,’ nodded Olivier as she passed. ‘Monsieur Perret.’
Tom waited for her to disappear down the steps before asking, ‘German?’
‘Swiss German. She’s a regular, comes every summer with her husband, although he’s running late this year, something to do with a business deal back in Zurich.’
‘She’s very attractive.’
Olivier lowered his voice. ‘You’re not the only one who thinks so.’
‘Oh?’
‘There’s an Italian here who’s taken a shine to her. Young fellow. Flash. Struts around like a cock on heat.’
Not any more, thought Tom.
‘Hardly her type, I imagine,’ he said.
‘You haven’t met Herr Wissmann. Any type would be better than that. He’s arrogant, and rude with it. Nadine despises him.’
‘I’ve never known you to be so indiscreet about your guests.’
‘Not just my guests. You should hear what I say about you.’
Tom laughed, cutting into the eggs.
The theory held: Frau Wissmann was an unwitting pawn in the Italian’s game, little more than a convenient alibi. This was the only logical explanation.
The Italian must have set out to seduce her, to spend the night with her, planning to slip from her room, taking her key with him, and returning after the deed was done. It was no more than a brisk five-minute walk to Tom’s villa along the coast path. All going well, he would have been back between the sheets within twenty minutes. Only, it hadn’t gone so well for him.
‘An Italian, eh?’ said Tom. ‘I think I might have seen him around. Does he drive a fancy roadster?’
‘Must be someone else. Signore Minguzzi arrived by train. I know because he insisted on being picked up from the station, even though it’s a short stroll.’
Minguzzi. And no car to search, just the room, which meant filching a spare key from the reception desk. Or maybe not. With any luck, Frau Wissmann would have left the original back in her own room. She had obviously returned there to get changed for the beach after her visit to Minguzzi’s room.
Tom tried to imagine what she was thinking. Undoubtedly confused by the Italian’s sudden disappearance, and probably a little insulted, she was unlikely to do anything that would draw attention to their illicit tryst.
He knew he didn’t have long before the maids went into action, and he needed a convincing reason to return back upstairs. The best he could come up with on the spur of the moment meant spinning yet another yarn to poor Olivier.
‘I’ve got a full house in a week or two, which means boarding a couple of guests here. Is there any chance of viewing one of the rooms on the top floor?’
One of them happened to be free, and Olivier was all for showing it to him. Tom told him not to worry; he was quite happy to check it over on his own.
‘I’m sure the consummate professional has better things to do.’
‘I’m sure the wife of the consummate professional would agree with you.’
Nadine had tossed a couple of disapproving glances the way of her husband while scampering around the terrace, attending to the breakfast requirements of the hotel’s residents.
Armed with the key from Olivier, Tom made his way back up to the third floor, ignoring the vacant room and making straight for 312. He estimated that he had five minutes, give or take, before he’d be expected back downstairs. It wasn’t long, and he’d used up most of it by the time he finally figured that Frau Wissmann must have taken the Italian’s room key with her to the beach. Minguzzi’s jacket was still hanging in the wardrobe, but the key wasn’t back in the pocket, or on any of the surfaces, or in any of the drawers. This left him with little choice.
Fortunately, the reception area was deserted. Unfortunately, Olivier came hurrying into view just as Tom was about to help himself to the spare key to Minguzzi’s room from the bank of cubbyholes on the wall behind the desk. Had Olivier seen exactly what he was doing? Probably not, Tom judged, and he made a show of returning the room key Olivier had given him to its hook.
‘Well? What did you make of it?’
‘Perfect. How much does it cost?’
‘More than most, but a trifle for a man of your means,’ grinned Olivier.
‘Can we check availability for the week of the fifteenth?’
‘Give me a few minutes, I have to a put an urgent trunk call through to Paris for one of the guests.’
While Olivier was unlocking the door to the office, Tom surreptitiously pocketed the key to Room 104 from the rack.
‘Take as long as you need, I’m not in any hurry,’ he said, strolling casually off, back towards the main staircase.
Minguzzi’s room turned out to be half the size of the Wissmanns’, if that: a dark, north-facing little box without a balcony. The curtains were closed, the bed made, unslept-in. Minguzzi had obviously been a fastidious type. His socks were grouped according to their colour in the chest of drawers, and in the bathroom his bottles of hair pomade (and various other ointments and unguents) were carefully arranged in ascending order of size on the marble-topped washstand.
Tom had been expecting to find the suitcase packed, ready for a swift departure, but the Italian had evidently decided to stay on, which suggested a certain self-assurance.
Pulling out his pen and pocket book, he noted down the name of the tailor in Rome who had cut the lightweight summer suit and the linen jacket hanging in the wardrobe. The shoes were ready-to-wear, but the Homburg-style Panama hat on the high shelf in the wardrobe offered up something intriguing. There was a name embossed in gold on the leather sweatband: Cesare Pozzi.
The name of the hat maker, or Minguzzi’s real name?
Tom suspected the latter. He couldn’t say why exactly. Somehow it fitted with the man he’d brushed with, briefly and violently.
Minguzzi was surely an assumed name, adopted for the job. It’s what any professional would have done, and the Italian’s professionalism, though not beyond reproach, was palpable. That much became clear when Tom made his way to the desk between the windows.
He had saved the best till last, but soon found himself disappointed. There was no pocket book, no address book, no cheque book, no incriminating names or telephone numbers scribbled on scraps of paper. In fact, there was nothing of any note in the desk drawer besides a brochure for a hotel in Biarritz – another job? – and a bundle of French francs. Tom thought about pocketing the money, but decided against it. Ideally, he would have searched the