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“You recognized this man? You were disturbed at his death? Perhaps you can tell us something about him.” The man was courteous, but his face was solemn, even stern.
Looking at him, Elena could see the suspicion in his eyes.
“I was distressed, yes,” Ian replied, his tone equally serious. “He was clearly dead—”
“Clearly?” the policeman interrupted. “That much was plain to you? You have experience in such things, yes?”
“No,” Ian replied steadily. “But what live man is ashen-faced, and goes into a linen cupboard in a hotel, shuts the door on himself, and then falls so unconscious that even when the door is opened and he pitches out with his head at an impossible angle—”
“Yes. Yes, I see. You knew he was dead from the angle of his head, you are saying?”
“Yes. And the place he was found,” Ian added.
“But you recognized him?”
“No, I am not aware of having seen him before. But I may have, of course. If he is a local vendor. Works on the street, or behind a counter…” He let the sentence remain unfinished, as if the rest was obvious.
Standing beside him, Elena wanted to tuck her arm in his, to let him know that she was with him—and maybe let the policeman know, too. But it would be too obvious. Better not to speak unless she was asked. Overeagerness would raise suspicions—at least, it ought to. Did the policeman sense that somewhere in there, there was a lie? Maybe an important one? But since the man had clearly been murdered—you don’t fall down and break your own neck in a linen cupboard—who was to know what mattered and what did not?
The policeman turned his attention to Elena. “And you, Signorina…Standish, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Have you seen this man before? Did he trouble you? Was he perhaps overfamiliar? A nuisance? Did he pester you to buy something?”
She had had time to think. She gave a sad little smile. “No, I am certain, because nobody pestered me. Unless he was a waiter somewhere, I have never seen him before.”
“You think he may have been a waiter?”
“I’m saying I don’t remember seeing him, but I don’t remember everyone’s faces. I have been at an economic conference taking photographs, and I can definitely say he is not one of the delegates.”
“Why do you take pictures of economists?”
“It’s my job.”
“I see. Thank you, signorina, signore.” He waved his hand in a gesture inviting them to leave.
They did so, Elena with an air of relief that she sensed Ian felt, too, although he said nothing.
They each went to their own rooms and met again fifteen minutes later in the dining room. Everyone seemed to be lunching late, and the room was crowded, filled with laughter and even a few people dancing, although it was only two in the afternoon. They found a table and Elena looked around, but she did not see Margot. Perhaps she had gone along the coast to Sorrento? She had mentioned the possibility once or twice.
Elena took her seat, requested a light salad and fresh seafood—a mixture of shellfish and crustaceans—and warm, crusty rolls again, and a glass of sparkling wine. She couldn’t face the frenetic laughter, the desperation to taste every bit of flavor, of sunlight, the world of pleasure without its help. She looked at Ian and saw his rueful smile. He felt it, too. The room was full of people who did not live here. This was a dream from which they would all be awakened too soon. It was like the hour before a dawn that would show the reality of a harsher world. Maybe they did not see this as it truly was, but they did not need to. If it disappeared when they left, they would not know.
There was a small drama going on in one corner of the dance floor. The man was a little drunk and overamorous, the woman was slender, but with an impressive embonpoint. She was swaying to the music with her arms above her golden head and a woven garland of flowers hanging low around her neck. Several people were too tipsy to see that their antics were no longer amusing.
Beside Elena, Ian was watching in appalled fascination. The veneer of glamour was beginning to crack. He half rose in his seat.
“Sit down.” She leaned over and pulled on his arm. “You can’t help. You don’t know who they are or how they are together.”
Ian looked at her, and the tension eased out of him.
The girl with the yellow hair was laughing a little too loudly, her bosom swaying.
A man called out something about her figure.
“It is a bit much,” Ian agreed.
“Hanging Gardens of Babylon.” Elena voiced the thought that came into her head.
