The English Assassin

Zurich?”
    “You have the stub of my train ticket. You know that I arrived this morning.”
    The detective pulled a frown that said he did not like suspects telling him what he did and didn’t know.
    “Where did you go after you arrived?”
    “Straight to the villa.”
    “You didn’t check into your hotel first?”
    “No, I didn’t know where I was staying yet.”
    “Where were you planning to stay?”
    “As you can see from the note that was left for me at the villa, arrangements had been made for me to stay at the Dolder Grand Hotel.”
    Baer overlooked this seeming misstep and carried on.
    “How did you get from Hauptbahnhof to the villa?”
    “By taxi.”
    “How much was the fare?”
    “About fifteen francs.”
    “What time did you arrive at the villa?”
    “Two minutes after nine o’clock.”
    “How can you be so certain of the time?”
    “Look at the fax from Julian Isherwood. I was told to arrive at precisely nine o’clock. I don’t make a habit of being late for appointments, Sergeant-Major Baer.”
    The detective smiled in admiration. He was a prompt man, and he appreciated punctuality and attention to detail in others, even if he suspected them of murder.
    “And when you arrived at the villa?”
    “I used the security phone, but no one answered. So I called Mr. Isherwood in London. He told me that the person who was supposed to meet me had been called out of town suddenly.”
    “Is that what he said? ‘Called out of town’?”
    “Something like that.”
    “And this Mr. Isherwood gave you the codes?”
    “Yes.”
    “Who gave Mr. Isherwood the codes?”
    “I don’t know. The man’s lawyer, I suppose.”
    “Did you write the codes down?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “It wasn’t necessary.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I memorized the codes.”

    “Really? You must have a very good memory, Signore Delvecchio.”
     
    THEdetective left the room for fifteen minutes. When he returned, he had a cup of coffee for himself and nothing for Gabriel. He sat down and resumed where he had left off.
    “These arrangements seem peculiar to me, Signore Delvecchio. Is it customary that you are kept unaware of the artist until you arrive to begin work on a restoration?”
    “No, it isn’t customary. In fact, it’s unusual.”
    “Indeed.” He sat back and folded his arms, as though this admission were tantamount to a signed confession. “Is it also customary that you are not given the name of the owner of a painting you are restoring?”
    “It’s not unheard of.”
    “Rolfe.” He looked at Gabriel to see if the name produced any reaction, which it did not. “The person who owns the painting is named Augustus Rolfe. He is also the man you murdered in the villa.”
    “I didn’t murder anyone, and you know it. He was killed long before I arrived in Zurich. I was still on the train when he was murdered. A hundred people can place me on that train.”
    The detective seemed unmoved by Gabriel’s argument. He sipped his coffee. “Tell me what happened after you entered the villa.”
    Gabriel recounted the chain of events in a dull monotone: the dark entrance hall, groping for the light switch, the unsigned letter in the bowl on the table, the strange odor in the air as he entered the drawing room, the discovery of the body.

    “Did you see the painting?”
    “Yes.”
    “Before you saw the body or after?”
    “After.”
    “And how long did you look at it?”
    “I don’t know. A minute or so.”
    “You’ve just discovered a dead body, but you stop to look at a painting.” The detective didn’t seem to know what to make of this piece of information. “Tell me about this painter”—he looked down at his notes—“Raphael. I’m afraid I know little of art.”
    Gabriel could tell he was lying but decided to play along. For the next fifteen minutes, he delivered a detailed lecture on the life and work of Raphael: his training and his influences, the innovations of his technique, the lasting relevance of his major works. By the time he had finished, the policeman was staring into the remains of his coffee, a beaten man.
    “Would you like me to go on?”
    “No, thank you. That was very helpful. If you did not kill Augustus Rolfe, why did you leave the villa without telephoning the police? Why did you try to flee Zurich?”
    “I knew the circumstances would appear suspicious, so I panicked.”
    The detective looked him over skeptically, as if he did not quite believe