Here my luck ran out. Galizia’s office was guarded by the most formidable secretary, an Englishwoman, left over perhaps from the British regime, who reminded me of the films of Joan Crawford and Bette Davis in their declining years, or perhaps Norma Desmond of Sunset Boulevard fame: makeup applied with a trowel, thinning and overdone hair, and a generally cranky disposition. Behind her on the wall were three photos: The center one was the de rigueur portrait of the titular head of state, the President; to his right was the Prime Minister, Charles Abela, whom I recognized from newspaper pictures; and to his left Minister Galizia. While protocol had been observed, I could not help but notice that Galizia’s picture dwarfed that of the Prime Minister. It was a better photo than those in the newspaper clippings, and a good sight better than the mere glimpse of him I’d had that day at the University, so I tried to memorize his features, should I have the pleasure of meeting him in person.
I summed up the secretary and decided that the imperious approach was my only chance. It was, I confess, singularly unsuccessful, but I’m not sure there was an approach that would have worked. A bribe was clearly out of the question, even had I been able to afford one.
“I would like to have a few minutes with the Minister, please,” I said.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked sharply.
“No, but I would be happy to make one,” I replied, appearing to retreat slightly. “How about ten-thirty this morning?” I said, glancing at my watch. It was 10:27.
She was not amused. “What is the nature of your business?”
“I’m a journalist from Canada doing a story on Martin Galea, the famous Maltese-born architect. I am aware the Minister was a childhood friend, and I would like to interview him about it.”
“You may speak to public relations, second floor.”
“I’m sure the people in public relations have not met Mr. Galea, and their comments would not, therefore, be helpful,”‘ I said. “When is the Minister available?”
I thought she would say something like “For you, never,” but she didn’t. Instead she turned to the telephone, which was awkwardly placed on the credenza behind her, perhaps her way of treating visitors with contempt. She dialed an extension and with her back to me spoke rapidly in Maltese. I couldn’t tell from her tone whether this was a positive call or not, but I was not optimistic.
As she spoke, I glanced down at her desk and saw a pile of invitations, a luscious cream paper embossed in gold, very swank. It appeared the Minister requested the pleasure of someone’s company at a reception at Palazzo Galizia that very evening, if I were reading correctly upside down. I assumed they were surplus invitations: There was a guest list under them which I couldn’t read.
The dragon still had her back to me and was whispering conspiratorially into the telephone, when much to my own surprise and horror, I found myself reaching quickly across the desk and plucking the top invitation off the pile. By the time she’d hung up and turned around, I’d pressed it between my handbag and my hip to conceal it, and the rationalization process had already begun: something along the lines of desperate times requiring desperate measures.
She gave me a triumphant smile and said, “Security is on its way. I suggest you leave before they get here.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll send you a copy of my article. I hope you’ll be pleased with the way you’re portrayed. By the way,” I tossed back at her as I opened the door to the stairwell, “you have lipstick on your teeth.” I had the satisfaction of seeing her reach for her compact as I beat an ignominious retreat. Childish, I know. Some people just bring out the worst in me!
I was about a half a block from the building when Tabone caught up with me and issued his invitation for a coffee. There were crowds of people on Republic Street when we got there, and it was closed to vehicular traffic at that hour, but one thing about traveling with a policeman: Small details like parking and closed streets are not a problem. Tabone pulled the police car up onto the sidewalk right by the Caffe Cordina and we went in. I wasn’t sure why he’d invited me there. It apparently wasn’t to discuss his investigations, because he wasn’t very forthcoming on that subject, nor did he make any reference to my being in the Palazzo Parisio, if indeed he had seen me come out of the building. I did learn, however, that Joseph would be brought back in for questioning again today.
“I don’t want to do it, frankly,” Tabone said. “But with that autopsy report on the books, there’s not much I can do about it. And he’s being such a stubborn old fool. Won’t tell anybody what he was doing in Rome. He took the first flight out one morning and came back the next day on the same flight as the deceased, except that Galea was traveling baggage class, of course.”
“So when do you expect to get another autopsy report?”
“Today, if we’re lucky. Caruana went to Rome to talk to the forensic lab technicians, and he’ll be back late today. I still think it was Mrs… Marilyn Galea. Rob’s colleagues have looked into Galea. It seems he’s given her lots of reasons to kill him. Quite a bit younger than she is. Fifteen years, I think. Known to stray, shall we say. And he probably married her for her money, which maybe he didn’t need anymore.”
“Yes, but why now? He’s been like that for years. What would set her off now, particularly?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was going to leave her for a twenty-year-old. Not unheard of, you know,” he said, smiling at me. Obviously he and I were going to have to agree to disagree on the subject of Marilyn Galea.
“And Ellis Graham?”
“We think that was a robbery, actually. All his money was gone, along with his ID.”
I’d assiduously avoided thinking much about Graham’s demise. It was so grotesque, a dead man held up by the sword on an empty suit of armor. But the unwanted picture now came into my mind as we talked: the body embracing the Knight, the bullet hole in the head, the sword straight through him, the rumpled clothes and hair.
In that instant I knew what I’d failed to notice at the time.
“Did you find Graham’s hat, by any chance?” I asked Tabone.
“Hat?” he said vaguely.
“His hat. Big brim, Australian outback style with one side turned up, tied under the chin. Leopard skin band too.”
Tabone didn’t say anything, but I could see the hat was news to him. I tried to get him to talk, but he clammed up and was being rather closemouthed about everything. Which was fair enough, since I’d had another thought that I couldn’t bring myself to share with him or anyone else. If I was so convinced that Graham’s and Galea’s deaths were linked in some way, who, other than myself, was related to both? The Farrugia family, Joseph, Marissa, and Anthony, that’s who. All of my Maltese friends had been in the marketplace when Graham was killed, but only the Farrugias had a relationship of any sort with Galea. It was a tenuous link, to be sure, and I was convinced of their innocence, but I was afraid that mentioning that I had seen them from the window of the museum while I was chasing Graham would not improve their chances with the police, and Tabone had said Joseph would be brought in again soon.
Tabone had brought a newspaper, the Times of Malta, and our conversation turned to the arrival of the foreign dignitaries in Malta to discuss the country’s entry into the European Union, among other things. The cover photo showed the British Foreign Minister being greeted at the airport by Galizia.
“Are you expecting any trouble?” I asked, gesturing toward the photo.