Tabone shrugged and with some reluctance, I could tell, picked up the phone. After waiting for a few moments, Tabone spoke to someone in Maltese, and then, with a look of some surprise, jotted something on his notepad.
“Well, well,” he said as he hung up. “That was Abela’s secretary. She told me she was holding an evening a few nights ago for a private party. It didn’t show up on the official schedule because the Prime Minister apparently considered it personal, and because it was just penciled in as tentative. It was a small get-together, just five or six guests, at the home of Martin Galea. It was to be confirmed by Galea when he arrived, and of course, when he turned up dead, it was simply deleted from the diary.
“And guess who issued the invitation on behalf of Galea? Our friend Giovanni Galizia, of course.”
“Forgive me, but so what?” Rob said. “We have nothing linking the house with Sidjian.”
“Oh, I think we may,” I said slowly. “The first night I was here, I thought I saw someone, a man wearing a hood over his head, at the back of the yard. I was pretty frightened at the time, and I never saw him there again. But there was something about him, his stance, perhaps, and although I can’t prove it, I think it was Sidjian. When he was standing for that second or two on the edge of the cliff last night, before he went over… I don’t know… something just clicked.
“And there was the incident with the dead cat and the car. Strange, these kinds of incidents only happened after I arrived. The Farrugias have told me they’d never known anything like this.”
“It does sound as if someone wanted you to leave the house,” Tabone agreed. “But you, being exceedingly stubborn, didn’t budge.”
“I didn’t. I think that right from the start, the idea of using the house as the site of the assassination just didn’t work out. They would need to have access to the house at some point, to move the weapon in and look the place over, but the workmen were there all day, and I was there at night. So they tried to scare me off, but that didn’t work. That’s when Sidjian started to develop plan B, the play at Mnajdra.”
“And Galea? Are you saying they killed him so they could use his house? Rather drastic, wouldn’t you say? And surely that wouldn’t work. The party wouldn’t go on if he didn’t show up.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “Unless, of course, they were going to pretend he was there. When I first saw Sidjian, at Mnajdra that first day, I thought to myself that he looked a Utile like Galea. Do you think he might have been planning to impersonate him?”
“Could do, I suppose,” Tabone said. “It does sound a little far-fetched, though, you have to admit. In any event, Sidjian was already here. He arrived at the same time you did, so he couldn’t have been in Toronto killing Galea.”
I shrugged. “I know. But what about Francesco? Where was he and what was he doing all this time?”‘
“Good question,” Tabone said to me, as a young policeman came to the door with an envelope. As he took it, Tabone said, “No way to find out until we know who he is, either. Maybe this will help,” he said, taking two photographs out of the envelope. “Take at look at these for me, will you?”
The two photos were placed in front of me. I looked carefully at each. They were not very good quality, having been taken with a long lens from a considerable distance, I thought, but they were good enough. I pointed to one.
Tabone grimaced at me. “Afraid you’d pick that one. Franco Falcone, actually Franco Falzon. Maltese, regrettably. From Xemxija on St. Paul’s Bay. Left Malta as a very young man to go to Italy, where clearly he picked up some nasty habits.”
“Franco the troublemaker,” I said. “The boy who grew up to be a gangster. That’s it! That’s what we need!” I was up and dancing around the room.
“What is she talking about?” Tabone asked Rob in a puzzled tone. “Is it shock, do you think?”
“Franco the troublemaker. That rings a bell. Why does that ring a bell?” Rob asked me.
“Three pals at school. Marcus the young bull, Giovanni the rat, and Franco the troublemaker. Marcus grew up to be an architect, Giovanni became External Relations Minister, but Franco grew up to be a gangster. Ask the Hedgehog.”
“The Hedgehog?” Tabone groaned. Rob just grinned at me.
“Grizzled old guy who sits on a deck chair beside the grocery store at some steps that lead up the hill in Mellieha. If anyone would know about this, the Hedgehog would,” Rob said.
“Send Esther,” I added. “Tell her to take a six-pack of Cisk lager. He’ll like her. I’d tell her to mention my name, but he wouldn’t remember me.” Tabone threw up his hands. “Don’t worry,” I said. “He may not remember me, but he’ll remember Giovanni the rat and Franco the troublemaker just fine.”
Rob turned to Tabone, still smiling. “I’m calling this name in, Vince. See what we can find out about Falcone’s and his activities in the last while. Back soon,”‘ he said as he left the room. While we waited, Tabone got on the phone to Esther and gave her instructions on how to find the Hedgehog. “Get on this, Esther. It may be the break we need in this mess.”
About fifteen minutes later, Rob returned with a rather bemused expression on his face. “I’m a bit reluctant to tell you this, because I can already see what you’ll want to do with this bit of information,” Rob said slowly, “but I guess I have to. I’ve just been talking to a friend of mine in the CIA. I’d called him with Lara’s ID of Falcone and asked him what information he had on the man. I mean, we know how Sidjian got here, but where did Falcone come from? As it turns out, the Americans have been wondering where Franco went to. The CIA caught a glimpse of him in a random check of airport video footage a week or so ago—he’s a known criminal wanted all over the place—but he’d vanished without a trace. The photograph you saw, Lara, was taken off the videotape, which is why it was rather grainy. On a hunch, I asked them to check where he was videotaped and when—the tape will give them that—and then to check them against flight schedules and departure gates at that time. It seems our friend was just a few yards from a gate where a flight bound for guess where was about to take off.”
“Rome,” Tabone said.
“Malta,” I chipped in.
“Both wrong. Toronto!” the Mountie said. “About twenty-four hours before Galea died.”
“So are you saying Lara might be right about Galea being killed because of the assassination plans? Do you think it was Franco who killed Galea and then used his ticket and travel documents?” Tabone exclaimed.
“It’s a long shot, but I suppose it’s possible. On the strength of this bit of information, let’s throw caution to the winds here, and see if we can pull it all together.”
“Sidjian does the deal with Galizia and checks on the PM’s schedule,” Tabone hypothesized. “Not too many opportunities here, because as we know Abela’s been ill. But there is the soiree at Galea’s house and they decide to do it there. Sidjian makes his way from France, planning to set up operations in the house. Franco kills Galea in Toronto to get him out of the way, then travels to Rome using Galea’s documents. I suppose Sidjian could have planned to impersonate Galea. I mean, Galizia knew what Galea looked like, they grew up together, but the Prime Minister might not, nor might the others. Galea left here a long time ago, and he’s an architect, not a movie star, after all. Galea was not exactly a household name around here, at least not until he died. And if Galizia were the perpetrator of all this, then he wouldn’t say anything. Marissa and Joseph might be a problem, but, not, I would think, an insurmountable one. They could be avoided. I’m not sure he’d have to, however. With Galea out of the way, he could just wait in the house until the victim showed up.