If one knew where to look, and if one was patient, all the facts were available.
Max Hornung and the computers had a wonderful rapport. They did not laugh at Max's accent, or the way he looked, or acted or dressed. To the computers Max was a giant. They respected his intelligence, admired him, loved him. They happily gave up their secrets to him, sharing their delicious gossip about the fools that mortals made of themselves. It was like old friends chatting.
"Let's talk about Sir Alec Nichols," Max said.
The computers began. They gave Max a mathematical sketch of Sir Alec, drawn in digits and binary codes and charts. In two hours Max had a composite picture of the man, a financial identi-kit.
Copies of bank receipts and canceled checks and bills were all laid out before him. The first puzzling item that caught Max's eye was a series of checks for large amounts, all made out to "Bearer," cashed by Sir Alec Nichols. Where had the money gone? Max looked to see if it had been reported as a business or personal expense, or as a tax deduction. Negative. He went back over the lists of expenditures again: a check to White's Club, a meat-market bill, unpaid...an evening gown from John Bates...the Guinea...a dentist's bill, unpaid...Annabelle's...one challis robe from Saint Laurent in Paris...a bill from the White Elephant, unpaid...a rates bill...John Wyndham, the hairdresser, unpaid...four dresses from Yves Saint Laurent, Rive Gauche...household salaries...
Max asked a question of the computer at the Vehicle Licensing Center.
Affirmative. Sir Alec owns a Bentley and a Morris.
Something was missing. There was no mechanic's bill.
Max had the computers search their memories. In seven years no such bill existed.
Did we forget something? the computers asked.
No, Max replied, you didn't forget.
Sir Alec did not use a mechanic. He repaired his own cars. A man with that mechanical ability would have no trouble causing an elevator, or a Jeep, to crash. Max Hornung pored over the arcane figures that his friends set before him, with the eagerness of an Egyptologist translating a set of newly discovered hieroglyphics. He found further mysteries. Sir Alec was spending a great deal more than his income.
Another loose thread.
Max's friends in the City had connections in many quarters. Within two days Max learned that Sir Alec had been borrowing money from Tod Michaels, the owner of a club in Soho.
Max turned to the police computers and asked questions. They listened, and they replied. Yes, we have Tod Michaels for you. Has been charged with several crimes, but never convicted. Suspected of being involved in blackmail, dope, prostitution and loan-sharking.
Max went down to Soho and asked more questions. He found out that Sir Alec Nichols did not gamble. But his wife did.
When Max was finished, there was no doubt in his mind that Sir Alec Nichols was being blackmailed. He had unpaid bills, he needed money fast. He had stock that would be worth millions, if he could sell it. Sam Roffe had stood in his way, and now Elizabeth Roffe.
Sir Alec Nichols had a motive for murder.
Max checked out Rhys Williams. The machines tried, but the information proved too sketchy.
The computers informed Max that Rhys Williams was male, born in Wales, thirty-four years of age, unmarried. An executive of Roffe and Sons. Salary eighty thousand dollars a year, plus bonuses. A London savings account with a balance of twenty-five thousand pounds, a checking account with an average balance of eight hundred pounds. A safety-deposit box in Zurich, contents unknown. All major charge accounts and credit cards. Many of the items purchased with them were for women. Rhys Williams had no criminal record. He had been employed at Roffe and Sons for nine years.
Not enough, Max thought. Not nearly enough. It was as though Rhys Williams was hiding behind the computers. Max remembered how protective the man had been when Max had questioned Elizabeth, after Kate Erling's funeral. Whom had he been protecting Elizabeth Roffe? Or himself?
At six o'clock that evening Max booked himself on an Alitalia economy flight to Rome.
Chapter 40
Ivo Palazzi had spent almost ten years carefully and skillfully building an intricate double life that not even his closest associates had penetrated.
It took Max Hornung and his computer friends in Rome less than twenty-four hours. Max held discussions with the computer at the Anagrafe Building, where vital statistics and city-administration data were kept, and he visited the computers at SID, and went to call on the bank computers. They all welcomed Max.
Tell me about Ivo Palazzi, Max said.
Happily, they replied.
The conversations began.
A grocery bill from Amici...a beauty salon bill from Sergio in the Via Condoitti...one blue suit from Angelo...flowers from Carducci...two evening dresses from Irene Galitzine...shoes from Gucci...a Pucci purse...utility bills...
Max kept reading the print-outs, examining, analyzing, smelling. Something smelled wrong. There were tuition fees for six children.
Have you made an error? Max asked.
Sorry. What type of error?
The computers at Anagrafe told me that Ivo Palazzi is registered as the father of three children. Do you verify six tuition fees?
We do.
You show Ivo Palazzi's address as being in Olgiata?
That is correct.
But he is paying for an apartment in Via Monte-mignaio?
Yes.
Are there two Ivo Palazzis?
No. One man. Two families. Three daughters by his wife. Three sons by Donatella Spolini.
Before Max was through, he knew the tastes of Ivo's mistress, her age, the name of her hairdresser, and the names of Ivo's illegitimate children. He knew that Simonetta was a blonde, and Donatella a brunette. He knew what size dresses and bras and shoes each wore and how much they cost.
Among the expenses several interesting items caught Max's eye. The amounts were small, but they stood out like beacons. There was a receipted check for a lathe, a plane and a saw. Ivo Palazzi liked to work with his hands. Max thought about the fact that an architect would probably know something about elevators.