Death of a Dutchman (19 page)

'If I'm too late . . .'

He began to make for the administration building. As he came near he bellowed to the official who had let him telephone earlier. The man came out with a cigarette in his hand and pointed out the direction the Marshal wanted.

'He'll have a heart attack, if he doesn't watch it,' the man remarked to himself, tossing his cigarette into the gravel as he watched the Marshal thunder away. 'He'll not need to bother going home . . .'

When he had still some distance to go, the Marshal spotted the group of three he was looking for, but he didn't slow down until he was close enough to distinguish her face, until he knew she had seen him, until he saw she was terrified, too terrified to try to run away from the spot where the two men were busy about the opened grave.

The men only noticed him when they heard his panting breath, and then they paused in their work. He signed to them to carry on and they set about opening the coffin. The ossuary lay in wait beside it.

He kept his eyes fixed on hers. She was trembling a little and sweat was running in little runnels down each side of her powdered face. She might faint but she was going to stand her ground, staring defiantly back at the Marshal's black glasses. She was wearing a black dress and her chest rose and fell beneath it as if she, too, had run all the way there. The chinking of the workmen stopped, and they were both aware of the coffin's being open without looking down.

'Right, Signora . . . ?'

The men were waiting. The Marshal was determined not to look before she did. He wanted to see her face when she looked down into the coffin. She held out as long as she could, but the men showed signs of impatience; there was nothing she could do. Slowly, she lowered her gaze.

What had the Marshal expected to see on her face? Repentance? Grief? Perhaps just any sign of human feeling. He was disappointed. He saw her lips tighten and her chin withdraw in a little involuntary jerk as the familiar expression settled over her lined countenance.

/
had the right . . .

'All right, Signora?'

She nodded, and they prepared to go on with their work.

The Marshal only took a brief look knowing what he would see.

Signora Goossens's bones were clean, apart from a little mummified skin. Her burial gown, though dark yellow, remained intact until the shovel picked up the first bones when it disintegrated. When one of the skeletal crossed hands fell sideways off the ribs the tiny diamonds, emeralds and sapphires reflected the brilliant sunshine from their bed of lacy gold.

He turned away a little as the remains were shovelled without ceremony into the small ossuary that would be sealed into a wall.

'God rest her soul,' he said to himself, seeing her, long ago, listening to the blind man's proverbs, to Signora Giusti's complaints, enjoying the blessing of her second life . . . He heard the woman interrupt the workmen and he knew what she was doing.

'And God forgive me for having unknowingly maligned her . . .'

'A relative?' asked one of the workmen sympathetically afterwards, seeing that he was moved.

'No . . . no . . .'

'It's usual to have the priest . . .' murmured the workman with a disapproving glance at the woman. She was wearing the ring.

The Marshal didn't follow them to see the ossuary sealed in. Instead, he waited in the office where, in due course, the woman would have to come and sign the register to confirm that the remains had been identified and permanently re-buried. She might panic and run away, but after what he had just seen, he doubted it.

'I need to use your phone again.' If he had wondered before why, after the Dutchman's death, she hadn't left her sister's bones to rot in a communal grave, now he knew. He was powerless to prevent the sealing going ahead or to unseal the ossuary, without a warrant.

Funerals, quarrels and diamonds. And all of this because the sister, apart from anything else, had been too mean to pay for what Signora Giusti called 'a respectable burial'. She mustn't have known what burial in the ground would mean; it mustn't be the custom where she came from. And nobody had enlightened her, everybody assumed she knew —naturally, since she was supposed to be Signora Goossens who had lived many years in Italy and had respectably buried her husband in that same cemetery. Who would have thought fit to comment on her decision? Who even knew about it, apart, that is, from Toni who must have been the one to come up here and put those flowers on his parents'
loculo.
He knew, and he was sure that his stepmother wasn't the sort to leave her sister's bones neglected when the ten years was up . . .

'Hello? Lieutenant Mori, please. I know he's in conference with the Substitute Prosecutor, it's about that that I'm ringing . . . he's expecting . . . yes, yes, and hurry up . . . Hello? Hello? Thank you. Lieutenant? Marshal Guarnaccia. I have to be quick; I'm still at the cemetery. I've found out everything, or more or less everything. That woman isn't Signora Goossens but her sister. Signora Goossens died ten years ago and the sister registered the death in her own name ... yes ... yes—I don't know except that between the death and the funeral she shut herself in the flat and refused to see anybody, and after the funeral she left without coming back to the flat. The stepson was in Amsterdam, anyway, and no one seems to have been invited to the funeral. She settled in England well away from where Signora Goossens had lived and sold the English house through her solicitors... well, all she had to do was imitate the signature, letters can be typed ... in any case it seems they looked fairly alike, so ... I know because of the ring which I think I mentioned to you yesterday, a unique piece which Signora Goossens always wore and which wouldn't come off once she put on weight. It was still on the body which I've just seen exhumed. The sister was too mean to pay for a
loculo
and obviously didn't realize what a free burial in the ground would entail—I don't know, maybe it's not the case in England . . . The point is that the re-burial order was sent on to Amsterdam when it arrived here - . . it's easy to see why, all the mail addressed to Goossens T. was left at the studio for Signor Beppe to deal with; after all those years it's not surprising that neither he nor the postman remarked on the letter from the Council being marked Sig.ra and not Sig.

'The Dutchman had been expecting something of the sort because he mentioned the possibility of his stepmother turning up now. There are flowers on his parents' grave, which suggests he came up here when he was in Florence and so knew about the sort of burial . . . yes, it would be only natural . . . exactly, it was his one chance of seeing her—and I wouldn't be surprised if, in sending the letter on he offered to see to the re-burial himself if she couldn't bring herself to do it, and that would have been the end, he .would have seen the ring. At all events, she must have intended to come up here with her so she must have been desperate even before they actually met and he recognized her. She must have come out here quite prepared to—no, it's being sealed in, how could I stop them, we'll need a warrant . . . But there
is
evidence, the ring! All right, but surely he can take my word for it . . . !'

It was incredible! Surely, after all this they couldn't refuse . . .

'Yes. Yes, sir, I know you can only do your best—but there are witnesses; Signora Giusti . . .'

But Signora Giusti, the Lieutenant informed him, was still lying as they had left her except that there was now a nurse beside her. She had no specific injuries and she might well come round to her normal self at any time, it had happened before. But she also might not. If she lived there were plenty of witnesses to the fact that she was a chronic liar. An interview with the Substitute Prosecutor would be a heaven-sent opportunity for her to air her juiciest accusations.

The Marshal was beside himself.

'There's another witness! A neighbour who knew Signora Goossens for years! The blind flower-seller in the piazza—he'll swear this woman isn't her. All right, he's blind but . . . even so, he can still hear! He can still tell one person from another—yessir. Yessir. What should I do now? Very good, sir. I'll follow her as long as I can but if she leaves the country . . .'

If she left the country that was the end. If they hadn't enough evidence for a warrant now they could forget the whole thing. Impersonation wasn't an extraditable offence and they had nothing concrete on her as far as the murder was concerned.

He could see the woman approaching at a distance. It must be over. Quickly he dialled Pitti.

'I don't know who's supposed to be paying for all this,' grumbled the official. 'I'm supposed to pay for all my calls . . .'

The Marshal flung five hundred lire on the table and glowered at him.

'Gino? All right, lad?'

'Yes, sir. Lorenzini's been in and wanted to speak to you but he had to go out again. There are witnesses who saw that car being driven away this morning, a couple who happened to park their car right next to it just as it was being stolen. They've just come back and, when he saw what time they'd parked there, the attendant asked them to wait and came to tell us. Lorenzini's out there now getting a statement. He's left a message here, though, in case you rang—shall I read it out?'

'Never mind, it doesn't matter.'

'But, Marshal, Lorenzini said it was vital, that you needed to know urgently . . .' There was disappointment in Gino's voice.

'I know, but I've already found out. It was the death certificate of Theresa Goossens . . .'

'No, that's not the name—'

'That's right. . .of course it's not. . .what is her name?'

'Lewis.' He had difficulty pronouncing it. 'Joyce Lewis.'

'All right.' What sort of mentality did you have to register your own death like that? 'There's nothing else?'

'Only . . . the man from the Pensione Giulia phoned again. He was furious.'

'Oh, was he? And why was that?'

'Because . . .' Gino was embarrassed at having to repeat it. 'Because he says you're always round there pestering him—that's what he said, Marshal—'

'All right. Go on.'

'But that when he needs you you don't show up. If he rings again—'

'If he rings again tell him to call 113!' growled the Marshal.

The proprietor of the Pensione Giulia did ring again, speaking in a furious whisper:

'You get round here or I'll report you! Do you hear? I'm a respectable citizen and I have a right to help when I need it. All you lot ever think about is harassing people! But I'll have you fired! I know people in this town, I'm a personal friend of . . .'

Gino, who had never even heard of the influential people the man claimed as his friends, didn't know what to do. If somebody with influence tried to get him fired would the Marshal be able to stop him? He thought so. On the other hand, he'd heard of cases, not of people being fired, but of their being suddenly transferred. He had to stay in Florence with his brother. They had never been separated . . .

The phone rang again.

'Is somebody coming or not?'

'I . . . yes . . . someone will come ..." Perhaps Di Nuccio would . . .

'Well, make it quick, I'm telling you! This is serious!'

'I think you should phone Headquarters then, and they'll send a patrol car round . . .'

'I'm phoning you, aren't I? Because you're two minutes away. If I have to phone your Headquarters you'll be sorry.'

The respectable citizen didn't say that he didn't fancy having any trouble-shooters from Headquarters nosing around his place; the Marshal was a pest but there was a bit of give and take. Better the devil you know . . .

Gino put the phone down. Perhaps Di Nuccio . . .

Di Nuccio, still in his sullen and uncommunicative phase, was upstairs typing with the fan placed on the desk beside him and his shirt open to the waist.

From the top of the stairs Gino said:

'There's this man from the Pensione Giulia keeps ringing up wanting one of us to go round there ..."

'Tell the Marshal when he rings,' mumbled Di Nuccio without looking up from his work.

'I did. He said tell him to ring 113.'

"Well then.'

Gino waited but Di Nuccio went on typing without saying anything further. It was hopeless trying to talk to him this week.

'We need some mineral water,' he ventured timidly. 'That's the last bottle you've got there. Somebody will have to go to the bar . . .'

'Damn! Now you've made me make a mistake!' Di Nuccio had no real desire to trouble with getting himself smartened up to go out and get broiled. He typed a noisy row of X's irritably over his mistake.

'If you'll listen for the phone until Lorenzini comes in,' Gino said, 'I'll go.'

'The Substitute Prosecutor wasn't pleased, I can tell you... we haven't told the Consul yet so he must be wondering what these interruptions are all about. We'll have to tell him and the mother-in-law, I suppose, before they leave. Anything further at your end?'

What more do they expect? wondered the Marshal, but he said: 'No, except that she gets more and more frightened . . .'

They were in a tourist self-service restaurant and he had her in view from the cashier's desk where he was telephoning. She had selected an unappetizing array of brightly-coloured food and was sitting with it untouched before her, taking occasional sips of water with a trembling hand.

'She's so keyed up that if I moved in on her now she'd crack completely.'

'There's little chance of that, I'm afraid. We haven't been able to get in touch with the Instructing Judge who may or may not have signed the
Archiviazione.
It seems he's on an express train on his way up from Rome.'

'Then surely he won't have signed, since it was to be done after the funeral . . . It's something, anyway, if the Substitute Prosecutor wants to get in touch with him. At least that means—'

'It means he's covering himself against all eventualities. Nevertheless, he doesn't altogether disbelieve your story."

Good of him, thought the Marshal.

The woman still wasn't eating and one or two of the other customers had begun to stare at her. He was aware that on his right holidaymakers were streaming noisily past the window where, on a refrigerated stainless-steel shelf, rows of stemmed glass dishes held identical blobs of imitation ice-cream topped with bright red strawberries.