Death of a Dutchman (20 page)

'He pointed out, of course . . . are you still there, Marshal?'

'Yes.'

'He pointed out that we still have nothing concrete, that Signora Goossens could have given this ring you mentioned to her sister.'

'Except that she couldn't get it off, if you remember.'

'That's something that would be pretty impossible to prove at this stage. In any case, as a piece of evidence it doesn't weigh very heavily against the woman's embarkation card—you hadn't forgotten about that?'

It was true that he had ceased to think about it. But if there were no longer two suspects and this woman had only entered the country on Tuesday, the day after the Dutchman's death . . .

'There's no chance of there being any mistake?'

'Hardly. We all know what the French customs and immigration are like ... in any case I saw her ticket which was for that date.'

'I see.'

'You don't think,' the Lieutenant suggested hopefully, 'that she might have an accomplice, a man perhaps, whom we know nothing about?'

'No . . .' The Marshal looked across at her; she was dabbing shakily at her mouth with a handkerchief. 'No, I'd say she was a loner.'

'Well, there it is then. I've got someone checking on where the Dutchman bought his food—I was able to persuade the social worker to let me borrow a photograph from Signora Giusti's album. I take it you've ceased to suspect the old lady?'

'Yes.'

'Well, we'll do what we can . . .'

There was something about that 'we' that included officers and magistrates only; the Marshal very much feared he had lost his only ally. He put through a call to Pitti next, staring straight at the woman as he did it. She was only a hairsbreadth from collapse but her iron hard selfishness was keeping her going even as her frightened eyes watched his every move. He was her enemy. She couldn't know that he was powerless to touch her and no doubt she imagined that his phone calls concerned traps he was setting for her all over the city. Had she been able to hear them she would have been baffled.

'Gino? Oh, it's you, Di Nuccio. Has Lorenzini come in?'

'Yes, he's only just started his lunch. Shall I call him?'

'There's no need. Just tell him to stand by, I may need him again. Where's Gino, anyway?'

'He went for the water.'

It was very hot. The streets were empty when Gino walked down Via Mazzetta towards Piazza Santo Spirito after dropping off the empties at the bar on the corner. He would collect the full water bottles on his way back. He had decided that he would call at the Pensione Giulia just to keep the proprietor quiet, and if there really was a problem he would ring Headquarters himself. That way, he thought, he would be suiting everybody. The Marshal hadn't meant it about 113, he had only said that because he was in a temper about something. Anyway, he'd had to come out for the water so it was only common sense, whichever way anyone looked at it . . .

The proprietor was waiting anxiously behind the door upstairs.

'You took your time! This way, they're in room ten.'

'Wait,' Gino said, for though he knew very little of the world he had learnt from the Marshal to be cautious. 'Tell me first what's going on.'

The man looked nervously towards the corridor that led to the bedrooms and said in an undertone:

'There are two rum characters holed up in there that I don't like the look of at all, and I'm sure that at least one of them is armed. I got a glimpse of a holster . . .

'Listen . . , two youngsters booked into that room last night. They arrived late on the train from Rome. Nice kids, well-dressed, good-looking . . . and plenty of money ... I could see that right away. The room's booked for two nights. After they'd gone out this morning, these two rum characters turned up. They gave me a fright, I can tell you.'

'Why?'

'Why? Well, just their attitude. They started off asking for the young couple, polite enough, but when I said they were out but were expected back before lunch, they looked at each other, funny-like, and went off muttering in the corner over there. Eventually, they said they'd wait. They insisted on waiting in the room itself and since I have no sitting-room . . . well, I didn't like to refuse. I found them a bit sinister, you know what I mean? I called you right away, you know, so if anything happens . . .

'They've been in there ever since . . . they insisted I didn't say anything to the couple when they came in, that they wanted it to be a surprise. Well, I know from experience what that sort of surprise means . . .'

'You do?'

'In a manner of speaking.' The respectable citizen pulled up sharply. 'The things I've read in the papers . . ,'

'And what happened when the young couple came back, or did they? Gino was copying all this carefully into his notebook.

'Well, I warned them, didn't I? I don't want anything nasty happening on my premises. They left straight away.'

'What time was that?'

He calculated. 'Just over an hour ago. That's when I started calling you again ... if those two come out they're going to start on me, aren't they?'

'This couple: they left without their luggage and without offering any explanation as to who the two men might be?'

'Well, they'll be back, of course.' He sounded a little less sure of his ground now. 'They haven't even paid me. I watched them go from the window there. They got into their little car and drove off round the block.'

'Just over an hour ago.' Gino looked at his watch. 'What time did they leave the first time?'

'Early-ish ... I suppose just after eight.'

At half past a car was stolen at Pitti.

'You said before they came on the train.' Check all the ordinary details, the Marshal always said.

'So they did . . . Well, maybe they borrowed a car ... I never thought . . . What are you going to do?'

'Ring Headquarters.' What else would the Marshal do? 'And look at your blue register.'

'Lieutenant? It's me. Any news?'

'Nothing. Someone will meet the Ambrosiano express when it gets in from Rome and collect the Magistrate. Where are you now?'

'Back at the Pensione Giottino where she's staying. She's in her room, supposedly taking a nap.'

But she wasn't asleep. The Marshal, to the manager's fury, had gone up to the next floor and knelt down unashamedly to look through the keyhole. She was sitting rigidly on the edge of the bed, staring straight ahead and wringing a small handkerchief between her thin, claw-like hands.

'There's not much I can do unless the Substitute Prosecutor decides . . .' The Lieutenant sounded nerve-racked. Was he wishing he'd never got into this?

The Marshal persisted. 'You said you saw her train ticket; what made her show it to you?'

'I think I'd told her that the funeral was Thursday and she said she thought her booking on the return journey was for Wednesday. She got it out to check and I took the opportunity . . .'

'The opportunity she was offering you, sir,' finished the Marshal as politely as he could. Why couldn't there have been an experienced man on the job! 'I don't know how often there's a flight to England, but if she took one on Monday, could she not have got there in time to get the train back and arrive here on Tuesday?'

'I'm not sure . . .'

The Marshal waited patiently.

'I'll speak to the Substitute Prosecutor; if he agrees we could start checking. It would take time, of course . . .'

'And we haven't got any. Even so . . .'

'I'll do what I can. In the meantime, if you want to get home, I could try and get him to send someone . . .'

But the Marshal had to stick it out to the end, even if she won. It was no longer a matter of choice. He had no willpower to do anything other than doggedly follow this woman who filled him with horror, plodding after her until some outside force separated them.

'No,' he said, 'I'll go on waiting here.'

CHAPTER 10

Gino made one last phone call.

'Di Nuccio? It's Gino ... at the Pensione Giulia, since I was passing . . . Listen, can you check two names for me against the list?'

There was no need to say which list. He read the names out from the blue register.

'They are? Thought to be in Rome, that's what I remembered seeing. Yes, here, or they were . . . nothing yet except to call Headquarters, and in any case they've got away, but there are two men here who will be the agents who are following them . . . No, I won't, except to tell them that they got away in a 500—yes, it must be because that would be about the time that they stole it, so if you'll give me the number . . . right . . . yes, I've got that. I'll tell them straight away so they can get after it, and then I'll wait here for the men from Headquarters and explain. Right, see you later.'

Gino tore the bit of paper from the telephone pad where he had scribbled the car number.

'Show me to the room quickly!'

Sirens could be heard faintly in the distance.

'None of this is my fault,' cried the proprietor, now thoroughly frightened. 'I called you right away. I'm covered.'

The two of them ran along the squalid strip of carpet that led to room number ten. The sirens were getting louder.

The two Digos agents who had been waiting tensely for two hours inside the room heard the frantic wail of the sirens and the two sets of running footsteps at the same time. The Couple they were following had six killings to their names and were known, on occasion, to use submachine-guns. The first agent had fired two shots before the door burst open. The other fired a split second later. By the time they saw Gino there was a small red hole like a third eye between the two mildly surprised blue ones.

'Bloody young fool!' screamed one of the agents at Gino as he fell, back and cracked his blond head against the door jamb.
'Bloody young fool?

The other, terrified out of his senses, was still firing uselessly against the wall.

The Marshal's last call came from the station at ten minutes past two. The woman had appeared suddenly at the pensione reception desk, her face covered in red blotches but her expression determined. He knew, even before she had ordered the taxi, that she was going to try and leave, defying him to stop her. When the receptionist had tried and failed to get her a seat on the afternoon flight she had asked for a taxi to take her to the station. The ticket she had shown the Lieutenant, although it had a couchette booking for Wednesday, was valid for three months.

'It's me, Guarnaccia. We're at the station. She's leaving.'

'What time?'

'Now, more or less. Does it matter now, anyway?'

'It might. We've found that she flew in to Pisa last Sunday. There isn't a flight out after the time the Dutchman war killed so she couldn't have left again until Monday morning at the earliest, which means she must have flown back to get to London in time to take the train she did. It also means she must have stayed somewhere on Sunday night. We're checking every possible place, but we're largely dependent on luck now, on hitting the right place early on. The Magistrate's train gets in at thirteen minutes past two. What time's her train?'

'In about twenty minutes.'

'I see. That makes it seem pretty hopeless. I'll go on with it, anyway. There's always the chance that her train might be late.'

'It already is late, curse it.'

That was just the trouble. He had followed her to the station where she had gone to try and change the booking for her couchette..

'Booking's closed for that train, I'm sorry. It's been taken off the computer. In any case, couchettes for Calais were booked up two days ago, so . . .'

If the woman had made a fuss or lost her temper, the clerk would probably have started serving someone else and ignored her, but she stood there staring at him, paralysed. Having got herself this far, she was evidently incapable of re-thinking or even of turning back. Sensing this, the clerk felt obliged to say something.

'Do you want me to check tomorrow night's train?'

She stared at him uncertainly. Taking her silence for assent, he tapped out the code and waited for a printed card to come out of the machine. When it did, he said: 'That's booked up, too. I'm sorry, Signora.'

Still she stood there, unable to take her eyes off him, willing him to get her on to a train. He scratched his head, staring down at the card.

'Can't you stay another day or so?' he asked, wanting to cheer her up a bit. 'Don't you like Florence? Stay with us a bit longer and I'll see when I can get you a couchette . . . weekend's difficult but Monday's often quieter . . . what do you say?' He even, recognizing her accent, tried to ask her in English: 'You like Florence? A beautiful city? A few days more, eh?'

The Marshal was standing to one side of the ticket window, a few feet away from her. He saw a bead of sweat break on her temple and trickle down towards her neck. The queue behind had begun to take an interest in the case and now a white-suited man pushed his way to the front to offer advice.

'Surely, if it's a matter of an emergency, the Signora could travel without a couchette.'

'That's true,' put in a woman, 'I've done it myself and it's not all that bad. Only as far as Paris, mind you, but even so . . .'

'Not on this train,' the clerk tutted and wagged his finger. 'Couchettes only. There are no ordinary seats. It's always possible that someone may cancel, of course, but I can't help you there. It means waiting until the train comes in and speaking to the
chef-du-train
... if you want, though. I can check the Amsterdam carriage, there were a couple of places on that when I last—what's the matter? Don't look so frightened, I'm not trying to pack you off to Holland! All the carriages travel together as far as Thionville, in France; you could change to an ordinary carriage when they re-make the train tomorrow morning.'

'Poor thing, look at her, she doesn't look fit to cope . . .'

'Travelling gets worse every year . . .'

'She's in black, too; I think she must be bereaved . . .'

'What's the problem?' Another railway official had come up to his colleague behind the window. 'Here. Someone will collect this ticket at three. I'm going off. What's the hold-up here?'

'This Signora wants to take the Holland express, the nineteen-forty-one this evening, but the couchettes for Calais are booked up.'

'Well, her ticket's valid three months; she must go when it's not booked up.'

'I know, but it's the same tomorrow night, and ..." He indicated the woman's black garb and blotchy white face, so incongruous among all the healthy brown limbs and light summer clothes.

'Just a minute.' The second clerk hurried out of the booking-office and reappeared in seconds with a solution.

'Express two hundred,, the thirteen-twenty-seven Holland-Italian—no couchettes on it at this end but she'll get a seat and couchettes will be added further north. She'll have to change in Milan.'

'But surely, it's gone . . . ?'

'Should have done. Travelling seventy minutes late. It hasn't got here yet . . .'

The Marshal had been obliged to lose sight of her while he telephoned, not that it mattered now. After hanging up he made his way slowly through the crowds and potted palms to the board showing the composition and departure platforms of the principal trains.

'Thirteen-twenty-seven . . . platform ten . . . let's hope it's at this end . . . no . . . Basilea . . . Amsterdam . . . baggage . . . Oberhausen . . . here we are . . . Milan but first class . . . second . . . seven carriages and probably half a mile to walk . . .'

But still he didn't ask himself whether he was wasting his time.

As he plodded along the platform to its furthest point, he thought rather that the Lieutenant seemed to have undergone another change of heart and was hot for the chase again, which was odd.

The Marshal wasn't to know that, quite by chance, a young journalist, hanging around Headquarters on the look-out for a story, had spotted the Dutch Consul coming out of the Substitute Prosecutor's office and recognized him. With a bit of effort he had uncovered the whole story.

'It's got everything,' he had told his editor excitedly on the telephone. 'Family row, priceless heirloom, mistaken identity, ten-year-old mystery unravelled . . .'

Already the headlines were being prepared for tomorrow:

MYSTERY DEATH OF INTERNATIONAL DIAMOND MERCHANT! FAMILY SECRET BURIED WITH CORPSE!

The journalist and one or two of his colleagues had rushed to the cemetery, the goldsmith's home, and back to the Carabinieri Headquarters where they cornered the Substitute Prosecutor and the Lieutenant. The Substitute Prosecutor had practically snatched the Goossens file from the Lieutenant's hand.

'We've been investigating this for some days now, naturally . . .'

'And you have a lead?'

'Let's say we have a number of indications, all of which we are checking on very carefully.'

'Do you expect to make an arrest? What's to stop this woman leaving the country?'

'Up to now, I'm afraid, nothing.'

And since they knew there wasn't a train until seven-forty-one in the evening, they had all dashed off to the airport in Pisa.

'Express two hundred, the thirteen-twenty-seven from Rome, for Basle, Lucerne, Frankfurt, Paris, Brussels, Amsterdam and Calais is about to arrive at platform eleven, travelling seventy minutes late ..."

The Marshal was no longer alone. The Magistrate's clerk who was waiting for the Ambrosiano to arrive from Rome spotted him and came across to ask if he was there for the same reason. Then the Magistrate himself arrived and the three of them were together on platform eleven when the Holland Express pulled in. The
Archiviazione
had not been signed.

As they talked, all three of them continually glanced down the platform, wondering if at any minute a warrant would arrive.

The woman got into the train.

The platform was suddenly alive with trucks of newspapers, sandwiches and drinks, and a motor was coming along pulling a long baggage train. There was a huge stack of post to be taken on board; it would be some time yet before the train left. People got in and out or wandered along the corridors, blocking them with cumbersome luggage. A girl came up and asked the Marshal in German: 'The carriage for Oberhausen?' thinking, perhaps, that he was some sort of railway official.

He indicated the label saying Milano and pointed. 'Further back.'

In the operations room at Headquarters, the Lieutenant was pacing up and down nervously. Every now and then he would stop at one of the switchboards and say: 'Nothing yet?'

'Nothing. Do you want me to try places out in the suburbs?'

'I don't think so . . . Wait! I wonder if she would have dared try and use her own old passport? Not for the journey but in some not too particular hotel ... It would be out of date, since she had been officially "dead" for ten years and she would hardly have dared try and renew it even had there been time, which was hardly possible. She had had so little warning of the reburial. Try it! Because if she registered under a false name on Sunday night we've got her—and if she decides to claim it as her real name then we've got her for registering at the Giottino under a false one!'

They began to check under Simmons, the married name of Signora Goossens's sister, elicited from the goldsmith an hour earlier. If they could arrest her for a false registration they would have time to investigate the whole case. It was the one thing that would help them.

The Marshal had the piece of information they wanted in his top pocket, but he didn't know they were looking for it, and he didn't know the married name of the woman. He only knew her as Joyce Lewis, as mispronounced to him over the telephone by Gino. All Italian official documents are made out in a woman's maiden name.

The passengers were now shut into the train and many of them were hanging out of the windows, reaching down to try and touch the hands of those who were seeing them off. The baggage truck was trundling away and the food trolley was already out of sight down near the ticket barrier. The train was so long that it took three guards signalling in relays, each with a sharp blast on his whistle and his green sign held aloft, to start it. It slid backwards out of the station, almost noiselessly at first. The Marshal's last glimpse of the woman showed her sitting erect and still very tense, staring straight ahead of her, but, as if hypnotized by his intense gaze, she couldn't prevent herself from a rapid glance in his direction, and he saw the beginnings of a look of triumph in her frightened eyes.

The train picked up speed noisily as the carriages rolled interminably by. Most of it was out of sight round a distant bend by the time the last of the passengers, the ones in the carriages going to Amsterdam and Basilea, began to shout and wave.

The Magistrate and his clerk offered the Marshal a lift. He thanked them and said he would rather walk. He was so tired he would have to send Lorenzini for his car.

It was over, then, and he felt nothing except weariness and relief. His only desire was to get back to his Station, to his lads, to his own world. He had been struggling like a fish out of water, trying to cope with people he didn't understand and with work for. which he had neither the brains nor the training. Well, he had brought it on himself so there was no point in trying to blame anybody else.

He no longer knew or cared whether he had been right or wrong in his suspicions.

What made him look up as he crossed the river? He had forgotten all about the young Count. Nevertheless, there' he was at the first-floor window, looking out hopefully. No doubt the pale face had been there yesterday afternoon, too, as promised. But the Marshal was too exhausted to bother with him. Perhaps tomorrow . . .

He trudged down Via Maggio and was about to cut through to the left when he remembered the calls from the Pensione Giulia. He could ring when he got back to the Station, of course, but it might be better to call there now, so that once he got home he could sink into a chair and forget everybody. After all, this was supposed to be his free day! He crossed to the right of Via Maggio and carried on walking. The road was quiet in the heat, the shops still closed. Not a soul observed the heavy, plodding figure as it made its way slowly along the narrow pavement, or when it stopped, and after a quick consultation with a small black notebook, moved on again, its pace quicker and more purposeful than before.