Death of a Dutchman (22 page)

She had certainly seemed to have some bad luck. Nobody had explained to her what burial in the ground entailed, assuming that it was something everyone knew. And nobody had noticed that the letter from the Council to Goossens T. was for once marked Sig.ra instead of Sig., so that the postman had left it with Signor Beppe and Signor Beppe had sent it on to Amsterdam where the Dutchman had been hoping for just such an opportunity for a happy reunion. A lot of bad luck. Nevertheless, she'd had ten years of living her sister's life, of spending her sister's money.

Sooner or later, he would have to explain everything to the Lieutenant, but not now ... he couldn't cope now . . .

'Are you all right, Marshal?'

'Yes ... I'm all right.'

'I'm sorry ... I wasn't thinking ... It was one of your boys, wasn't it?'

'One of my boys, yes, sir.'

'I hadn't forgotten. I just thought that you'd like to know . . . well, that you were right.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

'I shall need you tomorrow. We're going on checking the hotels where we left off. We think she may have used her old passport in a not-too-fussy hotel—she must have stayed somewhere on Sunday night.'

'Was her married name really Simmons?'

'Yes. Maiden name Lewis, married name Simmons—why? Do you think you can help?'

'She stayed at the Pensione Giulia. Her passport number was on the register but not the date of issue. I was going to check up on it this afternoon, but then . . .'

When the Lieutenant rang off, the Marshal found he was feeling a little more in possession of himself. Probably it was just because he had talked to somebody, filled the silence for a while. It wasn't that he felt any better for having been right. He didn't feel any more 'right' now than he had before. He only felt lonelier.

Even so, he persuaded himself that he must have a shower. Once in his pyjamas, he was convinced that he felt perfectly normal and was coping well.

In fact, he had left the lights on in the office. He had quite forgotten that he had eaten nothing. He had also forgotten something else.

The telephone started ringing again.

, 'Whoever can it be this time?' He went back into the office in his pyjamas, and was surprised to find the lights on.

'Yes?'

'Salva! Whatever's happened? I've been waiting almost an hour!'

It was Thursday. He hadn't telephoned his wife, who must have been waiting at the priest's house all this time.

'Teresa . . . I'm sorry . . .' How could be begin to explain? 'Didn't you watch the news?'

'No, of course not, I was on my way here. You haven't had an accident? Salva!'

'No, no, I'm all right. It's one of my boys . . .'

When he had told her, she said: 'You mustn't blame yourself.'

'Of course not,' he lied. But he was thinking, If I'd only been here . . .

To distract him, she said, 'The boys are getting so excited . . . they want to buy a new beach ball . . .'

'I'll bring them one . . . Listen, about Mamma.' The holidays had brought Signora Giusti to mind. 'If you think this hospital idea is a good one . . . well, you're the one who does all the work, and you need a rest . . .'

'Oh, but you made me forget! With this terrible business about the boy . . . Nunziata went to see the boss after I'd told her you were against the hospital idea—there was nothing he could do, of course, because everybody's holidays were fixed. Anyway, she got in a bit of a state and I think she was crying—well, after all, she'd been promised. Anyway, while she was there-a woman came into the office wanting time off straight away instead of in August. Just fancy! A woman whose child had to go into hospital. It's an ill wind . . . Well, with Nunziata being there what could he do but give her the August fortnight ... So, you see, you were right. It was best to wait like you said.'

Why did being told that once again he was right serve to depress him even more? For some reason he was thinking of the newborn baby that must be lying in one of those painted metal cribs, in a hospital somewhere in Amsterdam. Would he inherit his father's talent? What difference could it possibly make to his tragic start in life that an obscure Italian policeman had been right about what happened to his father? The Marshal could feel that he was transmitting his depression to his wife. To distract her, he gave her as brief an account as he could of the Dutchman's story, the ring, the vicious sister. It sounded not only remote but outlandish when he summarized it. But it did the trick; his wife was intrigued.

'You'll tell me all the details when you come home?'

'Of course, if it interests you. You'll probably see it in the papers before then ..."

'I think it's fascinating. Especially about the ring . . . and the way these people travel about. . . they must have money... and talent too, just imagine. What an interesting family!'

'I suppose so.'

But it all seemed so far away.

'Didn't you find them fascinating? After all, it's not often that you have to deal with a business like that.'

He thought again of the baby in its crib, of the Italo-Dutch boy in his black artisan's smock weeping at the kitchen table and his father standing over him, big and helpless, of Signora Goossens sitting among the blind man's flowers and reminiscing about her English garden, of a woman looking down into a coffin without flinching, a blonde girl with her dog in a Dutch garden . . . and her mother who was perhaps already travelling north on the Holland Express . . .

'I suppose you're right,' he said at last. 'They are a fascinating family, it's just that, well,' he finished lamely, 'I never spoke to any of them ... I think we'd better say good night, now.'

And because he could never manage to say anything endearing over the telephone, he said:

'Sleep well.'