Death of a Dutchman (3 page)

'I'll see to it. Don't worry.'

How could he tell her she was years behind the times, that to be 'buried respectably' these days would cost her between a million and two million lire? Her precious little bag of money would only pay for flowers and the photograph.

There was nothing he could say.

'I'll have to be going . . .'

'But you will speak to that woman from the Council? You'll explain why I have to stay here and defend my last few lire?'

'But I don't come into it. There's no reason why she should bother about what I say . . .'

'She'll have to listen to you, don't you understand? Because of the prowler in the flat next door.'

'
The prowler?'

'Yes, the prowler! Well, that's what I called you for! I explained it all to that boy who answered the phone— surely he told you?'

'Of course he did, yes . . .' He'd never thought to ask what . . . 'The flat next door. It's been empty for years, hasn't it? And you think there's been somebody in there?'

'I know there has. There's nothing wrong with my hearing.'

'Don't you think it could have been the owner?'

'Can't have been. When he comes back the first thing he does is to come and see me. I practically brought him up. I looked after him when his mother died, poor woman —of course her husband was a foreigner, you know, so . . . Anyway, the child spent as much time in this house as he did in his own, and I was the one who nursed him when he had rheumatic fever—called me his
mammina,
he did—at least until his father married again—so don't try and tell me it was him, or her either, for that matter—the stepmother, I mean, because apart from her being a foreigner, not Dutch, he was Dutch but she was English, I won't hear a word said against her. It was a sad day for me when she packed up and left. I never needed any social worker when I had her for a neighbour. If she came back, and I wish to God that she would, she wouldn't be sneaking around in the middle of the night, she'd come straight here to see me!'

The Marshal wearily followed the tottering little figure back along the passage to the kitchen, and there he took out a handkerchief, mopped his brow and sat down again on the hard chair.

Glancing at the list of numbers written large by the telephone, he saw the general emergency number, 113, listed between himself and the grocer. He wondered if she ever called the Police instead of the Carabinieri. Perhaps she took them in turn . . .

He brought out his notebook and a ballpoint pen.

'You heard a prowler in the night. When?'

'Last night, of course! I would hardly wait a week to call you!'

'Last night. What time?'

'First at just after seven-thirty.'

'That's not the middle of the night.'

'Wait. Somebody went in there just after seven-thirty. I heard the door shut. I was in bed. I'm always in bed by seven-thirty because there's nothing much to do—I don't have a television because it would hurt my eyes, besides which I can't afford it. So, I go to bed, despite the dreadful noise in the piazza that shouldn't be allowed. Anyway, a bit later than that—I was still listening because, to tell you the truth, I was still hoping it might be him or his stepmother and that there might be a knock at my door, and then I heard someone else go in . . .'

'Are you sure it wasn't the same person going out?'

She gave him a withering look.

'The second person went in, and not long after that there was a row.'

'A noise, you mean?'

'No, a row. A quarrel. A quite violent quarrel, things knocked over, if not thrown. Then one of them left. The woman who went in last.'

'How do you know it was a woman?'

Another withering look.

'High heels. Stone stairs. My bedroom's right by the front door, as you've seen.'

'And the other one?'

'A man. I heard his voice raised during the quarrel. And he's still in there. I didn't sleep all night, I just listened. I heard him crashing about, quite late on, as if he were in a temper.'

'You didn't get up? Peep out?'

'I can't. I can get myself into bed with a little stool and my chair to help me, but I can't get out. It's too high, and I've fallen I don't know how many times. Can you imagine what it's like to lie on the floor all night? One of these days they'll find me dead ... I have to wait for
her
to come. She has a key. All morning I've been behind the front door—I didn't tell
her
anything, just rang you as soon as she'd gone—and I had to ring twice before anybody took any notice, remember that! Now then. What if it's squatters . . . young people these days . . . that house is still furnished, do you know that? And if they can get in there they can get in here, and I won't have it! I'm not leaving here for a month and letting any Tom, Dick and Harry lay his hands on the few scraps and sticks I have left in this world . . . and my burial money . . .'

She fished out the little handkerchief.

'Calm down now, Signora, calm down. You don't seem to have thought of the one simple solution—that the house might have been let?'

'Without anyone knowing? And anyway, he uses it. Only a couple of times a year, as a rule, but he never fails to visit me. And if he'd decided to let it he'd have said, knowing how particular I am about the sort of neighbours . . ..'

'All right, all right. In that case, since you say there's somebody still in there, I'll go across and see.'

She followed him to the front door, rattling along with her chair.

The door across the hall still had a printed nameplate saying T. Goossens.

'You see,' said Signora Giusti behind him. 'Dutch. His first wife was Italian. He's dead now, of course. It's the son who still comes. Ton, they christened him, but I always called him Toni.'

The Marshal rang the bell.

They waited some time but no one answered.

'Would a squatter answer?' whispered Signora Giusti at his elbow.

'I'm not sure,' said the Marshal. 'Possibly not if he'd seen me arrive. But I don't think, myself, that there's a squatter here.'

He rang again and then looked through the keyhole, but it was impossible to see anything. Perhaps the hallway was as dark as Signora Giusti's.

'The other one,' she said impatiently. 'The old keyhole, lower down. You should be able to see the entire house through it.'

The old keyhole was a good three inches high. He crouched and peered through. He sat back on his heels, blinked, and peered again. The hall, like Signora Giusti's, was long, narrow and gloomy. The doors in this flat opened on the right.

'Can you see anything?'

'Nothing.' He straightened up. 'Can I use your telephone?'

'So, you believe me now?'

'I believe you.'

'Even though you can't see anything?'

'As a matter of fact, I heard something. Is it likely that the owner would go off leaving the tap running?'

'Good heavens no! He turned the water off at the mains. Everything else, too.'

'Hm. There's a tap running in there. I'll have to use your telephone. I can't go in there without a warrant.'

'No, but I can. I wasn't going in there on my own.'

She wheeled herself round and reached for a bunch of keys that was hanging on a hook behind her front door.

'He left me a set. You see how it is? He was like a son to me. Once or twice when he's been back—always on business; he's a jeweller—he's brought his wife with him. She likes to buy clothes here; they're well off, you see. In that case he used to telephone me and I'd go in and open the windows, air the place a bit. I can't do more these days. Usually, though, he turns up by himself and so doesn't bother. If he trusts me with the keys it's so I can keep an eye on things, and I'm not going in there without you.'

She handed him the keys, and after a moment's hesitation, the Marshal unlocked the door without touching it.

'Wait there. Better still, go back behind your own door.'

He was certain she would come creeping out again as soon as his back was turned.

He went towards the sound of running water, drawing out his Beretta as he went. But there was no feeling of life in the flat, only of something being wrong. In the bathroom, water was running into the sink which was filled to overflowing, evidently partially blocked by vomit, some of which was floating on the water's surface. The contents of the bathroom cabinet had been tumbled out on to the floor, and there were pieces of broken glass and streaks of blood in the bath and on the grey floor tiles. The Marshal looked about for a towel and, not finding one, took out his handkerchief and turned off the tap with one finger.

The door to the kitchen at the end of the corridor was open, and he could see, even at a distance, that there was a mess in there, too. Going along the marble-tiled passage, he could smell fresh coffee. Probably it had been spilled.

There was a tiny sound. The Marshal stopped and whipped round. It could just be Signora Giusti following him . . . but she made more noise than that, and she was nowhere in sight. He began to walk back along the corridor, quickly, almost running. He went to the bedroom by instinct. The room nearest the door, like Signora Giusti's. With the handkerchief still in his hand he tried to open the door, but it wouldn't move. How did he know, as sure as if he could see through the door, what sort of thing he would find? Nothing quite like it had ever happened to him before. He turned the handle and pushed steadily but gently until he heard the man's body fall over with a soft thud. As if drawn by the same knowledge, Signora Giusti came rattling along the passage.

'What is it? What have you found? Is someone dead?'

The Marshal turned from what he had been contemplating and withdrew from the room to turn her away.

'Do you have the number of the
Misericordia
on your telephone list?'

'Of course I have, but what's happened?'

'Go and call them, will you?'

Quieted by his manner, the old lady rattled away towards her own flat, then stopped and called out:

'But I ought to tell them—is he dead?'

The Marshal switched on the weak centre light in the bedroom, then one of the bedside lamps.

'I think so . . .'

Why had he said that, when before he had been sure... ?

The man, though young, was very heavily built, and the Marshal doubted whether he could lift him on to the high wooden bed. He got a pillow which had no slip on it and some of its musty feathers poking through the greyish cloth, turned the body over, and propped up the head. A bunch of keys fell to the floor. There was no sign of life, and the face was ashen, the lips blue. And yet . . . The Marshal bent and put an ear to the chest. Nothing. Maybe the pulse . . .

The man's hands had been slashed and impaled by pieces of glass. They were big hands, but the fingertips were highly articulate, almost delicate. Wrapped around one hand was the towel that the Marshal had sought in the bathroom. So, he had tried to bind up his cuts, perhaps, or at least stop them bleeding. There seemed to be no pulse and yet, still the Marshal was not convinced. Something was bothering him—the little noise he had heard? Could have been a mouse, something falling over, the body settling. But his hands . . .

Suddenly he got to his feet and strode out into the passage. Signora Giusti was trundling back in at the front door.

'Go back!' he called, 'and let me use your phone.'

'They're already on their way . . .'

'It doesn't matter ... I should have thought . . .'

He dialled the
Misericordia
number and spoke hurriedly with the Servant.

'I should have thought of it before, but there are so many other things wrong with him ... It was only when I realized that one of the cuts was still bleeding just a little . . .'

'The coronary unit will be with you in less than five minutes.'

The doorbell was ringing urgently. The first ambulance had already arrived.

'I gave them my name,' said Signora Giusti, tottering rapidly to the front door. 'No use their ringing there if. . .'

The Marshal was back beside the body when the four Brothers of the
Misericordia
came in. One of them was very young, not much more than sixteen, and wore his black gown and hood self-consciously. He didn't look at the body but at the senior Brother, waiting for instructions.

'Can we put him on the bed a moment?' asked the Marshal.

"We'll see to it.'

The four Brothers lifted the big man expertly and laid him on the bed. The senior Brother looked at the Marshal, who said:

"I just wasn't sure. There's something ... I called back for the coronary unit.'

'I'd say you did right. That's them now.'

The siren was wailing outside, breaking into the peace of siesta-time.

'I'll go and meet them—frankly, I'd say it would be fatal to move him at all, but they might be able to do something on the spot . . .'

The other three were taking off the man's tie and unbuttoning his shirt. He was wearing one slipper. The young boy took it off carefully, then stood back. The Marshal kept an eye on him.

'Is it your first time out?'

'Yes.' He was very pale, but calm. Occasionally he fingered the huge black rosary which the Brothers wore as a belt.

'Toni! It's my Toni!'

'Signora!' The Marshal cursed himself for having for- gotten her. 'Come away; they'll do all they can.'

'No! I'm staying. I'll keep out of the way but I'm staying. If they bring him to he'll recognize me; he'll tell me what's happened.'

She wheeled herself over to one of the windows and tried to open the shutters with one hand.

'Help me.'

The doctor and his assistant had come into the room without a word and were making a rapid examination of the man on the bed. The doctor prepared to do a massage whilst his assistant plugged in a portable monitor.

The Marshal wrenched open the inner shutters, the window, then the brown louvred shutters on the outside. The sunlight blinded him. He had almost forgotten it was still daytime. A small crowd had gathered on the pavement. He closed the window and switched off "the electric lights which were practically invisible in the beam of sunlight coming in at the window. Only then did he notice that the bed hadn't been made up. There was just a cotton counterpane covering the bare mattress which was visible near the pillow.