Death of an Englishman (14 page)

When the barman brought their laced coffee, the Marshal had wiped his eyes and recovered sufficiently to remember where he had seen Miss White before—right there in the bar, looking out at the Piazza. He had seen her from his own habitual viewing point at the corner of the church.

He looked up at the barman. 'I didn't know you understood English?'

'Me? I don't.'

'Well, how do you manage to talk to her?'

The barman was nonplussed. 'Well … she's been coming in here for years … I've never really thought about it.
Simpatica,
don't you think so?'

'She is. We met at the funeral, I didn't feel too good.'

'Ah, that poor woman … and no children either …'

'I'd like to know why the English Signora was there, if you think you could—'

'Oh, I can tell you that. Signora Cipolla, God rest her soul, used to work over there—' he nodded across at the entrance of number fifty-eight. 'Not for the Signora, you understand—although I think she used to visit her—for the Englishman downstairs—only for a few weeks—but then, Cipolla worked there himself, so …'

'I see.'

A chorus of furious hooting started up outside and the Marshal, Miss White and the barman automatically went to the open door to look out. The Marshal put his dark glasses on.

A van was parked in the centre of the triangle where all the roads met, and a diminutive man wearing a checked wool windjammer over paint-spattered trousers and a rolled-up brown paper bag on his head had unloaded two hundred large, mock-antique, carved wood, gold-painted picture frames into the road. The young
vigile
had adjusted his helmet and gloves and was walking towards the scene purposefully.

'Poor chap,' murmured the Marshal.

'Mmm, and he's already been in one row today,' added the barman, lighting a cigarette. 'Coach driver, a German, gave him hell. He tried to direct him round into Via Maggio, scraped the side of the coach on the milk truck that had just stopped here without him noticing—poor lad, he couldn't see it, not from behind the coach, driver should have seen it himself, but Germans …' He knocked on the wooden doorpost to indicate the intractability of the race.

'Never mind Germans,' said the Marshal, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets. 'He's going to have to tackle an Italian now …'

But the young
vigile
was intrepid. He approached the paper-hatted man who was reaching inside the van for some more frames, adjusted his helmet again, and said politely: 'But you can't unload these here, you know.'

The other stiffened slightly for a second and then answered without turning his head so that he could affect not to know who it was: 'Oh no? Well, I already have done, haven't I?'

The
vigile
hesitated, avoiding the eyes of the nearest spectators, coughing a little behind his glove. He couldn't very well announce pompously, 'I'm a
vigile,'
without losing face immediately, and he knew that the other would keep his back turned indefinitely, if necessary. He approached the thing obliquely.

'There's a
law
against unloading here.'

'Oh yes?' He still kept his back turned and was winking at those members of the audience who could see his face. 'And who are you that you know so much about the law?'

The crowd laughed. Round one to the driver. Capitalizing on this, the little man turned his head and then clutched at his paper hat in horror: 'My God! The
vigilel'
And he began making grossly exaggerated apologies. The crowd loved it. More people were collecting, customers coming out of the bank stayed to watch. Windows were opening high up in all the buildings. The young
vigile
's face was red but he had been in the job long enough to know that if he lost his temper he was finished. Quietly he said, 'Move this stuff, you're blocking the road.'

But it was impossible, as the driver pointed out, to hear a word above the racket of engines and horns.

'Move this stuff! It's against the law to unload here!'

'Ah,' said the driver, nodding, and pitching his voice so as to reach the upper gallery, 'it's against the law, is it? And who made this law exactly, can you tell me that?'

'Never mind that, you just obey it!' The worst thing he could have said. The driver was delighted.

'Oh yes? What are we, then? Germans?' He turned to the crowd and swept his hands open: 'Are we, or are we not, all Italians? And are these laws, or are they not, made for our benefit? And have we, or have we not, a right to know—'

'All right, all right! The Government makes the laws and the
Comune—'

'The Government, eh? The
Christian
Democrats,' he explained to the audience. 'That lot down in Rome—and do these
Christian
Democrats know, do they re-a-lize, that Gino Bertellini—that's me, a Florentine, like all these good people here—' he waved a hand around to include the Marshal, Miss White, the Neapolitan and a group of American students going by eating pizza—'Gino Bertellini has to deliver these frames to that shop over there near the bank before eleven o'clock or he will probably lose his job? And have these Christian Democrats, in their great wisdom, provided him with a place to park and unload them? Well?'

'He's right,' the crowd began to murmur.

'Of course he's right,' put in the meat-roaster loudly. He was expecting a delivery of chickens to be unloaded on that very spot any minute.

'But it's the same for everybody,' began the
vigile.
'We've all got to be equally—'

'Hello! He's a Communist!' quipped the driver, and got another laugh.

Drivers who by now had had enough entertainment were starting to rev their engines and lean permanently on their horns. Some of them put their heads out of their windows to abuse the
vigile
for not knowing his job. The tiny Piazza was clouded with exhaust fumes. An elegant driver with an enormous fur collar on his coat appeared on foot, having walked from the tail-end of the queue which stretched back to the river to enquire if they were holding a tea-party, in which case they might like to invite him …

'I'm doing my best!' cried the distracted
vigile.
'And nobody takes any notice—everybody blames me, no matter what I do—if I try and shift this chap I'm a German, and if I don't unblock the road I don't know my job!'

'He's right, poor lad,' said a woman carrying a quarter of a cabbage in a plastic bag. She had a son in uniform, doing his national service.

'And what am I trying to do,
excuse me?
What do think I'm trying to do?' The driver slapped the stack of gold frames. 'Am I a millionaire who's doing this for fun?'

The crowd divided into two camps and began a separate argument.

'Marshal! Marshal!' cried the woman with the cabbage, spotting his dark bulk in the bar doorway. But the Marshal backed up, opening his hands to indicate that he couldn't interfere.

Then the grey-suited stationer stepped majestically into the road: 'Do you realize,' he boomed, in a voice that would have silenced the most tumultuous courtroom, 'that there is a funeral going on in this Piazza?'

The crowd stopped arguing.

The driver pushed his paper hat to the back of his head and scratched himself, baffled. 'What's a funeral got to do with anything?'

'It's got to do with our having some respect for the dead, for a woman, a neighbour, whose funeral is being held right now and who can't be carried to the cemetery because of the disgraceful row going on here. Poor Italy! And poor Italians who can't even have a dignified funeral because of this sort of self-centred buffoonery!'

The stationer stepped back and crossed himself slowly.

Everyone looked across at the church. It was true. The coffin had been loaded into the hearse, the wreaths with their broad purple ribbons attached on the outside. The cortege had been unable to move and the family was huddled, frozen, in the church doorway. The priest, still wearing his purple cope, had his hand on the little cleaner's thinly-clad shoulder.

'Well,' muttered the paper-hatted driver, 'I didn't know, did I?'

'You didn't care to know,' pointed out the stationer, 'whose way you were blocking.'

'How are we going to manage?' murmured the driver, beginning to shuffle the frames about unhappily. The
vigile'
mate was approaching, having walked from the bridge where he was on duty to see what the hold-up was. After a rapid conference, a compromise was reached and the two
vigili
and the driver began hurrying between the van and the shop, carrying the frames. The younger of the black-overalled men from the hearse came over to help them, and Miss White shot out of the bar in her speedy footwear and tried to pick up a frame.

'Thank you, Signora, thank you,' said the driver as he hurried past her.

'No use speaking to me,' panted Miss White, hauling the frame a few feet with difficulty. 'We're all here to help each other.'

Then a shot rang out.

The noise echoed all round the Piazza so that it was impossible to be sure where it came from. People began screaming and running for shelter in doorways, others stood staring about them, not sure what to believe. In the noise and confusion that followed, the Marshal, whose view of the church was blocked by the van, thought at once of the little cleaner—'It's the end of the world' — and began running across towards the hearse. But Cipolla was still standing there, dazed, with the priest's hand on his shoulder, and people were crying out, 'Marshall Over here!' He swerved and made for the bank, but the bank guard came running out, gun in hand, through the glass door and turned and ran in at the entrance of number fifty-eight. 'No … I' whispered the Marshal, running after him. 'It's not possible …'

'Ambulance!' yelled the bank guard, running out again and colliding with the Marshal.

'What's happened?' shouted the astounded Marshal, coming round the corner to the Englishman's door.
'What?'

A
white-faced Carabiniere Bacci was kneeling beside a half-conscious woman in front of the lift door.

'She's been shot,' he whispered, looking up, his mouth so dry he could hardly articulate it. A plastic bag with two large bottles of mineral water in it had smashed on the floor and water was running everywhere on the flags, some of it streaked with red.

'She's been shot,' he repeated, his eyes wide and sightless. 'Right in front of me.'

Part Three

CHAPTER 1

The Marshal heaved off his coat and placed it on the cold flags under the woman's head. She was plump and had a row of neat grey curls across her forehead. She moaned faintly, apparently more in fear than in pain. The wound seemed to be in her thigh. The Marshal took off his glasses and looked at it. There was a lot of blood but it was probably only a flesh wound or she would be in great pain.

'Signora,' said the Marshal softly, 'do you feel very much pain?'

'No … I can't feel anything.' She had been gazing past him, her eyes half closed, expressionless, but she suddenly opened them in alarm. Am I going to die?' She had seen the black shape of the priest who had followed the Marshal in and was now leaning over her.

'Nothing of the sort,' said the Marshal. 'A flesh wound in your leg, that's all. The ambulance will soon be here.'

'Put my shoes on … my shoes …' A tear rolled out of the side of the woman's eye. 'And the shopping …' Her hand was groping feebly about, wanting to put her world back together.

'Never mind the shopping, now. I've got your shoes here and we'll put them on in the ambulance. Do you think you could tell us what happened?'

'I don't understand … oh, Mother of God! What happened, what happened to me!'

'Be calm, Signora, be calm, you're going to be all right but please try and tell me … it came from in front so you must have seen … was it anybody you know?'

But the woman's shocked gaze moved rapidly from one to another of the black figures that were suddenly blocking out her normal world and she could only repeat: 'I don't understand …' Then she lost consciousness.

'If you're sure it's nothing serious,' said the priest, 'I'd better get back. There's the funeral …'

'Keep calm,' ordered the Marshal, opening up both the great doors and trying to push back the murmuring crowd outside. 'And stand back or the ambulance won't be able to get through!'

Inside, the woman was still unconscious, guarded by Miss White whom the Marshal had beckoned in from the Piazza.

Carabiniere Bacci had been dispatched to fetch the Captain and the Englishmen from the river where they were still working, according to the
vigile
who had come down from the bridge. They arrived after the ambulance.

'Do you know who she is?' the Captain asked, as the patient was carried out.

'The Cipriani's maid,' said the Marshal. 'I often see her shopping in the Piazza after she's taken the children to school. She usually brings the little one home from nursery school at this time, but—'

'Where was the wound?'

'In the thigh, nothing—'

'Was the child with her? Carabiniere Bacci!' He turned on the young man. 'Was the child with her?'

'I didn't see—'

'You didn't see who fired a shot under your nose, blast you!' He strode quickly into the building. The Marshal patted the boy's shoulder.

'I'm sure the child wasn't with her, sir.'

'Of course she wasn't. School closed yesterday for Christmas.'

The Piazza was empty of cars. The two
vigili
and the crowd stood waiting in silence. The ambulance turned and raced along the emptied Via Maggio towards the bridge, its siren wailing. Beyond it, the funeral cortege had finally got away and the burden of brightly-coloured flowers was just visible at the far end of the cold, shadowy street where a rectangle of brilliant light indicated the river. They saw it draw in near the bridge to let the shrilling ambulance go by.

'Well … I think we—' The Chief turned and stopped, seeing the Marshal's streaming eyes. He had come outside without his glasses on. 'You … all right?'

'I'm all right, perfectly all right,' said the Marshal, catching the Chief Inspector's incredulous look as he wiped away his tears. 'It's the sunshine that does it,' he explained slowly, pointing upwards. They walked back along the passage.

Miss White had picked up the Marshal's coat and was trying to clean it with a small handkerchief. 'All this mess …' she said, when she saw them. Jeffreys watched the Chief's face as he took in the fur coat and running shoes. 'And who's going to clean it up?' The Cipriani's shopping lay scattered in front of the lift door next to a bag of broken green glass. There was an immense puddle of bloody water. 'It was the maid from the Cipriani's flat, wasn't it? I heard them say her name in the bar … Martha, she's called, a nice woman, too. She'll not be doing any cleaning for a while—there's the Cesarini's maid but we can't ask her, not her job and upsetting, too, might think she's next—and poor Signor Cipolla at the cemetery,
he
can't be expected and that leaves yours truly. Well, we're all here to help each other. You've enough to do … got to get on and find the murderer before we all wake up dead in our beds …' The monologue was the same as ever but her face was very pale and the hand that rolled and unrolled the stained handkerchief was shaking. She started to go up the stairs.

'Miss White?' called Inspector Jeffreys, then paused.

Without turning, she stopped and remarked: 'Haven't seen Signor Cesarini about today …'

'No, he's, as they say, helping us with our inquiries.'

She half turned now. 'Didn't want to lose my home, my little museum. It's my whole life … you do understand?'

'I understand.'

'I know it
did
look like him but I still couldn't swear … if I'd seen him from the front …'

'Don't worry for the moment … but, all the same, Miss White, if you don't mind, keep your door shut until further notice. Don't let anybody in, anybody at all.'

'But I have to—open to the public, you see.'

'Miss White, please, as a favour to me—'

'Keep the door shut. Right. Clean up this mess first—'

'Not yet. You mustn't touch anything here until the police have finished—and don't let anyone into your flat!' But she was gone.

'That's our witness, is it?' said the Chief, rolling an unlit pipe between his palms.

The Captain was coming down the stairs at a run, his hat still in his hand. 'The child's in the flat, she's all right. School finished yesterday, so—' He glanced at the Marshal. 'You knew that, of course …'

'But you were right to think of the child, considering where the wound was. Had she seen something?'

'Heard something—let's go inside. I have to make some phone calls.' He unlocked the flat.

'I'll stay out here,' offered Jeffreys. The Marshal had already planted his bulk outside the door. The Captain was already on the phone.

'No, no, I'll see to things out here, they don't need me in there …'

Jeffreys asked Carabiniere Bacci to explain the problem with Miss White who was almost sure to come down and start trying to clean everything. 'And she won't understand him — I know you could cope but you've got to make your report …'

The Marshal went in and stood diffidently in a corner of the dusty room, blowing his nose, while Carabiniere Bacci related his story. The boy's hands were shaking and he continually tried to hide them.

He had been on duty at the door since 9.45 a.m. The first person he had seen was the Eritrean girl who had come into the building behind him, wrapped in a green loden cloak and her white muslin veil. She had been carrying two bags of shopping and had rung for the lift. She had waited some time for it to come down as someone had just called it up, presumably Signor Cipriani who stepped out of the lift when it reached the ground floor and said 'Good morning' to Carabiniere Bacci. He was carrying his briefcase. Before the Eritrean girl could shut the lift doors, the Cipriani's maid, Martha, had come running round the corner, panting, and was in time to go up with her.

A few minutes later, Miss White had come down the staircase, she never seemed to use the lift. She had spoken vehemently and apparently encouragingly to Carabiniere Bacci, but he wasn't sure what about.

She had left the building and not returned until a few moments ago. Almost immediately, the Cipriani's maid, Martha, had come down in the lift and gone out, returning perhaps twenty minutes afterwards, with her two bags, one of groceries, the other of water.

'Did she ring for the lift?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And did it come down immediately, or was it occupied?'

'It started down immediately, sir.'

'You're positive?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And it was empty when it arrived?'

'Yes …'

'You're not sure. Did you look?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well, then?'

'I looked, sir, but if someone were in there and crouching …'

It was true. The window in the outer door of the lift was narrow and at eye-level. The maid's key had been still in the door. The Captain had opened it. The windows of the inner double doors were larger, but again they stopped before waist level so that anybody crouching …

'Did she open the doors?'

'The outer one, yes, but then she …'

'She what?'

'She didn't get in immediately … she bent forward a little …'

'Bent forward? How? Why?'

'I'm not sure, sir, but I don't think she'd opened the inner doors when the shot was fired.'

'You said she had two shopping bags,' put in the Marshal from his corner.

'Yes, sir.'

'So she must have put at least one of them down to find her key and unlock the lift door.'

'Yes, I suppose she must, sir … Only, once the lift had come down empty, I more or less …' The unfortunate Carabiniere blushed deeply.

'Stopped looking,' finished the Marshal blandly. 'Never stop looking, Carabiniere Bacci. She bent down, in all likelihood, to pick up her shopping after unlocking the door, because the inner doors can simply be pushed open; they swing inwards.'

'Yes, sir.'

'But her key is still in the lock,' said the Marshal, more blandly than ever.

'Sir?'

'Her key, Carabiniere Bacci, is still in the lock. She would take it out first, wouldn't she, before picking up her shopping and stepping into the lift?'

'I … yes …'

'It doesn't do to lose sight of plain everyday facts,' murmured the Marshal. He fished out a large handkerchief and turned away to blow his nose protractedly.

'Are you sure she did bend down?' asked the Captain.

'I … it was just an impression I had, sir, out of the corner of my eye … but then immediately there was the shot and she fell.'

'Did you look inside the lift straight away?'

'I—no, sir, I looked at the woman to see if—'

'Did you look in the lift at all?'

'No, sir,' he whispered. 'But I was standing in front of it by then so nobody could have got out.'

'But they could have gone back up?'

'No, sir, they couldn't, because the outer door was still open. The lift won't work with the outer door open.'

And the Marshal had arrived immediately after that.

'You didn't see anybody?' The Captain turned to the Marshal's corner.

'There was nobody there, sir,' His hands were burrowing in his pockets, seeking his dark glasses.

'Well, we can check on all the tenants, but it's beginning to sound as if this wretched woman shot herself, by accident, of course—she could have been carrying the gun for someone else … Well, her clothing will be searched at the hospital, and as soon as the doctors will allow it, a paraffin test … is there something wrong, Marshal?'

'No, sir, no … nothing … As a matter of fact, if you don't really need me here I have some things to see to in my office …' He was moving, almost imperceptibly, towards the door.

'I see,' said the Captain with chilling politeness. 'No doubt you are concerned to get your paperwork in order. Going home for Christmas, I imagine.'

The Marshal mumbled some incomprehensible words of assent.

'By all means, then. As there's nothing much you can do here.'

'I'll take Carabiniere Bacci with me—you'll be wanting a written report from him, I expect. He may need a bit of help …'

'I imagine so. I'd like the report on my desk before two. I have a meeting with the Substitute Prosecutor at three.'

'At three … you might put him off for an hour or so … under the circumstances …'

'I might. But I want that report on my desk at two.'

'At two. Carabiniere Bacci …' They left in silence. The Chief Inspector stared after them, unsure what was going on.

There was no time for speculation. Immediately after their departure, Jeffreys opened the door again. Dr Biondini had brought two of his custodians over from the Palatine gallery to remove the majolica bust and there were sheaves of papers for the Captain to sign. It was one less headache for the Captain but Biondini seemed harassed.

'I'll be dealing with paperwork over this business for a year …'

They were still packing the bust when the technicians arrived.

'Can we plug the lights in in here? We'll take all this stuff away with us …'