Death of an Englishman (17 page)

'No. It was just something to fix on … I came back across the Santa Trinita, I stopped there for a minute …'

'Were you thinking of the river even then?'

His face flushed and his eyes left the Marshal's. 'No … that was after … no.'

'Did you intend to go and see the Englishman?'

'No, not at all, it just happened. I came back down Via Maggio, I was thinking about the money then … but just as I came to the door of number fifty-eight, it opened.'

'Did you see anyone?'

'No … at least, I think the guard may have been on the street. I think I saw him go into one of the houses but the street isn't that well lit … no one else. When I saw the door spring open I walked in … I don't know what I was going to do. It was too late for the money, but even so, he should have paid her … I closed the door.'

'Did you ring the bell?'

'No. The flat door opened in front of me, too, as if he were expecting me. It didn't seem strange then —Will anyone believe me?'

'They'll believe you. He was expecting someone, not you.'

'Then that's why … I went in and shut the door. He was walking away from it as if he'd just opened it. When he turned round and saw me I suppose he got a fright. He looked horrified and he began talking rapidly in English. I began demanding Milena's money. He tried to push me out of the door, telling me to get out, in Italian, and even picking up the gun.'

'Were you afraid he'd use it?'

'I don't think so.' Something didn't ring true, it was out of character, even in those circumstances.

'What did you do?'

'I refused to leave. I said he could call the police if he wanted to—I think I said I knew you. His face was livid. He dropped the gun on a chair and got hold of me …'

'He hit you?'

'He slapped me,' whispered Cipolla. 'In the face, as if I were a child. He said my wife was a thief and had stolen things while he was out, that he had told everyone in the Piazza, he … he … I must have been facing the bedroom, then. The door was open and the light on. He suddenly let go of me and rushed to the bedroom door as if he had forgotten me—'

'The safe,' murmured the Marshal. 'It was open; he was afraid you'd see it.'

'I didn't see anything … I didn't know … I picked up the gun, then, from the chair. I didn't know how to use it but I wanted to do something, something to make him take notice. I pointed it towards the bedroom door as he was going through. I shut my eyes and waited. Then I fired it. I fired it …'

'But he hadn't gone through?'

'No. I don't understand what happened. I didn't expect him to be there when I fired. When I opened my eyes, he was there for a second, holding the door handle …'

'He was closing it …'

'Perhaps. Then he fell.'

'What did you do?'

'Nothing immediately. I stood where I was. I heard someone at the door, I'm sure.'

'One person?'

'I think so … very soft steps in the passageway, then going up the stairs, then …'

'Then you went into the bathroom and you were sick.' The little man jumped. The one thing he hadn't wanted to tell. 'And you were sick at the bridge, too. How much of the grappa did you drink?'

'I can't remember. I don't know how much was in the bottle. It's just that I don't drink, I'm not used … Will you have to tell people?'

'Yes. But they'll realize you didn't mean to get drunk. After all, it was someone else who gave you the stuff and you weren't in any condition to watch what you were doing.' And it was the only thing that accounted for his attempt to argue with the bigger man. 'So you decided to ring me? It must still have been very early in the morning?'

'It was four o'clock, there was a clock there on the desk. I sat down to wait for a reasonable hour.'

'You sat down … ? You didn't think of calling a doctor? What if—'

'Oh no,' said the little man quietly. 'Oh no, because he was dead …' His vacant eyes were dilated. 'Oh no. His eyes were open, I looked. And his teeth came out. His teeth … oh no, oh no … ! His head was going back.

'Hold him!' The Marshal jumped to his feet but Carabiniere Bacci was quicker. The frail body was rattling as though some unseen hand were shaking the little man in rage. His breath came in deep noisy groans.

'Get some water.' The Marshal was holding him now, telling him over and over, 'Let it go, man, let it
go …'

Cipolla kept his dilated eyes fixed on the Marshal as the fit rattled him. Suddenly the eyes narrowed until they were almost invisible and he found his voice, high-pitched and grating, but his own voice.

'What have I done? Oh, Marshal, what have I done?'

'The water, sir.'

'Here, drink this, and take your time.'

'What will happen to him?' whispered Carabiniere Bacci. He had brought their coats through. Cipolla was in the bathroom, for the Marshal had insisted that he wash and shave before they left.

'He'll go to the Murate,' growled the Marshal, 'what do you expect? You wanted a murderer and now you've got one. He probably doesn't live up to your expectations but there he is. As for what will happen to him—what happened to my perfect student? Articles 62, 62 bis of your Penal Code. Read them again, they might mean something to you now.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And pull yourself together, Carabinierel We've still got work to do.'

'Yes, sir.' Carabiniere Bacci, white-faced and dark-eyed, tried to straighten his crumpled, dusty uniform.

'Look after the phone while we're gone.' The Marshal buttoned up his greatcoat and paused to say quietly, 'Don't worry. It's just possible that the verdict could be accidental death. And when he comes out I'm here to help him. When all's said and done, we're all Italians … even we Sicilians, eh?'

'Yes, sir … but … will they believe him?'

'Do you?'

CHAPTER 3

'Well, they pulled that one out of a hat,' remarked the Chief Inspector, as the river, pink and dark purple with the last of the sunset, dropped away below them. Dots of light were appearing here and there in the dusk.

'Do you think the family will pursue it?'

'I very much doubt it.' On their last visit to the Captain's office they had been informed that Langley-Smythe's family were entitled to bring a civil action when the case came to court, but that, since the accused was not in a position to pay damages, it would only serve to draw attention …

The couple of servants involved in the villa robberies had already been found and were talking. The Chief had not been able, of course, to speak for the family but he could say he thought it unlikely …

The nice, red-haired girl from the Consulate had turned up with some papers concerning the body which had to be signed. She also brought a folder with two airline tickets.

'We thought you'd want to get home tonight with it being Christmas Eve. The scheduled flight's left, I'm afraid: this is a charter that will land you at Luton, but they should provide a bus at the other end. The body will go on the scheduled flight the day after tomorrow.' When she was closing her briefcase, Jeffreys managed to move in on her:

'I'm glad we met you.'

'Why's that?' She smiled.

'Because otherwise I'd have come to the conclusion that all the English people living here were a bit …'

'Dotty? Give me another ten years or so, I've only been here two.'

'Are
they all dotty?'

'No, no. It's just the ones who stick together, the "colony". They're rather noticeable. There are hundreds of English people working and studying here who just blend in.'

'You blend in very nicely. Is this your scarf?'

'Thanks.'

'If you weren't packing us off on a plane I'd ask you what you were doing tonight.'

'And I'd tell you I was going to the Mayor's reception. If you weren't going off on a plane you could come.'

'I'll be back—to check up on whether you're going dotty.'

'Signorina.' The Captain came forward to shake her hand with a solemn little bow that brought the faintest flush to the girl's face. The Captain, in Jeffreys's opinion, held that hand at least a second longer than was absolutely necessary, and when the Lieutenant who came to escort her out flicked back his sword and bowed too, and the two of them went off chatting amiably in Italian, Jeffreys muttered, 'Smoothies.' And he hadn't even had chance to get a look at an Italian girl. He had, however, found a chance to telephone Carabiniere Bacci at Pitti before they left to tell him:

'About that gun … I think you should talk to the little girl with the pink water-pistol …"

'Do you know,' mused the Chief, as they unfastened their safety-belts, 'I might try Florence for a holiday sometime. I think my wife would like the shops.'

'You didn't find the food too bad, then?'

'No …' conceded the Chief generously, 'I can't really say there was anything I disliked …' And their prejudices settled comfortably into place, ready for home.

'By the way,' murmured the Chief, when they had both closed their eyes for a doze, 'did anybody mention what happened to the gun?'

'No,' said Jeffreys, keeping his eyes shut, 'but it'll probably have turned up by now.'

Only after provoking tears in her mother and some stern words from the Captain did Giovanna reluctantly lead Carabiniere Bacci, and no one else, to the hiding-place in the back of a little toy cupboard where she had placed her treasure, wrapped in a comic.

She watched him apprehensively as he unwrapped it and then opened it up and looked at her. Without a word, she tipped the bullets out of the front pocket of her track suit.

To the Captain's questions, whether she had known all along where the gun was, was that how she knew what the loud bang meant, had she, in fact, been woken by the door before hearing it a second time, she responded with bright-eyed silence.

Letting them out, Signora Cipriani asked the Captain, 'You couldn't … let me know? I mean about what happens to the cleaner … ? He seemed so … I don't know, but if there's anything I can do to help … poor man—and poor Martha … I should be at the hospital now but Vincenzo … he had a client to see, so …'

'That's very kind of you, Signora,' said the Captain, mentally consigning Vincenzo to the Inferno, 'I'll certainly …' He felt the solemn innocent eyes of Carabiniere Bacci upon him, 'I'll certainly try and keep you informed. If I'm too busy myself I can send a Brigadier …'

'Thank you … good night …'

'Good night, Signora.'

Outside, Carabiniere Bacci watched the Captain leave in his car, wishing that he too were being driven to the Officers' Club for dinner and wondering why the Captain looked so bleak about it. Carabiniere Bacci was exhausted but he couldn't face going home yet.

He crossed the little Piazza and walked past Pitti towards the Ponte Vecchio, unconsciously following the route of the cleaner on that disastrous night. He walked slowly, absorbed in thought, taking no notice of the jewels glittering in the tiny shop windows along the bridge or the people who jostled him and barred his way. It was quite dark when he found himself in Piazza della Repubblica. He stood on a corner amid the moving crowd, vacantly watching the giant neon 'Cynar' sign rippling on and off across the skyline. The window of the department store beside him was stacked with red and blue skis. He let the pushing crowd take him across the Piazza towards the arcade of the post office. He couldn't shake off the fear that still sat inside him, as if he were the person in the cleaner's place. Because for half an hour he had really thought …

In the end, he had told the Marshal that he had believed himself to be suspected. The Marshal's great eyes had almost popped out, first with surprise and then with hilarity.

'You? Carabiniere Bacci, you're a tonic! I didn't think I
could laugh at anything today.'

'But I was there, sir, both times, at least it looked as if I
was and
—'

'And the time of death? And your motive? And what
weapon do you carry?'

'Beretta nine, sir, but
—'

'Carabiniere Bacci, you're a young fool, I think I may
have told you that.'

'Yes, sir. I know I should have thought of all those
things but it isn't just that, or I wouldn't have told you
…
what I mean is, if I could have thought, even for a
minute, that I might … of being on the other side,
instead of feeling like a policeman, well, maybe I'll never
make a policeman. I've decided to give it up.'

'Oh yes?'
Only then did the Marshal look up from his packing.

'Yes, sir.'

'In future, Carabiniere Bacci, you will give up chasing
buses and generally looking for excitement and you will
keep your eyes firmly fixed on the ordinary details of
life
—
such as the fact that people don't go to work when
their wives have just died, that you don't see a cleaner like
Cipolla going about without his brush and bucket
—
that
people wear overcoats in December! And you'll refer
yourself to a senior officer unless you know you can cope
yourself. Is that clear?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And you'll eventually make a very good policeman,
provided you don't get over-excited and shoot yourself by
accident first.'

'Yes, sir. But … the Captain didn't
—'

'The Captain, Carabiniere Bacci, is a good man, a
serious man … and he's been living in a barracks too
long. It's time he got married. Now, get out. Your mother
must be expecting you
—
and can't you see I've got a train
to catch?'

'Well, Carabiniere, what can I do for you?'

Carabiniere Bacci realized what he was gazing at a lamplit bank of plants and flowers against the wall of the Palazzo Strozzi. The flower-seller was stamping his feet to keep warm, and looking expectant. There were Cellophane bags of mistletoe, tied with red ribbon, and poinsettia plants, red and white. He remembered that he had bought nothing for his mother.

He chose a red poinsettia and carried it away swathed in green and white paper. The lights and crowds on the Via Tornabuoni made almost an indoor atmosphere. The furs that continually brushed against him and the mingled heavy perfumes of the wealthiest Christmas shoppers gave him a feeling of suffocation and he made for the river and the Santa Trinita bridge.

Two black-cloaked Sardinians were playing the sad Christmas hymn on their sheepskin bagpipes. He stopped and gave them something. He wasn't feeling sentimental, just sensitive, tender, like someone recovering from an accident. The only thought that soothed his raw nerves was that there was one solid fact left in his universe, the Marshal.

'And this is my second grandson, his First Communion picture—they say he looks like me and I think he does. Look at this, this is me thirty years ago on my driving licence, you can tell better from that—I already had a moustache in those days, of course, but even so …'

The Marshal's firm friend of ten minutes' standing had an enormous battered wallet of photographs and had been anxious to get started although the train was still standing on platform ten and showing no signs of leaving Florence. The carriage was already full despite the fact that the special trains carrying emigrant workers down from Germany and Switzerland had gone through during the preceding nights, unseen by the normal population. The Marshal was squashed in a window seat facing his voluble new friend with the photographs. He was content to bide his time. They had a night and a whole day before them and his own photographs were in his breast pocket.

An announcement echoed throughout the teeming station.

'That's us,' advised the Marshal's friend, who was a seasoned and ebullient traveller. He had seized everyone's water-bottles and forced a passing porter to fill them from the drinking fountain on the platform, saying, 'Do they think we're tourists who can pay a thousand lire a bottle for mineral water—do you know how much that would cost in two days?'

'Express number 597, the 19.49, stopping at Roma,
Napoli, Reggio Calabria, Siracusa and Palermo, is
waiting at platform 10. Express number 597 …'

'Waiting? Waiting for afternoon tea, no doubt …'

'Passengers for Siracusa and Palermo …'

People were still getting on the train, many of them standing, or sitting on their flimsy suitcases in the corridors. And all of them must have paid for seats.

'Poor Italy,' agreed the talkative traveller, catching the Marshal's glance rolling in the direction of these unfortunates, 'you need patience, that's what you need. Look at that couple in the corner.'

A diminutive pair, husband and wife, both grey-haired but it was difficult to tell their age.

'You wouldn't believe how long they've been travelling to look at them. I only got on at Valenciennes but they've come down from Germany—he works there, I managed to find that much out—but they missed a connection somewhere and they hadn't the faintest idea what to do. I think they've spent at least one night sitting bolt upright, just like they are now, on some waiting-room bench. It's a hard life … and I bet you that when we put the lights out tonight they don't budge. They'll sit like that till they get to Reggio Calabria, that's where they come from, I got that out of them … Me, I like to make myself comfortable …'

The Marshal didn't see how he was going to manage it. Their knees were jammed together and four large women separated them from the silent couple in the other corner.

'And I know for a fact,' continued his friend in a whisper, 'that they've run out of food. I suppose they only brought just so much—they won't take any off me, I've offered …'

The Marshal, too, had his loaf and a waxed paper full of black olives.

'Express number 597 for Palermo is leaving platform
10. Eleven minutes late. Express number 597
…"

'Could be worse … I suppose you're going to Palermo, same as me?'

'Siracusa.'

A man was pushing a rattling newspaper truck down the platform, calling out: 'Landslides in the South! Hundreds homeless for Christmas! Landslides …'

The Marshal's hand went immediately to his breast pocket where his photographs were, but the man rattled past under their window shouting, 'Landslides! Landslides in Puglia, hundreds …' The Marshal's hand fell again. Doors were slamming all along the train. A whistle blew.

'I want to show you something now.' His friend was opening up his wallet again as the train set off with a lurch, making the lights blink. But the Marshal's big eyes kept straying to the couple in the other corner. So many people lived on a knife edge, just managing to keep going, just managing to 'keep straight', but if anything went wrong, a missed train, a week without wages, for them it was a tragedy because they had no resources except their families who were as poor as themselves.