The Flight of the Falcon

by Daphne Du Maurier

  “Well, I’m off,” she said. “I hope you spend a pleasant day with the signorina.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She wished me good morning and went out of the apartment. I heard her go downstairs and watched her walk up the via San Michele. I stayed there, my eyes fixed on No. 24, but no one entered or came out. The agent must have gone. He must have gone some while ago, when the cleaning woman first came in and suggested coffee. Now he could be anywhere, up at the university, perhaps, making inquiries at the Registrar’s office or the library. Because of this the library was now barred to me. The Silvani pensione too. There was no refuge left but the apartment in which I sat, and my brother’s house in the via dei Sogni. And if I left the apartment and walked up the hill to Aldo’s house I might meet the agent on the way. He could even be watching for me to return to the Silvani pensione.

  I pulled out a packet of cigarettes and began to smoke. I thought about the student Marelli breaking his neck at the bottom of the theater steps. It was on those same steps that I had met the frightened boy on Friday of last week. Obviously he had been a student too. There had been no curfew then, but Aldo’s sentries must have questioned him, as part of their fantastic, medieval game. This time the game had ended in a student’s death. Were the scales of heavenly justice finally balanced? Could the game now end?

  Aldo, in his capacity as Director of the Arts Council of Ruffano, was a member of the university board. He would thus attend the meeting called by the Rector for later in the day. Like everyone else, he would accept the reason which had been given for Marelli’s death—that the student, taking fright, had run from a patrol—but in his heart he must surely acknowledge the true cause.

  I looked at my watch. It was twenty-five minutes past eleven. I began to walk up and down the room. I looked out of the window. All was still quiet at No. 24. When Carla Raspa returned, what would be my excuse for being there? I had not seen her since the Tuesday night when I had, so ungallantly and deliberately, walked out on her. It was a strange moment to apologize.

  I went through into the bathroom. Jars and bottles were on the shelves, and a dressing gown had been flung on a stool. A nightgown, hastily rinsed through, hung limply on a hanger above the bath. The bidet was full of soapy water in which a pile of stockings had been left to soak. The sight made me sick. I went back into the kitchen, retching. The disorder, the intimacy, reminded me of hotel bedrooms long ago, in Frankfurt and other cities, when side by side with my mother’s underwear, similarly washed and rinsed, would be male socks and handkerchiefs, toothbrushes and hair-lotion. Streaky hairs would be lying in the bath. As a boy of eleven, or twelve, my stomach had heaved. The stench of lust pursued me across Germany to Turin. It followed me still.

  I went and sat by the open window once again and lit another cigarette. I wondered what woman was it who, inspired by jealousy, had put through the anonymous telephone calls to the Rector in his hospital bed in Rome. A discarded mistress of my brother’s, perhaps, or someone who had aspired to that position and failed. The woman, whoever she was, must have guessed the relationship between Aldo and the Rector’s wife. The calls might have ceased, but Aldo must be warned before he himself spoke to the Rector. I might telephone Jacopo asking him to tell Aldo, as soon as he returned home, to put through a call to me here in Carla Raspa’s apartment.

  I fingered through the directory and found the number. I asked for it and waited. There was no answer. Jacopo was either out or in his own domain. I put down the telephone and went again to the window. A bunch of students was coming up the street, shouting and whistling, dressed for a masquerade in their colored hats donned for the occasion, one of them carrying a bag on a stick which he thrust into the faces of passersby.

  “Help the poor scholars’ fund,” he called out. “Contributions welcome, however small. Every cent given will help some poor scholar to complete his education. Thank you, signore, thank you, signorina.”

  A man, shrugging, put something in the bag. A girl, pursued with hoots and whistles, did likewise, and laughingly escaped. The students spread out fanwise across the street. A car coming downhill was stopped and the bag was poked through the window. The student bowed his thanks, flourishing his medieval hat.

  “Thank you, signore, long life to you, signore.”

  They continued up the street, still singing, shouting, and turned in the direction of the piazza della Vita. The campanile beside the Duomo sounded twelve, echoed, before the last strokes finished, by the bells from San Cipriano. Noon sounded from every quarter of Ruffano, and I thought how in centuries gone by a fugitive like myself sought sanctuary within a church by the high altar. I wondered, if I did the same today, whether I should find protection or whether the sacristan in San Cipriano would look at me aghast and straightway run blabbing to the police.

  Then I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. The door opened. It was Carla Raspa. She stared at me, dumbfounded.

  “I was just deciding,” I said truthfully, “whether to remain here in your apartment or seek sanctuary in church.”

  “It depends on your crime,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Perhaps you should confess it first.”

  She laid her bag and a parcel of books on the table. Then she looked me up and down. “You’re about thirty-six hours late for our appointment,” she said. “I don’t mind waiting one hour for a date, or possibly two, but after that I prefer to find a substitute.”

  She reached in her bag for cigarettes and lit one. Then she passed into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Cinzano and two glasses on a tray. “I suppose,” she said, “the reason you ratted was that you funked the issue. It’s happened before to bigger boys than you. I’ve usually managed to overcome it, though. There are ways and means.” She poured the Cinzano into the glasses. “Courage!” she said. “You never know how good a thing can be until you try it.”

  She lifted her glass to me and smiled. I had never known anyone more magnanimous. I took the other glass. As I drank the Cinzano I came to a decision.

  “I’m not here to apologize for Tuesday night,” I said, “or to make good a reputation lost. I’m here because I believe the police are tailing me.”

  “The police?” she echoed, setting down her glass. “Then you have committed a crime—or are you joking?”

  “I’ve committed no crime,” I said. “I happened to be on the site of a murder ten days ago, and I suspect the police want to question me.”

  She saw from my face that I was not joking. She handed me one of her cigarettes. “You don’t mean the murder of that old woman in Rome?” she asked.

  “I do,” I answered. “I gave her ten thousand lire the night she was killed. My reason for doing so doesn’t matter. Next morning I learned that she had been murdered. No need to tell you I didn’t do that, but I gave her the money within minutes, possibly, of the crime. Clearly, therefore, I’m someone the police would be interested in.”

  “Why?” she asked. “They’ve caught the man, haven’t they? It was reported in the newspapers.”

  “They’ve caught him, yes,” I told her. “He admits the theft of the ten thousand lire but denies the murder.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “So would I,” she said. “That’s up to the police. Why should you worry?”

  I saw that I must explain further. I told her about the English tourists and how I had taken them to the police, but had said nothing about my gift of money, and had left for Ruffano the next day.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked.

  “Because I recognized the woman,” I said, “and to be doubly sure I came to Ruffano to find out.”

  She finished her drink, and seeing that I had finished mine poured me another. Her manner was still casual, but more guarded than before. “I read in the paper that the woman came from Ruffano,” she said. “How was it you happened to know her?”

  “I was born here,” I said. “I lived in Ruffano until I was eleven years old.”

 
She shot a look at me across the table, then refilling her glass moved to the divan, propping the cushions behind her back. “You’ve been living quite a lie here for the past week, haven’t you?” she said.

  “You might call it that.”

  “And now the lie is catching up with you?”

  “Not so much the lie as my omission to tell the truth to the police in Rome,” I said, “and the fact that I believe one of their plainclothes agents recognized me at Marta’s burial service on Tuesday. He could hardly have regarded it as a coincidence. An hour ago this same agent was making inquiries at No. 24. I saw him from across the street and came in here.”

  She lay back against the cushions blowing smoke-rings in the air. “Coincidence or not,” she said, “he would certainly think it suspicious. But if they’ve caught their man in Rome what are they doing here bothering about you?”

  “I’ve already told you,” I said. “The man denies he did it. It could be that they believe him, and the search for the murderer goes on.”

  She considered a moment, then looked across at me. “It could be that I believe him too,” she said.

  I shrugged my shoulders and moved towards the door. “In that case,” I said, “I may as well clear out. You can report me to the police over the telephone.”

  At that moment the telephone rang. I felt it must be fate—the game was finished. She held up her hand to me to stay, then lifted the receiver. “Yes,” she answered, “yes, Giuseppe… Lunch?” She paused, looked at me, shaking her head. “No, it’s impossible, I’ve people coming. A student and her mother, due any minute now. I didn’t know last night—they only telephoned this morning. I don’t know, Giuseppe, I can’t make plans… If it’s possible I’ll telephone you this afternoon at the library. So long.” She hung up, smiling. “That’s settled him for a few hours,” she said. “You’re in luck he telephoned and didn’t walk right in. We had a tentative engagement for lunch which, as you see and I hope appreciate, I’ve turned down for you. Oh, don’t worry. We won’t go out. I’ll make an omelet.” She swung her legs down from the divan and smoothed her hair.

  “Then you don’t think I’m a murderer?” I asked her.

  “No,” she said. “Frankly, I doubt if you’d have the nerve to kill a wasp, let alone a woman.”

  She went into the kitchen and I followed her. She started doing things with pans at the stove and moving dishes from the rack. I sat down on one of the chairs and watched her. My confession had acted like a purge. Our relationship seemed suddenly easier.

  “I suppose you want me to get you out of Ruffano?” she asked. “It shouldn’t be difficult. I can borrow the car again.”

  “Not out of Ruffano,” I told her, “just up the hill to a house in the via dei Sogni.”

  “Then you have a friend who knows all about you?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She hummed under her breath as she broke eggs into a basin and forked them briskly. “Do you mind telling me who it is?” she asked.

  I hesitated. I had already committed my immediate fortunes to her hands, and I saw no reason to commit my brother.

  “You don’t have to tell me—I’ve already guessed,” she said. “You forget, Ruffano is a small city. My daily cleaner lives near the Ognissanti, and I heard all about the murdered woman from her days ago. Old Marta lived for years with the Donati family, and looked after Aldo Donati when he was a boy. Did you visit his home when you were a child, and is that why you remembered her?”

  Her guess was ingenious. It was also not quite the truth, but it served my purpose.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” I answered her.

  The smoke was rising from the pan and she poured in the eggs. “So you went and told your story to Donati?” she said. “And instead of advising you to scamper he suggested you stayed put?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Was this last Sunday?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then it was you who was with Donati all Sunday afternoon and evening?”

  “Yes,” I said again.

  The omelet was done. She slid it onto the dish and brought it to the table.

  “Eat it while it’s hot,” she said, drawing in a chair for herself.

  I did as she told me, wondering what she would ask me next. She said nothing while we ate, rising from the table merely to fetch a bowl of salad and a bottle of wine. Her smile was enigmatic. I grew curious.

  “Why are you smiling?” I asked.

  “The truth has dawned on me,” she said. “I should have guessed before, when your noble friend didn’t take the trouble to answer my letter. He’s not interested in women. A playmate from the past has more allure. Especially a baby face like you.”

  This was a curious conjecture which no one would appreciate more than Aldo. I wondered whether to demur or let it go.

  “Ah well,” she said, “life is full of shocks. I’d never have believed it, though, of him. It only goes to show how wrong one can be. Still, it’s a challenge. These escapades can pall.” She forked her salad thoughtfully, and stared beyond me. “There’s been some curious talk among the students,” she mused. “Those rehearsals at the ducal palace behind closed doors—they could have been a cover for something else. If they were, Donati had me fooled on Saturday. I’d have followed him to the grave.”

  Still I said nothing. To comment either way might prove disastrous.

  “Did you know a student broke his neck last night?” she asked.

  “I heard a rumor.”

  “It’s not official yet, but it soon will be. Defied the curfew, and ran from the patrols. At least, that’s the story. A C and E lad in his third year. One wonders what their crowd will make of it. It may be the final straw.”

  She got up from the table once more and returned with fruit. She chose a pear and began to munch it, holding it unskinned between her hands, the juice running down her chin.

  “What do you mean, the final straw?” I asked.

  “The breaking point between their crowd and ours,” she said. “If so, God help us all tomorrow when Donati gets his performers into the streets. That concession of his to invite the C and E students to take part in the Festival won’t conciliate the rival factions, as he believes—it will have the opposite effect.” She laughed, and sucking the pear-core dry threw the remains into the refuse pail below the sink. “Your Arts Director wasn’t going to arm his women,” she said, “but I can tell you this. Most of the girls I’ve lectured to the last few days are determined not to miss the battle, and if the C and E crowd attack their boyfriends we’ll see all hell let loose. I pity the police.”

  She rose and stood by the stove, warming the coffee. “Anyway,” she said, “they’ll be too busy to look for you. You’ll be safe and snug in Aldo Donati’s hideout. What’s his house like? Monkish or affluent? Deep-carpeted or bare?”

  “If you borrow that car and drive me there you might get a chance to see,” I told her.

  No sooner spoken than regretted. Aldo would have enough to contend with without adding Carla Raspa to the number. Yet I saw no way of getting to the via dei Sogni without her help.

  “That’s true,” she answered smiling. “If I deliver his little playmate to him in person the least the Professor can do is to invite me in.”

  The telephone rang again. She went through to the living room to answer it. I stood and listened. Like every fugitive, I expected any telephone call to refer to me.

  “No, no, I’m still waiting for them,” she said impatiently, shaking her head. “Something must have held them up, you know what the crowds are like already in the streets.”

  She held her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered across the room at me, “Giuseppe again. He thinks I’m expecting guests.” She uncovered the mouthpiece. “You have a meeting. At a quarter to two. I understand. At the Rector’s house. Is he back?” She looked at me, excited. “About the accident, naturally. I wonder what he’ll have to say. Tell me, will Professor Donati b
e there? I see… Well, you’d better telephone me here when it’s over. So long.” She came back into the kitchen, smiling. “Butali’s back,” she said. “He’s called a meeting of the university Council for a quarter to two. When he finds out what’s been happening this past week he’ll have another thrombosis.”

  She went over to the stove and returned with the coffee. I looked at my watch. It was just after one. I crossed the room and glanced out of the window. The car we had borrowed on the Tuesday evening was parked below.

  “Giuseppe didn’t know whether Donati was to be at this meeting or not,” said Carla Raspa. “I see no point in dropping you at his house if we can’t do it in style with the host there.”

  “To hell with style,” I said. “The important thing is to get me there. Then your responsibility ends.”

  “Ah, but I don’t want it to end,” she said.

  There was sound of movement from the apartment overhead. Heavy footsteps shook the ceiling.

  “My neighbor with the car,” said Carla Raspa. She went to the door and out onto the landing. Halfway up the stairs she shouted, “Walter?” The neighbor shouted back.

  “Can I borrow the car for half an hour?” she called. “I’ve an important errand that can’t be managed on foot.”

  The neighbor overhead called something in return that I couldn’t catch.

  “Oh, yes,” she cried, “you shall have it back by half-past two.”

  She returned to the room, smiling. “He’s very obliging,” she told me, “but naturally I keep him that way. See how it pays. Let’s drink our coffee and we’ll be off. We may catch your illustrious boyfriend at his lunch.”

  “Shall I telephone him first?” I suggested.

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “No,” she said firmly, “he might put you off. I’m not going to lose my one and only opportunity of setting foot in his house.”

  There was nothing for it but to acquiesce. My hope was that my brother would not be there, and that Jacopo would admit me. We drank our coffee and she went into the bathroom. When she came back the whiff of scent was stronger, the mascara on her lashes deeper.