He got into bed and picked up the alarm clock.
'I've already set it. What happened to that poor old woman?' Her eyes were wide open now. 'Or don't you want to tell me?
'I'll tell you . . . but you mustn't say a word outside these four walls because I don't want it to get about yet. It was set up to look like suicide but somebody killed her.'
'Killed her? That harmless old thing? But surely she hadn't a penny!'
'What's that got to do with it?'
'Well... I don't know. I just thought—I don't know.'
'As far as I know she hadn't a penny, but somebody killed her, even so. Not a word to anybody, think on!'
'I won't say anything. You needn't have told me if you didn't want to. There's no need to get annoyed.'
'I'm not annoyed.' But the truth was that he was annoyed and it showed in his voice. Annoyed with himself because he'd got so distracted by the photograph business and the old woman's madness that the obvious idea of her being killed for money had quite gone out of his head. And when all was said and done, what did he or anyone really know about Clementina? She might have been a miser. There could be money tucked away that they hadn't managed to find, however unlikely it seemed. Her past was a mystery, which brought him back to the photograph problem. Who was she? Where was she until ten years ago? That's what he needed to know.
'Well, if you'd rather not talk about it I'll switch the light off'
'What? No ... I was just thinking, that's all. But switch it off, anyway.' All of a sudden he was tired..It had been a long day, and tomorrow looked like being a longer one still.
Morning, in August, was the best time of day, the only time when the body felt cool enough and light enough to be active and the head clear enough to make the decisions of the day. The Marshal was in his office a good hour before the boys on day duty came down. Before that he had heard them getting up and showering upstairs, their voices thick with sleep when they muttered the occasional remark to each other. Outside his window the air was still and birds were chinking among the laurel bushes. He heard the park keepers arriving on the ground floor, where their office was directly below his. On a morning like this it would have been nice to live out and to walk to work through the Boboli Gardens. He got up and opened the window. The morning air was just warmed by the sun and smelled of the trees instead of the heavy traffic that burdened it for the rest of the year. He leaned out a little for a glimpse of the red dome and white marble tower of the cathedral against a pale, misty blue sky. It always pleased him. His freshly-ironed uniform felt good against his skin. He would have given a lot to get out of his office at this hour, but he had things to do and by the time he was ready to leave both the air outside and his uniform would be hot and sweaty. So he stayed where he was for a moment at the open window, making the most of it until he heard the boys come clattering down the stairs.
"Morning, Marshal.'
"Morning, lads. Sit down a minute, both of you. Everything all right?' This remark was addressed to the boy on the left, a big, cheerful lad doing his National Service.
'Yessir!' He would insist on saying Sir and saluting with a snap of his heels at the most unexpected moments. The Marshal found him disconcertingly military. The other boys laughed at him. Di Nuccio was smirking now. The Marshal maintained a pop-eyed solemnity.
The door burst open while somebody was still knocking on it.
'We're going to get the post, Marshal.'
'Wait.' The Marshal pushed the preliminary report of last night's events into a large envelope. 'Deliver this to the Public Prosecutor's office first—and put a spurt on this morning because I want to send Di Nuccio here out as soon as you get back.'
He had good reason to tell them to hurry. Going for the post at Headquarters was everybody's favourite job, since they were bound to bump into old friends over there and always got in a quick coffee and a few minutes' gossip. The Marshal knew this and pretended not to.
When they'd gone he had a few words with the National Service boy whose name was Bruno, taking care to avoid Di Nuccio's smirk as he did so. You couldn't help liking this lad although he was so eccentric. When he'd first arrived he'd been a physical fitness fanatic and spent every spare minute exercising with dumb-bells and chest expanders. Three weeks later he took up painting in watercolours and the dumb-bells vanished. And it wasn't as though you could criticize him for doing things superficially. As long as his enthusiasm lasted he gave himself to it heart and soul and got results. The boys got endless fun out of him but there was no denying that his muscles were impressive and only the week before he'd won some sort of prize for one of his paintings. The Marshal, for his part, couldn't complain. If he'd wanted to, the lad could have gone straight to university and put off his military service for years but he had accepted his call at eighteen and bounded into uniform, bursting with enthusiasm even for that. He was the only boy the Marshal had ever come across who seemed to be enjoying the experience, even when it consisted just of standing around in a draught on guard duty. Nothing deflated him and nothing dismayed him.
'Can I ask you something, sir?' asked the bright-eyed Bruno as soon as he lit on a pause in the Marshal's fatherly lecture.
'Don't call me "sir".'
'Nossir—Marshal, are you allowed to eat with us?'
'What. . .?'
'Can we invite you up to eat a meal with us, sir?'
'Don't—!'
'Sorry.'
'He's taken up cookery!' put in Di Nuccio, stifling a burst of laughter.'
'Chinese cookery,' corrected Bruno seriously. 'I've always been a good cook. I'm planning a special dinner—not yet, because I can't get the ingredients I need until the shops all re-open. But I want to invite you, too.'
'We'll see . . .' muttered the Marshal, nonplussed. 'You'd better get on duty. I want a word with Di Nuccio.'
Bruno jumped to his feet, fired off a salute and marched out as though he were under guard, slamming the door behind him.
'That boy . . .' began the Marshal, but he tailed off, at a loss for words.
'He's taken over all the cooking, all of it!' said Di Nuccio, letting his laughter out. 'We're in clover!'
'You haven't been exchanging duties without—'
'Oh no. He does all his regular duties and cooks as well. We might as well enjoy it while it lasts.'
'I suppose so . . . Does this mean he's given up painting?'
'Looks like it.'
'Hm. We'd better get to work. First of all, do you know anything about a call, the night before last, concerning a disturbance in the San Frediano district?'
'I remember seeing it on the report yesterday morning— but there was nothing to it. It was referred to Borgo Ognissanti and the lad on duty called Headquarters himself so they'd inform the nearest patrol car. Apparently they passed by but there was no disturbance—and whoever the caller was never did try Borgo Ognissanti so that was that.'
'I'm afraid it wasn't,' the Marshal said, and explained.
When he'd finished, Di Nuccio said, 'Do you think there'll be a claim of negligence?'
'No, no. The caller was correctly referred to the emergency service and the lad had the good sense to send a patrol there himself. I don't see what more he could have done even if he'd known what was going to happen.'
'That's true.'
'Now, what I want from you is some information and I want it unofficially. What's the name of that friend of yours over at Borgo Ognissanti? The one who broke his leg skiing last winter?'
'Mario?'
'That's the one. He was a neighbour of yours down home, wasn't he?'
'Same street.
'Well, as you're old friends and neighbours, both from Naples, I imagine you can get what I need from him. If I make inquiries myself action will have to be taken as a matter of course and that's the last thing I want. There's a bar in the square just across from the dead woman's house. It's my guess that there's a bit of gambling going on there —small friendly stuff, nothing to
worry about—after the place shuts at night and sometimes going on until the small hours.'
'I see. Well, Mario's bound to know since it's on their night beat.'
'Just check for me. But think on, I don't want anybody poking their nose in there.'
'You don't want it stopped, then?'
'No, no. On the contrary. I want it to go on, if that's the way things are, because as long as it does go on the shutters will be down to give the impression that the place is closed and somebody, somewhere, will be keeping a lookout.'
'I see what you mean. It could be useful—provided that they're willing to report anything they might see.'
'They're willing. Nobody likes the thought of a murderer lurking about the area. But their habits mustn't be disturbed. I need their help. So, all I want to know is what time they go on till, more or less, and whether anybody who didn't know could guess from the outside that there were people in there.'
'I doubt that. I'll have a word with Mario, then, making it sound casual.'
'Don't get too complicated. Tell him the truth, if you like. As long as it doesn't come officially from me nobody's obliged to do anything about it. Understood?'
'Right.' But Di Nuccio looked disappointed. He liked a bit of intrigue to make life interesting but the Marshal preferred him to reserve this taste for his dealings with women, which, from the snatches of conversation the Marshal picked up, should have provided enough intrigue for anybody's needs.
When Di Nuccio had gone he sighed. With a business like this he'd have been glad to have his young brigadier, Lorenzini, with him, a straightforward lad and bright, too. But Lorenzini had left for the seaside with his wife and small baby yesterday morning. He would have to make do with Di Nuccio, half a dozen or so young regulars with very little experience, and, God help us, Bruno the artist—or rather, the cook.
And, to his dismay, he realized that the temperature had already risen and sweat was beginning to trickle down his back. Why the devil did a thing like this have to happen in August?
'You know what it's like in August,' said the voice at the other end of the line apologetically.
'Of course,' the Marshal said, keeping his temper with difficulty. 'I'm in the same situation, with so many men on holiday, but—'
'Then you'll understand. I can't say at this point how much of a delay there'll be, but there are three other postmortems which have precedence, so . . .'
'I realize that, you told me last time I called, but the point is I need as much information as possible before the story breaks that it wasn't a suicide. Otherwise it wouldn't matter so much.'
'Well, frankly, I've already spoken to the Prosecutor on the case and I must say he didn't seem so concerned as you are.'
So that was how things were. A prosecutor who was neither use nor ornament, the sort who then came down on you like a ton of bricks when things went badly.
'Have you spoken to him about it yourself?' went on the other.
'No . . .'
'Well, that might be your best bet if you really feel it's that important. It may be that if you can convince him he could put pressure on at this end. You know there's not much I can do.'
'I suppose not.'
'If you want so speak to the doctor about his on-the-spot findings . . .'
'No, there's no need. I was there. That's not what I want to know.'
But what did he want to know? he thought as he hung up. He knew the most important thing: that Clementina hadn't gassed herself.
'I want to know who she is,' he answered himself aloud. He would also have liked to know if she'd ever had children. That photograph business was still sticking in his mind, though, needless to say, he hadn't mentioned that in his preliminary report to the Prosecutor this morning. Was there any point in trying to get him to put pressure on about the postmortem? There was no harm in trying. He might have read the report by now. The Marshal mopped his brow with a handkerchief and dialled. The Prosecutor hadn't read his report. It was apparently still lying on his desk unopened, according to the registrar who answered. He was in court at the moment but would certainly receive the Marshal's message as soon as he was free. 'He's got a very heavy workload, and this being August . . .'
The most important thing in the heat is to keep your temper. Once you let it boil over you feel ill for the rest of the day. To distract himself from the Prosecutor and the postmortem, the Marshal doggedly ran his finger down the list of things he had set himself to do, looked up the number of Italmoda and dialled it. But no sooner had it started ringing than he felt a rising tide of anger against the Public Prosecutor's office and all who dwelt therein, with special reference to the sort of substitute prosecutor who didn't so much direct an inquiry as sit on it, only shifting every now and then to derail it when it was going along nicely without his help. And all the talk there was these days about their defending their precious autonomy. A good deal less of it was what they needed, and some sort of outside watchdog to keep them under control. A bunch of prima donnas, that's what they were, and not above such childish tricks as calling the police in on a case to spite the Carabinieri and vice versa. 'Keeps them on their toes.' He'd actually heard one of them say it. Well, if this one wanted a scene, he could have it—no, he couldn't! He'd keep perfectly calm, that's what he'd do. Blast the man—and blast the people in this office who couldn't be bothered to answer their phone! A fine way to run a business. No wonder the country was going to the dogs.
The ringing at the other end went on and on and the Marshal's head felt fit to burst. Suddenly he slammed the receiver down and slumped back in his chair, passing a finger under his damp collar. Of course nobody was answering the phone. Whoever heard of an office being open in August? He shut his eyes and tried to breathe slowly, but his heart was beating too fast, and somehow his breathing insisted on keeping up with it. He'd done it. He'd boiled over. If he had any sense he'd just go quietly on with his routine work and let Clementina's case hang fire until September when it was possible to work properly because the world was functioning again. Of course, if he did try that on, the Prosecutor would appear from nowhere and start harassing him. He went and closed the window and switched on the fan. Then he switched the fan off again and got his jacket from behind the door. There was one possibility left on his list, and if the day was going to be that sort of day then he might as well go on blundering through it. Why spread the agony out over two or three days? He poked his head into the duty room as he left. Bruno was holding forth.
'A wok, since you're so ignorant, is a special sort of pan with sloping sides—'
'All right, all right, but we haven't got one,' said Di Nuccio, stabbing at the switchboard with a plug.
'No, but I'm going to get one as soon as the shops open.'
'I'm going out,' interrupted the Marshal, and shut the door.
Down in the entrance, he blinked in pain as the light hit his sensitive eyes and he fished out his sunglasses. Only a very few cars were dotted about the sloping courtyard in front of the Pitti Palace and the tourists rambled about freely in their bright new holiday clothes. Someone had dropped an ice-cream which had melted into a slimy pink and brown puddle around a sodden cone. He walked slowly down and crossed the road to take a short cut down a dark alleyway. The streets smelled sweaty and the large ochre stones of the high buildings shimmered with heat. He crossed Piazza Santo Spirito, where the absence of market stalls had a depressing effect. There was just one peasant farmer in from the country with a few limp-looking greens for sale on a small table. An old woman was poking about in them, grumbling.
It was cheering to find Franco's bar open. The butcher and the greengrocer wouldn't open until tomorrow. The Marshal stepped under the scaffolding in front of Clementina's building and rang the first-floor bell. A trickle of sweat rolled slowly down between his shoulder-blades until it reached his belt. Another was forming at the bridge of his nose under the sunglasses. He dabbed at this one with his handkerchief, replaced his glasses, rang the bell
again and stood back a little in the road.
'They're out,' said a voice behind his head. He turned. Pippo's wife, Maria Pia, was leaning out of the window, dangling a dripping white shirt. 'I think they've gone to her mother's.'
'Oh yes? And where would that be?'
'Arezzo.'
'Arezzo . . .' If they'd gone that far they'd be gone all day. And surely, when he'd told them he'd be back the young man had said, 'Tomorrow would be better.' Much better. They'd be gone! Well, he might have expected it, the way things were going today.
'You don't know when they'll be back?' he called up.
Pippo's wife had pegged the shirt to the line hanging below her window and was squeaking it along on the pulley to make room for another.
'Moh . . .' she said with a shrug, and a second shirt sent a flurry of cool drops down on the Marshal's upturned face. 'Oh dear . . . watch out!'
'Good day to you,' said the Marshal and turned away.
"Bye,' she said, and then as an afterthought called out, 'Franco might know!'
So he might. But if they were out they were out, and what the Marshal needed, as those few cool drops had reminded him, was a shower. And maybe a cup of coffee, too. The heat had gone to his head to the extent that he couldn't care less that the wretched young couple had gone off. All he cared about was getting in off the hot streets and under a cool shower. That was all he wanted now.
What he got was a waiting-room full of tourists, one of them an elderly lady who was crying quietly into a paper handkerchief.
'Thank goodness you're back.' A harassed-looking Di Nuccio put his head round the duty room door and the Marshal glimpsed two more tourists in there behind him.
'There's been a pickpocket at work in the galleries and as these people are all foreigners and can't understand a word I say this is going to go on for ever.'
The elderly woman went on crying quietly and the rest of the group all turned reproachful eyes on the Marshal, as though it were his fault that their holidays had taken this unexpected turn for the worse. His first thought was that, given the sweaty condition of his shirt, he wouldn't be able to take off his jacket before tackling this lot. His second thought was that at least there was somebody else working in this heat and, judging by the row of woeful faces before him, the pickpocket had had a more successful morning's work than himself.
The Marshal and the Madwoman Page 7