The Etruscan Net

by Michael Gilbert

  The Consul sighed. He was very fond of his second daughter. He had watched her grow up from an amiable dumpling to a leggy equestrienne of twelve; from an intellectual snob of seventeen to a reasonably balanced young lady of twenty-four. She was no longer his daughter. He realized that. She was an independent person in her own right. The umbilical cord had been finally severed. But the habit of years was hard to break and he still worried about her sometimes. He had got over his earlier apprehensions that she would marry someone disastrous. He was now beginning to fear that she might not marry at all.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Sigh like that. I won’t involve you in anything undiplomatic, I promise you.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of myself,’ said Sir Gerald. ‘And to tell you the truth, I wasn’t thinking of you. I was thinking of Broke.’

  ‘You mean, if we thrash round, we may make matters worse for him.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

  ‘That’s because, in your heart of hearts, you think he did it. You think he hit Milo when he was having one of those fits, and knew nothing about it. Admit it.’

  ‘I–’

  ‘Confession is good for the soul.’

  ‘I will not have opinions thrust upon me. I am too old to be bullied. I admit nothing.’

  ‘It’s what you think all the same, and that’s why you want to get him off as lightly as possible. I think he didn’t do it, and I want to prove it, and get him off altogether.’

  The Consul sighed again.

  Sostituto-Procuratore Antonio Risso laid down the folder, already pregnant with documents, upon the table of his official superior, the Procuratore della Republica and said, ‘The scientific evidence now available from our laboratories in Rome appears to me to be of a conclusive nature – the microphotographs particularly. You have studied the microphotographs?’

  ‘I have seen the microphotographs.’

  ‘I think we might almost regard the evidence as complete.’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ said the Procuratore. ‘The scientific evidence is convincing. It demonstrates beyond any question that Broke’s car struck Milo Zecchi. And there can be no reason, I agree, to suppose that anyone but Broke was driving it at the time.’

  ‘Then–’

  ‘The evidence of the woman Calzaletta. She states that she was walking along, on the other side of the road, further down, and that she heard a car coming fast. Then the squeal of its brakes – which made her turn round. She saw that the car had skidded, and come to a stop. Then, after a pause, it started up again, and came towards her. She was interested enough by now to take note of its number. And when the body was found, next morning, she very properly gave information to the Police.’

  ‘Very properly,’ agreed the Procuratore.

  ‘The skid marks and braking marks were still visible next morning, and entirely support her story.’

  ‘And she said that this happened at half past ten. How does she fix the time?’

  ‘She had been to visit her sister. She left the house at twenty-past ten and she knows that it takes her exactly ten minutes to reach the Via Canina.’

  ‘It is curious,’ said the Procuratore, ‘that people who are usually entirely vague as to what time it is, have only to become involved in criminal proceedings, when their memories become wonderfully exact.’

  ‘Have you any reason to doubt her story?’

  ‘None at all. But then, have we reason either to doubt the story of the keeper of the cemetery? What is his name?’ The Procuratore was leafing through the pile of documents on the table in front of him. ‘Carlo Frutelli.’

  ‘Frutelli is, in my view, an unreliable witness.’

  ‘Oh! Why?’

  ‘He is old, and stupid. And, I suspect, more than a little deaf.’

  ‘He says, quite definitely, that he heard a car driving down the road. He heard the squealing of brakes, and the sound of a car skidding. And he is quite certain that this happened at half past eleven. How do you explain that?’

  ‘Quite simple. He was right about what he heard, but wrong about the time.’

  ‘And yet,’ said the Procuratore maliciously, ‘he too seems able to fix it with commendable accuracy. Curiously enough he, too, had been visiting his sister. He says that he left her house at eleven o’clock and that it takes him exactly thirty minutes to walk from there to his lodge inside the cemetery gate.’

  ‘Then he is mistaken as to the time he left his sister’s house.’

  ‘Have you confirmed that by questioning his sister?’

  ‘I had not thought it necessary.’

  ‘Then do so. It is a mistake, in cases of this sort, to pursue only the evidence that tells in favour of the case one is pursuing.’

  ‘I hope I know my duty.’

  ‘My dear Antonio, I am certain you know your duty. And I am certain you are doing it admirably. But we must have all the facts.’

  The Commander studied the small scale map, and looked at his watch. It was five o’clock. He had about four hours of daylight left and he reckoned he was going to need them all.

  The list which Tina had made out for him contained the names of twenty-six families in the Arezzo area allied by ties of blood to the Radicellis. The map was based on a pre-war survey. Most of the roads, and many of the houses, had been built since the war. A less resolute man would have despaired. The Commander ran his fingers through his beard, ticked off one more name (a deaf farmer with a paralysed wife and four suspicious dogs) and got on with it.

  It was shortly after six when he turned into the muddy track which, according to a board nailed to a tree, led to a farm called San Giovanni. The surface of the track was so unpromising that he hesitated. Then he saw that one other car at least had been that way. There were the marks of a set of new Michelin all-weather tyres in the road.

  ‘If he can do it, I can,’ said the Commander. Five bumping and skidding minutes later he had corkscrewed round the last corner and arrived at the farmhouse. He rang the bell, rehearsing the story he had already used fourteen times that afternoon. The door was opened by a very old lady in black.

  The Commander explained that he had been sent by the Ministry of National Insurance to speak to Labro Radicelli about certain irregularities in his employment record.

  Most of this went clear over the old lady’s head, but she got the part that mattered.

  She said, ‘You wish to speak to Labro?’

  The Commander’s heart leapt up. He said, ‘Yes, yes. That is correct. To speak to Labro.’

  ‘I will see. You are an Englishman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the war we had an English soldier here. He came from Australia.’

  ‘Did he though,’ said the Commander.

  ‘He had been a prisoner-of-war, you understand. He promised to marry my grand-daughter.’ The old lady laughed disconcertingly.

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘He went back to Australia. I think he was married already. I will see if Labro is finished talking to the other gentleman.’

  She scuttled off. Twenty minutes passed. The other gentleman had not finished. The Commander examined the photographs on the wall. There were twelve of them, and they were all weddings. He hoped that the Radicelli grand-daughter had found an acceptable substitute for her unfaithful Australian. There were footsteps in the passage, the door opened, and a middle-aged, red-faced man came in, kicking the door shut behind him.

  ‘Are you Labro Radicelli?’

  ‘I have that impression.’

  When he got near enough, the Commander could smell the drink on him. He said, ‘Then I have a proposition to make to you.’

  ‘On the subject of National Insurance,’ said Labro, with a smile which showed his brown and broken teeth.

  ‘That was a subterfuge.’

  ‘It was unnecessary. I know precisely why you are here.’

  ‘That will save trouble.’

>   ‘Your name is Comber.’ Labro made quite a creditable effort at the name. ‘I wrote a letter to you. You are a Captain in the British Navy.’

  The Commander accepted the promotion without comment. There was something in Labro’s manner which disturbed him and he wanted to get to the bottom of it.

  ‘I wrote to you because you are a friend of the other Englishman, the one who is in prison, for killing Milo Zecchi. For knocking him down and leaving him lying in the gutter. Correct?’

  The Commander’s beard came forward a few inches, but still he said nothing.

  ‘Now you want my help. Before, I offered him my help. If he had taken it, who knows? None of this trouble might have happened. But he would have none of it. He turned up his English nose. Now, I fear you are too late. The offer is withdrawn.’ He slapped his hand down on the table. The Commander’s silence was disconcerting him. He wanted to fight, and could find no opponent except himself.

  ‘The goods I had to offer are no longer for sale.’

  ‘What were the goods?’

  ‘I have no doubt that you would like to know that. You would pay handsomely for the information. You have come out here with your pockets bulging with money. Then let me tell you, Captain, exactly what you and your friend can do–’ He articulated the street-boy obscenity carefully.

  ‘I see,’ said the Commander. He walked to the door. ‘Then it would seem that I’ve had my journey for nothing.’ His calmness infuriated Labro. For a moment it looked as though he was going to hit him. But there was a warning in the Commander’s eye which restrained him.

  ‘If you should change your mind, you know where you can get in touch with me. I’ll wish you good evening.’

  The Commander walked out into the farmyard. There was a suspicion which had to be confirmed. The tracks of the Michelin tyres were visible in the film of mud over the cobble-stones. They led round towards the back of the building. The Commander followed them carefully.

  7

  Statics and Dynamics

  ‘It is my house,’ said Annunziata. ‘All of it. The front part and the back part. Every room. And I say that Dindoni shall not stay in it for another day.’

  ‘We can’t turn him out into the street,’ said Tina.

  ‘Then he shall be given a week to find other accommodation.’

  ‘What of the business?’

  ‘Why should I care about the business. Your father was a careful man. We have money. Sufficient for our needs.’

  ‘If you’re sure of that,’ said Tina doubtfully. ‘Perhaps we could let the room at the back to an artist. There are many who require accommodation. I saw an advertisement in the papers only yesterday – God in heaven!’

  She had been turning the pages of the Corriere di Firenze as she spoke. A photograph in the news section had suddenly caught her eye.

  ‘What does it say, cara? Read it to me.’

  ‘Look! Look! That woman.’

  ‘What does it say, cara? Read it to me.’

  ‘It says, “An important witness in the case of the Englishman Broke accused of running down and killing a citizen of Florence, Milo Zecchi, is Maria Calzaletta”–’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘There is a photograph of her, see.’ She pushed the newspaper across. Her mother had found her glasses. She said, ‘It is a face that has a certain familiarity.’

  ‘It’s Maria, Dindoni’s woman. She works at the café on the corner. I have seen her a hundred times.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It is not a good photograph,’ agreed Tina. ‘But yes, I am certain of it.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It means that what we had thought is true. There was a conspiracy. Dindoni arranged it all. He desired this business. He could not wait.’

  ‘Dindoni?’ said Annunziata doubtfully.

  ‘Not on his own. He had help of course. Do you remember Milo told us? He was being followed by two men. We laughed at him at the time. But it was true. Dindoni must have told them that Milo was going out that night. And yet–’ Tina’s enthusiasm suffered a set-back. ‘How could he have known. He was so careful to talk about it only in this room. What is wrong, Mother?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You do not look well.’

  ‘It’s nothing. It was speaking of Milo. You brought it all back to me. What will you do now?’

  ‘I shall question this woman.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Annunziata. ‘You question her.’ She seemed anxious to get her daughter out of the room.

  Mercurio was sitting in his car at the corner of the street and climbed out as she came up. Tina’s first thought was to ignore him. Then it occurred to her that she could do with some support. She said, ‘I have business in this café. You can come with me if you wish.’

  The front room, as was usual at that early hour in the evening, was empty, but they could hear someone moving about inside the alcove behind the bead-curtains. They went through. Maria was taking bottles from a carton and arranging them on one of the shelves. She suspended operations when she saw them, looked indifferently at Tina, more agreeably at Mercurio.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘We would like some information,’ said Tina. She slammed the newspaper down on the table. ‘Is that your photograph?’

  ‘I expect so,’ said Maria, without looking at it.

  ‘Then it is you who are giving evidence to the Police.’

  ‘I told them what I saw – and heard.’

  Tina laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.

  ‘You told them what your fancy man, Dindo, ordered you to tell them.’

  ‘I told them the truth.’

  ‘Strange that you should have chanced to be in the Via Canina at half past ten.’

  ‘Is there any law against it?’

  ‘Why were you not here? That is the busy time here, isn’t it? As much as a dump like this ever can be busy.’

  Maria ignored this insult. She said, ‘If you want to know, we shut at nine o’clock that evening. Old Tortoni agreed to it. I told him I had to visit my sister. She lives near the Porta Romana. I was on my way back from her house when this thing happened.’

  Mercurio said, ‘That sounds to me like a story. It is something you have learned up to recite to the Police. Now tell us what really happened?’

  ‘It happened as I have said.’

  ‘Odd,’ said Tina, ‘that you should have decided, suddenly, to visit your sister when it is well known that you have not spoken to her for two years – since she married your boyfriend–’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ said Maria, a spot of colour appearing in both cheeks.

  ‘And since when has anyone coming from the Porta Romana needed to go down the Via Canina?’

  ‘I refuse to answer your questions.’

  ‘Who was here, that night, at nine o’clock when you shut the café?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Those two men were here, weren’t they? The fat one and the thin one.’

  Maria said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She said it without confidence.

  ‘Oh, come now,’ said Tina. ‘You can’t be as stupid as that. They’ve been here every night for the last ten days, putting their feet up, and having drinks on the house.’

  Mercurio suddenly said, in a loud and authoritative voice. ‘I smell blood.’

  The women stared at him. Maria had turned pale.

  ‘I have certain divine attributes. I can look forward into the future, and back into the past. And I can tell you this–’ He transfixed Maria with a look of sombre power. ‘On the night you are speaking of, something horrible happened, in this room.’

  Maria said, ‘Don’t look at me like that. Nothing happened here. Or if it did, it was nothing to do with me. I wasn’t here–’

  The words were coming faster and faster, and ended with a noise which was half a gasp and half a scream, but this was nothing to do with Mercurio. It was caused by the stout man co
ming through the bead-curtains. He said, ‘Are these people annoying you, carissima?’

  Tina said, ‘Oh!’

  Mercurio, who still seemed to be in the grip of some external force, swung slowly round, looked at the stout man, and said, ‘The blood is on your hands.’

  ‘I think you had better go, both of you,’ said the stout man. ‘You are upsetting the management.’

  Tina said, ‘We’ve got as much right to be here as you have, fatty.’

  The man ignored her. He stepped quickly up to Mercurio, and grabbed him by the collar of his coat. He might as well have tried to hold an eel. Mercurio’s curiously mobile body twisted under his grasp, and the man was left holding the coat.

  Tina looked about her for a weapon. The nearest was a cue off the bar-billiards table. She screamed out ‘Take your hands off him, you beast,’ and swung, butt-end foremost, at his head.

  The man side-stepped the blow easily. Maria, who was standing behind him, was not so lucky. The heavy butt hit her on the side of the head with a noise like an old and well-oiled bat meeting a leather cricket ball, and she dropped.

  The stout man ignored them both. He had eyes only for Mercurio. He said, ‘If you want to turn this into a strip-tease act, let us play it that way.’ He darted forward, shot out his hands, grabbed Mercurio’s silk shirt, and pulled. It came away with a ripping sound, exposing a blue silk singlet.

  Mercurio said, ‘Beast,’ and threw himself at the man, who hit him in the stomach. This, at least, was his intention. But Mercurio, who was as agile as his opponent, half turned at the last moment, took the blow on his hip, and flung his arms round the stout man, clasping him to him. Then, as the man jerked his head away, he buried his teeth in his ear.

  Most people when bitten in the ear would scream. The stout man did not. He disengaged his right arm, quite calmly, put his hand up, and felt for Mercurio’s eyes. Mercurio let go of his ear, and twisted his face away.

  The hand followed it.

  The stout man said, hardly raising his voice, ‘I am going to blind you.’

  It was Mercurio who screamed.

  This brought Tina back into the fight. Up to that point she had been trying to assure herself that Maria was not dead. Now she picked up the fallen cue, swung it carefully, like a golfer addressing a drive, and hit the stout man very hard on the back of his head, just above the point where his neck joined his skull.