Scipione whistled all the more cheerfully. He was an unimpressionable young man, full of the cheerful vitality of the south, his black hair sleek with health, his eyes alight with the lust of living.
He opened the gate, and made his way down the path to where, behind a hedge of cypress, the cottage of the cemetery’s custodian stood. It was a tiny building, smaller than many of the ancient mausoleums it guarded.
As he walked, he was considering the precise technique he would use with the old man. There would be no need to terrify him. An air of authority, a hint of force in reserve. The rest would be achieved by simple suggestion. He rapped on the door and marched in.
Carlo Frutelli, keeper of the tombs, was seated in a chair on one side of the kitchen table. He was not alone. On the other side of the table, a notebook open in front of him and a gentle smile on his face, was Avvocato Riccasoli.
11
Hot
It was nine-thirty on the following morning when Sir Gerald Weighill entered the Consular offices on the Lungarno Corsini and asked the lady who officiated at the switchboard to get him a Rome number. Then he went into his private room and locked the door.
When the call came through, he spoke at some length to the man at the other end, whom he addressed as Colin, and from whom he got a number of non-committal answers. Finally he said, ‘Well, would you check up on him. If Comber isn’t one of ours, I should like to know what the devil he’s up to, and let me have the answer as soon as you can. The head Policeman is coming to see me this evening and I’ve been instructed to throw this chap out by the end of the week.’
He rang off, unlocked his door, wiped his forehead, for it was already a day with a promise of exceptional heat, and was ready for his first visitors, who turned out to be Felicia Broke and Miss Plant. Neither of them was pleased with him.
‘Had I been consulted at the start,’ said Miss Plant, ‘the matter would not have developed in this deplorable way. It appears to me that Mr Broke has been allowed to become a political scapegoat. My Italian friends tell me that a conviction will go a long way towards securing a seat on the Municipal Council for his prosecutor, Risso. An extremely objectionable and bumptious young man.’
‘On the other hand,’ said Miss Broke, ‘we understand that his acquittal will mean votes for the Communist party. Things have come to a pretty pass when a Broke is allowed to serve as propaganda material for the Reds.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t see how I–’
‘On top of all this,’ said Miss Plant, ‘it’s being openly stated, in the British community, that you have advised Mr Broke to plead guilty. I have no doubt this has been exaggerated, but since there’s no smoke without a fire–’
‘Oh dear,’ said Sir Gerald. He said it to himself, after the two angry ladies had gone. Then he picked up his brown Homburg hat, a spectacularly British piece of headgear, and set out for the Murate Jail. He got back to his house, in time for a late luncheon, and found Elizabeth waiting for him.
‘Did you see him?’ she said. ‘How is he? How did it go? What did you think of Riccasoli?’
‘Before dealing with one question, let alone four,’ said the Consul, sinking down into his chair and mopping his forehead, ‘I demand a pink gin.’
‘I’ve poured it out for you. Now then.’
‘Yes. I saw Broke. He appeared to be in good health and perfectly normal spirits. Alarmingly so.’
‘Alarming!’
‘I found it alarming. When a man is in imminent danger of a heavy sentence for what was, on the worst view, an error of judgement, you would expect him to show signs of apprehension. Broke seems to be entirely unconcerned. So much so that one might be driven to the conclusion that he was almost welcoming this martyrdom.’
‘You don’t understand him. Just because he doesn’t make a show of his feelings–’
‘It isn’t a question of showing his feelings. It’s a complete lack of feeling. A mental unawareness which seems to me – I may be wrong, I’m no psychologist – to be something akin to a death wish.’
Elizabeth stared at him.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Certainly. I think the destruction of his wife and unborn child did something to him. Something possibly irreparable. He’s like a clock with a broken mainspring. No. That’s a poor simile. If the mainspring were broken, the clock would stop altogether, and Broke hasn’t done that. Outwardly he seems perfectly all right – apart from occasional fits of amnesia. But inside, something’s dead.’
‘Not dead,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Frozen. Given time, it’ll melt.’
‘I wish I could be sure about that.’ The Consul swallowed his drink, and handed the glass to his daughter, who poured him out a second one. They sat in companionable silence for some minutes.
‘He’s got a new lawyer – but you know that? I met him at the jail and we went in together.’
‘What did you think of him?’
Sir Gerald laughed. ‘He’s quite a character. Most of the time I was there, he and Broke were talking about music.’
‘Music?’
‘They were arguing about whether a phrase in one of Beethoven’s symphonies should be dah-di-di-dah or dah-dah-di-dah.’
Elizabeth said, ‘That was a nice change anyway.’
‘I don’t think Riccasoli’s a fool. He’s done one thing which was really quite obvious, but no one had thought of doing, to date. He went to see the doctor.’
‘Which doctor?’
‘The one that old Milo Zecchi had planned to visit on the night of the accident, remember? He was planning to sneak out of the back door of his surgery to go to meet Broke.’
‘And did he?’
‘No,’ said the Consul. ‘He didn’t. He never got to the doctor’s at all.’
At one o’clock Avvocato Riccasoli pushed open the door of the café in the Via Torta and peered in. The outer room was empty except for Maria, who was seated behind the counter, reading a newspaper. She had a broad strip of sticking plaster over her right temple, and her face looked paler and sulkier than usual. She did not look up when Riccasoli came in, and he had to cough to call attention to himself.
‘Well–?’
‘It is the Signora Maria Calzaletta I am addressing?’
‘It is. And if you are from the newspapers I have nothing more to say.’
Riccasoli slid a card across the zinc counter. Maria looked at it, with apparent indifference.
‘So! A lawyer. And what can I do for you?’
‘First, a Cinzano-soda, with a lump of ice in it.’
Maria got down the bottle, poured the contents into a glass, and added a cube of ice from the refrigerator under the counter. Riccasoli leaned one elbow on the bar and watched her. Then he took something from his wallet. Maria’s eys widened at the sight of the pink and brown ten thousand lire note. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t enough change–’
‘Then don’t bother to change it,’ said Riccasoli softly.
‘I – thank you.’ Her eyes shifted uncertainly.
Riccasoli smiled dreamily. He took a second card from his wallet, drew out a thin gold pencil, turned the card over, and wrote on the back. ‘If it is difficult for you to talk here, come to this shop any evening at six.’
When he had finished his drink and drifted out into the street again, the curtains parted and the stout man came out.
He said, ‘What was all that about? Who was he?’
‘He was a lawyer.’ She pushed across the first card that Riccasoli had given her. The second seemed to have disappeared. The banknote also.
‘What did he want?’
‘A drink.’
‘Why should a lawyer come to a dump like this for a drink? And why did he leave his card?’
‘Perhaps he was touting for business.’
‘Perhaps you are lying,’ said the stout man.
‘Why should I lie?’
The fat man looked at her thoughtfully. He detected a hint of defiance in her manner. He di
strusted it. He said, ‘You wouldn’t be thinking of doing anything dishonourable, I hope.’
Maria said, ‘You’re making something out of nothing.’
‘I hope so,’ said the stout man. ‘Because if you did anything so stupid,’ he leaned forward comfortably on the counter, ‘I myself would take great pleasure in teaching you a lesson which you would never, never forget.’
At three o’clock, under a merciless sun, Avvocato Riccasoli picked his way down the Via dei Malcontenti, crossed the Ponte San Niccolo, (with the smart new balustrade replacing the one swept away by the flood) and climbed the tree-shaded slope of the Viale Michelangiolo. When he got to the cul-de-sac in which Broke’s house stood he paused for a whole two minutes, rocking slowly backwards and forwards on his pointed shoes, his eyes half shut.
Then he seemed to come to a decision. Instead of making for Broke’s house, he turned into the garden of the house next door.
A fat Alsatian padded up and sniffed at his trousers. Riccasoli smiled nervously at it, and rang the door bell.
‘Signora Colli?’
‘Yes. Down, Benito! He is a good dog really.’
‘I am sure of it.’ said Riccasoli. ‘He has a most amiable face.’ He took out his card and handed it to the woman. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I have been retained by friends of Signor Broke to see to the conduct of his defence.’
‘Ah, the poor man. What they say of him is nothing but lies. Such a gentle soul. So kind, so considerate. How could he be thought to have done such a thing?’
‘I am encouraged to hear you say so, Signora. Such, of course, is my belief too, or I should not have undertaken this task. However, there is one point on which you could perhaps help me.’
‘Anything in my power. Anything at all.’
‘It concerns your dog.’
‘Benito?’
‘Indeed. Would you say that he is a good sleeper?’
Signora Colli looked in astonishment, first at the lawyer, then at the dog, who made a noise like a very old man clearing his throat. She said, ‘Indeed, yes. As you see, he has a comfortable figure. He eats well, and in consequence, he sleeps well.’
‘Then he does not bark a lot at night.’
‘Hardly ever – but wait. It is true, now that you bring it back to my mind. He did bark a great deal on the night on which this accident happened.’
‘Could you, I wonder, be even more precise. Did he bark all through the night?’
‘Not all through it. No. We retire early in our household. We are in bed by half past ten. He was barking for, perhaps, an hour. Then my husband went down and spoke to him, and after that he stopped.’
‘Between half past ten then, and half past eleven?’
‘That is right. Though you might not judge it from his appearance, Benito has a very sensitive nature. Do you suppose – is it possible that he may have sensed that Signor Broke was in trouble?’
‘With a sensitive dog,’ said Avvocato Riccasoli, ‘anything is possible.’
Benito looked gratified.
‘I shall have to insist,’ said Sostituto-Procuratore Risso angrily, ‘that the prosecution witnesses are given Police protection.’
‘You think that wise?’ said the Procuratore.
It was half past four, and the heat was still as intense as it had been at midday.
‘Wise and necessary. I have information that they are being subjected to most improper interrogation. Possibly also to bribes.’
‘By whom?’
‘By Avvocato Riccasoli.’
‘I see. He is, of course, entitled to ask them questions. Is there any actual evidence that he has offered them bribes?’
‘You know Riccasoli,’ said Risso contemptuously. ‘He’s the slipperiest fish in Florence. He should have been disbarred years ago. Half a dozen times he’s come within an inch of a charge of bribery, intimidation and interference with the course of justice.’
‘And half a dozen times he has wriggled his way out.’
‘Or bought his way out.’
The Procuratore thought about it.
He said, ‘In principle I agree. But we must proceed with care. This case is in the public eye. If it came out that we had tried to use the Police to prevent the defence from questioning witnesses, it would look very bad. Very bad indeed. It might, in fact, give them a handle which they do not possess already. You realize that this may be why Riccasoli is behaving in this way. He has visited these people quite openly?’
‘Openly, yes.’
‘Have you considered that he may be doing it in order to provoke us to precisely this action. Had you thought of that?’
‘I should not put it past him,’ said Risso, chewing his upper lip as if he hated it.
‘Nevertheless, on balance, I think you are right. What is called for is a discreet form of surveillance. The Carabinieri will be more adept at this than the Police. Make all arrangements with Tenente Lupo. But warn him to be very careful.’
The voice on the telephone said, in tones of cold anger, ‘Your instructions were clear. You were to behave unobtrusively until some definite action was called for.’
‘I agree,’ said the fat man.
‘Not to call attention to yourselves. Not to indulge in brawling. Not to get your presence reported to the Police.’
‘We were not inviting trouble. We were attacked.’
‘By a young boy, and a girl. And you had to make such a drama out of it that the Police are brought in.’
‘Listen,’ said the stout man. He, too, was getting angry. ‘We did not start the trouble. And we did not send for the Police.’
‘It seems possible,’ said the voice, and its previous coldness was as nothing compared to its icy quality now, ‘that you are not the right men for this job. I should be sorry to have to report to your superiors that you had failed.’
There was a long silence. Then the stout man said, in tones of surprising mildness. ‘I do not think you need worry. There will be no difficulty with the Carabinieri. Our contact there is reliable. I can promise you that.’
‘There had better not be. It may, in any event, be too late to replace you. But you will act with more discrection, and remain out of sight until you receive orders.’
‘Very well,’ said the stout man. It had been hot inside the telephone booth but hardly hot enough to account for the fact that he was sweating so freely when he came out.
‘It is good of you to call, Colonel Nobile,’ said the Consul. ‘And I am delighted to be able to set your mind at rest.’
‘You have advised Commander Comber to leave Florence then?’
‘I have not spoken to Commander Comber.’
‘So?’
‘But I have spoken to the authorities in Rome who know about such matters. They were able to assure me that Commander Comber has no connection whatever with any British intelligence organization.’
‘Then perhaps you can offer me a rational explanation of certain of his messages which have been intercepted.’
‘If you have one of them with you,’ said Sir Gerald with a smile, ‘I might be able to do just that.’
The Colonel extracted a piece of paper from his brief-case and laid it on the desk.
‘Fishcake, Filigree, Obol – Yes, I fancy that was last Thursday. Let me see if I can find it. I had a good deal of trouble with that one myself, I remember.’
He was looking through the collected set of The Times which was stacked on a side table beside his desk. ‘This is the one, I think.’
‘What is this?’
‘It’s the solution to the crossword puzzle which was set in last Wednesday’s paper.’
‘A crossword puzzle?’
‘As I understand the matter, they are set by several different people. Commander Comber constructs one each week. He is better at the actual putting together of the diagram than at thinking out the clues. These are done for him by an old naval colleague, Commander Robin Smith, in London.’
‘I see
,’ said Colonel Nobile.
‘His clue to “Dichotomy” was particularly apt, I thought. A backward police force has roast duck. And, goodness me! A split.’
The Colonel looked baffled.
‘“cid” – reversed. Then “hot”, “o”, of course, stands for a duck. Then we have the expression “my!” Clever don’t you think?’
‘Amazing,’ said Colonel Nobile. It seemed to him to confirm in every particular his previously held opinion of the English.
‘Well, now. The sun’s over the yardarm at last. And what a day it has been to be sure.’ As he spoke, the Consul was unlocking what appeared to be a filing cabinet and was really an ice-box at the side of his desk. ‘Perhaps you would care to join me in a little drink? Whisky with ice and soda water? Admirable!’
And the sun went down at last, a circle of liquid fire, turning first to bronze, and then to a deep blood orange as it slid towards the horizon, its rays refracted by an evening mist which promised further and greater heat to come.
Avvocato Riccasoli drove home through the cooling streets in his baby Cinquecento. A mile out on the Bologna road he turned right into a lane hardly wide enough for one car, and then manoeuvred to the left, through an open pair of gates, and into a quiet backwater of villa residences.
Each one was flanked by iron railings, the railings topped with spikes and interwoven with climber roses in full bloom. Riccasoli stopped his car facing high iron gates at the far end. A notice on them said ‘Cane Mordace’. He touched the horn and waited. There was a sound of bolts being withdrawn and the gates creaked open.
The maid who took charge of his hat and brief-case was rewarded with a smile. Riccasoli walked down the path, through the open front door, along a passageway, and out to the stone-flagged court at the back where chairs were set under a lime tree. His wife, Francesca, awaited him with a long drink already poured. Her husband sat down beside her, picked up one of her plump hands, counted her fingers, as if to see that they were all there, then put the hand down again gently.
The Etruscan Net Page 17