Death of an Englishman

  Jeffreys asked Carabiniere Bacci to explain the problem with Miss White who was almost sure to come down and start trying to clean everything. 'And she won't understand him — I know you could cope but you've got to make your report …'

  The Marshal went in and stood diffidently in a corner of the dusty room, blowing his nose, while Carabiniere Bacci related his story. The boy's hands were shaking and he continually tried to hide them.

  He had been on duty at the door since 9.45 a.m. The first person he had seen was the Eritrean girl who had come into the building behind him, wrapped in a green loden cloak and her white muslin veil. She had been carrying two bags of shopping and had rung for the lift. She had waited some time for it to come down as someone had just called it up, presumably Signor Cipriani who stepped out of the lift when it reached the ground floor and said 'Good morning' to Carabiniere Bacci. He was carrying his briefcase. Before the Eritrean girl could shut the lift doors, the Cipriani's maid, Martha, had come running round the corner, panting, and was in time to go up with her.

  A few minutes later, Miss White had come down the staircase, she never seemed to use the lift. She had spoken vehemently and apparently encouragingly to Carabiniere Bacci, but he wasn't sure what about.

  She had left the building and not returned until a few moments ago. Almost immediately, the Cipriani's maid, Martha, had come down in the lift and gone out, returning perhaps twenty minutes afterwards, with her two bags, one of groceries, the other of water.

  'Did she ring for the lift?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'And did it come down immediately, or was it occupied?'

  'It started down immediately, sir.'

  'You're positive?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'And it was empty when it arrived?'

  'Yes …'

  'You're not sure. Did you look?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Well, then?'

  'I looked, sir, but if someone were in there and crouching …'

  It was true. The window in the outer door of the lift was narrow and at eye-level. The maid's key had been still in the door. The Captain had opened it. The windows of the inner double doors were larger, but again they stopped before waist level so that anybody crouching …

  'Did she open the doors?'

  'The outer one, yes, but then she …'

  'She what?'

  'She didn't get in immediately … she bent forward a little …'

  'Bent forward? How? Why?'

  'I'm not sure, sir, but I don't think she'd opened the inner doors when the shot was fired.'

  'You said she had two shopping bags,' put in the Marshal from his corner.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'So she must have put at least one of them down to find her key and unlock the lift door.'

  'Yes, I suppose she must, sir … Only, once the lift had come down empty, I more or less …' The unfortunate Carabiniere blushed deeply.

  'Stopped looking,' finished the Marshal blandly. 'Never stop looking, Carabiniere Bacci. She bent down, in all likelihood, to pick up her shopping after unlocking the door, because the inner doors can simply be pushed open; they swing inwards.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'But her key is still in the lock,' said the Marshal, more blandly than ever.

  'Sir?'

  'Her key, Carabiniere Bacci, is still in the lock. She would take it out first, wouldn't she, before picking up her shopping and stepping into the lift?'

  'I … yes …'

  'It doesn't do to lose sight of plain everyday facts,' murmured the Marshal. He fished out a large handkerchief and turned away to blow his nose protractedly.

  'Are you sure she did bend down?' asked the Captain.

  'I … it was just an impression I had, sir, out of the corner of my eye … but then immediately there was the shot and she fell.'

  'Did you look inside the lift straight away?'

  'I—no, sir, I looked at the woman to see if—'

  'Did you look in the lift at all?'

  'No, sir,' he whispered. 'But I was standing in front of it by then so nobody could have got out.'

  'But they could have gone back up?'

  'No, sir, they couldn't, because the outer door was still open. The lift won't work with the outer door open.'

  And the Marshal had arrived immediately after that.

  'You didn't see anybody?' The Captain turned to the Marshal's corner.

  'There was nobody there, sir,' His hands were burrowing in his pockets, seeking his dark glasses.

  'Well, we can check on all the tenants, but it's beginning to sound as if this wretched woman shot herself, by accident, of course—she could have been carrying the gun for someone else … Well, her clothing will be searched at the hospital, and as soon as the doctors will allow it, a paraffin test … is there something wrong, Marshal?'

  'No, sir, no … nothing … As a matter of fact, if you don't really need me here I have some things to see to in my office …' He was moving, almost imperceptibly, towards the door.

  'I see,' said the Captain with chilling politeness. 'No doubt you are concerned to get your paperwork in order. Going home for Christmas, I imagine.'

  The Marshal mumbled some incomprehensible words of assent.

  'By all means, then. As there's nothing much you can do here.'

  'I'll take Carabiniere Bacci with me—you'll be wanting a written report from him, I expect. He may need a bit of help …'

  'I imagine so. I'd like the report on my desk before two. I have a meeting with the Substitute Prosecutor at three.'

  'At three … you might put him off for an hour or so … under the circumstances …'

  'I might. But I want that report on my desk at two.'

  'At two. Carabiniere Bacci …' They left in silence. The Chief Inspector stared after them, unsure what was going on.

  There was no time for speculation. Immediately after their departure, Jeffreys opened the door again. Dr Biondini had brought two of his custodians over from the Palatine gallery to remove the majolica bust and there were sheaves of papers for the Captain to sign. It was one less headache for the Captain but Biondini seemed harassed.

  'I'll be dealing with paperwork over this business for a year …'

  They were still packing the bust when the technicians arrived.

  'Can we plug the lights in in here? We'll take all this stuff away with us …'

  The Captain tried to give them instructions while dealing with the over-anxious Biondini.

  'Where do I sign? Surely we've done this one twice already?'

  'Yes, it has to be in triplicate … and here … leave that, I'll fill in the dates later …'

  'Captain?' Jeffreys looked in again. 'I think this lady …'

  'Please excuse me, I just wanted to ask something.'

  Seeing Signora Cipriani hovering behind Jeffreys, the Captain thrust the papers at Biondini and went to the door.

  'The child … ?'

  'She's here with me … you said not to leave her alone, so … It's just that I was wondering if it was all right for me to go to the hospital once Vincenzo gets home … after lunch. Poor Martha—'

  'No. I'd rather you stayed in the building until I'm certain there's no further danger—and don't open your door to anyone.'

  'Yes, of course. Poor Martha, and at Christmas … her daughter is arriving today … I wanted to offer …'

  'Yes, I understand, but I must ask you to stay here for the moment. I'll let you know as soon as I can—and do keep the little girl with you.' Giovanna was hovering in the open doorway of the lift where she had evidently been told to stay. Every now and then she peeped out and threatened Jeffreys with a pink water-pistol. The Captain watched them shut themselves in the lift and go up, then turned to the technicians. 'I know it's a lot to ask but if you could get me something on paper, however tentative, by this afternoon … I have to see the S.P. at three unless I can put him off …'

  The Marshal was brooding in his office chair.
A copy of Carabiniere Bacci's report on the finding of the body was before him on the desk. Carabiniere Bacci stood beside him. His coat was unbuttoned but the Marshal had said, without looking up, 'Don't take it off,' and had gone on brooding over the report. At last he sighed and sank back a little in his chair. 'You're going to have to write this report again.'

  'Sir … ?'

  'Write it again. Accurately.'

  'Yes, sir … But the Captain was with me when—'

  'The Captain, unfortunately, was not with you when you first went to Via Maggio, otherwise …'

  'But I thought … they said that Cesarini—'

  'Is helping the Captain with his inquiries. But he didn't kill the Englishman and he probably doesn't know who did. Only you know that.'

  Suddenly, Carabiniere Bacci's pale face turned red. He began to shake.

  The Marshal turned his great eyes on him sadly. 'Bring me Cipolla. He should be back from the cemetery by now.'

  'Cipolla …'

  'The cleaner.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'We're going to take his statement again, you and I together. He was very frightened, Carabiniere Bacci.'

  'Yes, sir.' He was whispering, his throat too dry to speak.

  'He wanted me. I was ill, it's true, but I admit I was glad to be out of it … not to be the one … I'm not competent … and he was frightened of you, of the Captain. Bring him to me, Carabiniere Bacci, and apologize for doing it on the day of the funeral. Tell him I'm here and I'm waiting for him. That he can tell me.'

  'Yes, sir,' whispered Carabiniere Bacci.

  The Chief had watched Jeffreys fight off his exhaustion and, having seen him succeed, suggested that they go off for lunch and a rest.

  'D'you know what I'd like more than anything, Jeffreys? I'd like a beer. Do you think there's any chance of getting one?'

  'Easily.' They were crossing the river in a squad car. 'I'll ask him to drop us at the bar near the Christmas trees, then we're only two minutes from the vicarage.'

  'And Felicity's shepherd's pie.'

  'Exactly.' Neither would ever have believed that they could be on such friendly terms. Each had seen the other hard-pressed, the Chief morally, Jeffreys physically, and found they had a fighting spirit in common. Now they were both feeling very English and very homesick. The idea of getting in a quick beer before lunch had a familiar appeal.

  The barman was standing on a little stool unhooking one of the blue and silver boxes containing Christmas cakes which hung in clusters from the ceiling.

  A bus driver was drinking a glass of red wine in the far corner and recounting a story heatedly to three listeners. He had a small dressing on his forehead.

  'Isn't that the driver … ?' The Chief was looking hard at him.

  'Yes, I'm sure it is.' Jeffreys tried to catch what he was saying.

  '… Well, you know how narrow it gets once you pass the junction … hardly room for two people to walk—the bus is a write-off, I reckon.'

  'Did you hit the windscreen?'

  'I may have done, it's difficult to remember …' In fact, he had fainted after being rescued and had banged his head on a Carabiniere car wing-mirror. 'Nor would you with a gun in your back …' He broke off, realizing that he had seen the two Englishmen who were staring at him last night at the police station. He turned away and continued in more subdued tones.

  'Feeling better, Jeffreys?'

  'Much better.'

  'Shepherd's pie, then, if we're not too late.'

  Walking down to the vicarage, they agreed to ring the Consulate and see if there was any chance of a plane home. If the case was going to drag on they had every excuse for going home for Christmas and reporting on the changed state of affairs in the case.

  'All the same,' said the Chief, as they waited for the vicar to answer the bell, 'I wouldn't have minded a word with that fat chap we saw this morning. He looked to me like someone who knew something he wasn't telling.'

  And the Captain, standing at the window in his office, waiting for the results of the search and the paraffin test that were being carried out in the emergency hospital of San Giovanni di Dio next door, waiting for something, anything, that might placate an irritable Substitute Prosecutor at three o'clock, was beginning to think the same thing.

  The Marshal stood up when he heard the door opening.

  'Leave your coats here and come through to my quarters where we won't be disturbed.' He led the way, taking them right through into the kitchen. He sat them down at the little kitchen table, took a bottle of vinsanto from a painted cupboard on the wall and set three glasses out. When he had filled them he sat down heavily on his own straight-backed chair and drank his vinsanto off delicately, in one draught, forgetting the doctor's advice completely. He placed his hands squarely on his knees and spoke softly to the table: 'We don't s… we don't want anyone else to get hurt … and there's something I don't know …' He tailed off and then looked up, fixing the little man with his great rolling eyes. The cleaner gazed back at him with his permanent expression of humble surprise beneath the spiky black hair. 'Tell me now, Cipolla, before you tell me anything else … what did you do with the gun?'

  CHAPTER 2

  'I threw it into the courtyard, Marshal.'

  'Why?'

  'I suppose I was frightened.'

  'Were you trying to hide it?'

  'I don't think so … I only threw it just outside the french window. I just wanted to get it away from me. I was going to give it to you when you came, but …'

  'But I didn't come.'

  'No.' The little cleaner glanced worriedly at Carabiniere Bacci, not wanting to offend.

  'But I did come later.'

  'Yes, Marshal, but I'd been sent outside …'

  'Why didn't you ask to come in?'

  The cleaner looked at him uncomprehendingly. The idea that he should have interrupted officers, professors, experts, photographers … when he'd been told to go and stay out of the way in the courtyard … he couldn't even understand the question. The Marshal left it and went on.

  'So what happened to the gun then?'

  'I picked it up, Marshal.'

  'Out there, in front of the window, while we were inside?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did you pick it up to conceal it somewhere?'

  'Conceal it?'

  'Yes, hide it?'

  'But … no. I picked it up because I was tidying the courtyard … he told me to …' Another apprehensive glance at Carabiniere Bacci.

  'I see. So you tidied up. What else did you pick up?'

  'The usual things. Clothes-pegs, mostly, and a sock and two handkerchiefs dropped from somebody's washing line. And a toy gun, pink plastic … but I couldn't sweep up like I usually do because …'

  'Because you didn't have your brush,' finished the Marshal, remembering his dream. The familiar figure of Cipolla always had a brush and bucket slung over his right shoulder. 'And what did you do with all this stuff you picked up?'

  'Put it in a polythene bag, as usual, and then I waited for you to come out so I could give it to you.'

  'But you didn't give it to me, Cipolla.'

  'No, Marshal …'

  'Why not?'

  'You told me to put it down,' he whispered, 'and come with you to the station …'

  'But you could have said, surely, to me?'

  'Yes … but I was … the others were there … so I just did what you told me. I thought it didn't matter anyway …'

  'Didn't matter?'

  'About telling you just then. I thought you were arresting me.'

  'You thought …? What, the whole time? Even in the bar?'

  'Yes.'

  'Have you ever been arrested, Cipolla?'

  'No, Marshall' His face reddened.

  'No, I don't suppose you have. So, you put the bag containing the gun down in the entrance hall?'

  'By the lift door, Marshal. I always put it there so that people can collect their things and some clothes-pegs—everybody
drops those and nobody has a key to the courtyard except the Cesarini. There's a little hook by the lift door. I always leave the bag there.'

  'And didn't you worry afterwards about what would happen if the gun were left there like that?'

  'Is that what happened to that poor woman? But I thought—there were so many policemen there searching—I thought they'd have found it.'

  So they would have done, but it hadn't been there when they searched the entrance and when they got to the courtyard he had hung it on its hook in the hall. Nobody, in the meantime, had taken the slightest notice of the little cleaner.

  'Well, Carabiniere Bacci?' The Marshal rolled his eyes round and settled his gaze on the young man who had begun by being rigid and red in the face and was now pale and drawn.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Is that what she was bending over to do?'

  'Yes, sir, I realize now …'

  'Oh, you do?'

  'It's just that I wasn't actually watching her, sir. But now I remember the noise … she must have been feeling in the bag.'

  'Clothes-pegs?'

  'Yes, sir, I remember the rattling now.'

  'Go and find the gun, Carabiniere Bacci.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'And try not to shoot yourself.'

  'Yes, sir.' He got up abruptly and went out;

  The Marshal sighed and rubbed a weary hand over his face. He kept his hand there and his eyes closed for a while, not wanting to start. Then, in silence, he refilled their glasses.

  The little cleaner didn't speak but accepted the drink passively.

  He looks so calm, thought the Marshal. Ever since it happened, he's looked so calm … But then he remembered Cipolla as he used to be, trotting rapidly across the Piazza in his black smock, hair on end, bucket and brush slung over his shoulder. Dodging about the city among the big palaces, nodding to friends, acquaintances, employers, sweeping his way down staircases, rubbing industriously at great brass doorknobs, polishing a plate glass window which might contain one article of clothing with a price tag equal to his year's salary … this calmness wasn't real …

  There was something about the image of Cipolla's old self that put the Marshal in mind of the little English lady, living alone, tripping across the Piazza trying to carry those picture frames … People on the fringes of life, never really included. Even as a murderer Cipolla hadn't made an impression, everybody had ignored him as they always had. The meek don't inherit much in a country where you have to be a genius to survive, let alone get anywhere. The Marshal felt tired. He would have liked to send the little cleaner about his business, ignore him like everyone else had done, and take himself off to bed. But tomorrow was Christmas and a twenty-hour train journey lay before him, and the cleaner's hollow eyes were watching him, patiently, humbly, waiting for the Marshal to do something about him, knowing nobody else would. Each time … directly after the murder, that few seconds in the entrance hall when Cipolla had held the gun in a polythene bag under their noses, then in the blocked funeral car … that white face, the humble, hopeful eyes … had he only meant to wait until after the funeral and then, if the Marshal still hadn't come for him … ?