Death of an Englishman

  The low red sun was glowing outside the kitchen window but the light was already failing. A group of children, probably including Cipolla's nephews and nieces, were playing under the window in the wilderness that the Marshal called his garden and which he would never allow his baffled neighbour to tidy up for him. The children played there every day and the Marshal pretended not to see them. If he wanted peace and quiet he would let himself be seen, from the back, at the window and they would flee. Then he would be full of remorse for ten minutes until they returned. He stood up now and gave them a glimpse of his black jacket and braided collar, afraid their cheerful noise might distress the little cleaner.

  'The Marshal's in! Scram!' They skidded away like frightened rabbits.

  'Tell me about that night.'

  Cipolla's thin hands turned round and round on themselves in his lap.

  'My sister was there. Milena had been very depressed but during that last week somehow … maybe it was the morphine … she slept most of the time … Not a natural sleep, her eyes would be half open and she would snore, Milena never … but when she was awake she seemed to have forgotten what was happening to her and she would talk about what she would do when she was up and about—it was worse than when she'd been depressed … I shouldn't say that, it must have been better for her. That night, around midnight, she was awake and she seemed feverish, excitable. She asked my sister for a mirror. Her hair had gone completely grey in the last month or so but I don't think she'd seen it … Still, we couldn't refuse.

  "'How ugly I am," she said, when she saw herself, "I think I'll have my hair done as soon as I'm better— I can afford it now I've got a job, you know. What would you say if I were to go blonde? I get bored, do you know that?" Then she began asking for her mother. Her mother had died when Milena was thirteen so we realized … my sister put her coat on and ran up for the priest …

  'After the Sacrament she was much quieter. She only spoke once more before … I'm not sure what she said.

  'When the women came they sent me into the other room. One of them had brought some grappa for me, though I don't normally drink.

  'It seemed to take a long time … the room was so silent and I felt as if I were choking. After a while I slipped out.'

  'Can you remember where you went?'

  'I think so … I crossed the Ponte Vecchio and wandered about in the centre, looking at the Christmas lights.'

  'Were you thinking about Christmas?'

  'No. It was just something to fix on … I came back across the Santa Trinita, I stopped there for a minute …'

  'Were you thinking of the river even then?'

  His face flushed and his eyes left the Marshal's. 'No … that was after … no.'

  'Did you intend to go and see the Englishman?'

  'No, not at all, it just happened. I came back down Via Maggio, I was thinking about the money then … but just as I came to the door of number fifty-eight, it opened.'

  'Did you see anyone?'

  'No … at least, I think the guard may have been on the street. I think I saw him go into one of the houses but the street isn't that well lit … no one else. When I saw the door spring open I walked in … I don't know what I was going to do. It was too late for the money, but even so, he should have paid her … I closed the door.'

  'Did you ring the bell?'

  'No. The flat door opened in front of me, too, as if he were expecting me. It didn't seem strange then —Will anyone believe me?'

  'They'll believe you. He was expecting someone, not you.'

  'Then that's why … I went in and shut the door. He was walking away from it as if he'd just opened it. When he turned round and saw me I suppose he got a fright. He looked horrified and he began talking rapidly in English. I began demanding Milena's money. He tried to push me out of the door, telling me to get out, in Italian, and even picking up the gun.'

  'Were you afraid he'd use it?'

  'I don't think so.' Something didn't ring true, it was out of character, even in those circumstances.

  'What did you do?'

  'I refused to leave. I said he could call the police if he wanted to—I think I said I knew you. His face was livid. He dropped the gun on a chair and got hold of me …'

  'He hit you?'

  'He slapped me,' whispered Cipolla. 'In the face, as if I were a child. He said my wife was a thief and had stolen things while he was out, that he had told everyone in the Piazza, he … he … I must have been facing the bedroom, then. The door was open and the light on. He suddenly let go of me and rushed to the bedroom door as if he had forgotten me—'

  'The safe,' murmured the Marshal. 'It was open; he was afraid you'd see it.'

  'I didn't see anything … I didn't know … I picked up the gun, then, from the chair. I didn't know how to use it but I wanted to do something, something to make him take notice. I pointed it towards the bedroom door as he was going through. I shut my eyes and waited. Then I fired it. I fired it …'

  'But he hadn't gone through?'

  'No. I don't understand what happened. I didn't expect him to be there when I fired. When I opened my eyes, he was there for a second, holding the door handle …'

  'He was closing it …'

  'Perhaps. Then he fell.'

  'What did you do?'

  'Nothing immediately. I stood where I was. I heard someone at the door, I'm sure.'

  'One person?'

  'I think so … very soft steps in the passageway, then going up the stairs, then …'

  'Then you went into the bathroom and you were sick.' The little man jumped. The one thing he hadn't wanted to tell. 'And you were sick at the bridge, too. How much of the grappa did you drink?'

  'I can't remember. I don't know how much was in the bottle. It's just that I don't drink, I'm not used … Will you have to tell people?'

  'Yes. But they'll realize you didn't mean to get drunk. After all, it was someone else who gave you the stuff and you weren't in any condition to watch what you were doing.' And it was the only thing that accounted for his attempt to argue with the bigger man. 'So you decided to ring me? It must still have been very early in the morning?'

  'It was four o'clock, there was a clock there on the desk. I sat down to wait for a reasonable hour.'

  'You sat down … ? You didn't think of calling a doctor? What if—'

  'Oh no,' said the little man quietly. 'Oh no, because he was dead …' His vacant eyes were dilated. 'Oh no. His eyes were open, I looked. And his teeth came out. His teeth … oh no, oh no … ! His head was going back.

  'Hold him!' The Marshal jumped to his feet but Carabiniere Bacci was quicker. The frail body was rattling as though some unseen hand were shaking the little man in rage. His breath came in deep noisy groans.

  'Get some water.' The Marshal was holding him now, telling him over and over, 'Let it go, man, let it go …'

  Cipolla kept his dilated eyes fixed on the Marshal as the fit rattled him. Suddenly the eyes narrowed until they were almost invisible and he found his voice, high-pitched and grating, but his own voice.

  'What have I done? Oh, Marshal, what have I done?'

  'The water, sir.'

  'Here, drink this, and take your time.'

  'What will happen to him?' whispered Carabiniere Bacci. He had brought their coats through. Cipolla was in the bathroom, for the Marshal had insisted that he wash and shave before they left.

  'He'll go to the Murate,' growled the Marshal, 'what do you expect? You wanted a murderer and now you've got one. He probably doesn't live up to your expectations but there he is. As for what will happen to him—what happened to my perfect student? Articles 62, 62 bis of your Penal Code. Read them again, they might mean something to you now.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'And pull yourself together, Carabinierel We've still got work to do.'

  'Yes, sir.' Carabiniere Bacci, white-faced and dark-eyed, tried to straighten his crumpled, dusty uniform.

  'Look after the phone while we're gon
e.' The Marshal buttoned up his greatcoat and paused to say quietly, 'Don't worry. It's just possible that the verdict could be accidental death. And when he comes out I'm here to help him. When all's said and done, we're all Italians … even we Sicilians, eh?'

  'Yes, sir … but … will they believe him?'

  'Do you?'

  CHAPTER 3

  'Well, they pulled that one out of a hat,' remarked the Chief Inspector, as the river, pink and dark purple with the last of the sunset, dropped away below them. Dots of light were appearing here and there in the dusk.

  'Do you think the family will pursue it?'

  'I very much doubt it.' On their last visit to the Captain's office they had been informed that Langley-Smythe's family were entitled to bring a civil action when the case came to court, but that, since the accused was not in a position to pay damages, it would only serve to draw attention …

  The couple of servants involved in the villa robberies had already been found and were talking. The Chief had not been able, of course, to speak for the family but he could say he thought it unlikely …

  The nice, red-haired girl from the Consulate had turned up with some papers concerning the body which had to be signed. She also brought a folder with two airline tickets.

  'We thought you'd want to get home tonight with it being Christmas Eve. The scheduled flight's left, I'm afraid: this is a charter that will land you at Luton, but they should provide a bus at the other end. The body will go on the scheduled flight the day after tomorrow.' When she was closing her briefcase, Jeffreys managed to move in on her:

  'I'm glad we met you.'

  'Why's that?' She smiled.

  'Because otherwise I'd have come to the conclusion that all the English people living here were a bit …'

  'Dotty? Give me another ten years or so, I've only been here two.'

  'Are they all dotty?'

  'No, no. It's just the ones who stick together, the "colony". They're rather noticeable. There are hundreds of English people working and studying here who just blend in.'

  'You blend in very nicely. Is this your scarf?'

  'Thanks.'

  'If you weren't packing us off on a plane I'd ask you what you were doing tonight.'

  'And I'd tell you I was going to the Mayor's reception. If you weren't going off on a plane you could come.'

  'I'll be back—to check up on whether you're going dotty.'

  'Signorina.' The Captain came forward to shake her hand with a solemn little bow that brought the faintest flush to the girl's face. The Captain, in Jeffreys's opinion, held that hand at least a second longer than was absolutely necessary, and when the Lieutenant who came to escort her out flicked back his sword and bowed too, and the two of them went off chatting amiably in Italian, Jeffreys muttered, 'Smoothies.' And he hadn't even had chance to get a look at an Italian girl. He had, however, found a chance to telephone Carabiniere Bacci at Pitti before they left to tell him:

  'About that gun … I think you should talk to the little girl with the pink water-pistol …"

  'Do you know,' mused the Chief, as they unfastened their safety-belts, 'I might try Florence for a holiday sometime. I think my wife would like the shops.'

  'You didn't find the food too bad, then?'

  'No …' conceded the Chief generously, 'I can't really say there was anything I disliked …' And their prejudices settled comfortably into place, ready for home.

  'By the way,' murmured the Chief, when they had both closed their eyes for a doze, 'did anybody mention what happened to the gun?'

  'No,' said Jeffreys, keeping his eyes shut, 'but it'll probably have turned up by now.'

  Only after provoking tears in her mother and some stern words from the Captain did Giovanna reluctantly lead Carabiniere Bacci, and no one else, to the hiding-place in the back of a little toy cupboard where she had placed her treasure, wrapped in a comic.

  She watched him apprehensively as he unwrapped it and then opened it up and looked at her. Without a word, she tipped the bullets out of the front pocket of her track suit.

  To the Captain's questions, whether she had known all along where the gun was, was that how she knew what the loud bang meant, had she, in fact, been woken by the door before hearing it a second time, she responded with bright-eyed silence.

  Letting them out, Signora Cipriani asked the Captain, 'You couldn't … let me know? I mean about what happens to the cleaner … ? He seemed so … I don't know, but if there's anything I can do to help … poor man—and poor Martha … I should be at the hospital now but Vincenzo … he had a client to see, so …'

  'That's very kind of you, Signora,' said the Captain, mentally consigning Vincenzo to the Inferno, 'I'll certainly …' He felt the solemn innocent eyes of Carabiniere Bacci upon him, 'I'll certainly try and keep you informed. If I'm too busy myself I can send a Brigadier …'

  'Thank you … good night …'

  'Good night, Signora.'

  Outside, Carabiniere Bacci watched the Captain leave in his car, wishing that he too were being driven to the Officers' Club for dinner and wondering why the Captain looked so bleak about it. Carabiniere Bacci was exhausted but he couldn't face going home yet.

  He crossed the little Piazza and walked past Pitti towards the Ponte Vecchio, unconsciously following the route of the cleaner on that disastrous night. He walked slowly, absorbed in thought, taking no notice of the jewels glittering in the tiny shop windows along the bridge or the people who jostled him and barred his way. It was quite dark when he found himself in Piazza della Repubblica. He stood on a corner amid the moving crowd, vacantly watching the giant neon 'Cynar' sign rippling on and off across the skyline. The window of the department store beside him was stacked with red and blue skis. He let the pushing crowd take him across the Piazza towards the arcade of the post office. He couldn't shake off the fear that still sat inside him, as if he were the person in the cleaner's place. Because for half an hour he had really thought …

  In the end, he had told the Marshal that he had believed himself to be suspected. The Marshal's great eyes had almost popped out, first with surprise and then with hilarity.

  'You? Carabiniere Bacci, you're a tonic! I didn't think I could laugh at anything today.'

  'But I was there, sir, both times, at least it looked as if I was and—'

  'And the time of death? And your motive? And what weapon do you carry?'

  'Beretta nine, sir, but—'

  'Carabiniere Bacci, you're a young fool, I think I may have told you that.'

  'Yes, sir. I know I should have thought of all those things but it isn't just that, or I wouldn't have told you … what I mean is, if I could have thought, even for a minute, that I might … of being on the other side, instead of feeling like a policeman, well, maybe I'll never make a policeman. I've decided to give it up.'

  'Oh yes?' Only then did the Marshal look up from his packing.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'In future, Carabiniere Bacci, you will give up chasing buses and generally looking for excitement and you will keep your eyes firmly fixed on the ordinary details of life—such as the fact that people don't go to work when their wives have just died, that you don't see a cleaner like Cipolla going about without his brush and bucket—that people wear overcoats in December! And you'll refer yourself to a senior officer unless you know you can cope yourself. Is that clear?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'And you'll eventually make a very good policeman, provided you don't get over-excited and shoot yourself by accident first.'

  'Yes, sir. But … the Captain didn't—'

  'The Captain, Carabiniere Bacci, is a good man, a serious man … and he's been living in a barracks too long. It's time he got married. Now, get out. Your mother must be expecting you—and can't you see I've got a train to catch?'

  'Well, Carabiniere, what can I do for you?'

  Carabiniere Bacci realized what he was gazing at a lamplit bank of plants and flowers against the wall of the Palazzo Strozzi
. The flower-seller was stamping his feet to keep warm, and looking expectant. There were Cellophane bags of mistletoe, tied with red ribbon, and poinsettia plants, red and white. He remembered that he had bought nothing for his mother.

  He chose a red poinsettia and carried it away swathed in green and white paper. The lights and crowds on the Via Tornabuoni made almost an indoor atmosphere. The furs that continually brushed against him and the mingled heavy perfumes of the wealthiest Christmas shoppers gave him a feeling of suffocation and he made for the river and the Santa Trinita bridge.

  Two black-cloaked Sardinians were playing the sad Christmas hymn on their sheepskin bagpipes. He stopped and gave them something. He wasn't feeling sentimental, just sensitive, tender, like someone recovering from an accident. The only thought that soothed his raw nerves was that there was one solid fact left in his universe, the Marshal.

  'And this is my second grandson, his First Communion picture—they say he looks like me and I think he does. Look at this, this is me thirty years ago on my driving licence, you can tell better from that—I already had a moustache in those days, of course, but even so …'

  The Marshal's firm friend of ten minutes' standing had an enormous battered wallet of photographs and had been anxious to get started although the train was still standing on platform ten and showing no signs of leaving Florence. The carriage was already full despite the fact that the special trains carrying emigrant workers down from Germany and Switzerland had gone through during the preceding nights, unseen by the normal population. The Marshal was squashed in a window seat facing his voluble new friend with the photographs. He was content to bide his time. They had a night and a whole day before them and his own photographs were in his breast pocket.

  An announcement echoed throughout the teeming station.