by John Harris
As they climbed out of the Jeep, heads turned towards them as though they were expected. An Italian policeman was standing in the doorway and as Pugh showed his papers they were waved inside. As he had supposed, there was another group of people on the landing outside the Focchias’ apartment, and an Italian brigadier of police talking to a man with a bag who looked like a doctor.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
The policeman looked at them hostilely, but his manner changed as soon as Pugh showed his papers, and he became obsequious at once.
‘An accident, Signori,’ he said. ‘Nothing to concern you. Purely an Italian affair.’
‘Has something happened to the Focchias?’
‘You know them, Signore?’
‘I’ve been speaking to them recently. What’s happened?’
‘Nothing to concern you, Signore.’
‘Leave us to decide that,’ the police major snapped, and the brigadier turned a resentful look towards him.
‘They’re dead,’ he said. ‘There is gas in the apartment. I think they decided life wasn’t worth living and gave up. It wasn’t hard, I suppose. In Italia li vuole pìu corragio per vivere che morire. You need more courage these days to live than to die. You can’t blame them. He hadn’t much of a job and I expect things were difficult.’
‘Not that bloody difficult,’ Pugh said. ‘He had 10,000 lire in his possession two or three days ago.’
The brigadier’s eyebrows lifted. ‘A clerk, Signore?’
‘He told me.’
The brigadier obviously didn’t believe him but he offered no objection to their entering the flat. The Focchias were lying on the floor of the kitchen, their heads near the gas oven. The windows were sealed with paper stuffed into the cracks, and Pugh turned to study the door. There was an old coat lying across the entrance to the kitchen. Instead of being at an angle, as it would have been had it been laid against the door from inside, and then pushed back by whoever first opened the door, it was still lying squarely across the entrance, unmoved, and it appeared to Pugh that it had been outside.
‘Who found them?’ he asked.
‘A Signora Fossichetti from upstairs. She came down to borrow sugar and smelled gas. The door was locked so she called the concierge, who brought a key.’ He indicated a small man standing against the wall, trying to keep out of sight.
Pugh pointed to the blanket. ‘Where was that when you opened the door?’
‘Lying along the bottom of the door, Signore,’ the concierge said. ‘To keep the gas in, I suppose.’
‘Inside or outside?’
‘Inside, I suppose.’ The concierge frowned. ‘But, no, I remember now. It was outside.’
‘So if they were busy committing suicide inside, who put that outside?’
The concierge shrugged and the police brigadier shouldered his way forward. ‘A friend?’ he suggested indifferently. ‘A relation? It happens all the time. Italy’s a difficult place to stay alive in these days. The incidence of suicide is high. People get help, you know.’
The police major looked at him, his face cynical. ‘You, my friend,’ he said sharply, ‘do not have much of a future as a detective.’
Nine
Pugh was still in a sour mood after the incidents in Rome. He was beginning to grow angry, his mind full of the rottenness of war, which didn’t consist just of men trying to kill each other. It also brought about every other kind of horror attendant on the killing – corruption, atrocities, criminality – with the strong and the wealthy living off the weak.
His temper wasn’t improved when, as he was riding the motor cycle down the steep slopes from the Vomero, and enjoying the speed, the brakes failed and he ended up in the front room of a small restaurant. A few chickens, which were in there after the crumbs, disappeared through the window with a scattering of feathers amid screams and shouts of rage. Fortunately it was too early for customers and nobody was hurt, and the owner was more than compensated by the handsome sum Pugh gave him. He summoned a lorry and took the bike back to Motor Transport to tear a few strips off the indignant fitters for the failure.
Returning to the office, he and Jones tried to decide what they should do next. They were clearly not going to get very far with the deaths of the Focchias. Quite obviously they had been killed to keep them quiet, but, by the grace of God, they had a lead now to who was involved. Sansovino and his henchmen would obviously need to be questioned, but enquiries showed that Sansovino had disappeared.
‘There’s no doubt about it,’ Jones said. ‘The gangs are getting a helping hand from someone on our side of the fence.’
It was his view that it might be worth bringing in Cirri, the undertaker, who probably knew more about who was involved than he was prepared to admit. Pugh suggested they wait.
‘If we pull him in, they’ll bolt,’ he said. ‘Let’s get a cast-iron case and bring the lot in all at once. We can pick up Cirri when we’ve got the others.’
They spent the day working out a plan of campaign. The other sergeants were called in, in case they had anything to add, but – apart from Sergeant O’Mara, who was a placid, easygoing man – they took the opportunity instead to complain about the amount of work they were having to do since the disappearance of Sergeant Waddilove.
When Pugh returned to his own office, there was a note from Tamara on the desk. It was typed – even the signature – and asked him to call and see her.
Suspecting someone had tried to contact her about the Detto Banti canvasses, he decided to go at once. She was probably wondering what had happened to him. Due to the Grei development, they had not been in touch with each other for over a week, apart from a short note clearly showing her anxiety, which asked how he was and ended ‘Baci, Tamara’ – Kisses, Tamara – something he found surprisingly moving. As a result he had tried twice, in between the trips to Rome, to telephone her at the hospital, but on both occasions she had not been available.
The motorbike had been repaired and, pulling it off its stand, he headed for her apartment. There were two Italian policemen standing at the end of the street where she lived, smart in their dark uniforms and white crossbelts. One of them was a man called Zolli with whom Pugh had worked on more than one occasion, and he lifted his hand in salute as Pugh passed.
Tamara’s rooms were at the top of the old apartment block and the lights seemed to have fused because the stairs were shadowed. As he reached the last landing, it was dark and he decided he ought to try and get something done about it. There were a lot of strange things going on in Naples, and a darkened landing was no place for a girl as attractive as Tamara to live.
He was still thinking about it when he became aware of a shadow coming out of the recesses of the landing. Turning to meet it, he saw the gleam of metal and had the sense to move to one side. As he did so, he felt a sharp pain in his arm and heard the tearing of cloth – and it dawned on him someone was trying to murder him.
With a yell of fright, he lashed out with all his strength and, more by luck than judgement, managed to make contact. He felt the pain across his knuckles as his fist struck bone and the shadowy figure fell back. Pugh was just about to swing away in an attempt to escape when he realised that turning his back on an assailant with a knife was about as silly a thing as he could do, and instead, he turned again to face his attacker, dragging at the weapon he wore at his belt. The explosion in the narrow confines of the landing was enough to wake the dead. The heavy bullet struck the ceiling and brought down a shower of plaster.
Deciding that arguing with a revolver as big as Pugh’s wasn’t worth the effort, the attacker made a dive past him. As he did so, Pugh loosed off another shot, which clattered off the wall and brought down another shower of plaster. The assailant, a big man in a dark suit, plunged down the stairs, missed his step and rolled to the bottom. Scrambling to his feet, he set off again as Pugh sent another wild shot after him, intending less to kill him than to frighten the life out of him. More plaster explode
d from the wall, then the attacker vanished – just as Tamara’s door was wrenched open and she appeared.
‘Piu!’ she said. ‘What is happening?’
‘Somebody was waiting for you,’ Pugh panted. ‘I think he had robbery in mind.’
The last clattering footsteps disappeared into the street, then they heard shouts and a fusillade of shots. Pugh guessed that the policemen in the street outside had seen the figure running from the house, and assuming – reasonably safely in Naples – that criminality was afoot, had taken pot shots at the fugitive. As the echoes died, there was silence. Not a door of any of the lower apartments had opened. After the months of occupation, Neapolitans were too wary to get involved. They had spent too much time listening to running feet and shots in the dark, and knew that they usually meant murder.
‘You are hurt, Piu.’
It was only as Tamara spoke that Pugh noticed there was blood on his hand. Lifting it, he saw his knuckles were badly split and he guessed he must have hit his attacker in the mouth and cut his knuckles on his teeth.
‘Not there,’ Tamara said. ‘On your arm.’
Then Pugh realised that the blood on his hand was not merely from his knuckles but was running down his sleeve.
‘What has happened?’
Pugh didn’t answer because he was suddenly convinced that the accident with the motor cycle earlier in the day probably hadn’t been an accident at all, and that the brakes had been tampered with. Which seemed to indicate that he was nearer to the truth than he had thought.
Tamara pushed him inside the apartment and began to pull off his battledress blouse. There was a rent in the sleeve, and as he peeled back his shirt he saw a long slash down his forearm. But for his instinctive step aside, the attacker’s knife would have taken him in the chest.
Tamara was fussing round him now, tearing up an old sheet to make a bandage. She found water and bathed away the blood, then began to fasten a bandage in place.
‘It is deep,’ she said. ‘I think it ought to be stitched. But I have sticking plaster and will pull it together and fasten it like that. It would take hours to go to the hospital and get it done. I think it will be all right.’
She looked up at him as she wound the bandage on and he saw there were tears in her eyes. ‘Why were you here, Piu? Why were you on the landing in the dark?’
‘Because the lights didn’t appear to be working.’
‘They were working when I came home. I heard someone on the stairs but I didn’t go out; in Naples you don’t go out. Why did you come?’
‘Because you asked me to.’
She looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t ask you, Piu.’
He showed her the typewritten note. ‘I didn’t send that.’ She looked worried. ‘Were they after me? I have had a telephone call about the pictures.’
Pugh’s head jerked up. ‘Which pictures?’
‘The big ones. There was no mention of the small ones.’
‘Who was it?’
‘There was no name. It was a woman. She said she was acting for a dealer. She had heard that several Detto Bantis had been brought to Naples and did I know where they were, because her dealer friend was anxious to see them and, if they were genuine, to make an offer?’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said there had been paintings but that they had all been stolen and as far as I knew there were none left.’
‘Good girl. What happened then?’
‘She just rang off. No questions. Nothing.’
She still looked upset and he made her sit down. He was under no illusions that the man who had attacked him was no ordinary burglar. Either he had been after Pugh himself because of his interest in the burial of Gustavo Grei, or because he’d found out what was hidden in Tamara’s flat.
‘Are the paintings still safe?’
Her eyes flicked to the trapdoor above the kitchen cupboard. ‘It hasn’t been disturbed,’ she said. ‘You will notice a piece of cotton hanging down. If it had been lifted, that would have fallen. It is a trick I learned from American detective stories.’
‘Have you mentioned them to anyone?’
‘You said I must not.’
‘I think, under the circumstances,’ he said, ‘that you’d better move to my place with your possessions. There are soldiers in my building and I don’t think anyone would try anything there.’
She looked startled, studying his face with a worried expression. ‘For the night?’ she asked.
‘And tomorrow. As long as you like. Certainly until we’ve got the pictures identified, valued and sold. It’s a crummy place and it’ll look better with you around.’
She looked uncertain.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Nobody will turn a hair. Sergeant O’Mara has a girl in his rooms. So does Sergeant Plummer, though she’s not permanent.’ He grinned. ‘And, after all, we’ve slept together before.’
‘Not like this, I think.’
‘There’s a big sofa in the living room. I can sleep on that. Just until we get things sorted out.’
She hesitated a moment longer, then she nodded. ‘Thank you, Piu,’ she said. ‘I would like that, I think.’
They were still discussing the pros and cons of the move when there was a tap on the door. Tamara gave Pugh a frightened look. He nodded to her to go to the bedroom, and, as the door shut, he drew his revolver. To his surprise, the man outside was not another intruder, but the policeman, Zolli.
‘Who called you?’ Pugh asked.
The policeman looked startled. ‘No one, Signore. I am investigating what has just been happening in the street.’
‘It didn’t happen in the street,’ Pugh pointed out. ‘It happened here. I was attacked on the landing.’ He held up his arm to show the bandage. ‘You’d better come in. We were taking no chances.’
As the policeman entered, Tamara reappeared and Zolli gave her an old-fashioned look, obviously assuming that Pugh was there for one reason only.
Pugh disillusioned him by showing him the typewritten message. ‘I was asked to come. Someone was waiting for me.’
The policeman nodded. ‘Were you involved in an investigation, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, I was. A serious one.’
Zolli frowned. ‘I think you should do what we do and go about in pairs. You were obviously brought here deliberately. We saw him run from the house.’
‘Did you arrest him?’
‘No, Signore.’
‘Why not? Too late?’
‘Not exactly, Signore. He’s dead. My partner shot him. We shouted at him to stop. He refused, so we fired. This is Naples, Signore.’ He shrugged. ‘He’s in the street. We’d like you to identify him as the man who attacked you.’
Pugh glanced quickly at Tamara, then he nodded. ‘I’ll come down. You’d better stay here. Lock the door.’
The street was still empty and the dead man was lying face-down in the gutter. There was a bullet-hole in the back of his head.
‘Who is he?’
Zolli shrugged. The second policeman, who was kneeling by the body, turned it over and began to go through the pockets.
Pugh leaned closer. ‘Have you a torch?’
A torch was shone on the dead man’s face and the two policemen studied it carefully.
‘He looks a bad lot,’ the man who was kneeling by him said. ‘Nothing on him. Just this.’ He held up a slip of paper. On it, obviously hurriedly scrawled, was Tamara’s address, Vicolo Jaccarino, 17.
‘Can I keep that?’
Zolli frowned. ‘It’s evidence, Sergente.’
‘You can have it back. Perhaps I’ll be able to produce a name for you.’
Zolli handed over the paper with a show of reluctance. ‘Is there anyone who has something against you?’
‘Probably a lot of people.’
‘Someone paid him to get you. They gave him the address and he was waiting for you.’
Unless he was waiting for Tamara to leave so he could enter the apartment
and search for the paintings, Pugh thought. Either way, it was interesting. More interesting than it had been, in fact, because the face of the dead man, distorted by death and smeared with blood as it was, was that of one of the men he’d seen in Vicinamontane outside the Palazzo Municipale talking to the Mayor, Vicenzo Sansovino, one of the ‘cousins’ who’d accompanied Gustavo Grei’s coffin to Rome.
Ten
Returning to the top apartment, Pugh found Tamara packed.
‘I’m ready,’ she said.
‘You’ll be all right,’ he encouraged her. ‘Take no notice of anything anyone might say about you being in my apartment. Everybody’s at it. There’s a bath.’
‘That is something I shall enjoy. Here I have to take my baths in the kitchen standing in a bowl.’
She hadn’t much – one suitcase, two brown paper parcels and a hat that looked as if it had once been worn at a wedding – but there was a reading lamp, a lot of books, an old portable typewriter, two large cartons of china which she had inherited from her foster parents, and the duffel bag containing the three small Detto Bantis. Her face was flushed and a wisp of hair, decorated with a fragment of spider’s web from the trapdoor in the ceiling, fell over her nose.
Leaving the two policemen, who were still waiting for the mortuary van, to keep an eye on the place until he returned, Pugh went in search of a taxi. But it was late and, with petrol short, there were none about. Finding himself near Mori’s stable, he dragged the old man out. He was more than willing to help and harnessed Fiorello to his cart. Riding in the back, they took Tamara to the Casa Calafati.
As they entered, the contessa appeared. For a change she was in a long flowered dress that looked as if it had once been the cover of a settee. She leaned limply against the wall, coughing as if about to die, and stared at Pugh through haunted black eyes.
Dragging at a cigarette, she coughed a little more before she could speak to them. ‘The ragazza is coming to live here?’