'No.'
Again the Captain made a sign and began dictating questions for translation.
Did they go to any one bar or meeting place regularly?
Did she take her father to any such place when he was here?
Did she talk about her family circumstances at school, out of school, in bars or restaurants, to her boyfriend?
Did the father know other people here independently of his daughter?
All negatives. And yet somebody had known she was worth kidnapping, somebody had checked on her financial position and her daily movements, probably over a long period.
The girl was growing pale. Two red spots high on her cheekbones suggested that there was still a trace of fever. She had also become very tense. The Captain was aware that at this stage she was still sufficiently frightened by what had happened to her to be hiding something, but experience told him that it would be useless to try and force her. It was a situation chat required patience and a certain amount of cunning.
'We'll leave you to get some rest,' he said gently, in slow, clear Italian. 'And as soon as you feel well enough I want you to write a list of everybody that the Signorina Maxwell knows in Florence. Everybody, including shopkeepers, bar owners and all the members of your class at the University—they don't have to have been special friends, just acquaintances—teachers, too. Write them down. Do you understand?' She nodded. 'Sub-lieutenant Bacci here will stay and help you in case you leave any gaps.'
The three others rose to leave and it was only at the very last moment that he added, almost casually: 'What message were you supposed to phone to the American Consulate?'
She hesitated, looking from one to the other of their expectant faces, and there was quite a distinct change in her voice as she repeated in Italian:
'Mr Maxwell, we have Deborah. The price is one and a half milliardi.'
'They gave it to you in Italian?'
'Yes. I had to repeat it a number of times so that there could be no misunderstanding. I was to speak to the Consul General.'
'You won't need that token now.'
The outline of her clenched fist was visible under the white counterpane. She looked down at it as though it belonged to somebody else, then drew it slowly out. The young officer took the token from her sweating palm. For the first time since properly regaining consciousness she asked: 'What will happen to her if nobody knows, if nobody pays, what will they do to . . .?' Her face had slackened and she was crying but without any sound.
'Let us worry about that,' said the Captain, who knew exactly what would happen if nobody paid and that they would in all likelihood never find the body. 'You have a rest and then make that list which will help us to find her. I've already telephoned the Consulate,' he added, in the hope of soothing her with a half-truth.
'What do you think?' the Captain asked Marshal Guarnaccia once they were outside and walking the two or three yards back to Headquarters.
'I didn't understand more than three words,' said the Marshal placidly. 'And she's lying.'
Beside him, the Substitute burst into delighted laughter and said, 'Maestrangelo, introduce me to this man!'
'I beg your pardon. Substitute Prosecutor Fusarri, Virgilio; Marshal Guarnaccia, Salvatore.'
They shook hands outside the sentry room, where the Substitute had a taxi called and got into it still smiling at the Marshal's deadly serious remark. 'You'll need a warrant,' was his parting observation, 'to search that flat. I'll send it over immediately. Let me know what you find.'
'New man?' asked the Marshal, staring after the taxi with bulging expressionless eyes.
'Yes.'
'Funny. He looks . . .'
'As if he only happens to be with us by accident and could just easily be amusing himself at some other job elsewhere.'
'Something like that. I wouldn't know how to put it into words.'
'We'd better go up to my office.' They went along the old cloister and up the stone stairs.
'An interesting man, the Substitute,' said the Captain as they settled into deep leather chairs, 'and intelligent. But he's eccentric. I shall be glad to have you working with me for a while.'
The Marshal raised questioning eyebrows.
'The girl who's missing—you'll have had my circular— is Deborah Jean Maxwell and she lives in Piazza Pitti, number three.'
'I see.'
'I need to know all about her.'
'I don't know the name.'
'We'll get you a photograph.'
'I'll see what I can do. When did it happen?'
'Just after eight in the morning on the first of March.'
The Marshal frowned. After a moment he said: 'That was the day it was snowing.'
'It was. That should help since a lot of people will remember that morning because of the snow.'
'I'm not so sure . . .'
'You'd better come to the flat with me for a start, as soon as the warrant arrives. I want to take a handful of good men and go over it with a fine-tooth comb. We should be able to find a photograph for you—are you all right? You don't look your usual self.'
'I've just come from the Appeal Court. Cipolla.'
'He didn't get off?'
'Fifteen years. They quashed the murder charge but he got ten years for intent to wound resulting in death, plus, of course, half as much again because there was a firearm involved.'
'It was the only alterative to an acquittal, you knew that.'
He won't last because there's nobody waiting for him and you know what conditions are like in there. He'll catch some illness or other, I can see it coming.'
'You did your best. After all's said and done, he did shoot the man.'
'If I'd known what was going on in that house right under my nose . . .'
'You can't be everywhere at once, and you were desperately short staffed.'
'Bacci. . .'At last the Marshal smiled. 'How is he getting on?'
'Well.'
'He was lucky to get a posting here at home.'
'He's the only son of a widow and there's a young sister to support.'
'Of course. I'd forgotten.'
'Now then, there are two areas I want you to investigate as unobtrusively as possible. First, see what you can dig up about this girl's daily life in general. I want to know what sort of people she frequents outside school. I can send you a plainclothes man if necessary, somebody young who can pretend to be looking for her.'
'And second?'
'I want to know exactly what happened that morning. I want to know how this man got into the courtyard—somebody must have opened the main door and gate for him and it's possible that somebody going out may have seen him. He can hardly have been wearing a ski mask in the street at that hour of the morning, whether it was snowing or not.'
'I'll inquire,' the Marshal said.
While they were waiting for the warrant to arrive the Captain telephoned the American Consulate to inform them of Deborah Maxwell's citizenship. He spoke to a different person this time, younger and more sympathetic.
'We may be some time finding Mr Maxwell but we'll let you know as soon as we do.'
'You know him, then?'
The young man seemed embarrassed, as if he had said too much, though he had barely said anything. 'I don't know him personally,' he said, deliberately misinterpreting the question, 'but we'll do all we can and be in touch with you.'
The Captain put the receiver down thoughtfully, accepting a sheet of paper from the Adjutant who had just tapped and walked in.
'Funny . . .' he said and glanced absently at the paper. PROCURA DELLA REPUBBLICA—Florence. Prot/6460/80
Further to the investigation of the kidnapping of MAXWELL Deborah Jean the Public Prosecutor orders that the Officers of the Polizia Giudiziaria . . .
The Captain looked at his watch. 'I wouldn't have believed it,' he murmured, 'if I hadn't seen it. Perhaps he had it already made out . . .'
The Marshal only stared at the warrant, his great eyes bulging
more than ever.
'Not the usual kind of student's flat,' muttered the Marshal, surprised to find his feet walking on fitted carpet, a thing that only happened to him in the lobbies of hotels he was checking on.
'Not the usual sort of student,' the Captain said, remembering that the Marshal had followed little of the bilingual conversation in the hospital, 'given that she had two million a month to spend.'
The Marshal frowned. It was the Captain who voiced his opinion for him: 'It's no wonder we can't find flats for our boys when they want to get married, with this sort of competition. Seven hundred thousand a month ...' He had a copy of the contract in his hand.
'Still, it wasn't exactly that I was thinking of,' the Marshal said. 'I was thinking that whenever I've been into a student's flat there was a different atmosphere . . . a lot of things pinned up on the walls, for instance posters mostly . . .'
'The explanation's here.' The Captain flicked at the contract. 'Nothing shall be affixed to the walls by any method or the paintings removed from their present places . . .'
The paintings were evidently of no great value, but such as they were, they were genuine: a seventeenth-century Venus in oils in the drawing-room, some eighteenth-century engravings along the carpeted passage which led from the front door past the day rooms to the bedroom at the end. A dull portrait in oils hung in the dining-room which opened on to the drawing-room.
Small glass chandeliers tinkled in every room as the Captain's men worked their way rapidly through the apartment, leaving no trace of their visit behind them. The furniture was all good antique and some of the drawers were difficult to open and shut.
'Even so,' mused the Captain, 'you're right. Apart from there being nothing on the walls, there's very little of the personal here considering that she's lived here six months. Perhaps that little television there is hers. It looks new and it isn't listed on the inventory.' It was in bright red plastic in contrast to the muted greens and browns of everything else. It stood on a little round table in front of the muslin-curtained window, and the long green plush sofa against the opposite wall bore the imprint of the length of the girl's body as though she habitually lay there to watch it. There were a few books on a revolving mahogany stand, mostly museum catalogues. An address book lay by the telephone on a writing-desk by the door. It contained almost exclusively American names and addresses. The Captain slipped it into his pocket.
The Marshal had wandered through into the dining-room where lined foolscap and a box of pens and pencils lying between a pair of silver candlesticks suggested that the oak table was used for homework rather than for dining. They had seen a tiny marble-topped table in the kitchen, big enough for one person to eat at, perhaps two at a squash. There had been the mouldering remains of a delicatessen meal in tinfoil trays in the fridge, along with a botde of beer and two of orange squash.
When the men had finished searching the bedroom the Captain and the Marshal went in. The same dull green carpet, two beds with carved green satin headboards, the light from the busy street filtered by a thick white muslin curtain. Despite the noise of the traffic out in the piazza, the room had a peaceful sense of intimacy about it which may have had something to do with the large low beds and the subtle green and white colours. The Captain opened a few drawers in the dressing-table. The bottom one contained bedlinen and towels, the next sweaters and blouses, the top one underwear. In one of the two miniature drawers that flanked the mirror he found a letter from the girl's father, postmarked New York. The Norwegian girl had said their home was in Michigan. He slipped the letter into his pocket. The other little drawer contained a jumble of trinkets and keepsakes; some, like the pearl drop on a gold chain, were valuable; others, like a battered old Mickey Mouse pencil-sharpener, must have had sentimental value.
The green, flower-painted wardrobe opened squeakily. The fur coat was hanging under a cotton cover. There were only a few dresses but these were elaborate, expensive and curiously old-fashioned compared to the heap of jeans and dungarees piled up on the floor of the wardrobe. The Captain ran a finger lightly down a black silk sleeve. 'I wonder where she goes in these . . .'
The Marshal was examining a photograph that was propped on a fifteenth-century prayer stool by the bed. It showed a large, plump man, already balding but with a pink, childlike face. A girl stood next to him with her arm round him. She had long brown hair and she too was fairly heavily built; she had the same childlike face, which on her was pretty.
'You'd better keep it,' the Captain said, looking over his shoulder.
They both glanced into the bathroom. An old-fashioned, green-painted bath on claw feet, a lot of bottles on the glass shelf in front of a gilded, slightly spotted mirror, everything tidy apart from a wad of used cotton wool on the edge of the sink.
'Captain?'
'You've finished? The money . . .?'
'Nothing. Just over a hundred thousand in notes often in the drawer next to the telephone, some change on the fridge in the kitchen. The money's not here.'
'Then she spent it and I'd like to know what on. The porter's wife who let us in might be worth talking to. It's more than possible that she cleans up here . . .'
'We have to finish tidying up in the kitchen, sir.'
'Carry on. The Marshal and I will be down in the porter's lodge.'
The porter's lodge was an over-furnished, windowless space as depressing as the porter's wife. The Captain had no sooner opened his mouth to say: 'Your husband isn't in . . .?' than she took out a crumpled handkerchief and huge tears were rolling down her fat cheeks.
'Don't name that man to me, don't mention him!'
'We only want to know—'
'He's the one who's porter here, not me. He's the one who gets the wages for it while I haven't a lira to myself not even to buy a pair of stockings, stuck here in this gloomy hole day after day—and he goes out working, he goes out to work when according to the contract he's not allowed, I should be allowed but not him. I want a divorce, that's what I want, but he'll not budge as long as he's drawing two salaries and has me cooking for him— but I'll not eat with him, I stick myself in that tiny kitchen in there—can you imagine the life I lead? But my solicitor says don't budge because if I lose this place where can I go? He's evil, that's what he is and nobody knows what I suffer. If it comes to court you two can testify. I was the one who let you in. I was the one who was here and not a sign of him—you can speak for me—'
'Marshal . . .' The Captain was backing away.
'All right.'
'I'll go up and see if they're ready to lock up . . .'
The Marshal sat down in the gloom at the plush-covered table and faced the tearful woman across a bowl of plastic fruit. Her rolled-up handkerchief was already soaked through but she went on twisting it round and round in her fingers and dabbing at her wet face.
The Captain's men were already clattering down the broad stone staircase, ignoring the slow old lift. He turned to join them and then heard the telephone ringing inside the flat. The door was still open until the weeping woman should come up and lock it. He ran along the carpeted passage and into the drawing-room where he picked up the phone without speaking. After a moment a man's voice said in Italian:
'Is it you?'
There was no point in not answering so he said:
'Do you want to speak to Miss Maxwell?'
The caller hung up.
CHAPTER 7
'What sort of time would it have been?'
'Between eight and eight-thirty.'
'At that time I'm usually taking the children to school.'
'I know,' said the Marshal patiently, 'that's why I thought you might have seen something.'
The woman pondered, pushing the baby's pram to and fro absently.
'It's so long ago . . .'
'Almost three weeks ago.'
'If you'd asked me nearer the time . . .'
'You weren't here. We've already checked everyone in the piazza once.'
For al
l the good it had done. It was the same story every time: nothing at all until at last the significance of the date went home— ' But that was the day it was snowing, don't you remember?' 'Yes, I remember.' 'It was in the paper. They say the world's shifting on its axis, there could be another ice age.' 'But did you notice . . .?'
It was never any good. They had only noticed the snow. Now it was Signora Rosi's turn.
'Wait a minute! You said the first of March? But that was the day it was snowing, I remember now!'
There was no point in getting angry. After all, what did the Marshal himself remember about that morning other than the snow? Time and again he had rolled the scene through his memory. It was a knack he had. If anyone asked him what had happened on a certain occasion he wasn't able to tell them right off because he never put his memories into words. Yet, given time, he could roll back any given scene like a film and look at it again, stopping and starting the images at will, examining areas and details that he hadn't noticed at the time. It was a slow process, of course. He had a reputation for being a bit slow-witted but it didn't perturb him in the least. He was accustomed to it from his schooldays since his wasn't a memory system that made a good impression on harassed teachers or impatient examiners, especially as it didn't work at all with books.
He let Signora Rosi go on her way, wheeling the baby through the courtyard of the Pitti Palace into the Boboli Gardens to take the afternoon air along with the other mothers and babies of the Quarter.
The sharp bright sunshine, accompanied by cold winds and interspersed with long periods of heavy rain, had at last given way to real spring weather, warm sunshine and feathery showers. The Marshal crossed the sunny forecourt towards the shadow of the stone archway and into his office, where he could take off the dark glasses which he always had to wear when the sun was out. He sat down heavily at his desk and sighed. The first warm weather always had this same effect on him, a feeling of elation followed by a bad bout of homesickness. At home in Syracuse it would be quite hot by now, the almond blossoms and the big purple thistles blooming. Hot enough to sit out in the Piazza studded with big brown and green palms against the rose-coloured stucco of the buildings and perhaps try a first ricotta ice-cream. He gazed dully out of the little window at a dark, neatly-clipped laurel hedge and the gravel path where the black cars were parked. What was he supposed to be thinking about? That morning in the snow . . .
Death in Springtime Page 7