Death in Springtime (11 page)

When a quarter of an hour had passed the Brigadier poked his head round the door, wondering if the Captain had gone off somewhere, it was so quiet. He muttered something inaudible and withdrew. Half an hour passed.

At the end of the case, if everything went well, a relieved John Maxwell would thank him profusely and hug his daughter for the television cameras. With small children it was simpler. There were fewer tensions, and in their lives not so many things had had time to go wrong. At the end of the case people would see a bit of film of the child sitting on the drawing-room sofa between his parents who never took their eyes from him during the interview.

'Who was it who rescued you, do you know?'

'The Carabinieri.'

'When did you realize what was happening? Did you see someone
in uniform?'

'No. The first man who came in was in ordinary clothes. Then
I saw the uniforms.'

'And you knew you were safe?'

'Yes.'

There were no television cameras now. He looked at his watch. Forty minutes. It rarely took more than an hour. Sometimes he would have liked to unburden himself to somebody, but his officers and men had their own problems. The only person who came to mind was the Substitute, but years of battling with arrogant, ambitious magistrates had taken their toll and he smiled ruefully at himself for having such a peculiar idea. Well, later he would telephone Guarnaccia . . . just to keep him informed.

The Captain closed his eyes. Patience. It rarely took more than an hour.

It took an hour and ten minutes. The telephone rang. It was Mrs Maxwell who spoke, not her husband.

'We rang your own number but they gave us this one . . .'

The extra ten minutes had probably only been the time it had taken them to find him. Judging from her voice, she had been crying.

'I talked to my husband and we feel there's something we should have mentioned that might just be important . . . Can you understand me?'

'I understand you.' It was their turn to do the talking; he would manage better without Bacci now.

'We didn't think of it before . . . and it's not something John likes to talk about. You do understand? I do hope you won't be angry.'

'No, Signora, I won't be angry.'

'Debbie . . . Well, there was some trouble at college and she had to leave.'

'Drugs?'

'Only marijuana, not what you'd really call drugs. In some places in the States it's legal now so we didn't think we—'

'How long ago?'

'Excuse me?'

'How long ago? The marijuana?'

'About a year ago. She was only in college the one year, less than a year if you—we just wondered if she tried to buy some here, that's all, and that could be how she might have met the wrong kind of people. It's not legal here?'

'No.'

'Well, we thought we should just mention it.'

'Is your husband there?'

'He's right here beside me. We'll do all we can—'

'Signora, thank you. I would like to speak to your husband, please.' It was better that way than making him ask. The important thing now was to let him save face. The Captain filled in the space where Maxwell might have thought he had to apologize, and then asked him quickly: 'What did you do in the north of Italy in January? Skiing? Please don't answer without thinking. You stayed in a hotel, I think?'

And filled in a registration form that could be checked on.

'I had a business deal to complete in Turin.' The Captain said nothing so that he felt obliged to go on, to explain himself. 'I know I told you that was my first visit since my honeymoon with Debbie's mother and that's true. I don't do business over here, this was an exception.'

'Wait a moment, please.' He got to his feet. 'Bacci!'

'I'm sorry, I didn't know—'

'Pick up the phone! Ask him if he hired a car last time he was in Florence!' He'd had to break off for lack of an English verb that he remembered as soon as Bacci pronounced it.

'I did.'

'And you drove around sightseeing? Out of Florence?'

'A couple of times, yes.'

'Did you see anything you liked?'

Bacci's translation met with silence.

'Mr Maxwell, there's no law in this country against your buying a piece of property, and if you were intending to remove money from your own country without paying tax on it, that's not of prime importance now. I'm hoping to save your daughter's life.'

'It was a present for Debbie. She likes it here but that place she's got is no more than a hole in the wall. She's used to space back home.'

'And to riding.'

'That's right. It was partly my wife's idea. She felt we should get her a healthier place, one where we could stay with her when we come over here.'

'Your daughter had no intention of returning to America?'

'She said not.'

'Did you quarrel about it?'

'I didn't say that. And I don't see what harm there is in buying a place for my daughter. The one I found was run down, anyway, and had been empty for years.'

'Not quite empty.'

'Sure it's empty. I dealt with the owner personally, and he hasn't set foot in the place since the war. Besides, I looked all of it over as soon as I saw it, persuaded the care- taker there to show us around.'

'Did you tell him you were interested in buying?'

'I did not. I hadn't decided then.'

'Did you tell your daughter?'

'No, I wanted to surprise her. It was Dorothy's idea. We were going to tell her on her birthday, that's two weeks from today.'

'Who does know?'

'The Count himself, the owner, that is, and his local agent. I had the Count send him my plans for the work I wanted to do on the buildings. If they weren't acceptable to the local council I wasn't going to buy.'

'If you submitted plans to the local council a great many people must know about them.'

'Listen, this has got nothing to do with what happened to Debbie. Whoever knows about those plans doesn't know they're mine. My name wasn't mentioned at all.'

'Were the plans approved?'

'They were.'

'You knew that two people had contracts with the owner?'

'I know one person has. The other only buys the grass each summer and has no rights at all over the land. He's allowed to cultivate a certain amount as a favour.'

'And the other?'

'That's this caretaker I mentioned. A good lawyer could have dealt with that. The Count advised me to put the house in my daughter's own name. Her rental contract runs out shortly and she can say she's homeless. If it didn't come off, the worst thing that could have happened is that it would have taken a few years to move him out.'

'You haven't signed the sales contract?'

'No.'

'Do you still intend to buy?'

'I most certainly do not!'

'I see. I think we may well find your daughter now.'

'Now listen, I've been in business all my life and I know who I can trust. Nobody knows I was buying that place except the owner!'

'Who introduced you to him?'

'A friend of mine from New York.'

'Did you tell him why you wanted the introduction?'

'No, I did not. He does a lot of business in Turin and I just told him I was going there.'

'I take it he's not a close friend, in that case?'

'There are friends you like and friends you don't like.'

'How did you know he knew the owner?'

'Through a mutual friend at the Consulate.'

'Who told you who owned the villa?'

'The caretaker who showed us the place—and he doesn't know my name either.'

It came back to the same thing. The only person who could have let it out was the girl herself.

'Mr Maxwell, remembering that your daughter's life is at stake, do you swear to me that she didn't know about this?'

'I swear she didn't know.'

And it was plain that he wasn't lying. Only as an apparent afterthought did the Captain ask:

'Were you intending to sign the contract on this trip?'

'I was.'

'So you already had a flight booked when you heard what had happened?'

'Luckily, yes—Listen, any information I've given you is in confidence, remember that. You can't use my daughter to take advantage of me.'

'Bacci, tell him not to leave the hotel.' He hung up.

The Brigadier knocked and came in. 'It's Scano's boy. He's left the villa. He had a moped hidden in some bushes not far away and now he's turned on to the track going up the mountain. My man wants to know what to do; if he follows him up there he'll be seen . . .'

'Tell him to come back, we can't take risks—and bring me a glass of water, will you?'

A little later, when he was along, the Captain dialled Guarnaccia's number at Pitti.

'The Marshal's not back yet.'

'When do you expect him?'

'I expected him over an hour ago.'

'He hasn't telephoned?'

'No. It's not like him, especially as we haven't eaten. I don't want to send anybody off to the mensa in case something's happened and he needs us. Should I ask him to ring you when he comes in?'

'I have to go out . . .' What had Guarnaccia to do that was more important than this case? This was no time to disappear.

'Are you still there, sir? He's coming in now . . .'

There was a cough and a deep breath before the Marshal said: 'Guarnaccia.'

'I've been trying to reach you.'

'Yes, Lorenzini said so.'

'I thought I'd better keep you up to date—you left here in such a rush, you didn't say whether you had any thoughts on the villa business . . .'

'No, no ... I haven't had chance.'

'Maxwell was intending to buy the villa.'

'I see.'

'And to get rid of the gamekeeper.'

'I see.'

'Obviously, that means he's involved.'

'As base-man?'

'Probably.'

'I see.'

'Is something the matter?'

'No . . .'

'Your Brigadier was worried when you didn't come in.'

'There was an attempted suicide at the prison. I waited.'

'Cipolla?'

'Yes. I don't think I can be much help to you, to be honest. I don't know the people. If you were to ask the Brigadier . . . I've never even seen this man Pratesi.'

'Pratesi?'

'The sausage factory we passed, just before the village. I thought the Brigadier had told you he suspected him of running some racket on the side.'

'He did. You think it might be drugs?'

'Drugs? No, it never occurred to me—but then I didn't ask him, I just assumed it was meat. It might be drugs, of course.'

'It's probable that the kidnapped girl was an addict.'

'In that case . . .'

'There must have been some point of contact. It's not a professional job.'

'I see what you mean. It's just that I haven't had time to think about it and I only thought that with all those shepherds in the area there was bound to be some traffic in illegally slaughtered lamb. The Brigadier would be the person to ask—you're still out there?'

'Yes. I'll talk to him.'

'If there's nothing else ...' the Marshal said anxiously. 'I've got to go next door . . . Cipolla's sister . . . I'm sorry I'm not more help.'

'That's right,' said the Brigadier distractedly, 'lamb . . . I think I can smell something burning . . .'

'You'll have to leave them to it. I want you to get in touch with the Mayor and tell him I need to have the Council offices opened up. Then get hold of the alderman in charge of planning and apologize if we're disturbing his supper but we'll need him. And the Substitute had better be with me—tell Bacci he can take my car down to Florence, I don't really need him and the Substitute can take me back with him . . . He surely won't come out this far in a taxi . . .'

He had to try three of the numbers which the Substitute had given him on identical slips of paper, each of which had "after eight-thirty" written in small, neat writing across the bottom.

The first two numbers were restaurants. The third one wasn't.

'I'll come immediately.' He rang off before the Captain could ask him whether he would drive up.

It was a little after ten o'clock by the time the three men gathered in the council chamber over the post office and unrolled the plans on the long oak table. The young architect, who served part-time as alderman in charge of town planning, had indeed been interrupted at his supper, accepted a cigar and a light from the Substitute before beginning to explain. He had to talk above the noise of the discotheque music coming from the Communist club next door.

'Here's where the road to Taverna passes behind the villa—there's a bridle path leading from there to the stables, this double dotted line here. This is the main driveway up here, opening on what used to be a road down to Florence.'

'Can you still get all the way down to Florence on it?'

'If the weather's dry and if you don't mind how you treat your car—or maybe you could only do it in a jeep, I've never tried it. Most people only use that road to get to the villa itself and the two farms beyond it. It's in reasonable repair up to that point, but then it forks, one fork joining the Taverna road again, a short stretch that's in good shape, and the other going down to the city. That hasn't been touched for over fifteen years.'

'Goon.'

'These are the stables, separate from the house itself. This half and all the top floor are to be converted into a self-contained cottage for guests. The rest of the ground floor is to be garage space for two cars. The stone barn over here is to have stabling for two horses, a harness room and a hayloft above. Along here there's a high wall—dividing the present stables and the paddock from the lawns and villa—with a small wooden door in it. Part of the wall, as you can see, is to be knocked down to allow the drive to pass through to the garages. There are no structural changes in the villa itself except that the wall between it and the gamekeeper's quarters is to be demolished to make a bigger kitchen. There are two new bathrooms.'

'What's this line?' asked the Substitute. 'A new boundary?'

'Yes. That's where the land to be sold with the villa finishes, the gardens and paddock and this one meadow. As for the rest—I don't know what he intends, but it's agricultural land and has to be sold or rented as such.'