Death of a Dutchman (12 page)

'How is she?'

'She's sleeping.' He hesitated, never one to preach. 'If you wouldn't mind going up some time . . .'

'I'll go up this evening at half past six, as usual. I don't like to think of her being alone in that last hour before she goes to bed . . . you understand what I mean. One of these nights she'll die in her sleep, more than likely. I make us both a hot drink and take it up. When I've seen her in bed I come down in time for the eight o'clock news which I don't like to miss—is something the matter?'

'No! No, I'm glad to hear . . .'

'I see. She's been telling you that nobody ever goes near her, I suppose. She tells everybody that, but the place is never empty, there's always somebody up there. She's none too pleased with me at the moment because I've a bad leg and once or twice I've had to go to evening surgery and miss our hour together. You mustn't believe the vicious lies she tells; it's her only pastime and she's too old to learn any other. Better that, anyway, than telling everybody about her bit of money. Has she . . . ?'

'Told me about her burial money? Yes.'

'I wish she wouldn't do that—oh, it's all right her telling you, but one of these days . . . I'll bet she was glad to see Signora Goossens back after all these years, at any rate; that should cheer her up. I've never heard her say a wrong word about
her.
¹¹

'Signora Goossens?' Stupidly, he thought first of the Dutch mother-in-law who was coming down for the funeral, but of course she must mean .

'She's come back, did you say?'

'Wasn't she up there with you? I thought. . . well, I just caught sight of her going down past here when I opened the door, so then when you appeared ... I can't think where else she'd have been unless perhaps to her old flat ... I suppose there's no reason why not . . .'

'Did you speak to her?'

'No ... no, I didn't, but then, I just glimpsed her hurrying down and naturally I thought she'd have been to see Signora Giusti—well, if I'd known you wanted to see her . . .'

But the Marshal was running heavily down the stairs, cap in hand, feeling for his dark glasses.

CHAPTER 6

The piazza was alive with people and sunshine, and the noise of the bellowing stallholders, gossiping women and barking dogs was overwhelming after the gloomy silence at the back of the old lady's flat. Only the dogs moved at speed, chasing each other round and round the fountain in the centre; everyone else was vociferous but heavy of limb in the overpowering heat of late morning. The Marshal's great eyes, protected behind the dark glasses, scanned; the crowd under the trees hopelessly, for he didn't even know—apart from a twenty-year-old photograph—what the woman looked like.

'And if I did,' he muttered to himself grumpily, 'I'd never find her in this lot. She's probably half a mile away by now, in any case . . .'

He stood there uncertainly near a clothes stall, wondering what to do next. A short-legged, black and white mongrel trotted rapidly up to him, sniffed his shoes, then shot back into the dark doorway from which he had emerged. He belonged, presumably, to the flower-seller who had his kiosk-sized shop right beside the entrance to Signora Giusti's building. The Marshal turned back and looked in there, taking off his glasses to accommodate the gloom of the small, windowless rectangle. The smell of fresh vegetables was immediately masked by the scent of fresh flowers. A man in an artisan's black smock was sitting with his back to the narrow doorway, making the little posies surrounded by a coloured paper frill, some of which were hanging outside in the shade of a bit of striped awning. Only the back of the man's pale plump neck was visible.

'Make yourself at home,' he said, without looking up.

'I'm in a bit of a hurry,' said the Marshal, disconcerted not so much by this sudden remark as by the man's odd position, turned away as he was from the sunshine and the passers-by. 'I wondered if you'd noticed a woman come out from next door a few moments ago.'

The man rested his posy in the lap of his black smock and turned his closed and sunken eye-sockets in the direction of the Marshal, without a word.

'I'm sorry, I didn't realize . . .'

'A man in your job,' chuckled the blind man, 'might have thought to wonder why I don't sit in my doorway looking out. You'll find a little stool behind you, Marshal, if you want to sit down.'

He picked up the posy again and chose more flowers for it from a low table before him, his pale fingers caressing their heads to distinguish them.

'I did notice,' the Marshal defended himself, 'but I hadn't time to work out why. You know me, it seems?'

'You pass near here every day, except Thursday, on your rounds. You're very heavy and you walk slowly-looking about you, I imagine—and naturally I hear you answer when people call out "Good morning, Marshal." What else do you want to know? About the woman who seems to be trying to avoid you?'

There was no doubt that he intended to get as much mileage out of his story as Signora Giusti had out of hers, but the Marshal, much as he would have liked to allow the blind man his moment, was anxious to be off.

'Forgive an old man's vanity, Marshal. I can tell by your shuffling feet that you have to be off. A woman wearing medium high-heeled shoes came to the entrance of the building this morning and stopped dead outside. She hurried away past my doorway just as you arrived and went in, and then she came back again. She was walking up and down nervously outside here for a good hour, then, after hesitating for some time at the door, she suddenly went in and hurried up the stairs—she had a key, you see, so naturally I wondered what the problem was. Your being in there was the obvious answer. I also wondered who it was because it wasn't a tenant from that house, I know them all. Anyway, she came down in a great rush almost immediately, and you followed within a minute, so she must have spotted you or heard you starting down. Is she something to do with Signor Toni's death?'

'She may be. Do you know which way she went?'

'I wouldn't swear that she went away. I heard her crossing the cobbles towards the market stalls just over there, and then, of course, I lost track of her among the crowds. If you want to catch her you'd do well to hang about out of sight. After all, if she wanted to go in there . . . Forgive me, Marshal, I've no business to be telling you your job.'

He reached for a roll of pink crepe paper and began to run it expertly through his fingers, stretching the edge into a frill.

'I'm glad of your help,' the Marshal said. 'I need all the help I can get.' His eyes were on the street outside. 'Tell me, do you remember a Signora Goossens, Signora Wilkins that was?'

'Certainly I remember her. She used to sit on that stool there and chat to me, especially in the early days when she knew nobody. I used to teach her Florentine proverbs and she collected them in a little notebook . . .' His pale, sightless face was lifted and he smiled a little at the memory. 'She loved flowers, you see; we had that in common. She knew all their names, too, and she liked to talk about her English garden. It was the one thing she really missed here. Later on, she was busier, after she was married, but she bought all her flowers from me. She never passed my door without calling out, "Good morning, Signor Botticelli, how are you?" And she often found time for a long chat when there wasn't a lot to do next door. Are you keeping an eye on the piazza?'

'Yes.'

'I thought you were. You know your job, I can tell that. You're a southerner, by your accent?'

'Yes.'

'I thought so. She was a good woman, Signora Wilkins, Goossens I should say . . .'

'And Signor Toni? Do you know much about him?'

'I know that tomorrow I'm to make a wreath for his funeral. It comes to us all in the end. If ever anyone upsets or tries to cheat me, that's what I say, I say, "Remember I make funeral wreaths, too." But I say it to myself. I'm making this one for Toni for the goldsmith next door. He could tell you more about Signor Toni; he owes him a lot. Maybe he owes him everything. He'll be at the funeral tomorrow, as will a good few other jewellers and goldsmiths in the city. If you go next door, ask for Signor Beppe, as they call him; he's the boss. You're not far from home, I suppose? From your Station, I mean?'

'No, Piazza Pitti.'

'Well and good. There'll be a storm before long. Perhaps you'll look in and say good morning some time on your rounds.'

'I will. And I'm grateful for your help.'

'Ask for Signor Beppe. I have a little bell here that I ring when I'm ready to close. The apprentice next door comes in and helps me pack up. It's not always the same time, you see, because I stop as soon as I've sold my day's flowers. I don't make a fortune, as you'll have gathered, but I'm not a burden on my daughter this way. I wouldn't want to sell lottery tickets like other people with my affliction do. I love flowers, you see. The scent and feel of them. I don't need to see them.'

'No.'

'Ask for Signor Beppe,' he repeated, feeling for a bobbin of silver ribbon, 'and I'll be listening. If she comes back I'll ring my bell, in case you don't spot her. Come here, Fido, come on.'

He had slipped a biscuit from the pocket of his black smock, and the little black and white dog shot in, tail wagging, from the sunlit doorway.

Since the studio which had once belonged
to
the Dutchman had no licence to sell directly to the public, what had once been a shop window was covered over on the inside by large sheets of dusty white paper to conform with the law. There was a large tear in the paper, however, as was usual in such cases, a hole torn out at what would be the eye-level of a seated man. As he expected, the Marshal, when he had rung the ground-floor bell and been re-admitted to the building, opened the frosted glass door on the left and found an old man in shirtsleeves and a large canvas apron seated near the tear in the window-covering, polishing what looked like a stack of belt-buckles and glancing out now and then at the world going by outside.

'Good morning,' he said, looking up but still polishing away, 'What can I do for you?'

'I wanted a word with Signor Beppe, if he's here.'

'Certainly he's here. Go through that door there, straight through the workshop into the corridor beyond and take the first door on your left. That's the showroom where he receives buyers. He's got two Norwegians with him now, but if it's urgent . . .'

'It is. And if you don't mind, I'd rather speak to him here. I've got to keep an eye on the piazza.'

'In that case, you ought to have an assistant,' remarked the old man with brusque good sense. But he got to his feet.

The Marshal didn't deny it, but he sighed inwardly and said: 'I'll wait here.'

He stooped to peer through the torn hole in the paper, only straightening up when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. Signor Beppe strode forward with his hand outstretched. He grasped the Marshal's large hand and wasted no time on preliminaries.

'Well? Have you some news for us about Toni?'

'Not exactly. You seem to know more than I do. The funeral's tomorrow, I hear?'

'That's right. You didn't know that? A young officer called yesterday to see Signora Giusti and I collared him. Somebody had to think about the funeral arrangements, after all. Wanda won't be coming down, that's his wife. My guess is she wanted to, but I gather the mother-in-law is a pretty forceful character. Not that Wanda hasn't inherited some of it—she knows her own mind—but in her condition she can hardly ... Is something the matter?'

'No.' The Marshal straightened up. 'No ... I just need to keep an eye on the piazza.'

'I see. Well, let's go to the front door, then, and talk there, save your back.'

'I'd rather be out of sight... I was surprised to hear he was to be buried here.'

'Nothing surprising about it. I know there's talk in the piazza about the family being afraid of some sort of scandal, but I can put you right on that score. There may be some truth in it, of course, given that there's been talk of suicide, which isn't a pleasant idea for a family to live with—but the fact is that he always intended to be buried here. It was in his will, to which I was a witness. He wanted to be buried with his father and mother, as is only natural. Some people round here called him the Dutchman, as they called his father, but Toni was born and bred here. He was one of us. He couldn't even speak Dutch, only enough to get by in business, and even for that he more often than not spoke English. See anybody?'

'No . . .'

'Am I allowed to ask who you're looking for?'

The Marshal hesitated. Signora Goossens seemed to be regarded as some sort of local saint. He wouldn't be too popular if he suggested he was keeping a watch on her, and he needed the information this man could give him. In the end he said:

'I'm watching to see if anyone comes in and goes upstairs who doesn't belong here.'

'Well, why didn't you say so? I can send my apprentice out to stand in the doorway, then if anyone goes in he can nip in here and tell you. Oh! Franco!'

The thin boy in a black smock, who appeared from some remote workroom, wiping his hands on a bit of rag, reminded the Marshal of that other morning and of the young Brother gently wiping the bloodstained oil from a dying man's palms.

'Go and stand at the front door,' instructed Signor Beppe, 'and if anybody at all, other than the tenants, tries to get in, run in here for the Marshal. Is the burner switched off?'

'Yes, I've finished . . . but I'm not sure if it's all right. . .'

'I'll come and look at it after. Out you go.'

The boy retreated.

'I'm teaching him annealing. Brings back the old days when Toni started. What his father didn't teach him, I taught him.'

'But you can't be much older, surely?'

'Six years. I was twenty when Toni started work.'

'You were here even then?'

'I've been here since I was twelve. I was old Goossens's first apprentice. Things aren't what they were in those days, of course. We made some jewellery then, and some really special stuff, too. I'm talking about for the Florentines, you understand. Nowadays they haven't the money. The nobility are poverty-stricken and the bourgeoisie, those that will spend, are more interested in how big a stone they can get for their money than in fine workmanship. A lot of the time we're being asked to repair or re-set pieces that people have inherited, and sometimes the piece isn't worth the real price of the work involved, but often it turns out to be a piece that's been made here and I do the work at a loss rather than turn old customers away.'

'Yet you seem to be doing well enough.' The Marshal's big eyes were taking in all the equipment in the room and glancing towards the corridor which he knew led to other studios and where he could hear people at work.

'Oh, I'm not saying we do badly, far from it. No, I'm talking about quality of work, not quantity. Nowadays, the good pieces we make are exported—I've got two Norwegian buyers here now and they'll take anything I can offer them, but this stuff—' he indicated the stack of oddly-shaped objects on the low table where the old man had sat polishing—'this is our bread and butter now, as far as Florence is concerned.'

'I can't quite make out what they are. Belt-buckles? No . . .'

Signor Beppe picked up one of the pieces and put it in the Marshal's hand.

'It's an initial . . . ?'

'It's an initial. And you'll recognize it when I tell you it will be attached to a very expensive leather bag or, if it's one of these smaller ones, to an equally expensive leather boot.'

The Marshal recognized it all right, but it wasn't a shop he was ever likely to set foot in unless one of its millionaire customers happened to get robbed as he was passing by.

'I couldn't begin to tell you how many of those things we make in a year—they export all over the world, apart from having branches in Paris and New York. Bread and butter, Marshal.' He flung the piece back on to the table. 'But not what a skilled goldsmith wants to spend his time doing. I've got my old dad to do the hours of hand polishing, which is something—he's not a skilled man himself but he likes to be useful, and at seventy-two . . . You're still nervous, I can see, but you needn't worry; the boy's reliable. Sit down on the stool, if you want to; my father's in the back looking after the customers.'