Death of an Englishman (13 page)

'But it wasn't. You said so yourself. He paid no rent, had no rent book, no contract. The flat is yours and he was there as your associate, not as a tenant.'

Cesarini's eyes slid to the window, as though seeking a means of escape. The telephone rang again.

'S.P. for you, sir.'

'Put him through.' The Captain reached forward and pushed the bell on his desk. 'Good morning, Signor Procuratore … speaking … Yes, indeed —could you hold the line for one moment, I have someone with me who is leaving now.' A Brigadier entered, summoned by the bell. 'Show this gentleman to a waiting-room, would you, Brigadier, and get him some breakfast.'

'You can't keep me here!'

'Enjoy your breakfast, Signor Cesarini.' He waited for the door to close. 'Signor Procuratore, please excuse … Well, naturally, but I haven't had time since you issued the search warrant to—The press … I see. No, to be honest I didn't even see what they printed yesterday or this morning either, for that—Yes, I realize that, it's just that I'm trying to avoid any unnecessary scandal about the Englishman … Well, yes, there is … No, nothing of that sort, it's all in my report. I'm afraid it hasn't, we're still looking for it—if you could perhaps encourage them to concentrate on the episode with the bus which is more newsworthy from their point of view, anyway. I see … Well, he would be concerned, of course, but … if you think that would help —No not at all, of course you wouldn't interfere, I wasn't suggesting … Yes, Signor Procuratore, I'll see to it immediately. Not at all, your advice is always welcome … At three o'clock, then …'

After putting down the phone, the Captain closed his eyes for a moment and gave an almost inaudible sigh. Then he looked at the two Englishmen. Jeffreys was so exhausted, especially from the strain of trying to follow the interrogation, that he was having difficulty remembering where he was. He was continually smothering yawns and rubbing a hand over his scratchy eyes and through his dishevelled curls. The Chief Inspector was chewing his pipe and staring at the Captain, showing no signs of tiredness. He looked as though he could go on indefinitely without sleeping if he had to, or if he thought he would.

'No good,' he said, removing the pipe and raising an interrogative eyebrow.

'No good,' agreed the Captain, understanding. He smiled ruefully.

'Wake yourself up, Jeffreys,' said the Chief with a nudge. 'I want to talk to the Captain.' But they hardly needed Jeffreys's stumbling efforts to understand each other. The interrogation had gone badly and they both knew it and, what was worse, they both knew why. The man was obviously guilty as far as the antiques affair was concerned but he had no fears as far as the murder was concerned.

'D'you know what struck me?' said the Chief, musing.' It struck me that not only was he not scared, he was plain irritated. Irritated that you caught him in the flat, irritated that business is disrupted, even irritated that the Englishman got himself killed. And yet, if he didn't do it—you don't suspect his two friends?'

The Captain shook his head. 'Not in the least. We know Mazzocchio well enough, and the other's his nephew, an apprentice plumber—I think threatening a bus driver with a bit of piping to get a free ride is about his limit, and he'll not do that again in a hurry when we've finished with him. Neither of them qualify as hired killers, not with their fingerprints all over the flat and a 6.35.'

'And that leaves nobody.'

'Exactly. Signor Nobody. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make a phone call. The S.P. has suggested that we drag the river at the Santa Trinita bridge on the grounds that it's the nearest point at which the escaping murderer could have got rid of the weapon.' He said it evenly but the irony came through just the same. Jeffreys caught it and was baffled.

'Does he really think you'll find it?'

'I very much doubt it but the Mayor's upset so we'd better be seen to be doing something.'

'The Mayor?' Jeffreys wasn't sure he had understood.

'Yes, the Mayor. He gives a reception every year for all the foreigners in the city. It's tonight. Most of them are English. The Mayor is embarrassed.'

'But the English …' Jeffreys tried to marshal some Italian words into order. 'They didn't … he had no friends, wasn't liked …'

'It doesn't matter. The Mayor is embarrassed and we are going to drag the river. But you must need some sleep. There's really no need for you to come, no point …' The Captain was glad enough to go, in some ways. He hardly knew what else to do.

Jeffreys's face had brightened at the thought of bed but when he suggested it to the Chief he made no impression at all.

'No, no, no! Wouldn't miss it for the world, would we, Jeffreys? Like to see how you go about things, and so on. Besides, you never know, you might find the wretched thing! No, we can sleep any time, we'll come along with you.' And he pocketed his pipe enthusiastically.

All right, thought Jeffreys, in despair. He's a good cop. And I wish I were in bed.

'We'll come with you, thanks,' he told the Captain with a weak smile.

When the Captain had made his calls and they were ready to leave, the telephone rang once more. After staring at the receiver in a puzzled way and then frowning as he listened and trying in vain to interrupt the speaker once or twice, he suddenly offered the instrument to the Chief Inspector:

'I wonder if this is for you?'

It was.

'Felicity was worried about you so I said I'd phone—took me a long time to find you, I must say, but I suppose it's a biggish building. Of course, we thought you were in bed so it was a long time before we noticed, thinking we shouldn't disturb you. Not having heard you come in, you see, we thought you'd had a heavy night and were lying in. Eventually thought of taking you in a nice cup of tea and you weren't there so Felicity was worried … no …
no,
not a thing! Of course, I'm a good sleeper, well, we both are. We're usually in bed by eleven with a good thriller and I think I can safely say we're generally asleep by twelve. Didn't hear a sound, no. So now, what about your lunch? I see …
are
you? How fascinating! Well, I'll be going across to the Consulate to see about Mr Langley-Smythe's body going back—they've had a call from the Medico-Legal Institute … I suppose you could take it back with you … Anyway, I'll certainly stop at the bridge to see what you boys are up to. What a shame you had to miss the carol service last night—anyway, we'll hope to see you at lunch. Felicity's making a bread-and-butter pudding …'

The Marshal stood looking down at Carabiniere Bacci, his great round eyes blandly expressionless.

The Brigadier at the desk grinned: 'Have I to wake him?'

'Yes …' said the Marshal slowly, buttoning his greatcoat, 'wake him and send him across to Via Maggio to relieve the man on guard there. And tell him to get some breakfast on the way. I'll be back in about an hour …' He stood a little while longer, staring down at the crumpled, sleeping figure and then stepped outside and walked slowly under the high archway. He was shaky but he was better. As long as he didn't overdo it … and he wasn't going very far. When he emerged on to the car-filled forecourt, the brilliant sunlight dazzled him. He sighed and plunged a hand into his greatcoat pocket, seeking his sunglasses.

'Glory …!' whispered the Chief Inspector. He had closed his eyes during the car ride, not sleeping, just resting them, and had been aware of intermittent flashes of brilliant light, but when the car emerged from the cold blue shadow of Via Maggio and stopped on the Santa Trinita bridge, the light prised his eyes open.

'You wouldn't think it was the same place,' agreed Jeffreys, getting out stiffly and blinking.

They felt as if, until now, they had been groping about on a barely lit, complicated stage set, on to which someone had suddenly turned all the spotlights. They stretched their tired limbs and stared. The white marble statues at each corner of the bridge sparkled as if in movement, their heads outlined sharply in black against a deep blue sky. Across the river were the crenellated tops of palaces, gothic towers, ochre facades splashed with light, dark blue shadows, orange roofs, and a swirl of anarchic traffic conducted by a white-helmeted
vigile.
All the movement was faster, all the noise louder without the muting effect of the fog, but the river was running slowly, smooth and olive green, away towards a distant network of bare trees that indicated the park. Beyond the trees, a line of glittering mountain tops was strung across the horizon like a mirage.

Having readjusted themselves to this new world, the two Englishmen began trying to push their way through the crowd of people hanging over the parapet near the busy Christmas-tree seller, and see what was going on.

The divers were just going in from a black rubber dinghy below the embankment. Elaborate rumours as to what they were looking for were rife among the ever-increasing crowd of spectators, some of whom carried briefcases or sheaves of office papers, others big carrier bags from the shops across the river, others pushing handcarts or delivery bikes. Some drivers stopped their cars in the middle of the bridge to come and have a look.

'Doesn't anybody round here go to work?' muttered the Chief Inspector irritably, as he was elbowed about.

'National pastime, this,' explained Jeffreys, remembering Miss White, and wondering briefly why she wasn't here now.

'Eternal rest give unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her …'

The altar boy trailed round the coffin after the old priest, carrying the holy water. There was a heavy 'clonk' each time the priest dipped the aspergillum into it. The altar boy's nose was red. San Felice church was icy, winter and summer alike; the stones of its twelfth-century walls exuded the stored cold of eight hundred winters. The slits of leaded window along one side had never been touched by the sun.

'May she rest in peace …'

The priest returned to the altar and the requiem mass continued.

The Marshal was sitting right at the back, although the church was almost empty. He had made his presence known, shaking hands with Cipolla, almost unrecognizable in a cheap green loden with a black armband, and then retreated to the back in case he needed to
go
out. He was still feeling very weak, and the deathly cold in the dark church penetrated even his heavy greatcoat. He wasn't alone at the back; a small woman in a long, old-fashioned fur coat and a woollen beret had come in, seemed remarkably pleased to see him, as though he were an old friend, and had sat down beside him. When they knelt down for the consecration, he noticed that she was wearing running shoes. He was sure then that he had seen her about often but he couldn't think where. Kneeling made him feel wretchedly dizzy and he found himself obliged to sit down and close his eyes. The heavy smell of beeswax mingled with the chilly perfume of the flowers piled in the open doorway behind him. He kept his eyes closed, breathing deeply and steadily, his large hands resting on his knees.

'Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst enter under my roof. Say but the word and my soul shall be healed.

'Lord, I am not worthy …'

The Marshal opened his eyes. Cipolla remained kneeling; his sister and brother-in-law went up to take Communion, followed by a small group of women dressed in black who seemed to the Marshal to be at every funeral in every church in Italy … like vultures. An obscene thought that he tried to dismiss …

The tall candles on brass stands before and behind the coffin in the centre aisle flickered and spat in the cold draught from the door. He could see his breath.

'Lord, I am not worthy …'

The Marshal found it difficult to take his eyes from the two tall flames; they began to blur into one.

'Say but the word and my soul shall be healed …'

Somebody ought to have closed the church door. The Marshal's head was ringing with cold, the flames were growing bigger and approaching him, overpowering him with the cloying scent of flowers …

'Say but the word and my soul …' Vultures hovering in the candlelight … no …

'Say but the word …'

'Here,' commanded a loud English whisper. 'Smell this. Lean on me.'

Miss White propped up the swaying bulk of the seated Marshal and thrust her smelling salts under his nose. They worked. He blinked and righted himself.

'What the devil … ?' He had quite forgotten where he was.

'No use talking to me. Can't speak a word. But you ought to get out into the fresh air. Bit of sunshine. I'll carry your hat.'

The Marshal allowed himself to be towed away towards the flower-filled doorway and the light of the Piazza. His eyes immediately began to stream.

'Overcome with grief,' said Miss White to the black-overalled men who stamped on their cigarettes behind the hearse when they saw people coming out. 'Going to buy him a coffee. Come on! Lean on me, if you like!'

'Signora!' the barman on the corner greeted her as she pulled her great burden in. And the Marshal—are you better? You look pale.'

'He needs a drink,' instructed Miss White. 'And so do I. Freezing in that church—
two coffees
and plenty of
grappa
in them!'

'Immediately,' responded the barman. 'Shall I bring it to the table?' There were two tiny round tables in the bar.

'Si!
Yes, you'd better. He needs to sit down.'