The Marshal and the Madwoman (21 page)

'Did she say the house belonged to her sister?'

'Yes. It was -true then? It's such an outlandish tale that I'm more than relieved you already know something of it. Yes, the house had been her sister's she said, but the sister's now dead, so it's the property of her brother-in-law though she had the right to live in it for her lifetime. That, as far as it went, seemed normal enough, but what came after it was less credible. If she'd told me outright she'd been in San Salvi the whole thing would have made sense, but she didn't. What she told me was that this man was virtually terrorizing her, threatening to have her locked up unless she got out so he could sell the flat. When she still didn't leave she said he threatened to stop her pension.

'"They'll put me away. If I can't prove I've got a house and a job they'll put me away. But I won't go!"

'She was quite clearly terrified but what she was saying made no sense at all. This man must have been trying to make her believe she'd have to go back into the asylum. If only she'd told me about San Salvi I'd have made inquiries there. If she'd been in there all those years it may well be true that she no longer had control of her own money, even her pension. I'm afraid I just didn't believe her, at least, not sufficiently.'

'What did you do?'

'I told her that if, as she claimed, she had the right to reside in the flat under the terms of her sister's will, then she should get hold of a copy of the will and bring it to me. If it were true, then in no circumstances could she be evicted and we would defend her. That was the last I saw of her. Oh—another thing she said was that he'd tried to trick her out of leaving the house once before by offering to send her on holiday, on a cruise, of all things.

'"But I'm up to all his tricks! My sister was a fool all her life to go on putting up with him, but I'm no fool! He won't get me locked up!"

'Is it surprising that I didn't believe her?'

'Not a bit.'

'If only she'd told me the whole truth. Well, what's done is done. But now I'm pretty sure that man was not only threatening her but cheating her, I mean if he was legally responsible for her . . .'

'Yes. I think he may well have cheated her out of a large inheritance.'

'And I sent her to ask for a copy of the will! We're supposed to be here to help people, but I've been thinking about it all afternoon, ever since I first tried to call you. If it hadn't been for me, he might have pushed her out of her flat but she'd still be alive today.'

'Helping people isn't easy. She didn't tell you the truth. People never do.' He didn't, even so, tell her the Rossis had tried to hide their baby from him. After all, he hadn't told them the truth either, had he?

'But in this case the consequences ... I told her, you see, that we have a lawyer here who would look into the matter. She must have threatened him with that. When I heard she was dead—even when they said it was suicide—I felt terribly guilty for not quite believing her. When it turned out to be murder—do you think her brother-in-law did it?'

'Yes and no. He got somebody else to do it.'

'There must have been a great deal of money involved for him to have taken such a risk.'

'I doubt if it was as simple as that. I don't imagine he's a professional criminal, just a desperate man. He's probably already spent her money.'

'Perhaps you're right. Whatever the reason, I doubt if I'll ever quite forgive myself, though I feel slightly better for having told you.'

'I'm more than grateful to you.'

'It's the least I could do. I'll be honest with you, though. I had my doubts about involving myself, but Linda Rossi turned the scale. With all this on your hands you found time to help them. I couldn't for shame go about my business and not help you with this. When you need me as a witness I'm ready.'

She rang off.

So now he knew how Clementina found out, or tried to.

'/
won't go!'
She had said that same thing to someone else, too, hadn't she? The memory had barely time to come to the surface of his mind before the phone rang again. If he hadn't been so absorbed by the idea that was forming he might have prevented Di Nuccio from putting the call through, but before he knew where he was, the tearful voice was in full lament, and this time she was even sobbing. He hadn't a hope of interrupting and didn't try.

'He's not here but the driver hasn't even turned up and now I've no idea where that order's finished up. And that's not all!'

The memory surfaced and the images fell into place. He waited for a gap that would allow him to make himself heard.

'Laura just phoned me to say she's heard a rumour he's in prison—that's why he didn't turn up—not
him,
our driver! What if the police come here? You're the only person who can help me—I promise you I didn't know, I didn't know anything! The fact that I didn't change those buttons is proof, isn't it? Well, isn't it?'

'Signorina, please stop crying and calm down. It's all over.'

'But what shall I do?'

'Nothing. At least, carry on going to the office every day for now.'

'But if the police come?'

'The Carabinieri will come. I'll come. And nobody, at this stage, will be bothering you. Do you understand?'

The only answer was a sob, but it was a quieter one.

'Now, listen carefully: the business card you gave me had the name—' he fished it out of his pocket—'the name Antonella Masolini.'

'I told you, it's in her name—'

'That's right. Her maiden name, I imagine. Is the husband's name Fantechi?'

'Yes. Carlo Fantechi. Do you know him, then? Does that mean he's already been in prison?'

'Not necessarily, but I think he may well have been and that that's where he met up with your driver.'

'It wouldn't surprise me at all to hear that Bruti's been in prison, he's such a nasty bit of goods.'

'Can you tell me how long your boss has been married to this Antonella Masolini?'

'I don't know for sure but not all that long. Maybe about four or five years.'

'Give me their address, will you?'

'Here or at the seaside?'

'Both, if you like. Where is he now?'

'I think he's at home. He telephoned from there before I came to see you and he said he'd be coming in first thing tomorrow morning, so I suppose he's still here.'

'And did he call you every day?'

'Every morning, even when he was at the seaside.'

'You told him, then, that I'd been to see you?'

'You said I should tell him, that you'd be coming back . . .'

'That's all right. I remember what I said. Try to remember now exactly what you said—I mean about Clementina. Did you tell him I said she'd been murdered?'

'I think so ... I suppose I must have done—but what's that got to do with—'

'Give me those addresses.'

He wrote them down. He'd got what he wanted without waiting until tomorrow. But he still had to collect that warrant and, for all he knew, the respectable grey-haired man who now had a name but who was always one step ahead could be driving towards the nearest border.

CHAPTER 11

'Not bad . . .' Di Nuccio couldn't help commenting as he followed the Marshal into the spacious entrance hall. In front of them was a broad marble staircase with a red carpet running up the centre and a group of tall potted plants on the first landing. 'It looks more like a hotel. . .'

'Can I help you?'

The window of the porter's lodge was on their left and a thin face was peering out at them over the top of a newspaper. The Marshal walked over and said: 'Fantechi.'

'They're away.'

Ignoring this, the Marshal asked, 'They own their flat, don't they?'

'They all do in this condominium. It belonged to his first wife.' He gave a sign to Di Nuccio and they both stepped inside the lodge, out of sight.

'How long have you been here?'

'Me? Fifteen years . . .' He folded the newspaper and looked from the Marshal's blank face to Di Nuccio's belligerent one. 'Is something up?'

'Yes,' said the Marshal, without bothering to tell him what. 'Which floor?'

'They're away, I tell you.' He tailed off as the Marshal's blank stare was suddenly replaced by a dangerous one. 'It's the third floor—listen, I'm not getting myself into trouble for anybody. It was him told me not to—in any case, it's true there's nobody up there.'

'Where's he gone?'

'Only to get cigarettes. He rang down and asked me to go but I can't leave the place unattended, my wife's not here. So you see it was true when I said there was nobody—'

'We'll wait. What's his wife like, the second one?'

'His wife? Listen, I can't—' 'You can't what?'

'Nothing. I'm just saying ... I don't think I should be giving information without people's permission.'

'No? I didn't ask you for any information, I asked for your opinion. What's she like?'

'Well . . . young.'

'How young?'

'No spring chicken but I bet she's more than twenty years younger than him. I'd give her thirty-five or thirty-six, and flashy with it, you know what I mean?'

'No.'

'Well, he's careful not to let her out of his sight much and I don't blame him.'

'No? But he has let her out of his sight. She's at the seaside and he's here, even though he told you to say he wasn't and not to let anybody up. If I were you I wouldn't get on the wrong side of the law for him.'

'What's he done?'

'Who said he'd done anything?'

'No need to, is there, if you're here?' He hadn't said a word against Fantechi but the Marshal, observing his sharp face and steady eye, reckoned he had every one of the residents summed up and didn't much care for this one.

'You're married, you said?'

'Who, me?'

'Yes, you. You said your wife wasn't here.'

'What's that got to do with Fantechi? All right, I'm married. Satisfied?'

'Where's your wife? Does she go out to work?'

'She works here. There's the stairs to clean, for a start. That's not a man's job.'

'Plenty of porters do it.

'Not me.' A man's job was evidently sitting for hours behind the lodge window, reading the paper, listening to the radio, and keeping a sharp eye on the comings and goings in the building.

'I imagine she works for some of the residents, then, as well.'

'Two.'

'Including Fantechi?'

'Yes, if you want to know. Listen, what's he done? You're not saying but I'm nobody's fool and I've heard things, too. Nobody pulls the wool over my eyes.'

'What sort of things?'

'Eh?'

'What have you heard?'

'I'm not one to poke my nose into other people's business when there's no call, but if you really want to know I've heard he's been inside. His story was he'd been abroad on business, but the way I heard it he was away doing his little bit of time after a fraudulent bankruptcy. Once his first wife died—and she was a real lady, not like—Good evening, madam.'

The Marshal turned to see a smallish, elderly woman, thickly plastered with make-up, very expensively dressed, pulling a miniature dog on a leash. Her response to the porter's greeting was a very faint inclination of the head. Even so, he got up hurriedly and went across to push the lift button for her. She stood waiting without acknowledging this little service. When he came back he looked rather shamefaced and shrugged his shoulders. 'Top floor right, that one. Well, what should I care? She gives me a fat tip every month. It's all show. Comes from some old aristocratic family but most of the money's gone. Even so, you can take it from me, it's not money they can't do without, it's being kowtowed to. They can't stand being ignored or treated like ordinary human beings. I'm pretty sure she can't really afford the tip she gives me but she'd be willing to go without food if she had to so long as she's treated better than the rest of them in the building. You can imagine what she thinks of Fantechi's tarty wife, looks straight through her.'

'You don't think much of any of them, do you?'

'Why should I? If you knew what my wife has to put up with. Dressing up in a fancy apron and cap to serve tea and cheap biscuits to the silly old bag's friends every Thursday afternoon, not to mention putting up with the Fantechi woman who puts on all the airs and graces of a countess though she's nobody and like as not no better than she should be either. That sort can always get somebody to foot the bill as long as they have their looks, but she'd better watch out for herself when she loses them. Who'll put up with her then?' That was surely a remark from his wife's repertoire. 'As it is, they fight like cat and dog. The night before they left for the seaside they were at it. He'd been out on some jaunt with his business friends and they all came back here after midnight and carried the party on. When my wife went up in the morning there were plates and glasses strewn all over the shop and her ladyship was screaming the place down. He was doing his best to keep his end up.

'"What do we have a cleaner for? Let her see to it!"

'"It's not my maid'sjob to clear up after your disgusting friends!"

'"My maid"! And who paid for her maid, as she calls the wife? Not to mention the four fur coats and the fancy new villa at the seaside. The minute she didn't get what she wanted she'd threaten to leave him, and, between you and me, he'd be better off—Here he is. That's him.' The porter leaned forward a little as if to call out, but the Marshal put a heavy hand on his shoulder and quietened him.

Fantechi crossed the entrance hall without raising his eyes. He was wearing a white silk suit but it was as crumpled as if he'd slept in it. His grey hair was brushed but he hadn't shaved that day and his eyes were dazed. He pushed the button for the lift and stood with his back to the lodge waiting for it, his shoulders tense, his hands clenching and unclenching.

The Marshal and Di Nuccio emerged.

'Signor Fantechi?'

The Marshal had been sure he would make for the exit where he surely had a car parked, so that when Fantechi flung himself towards the staircase without even a glance at them, both he and Di Nuccio were surprised enough to allow him a head start. They recovered and ran after him, their footsteps almost soundless on the thick staircarpet. Di Nuccio went ahead of the Marshal, who was soon panting but not unduly worried. The man was unlikely to be armed and where could he go to earth except in his own flat, even if Di Nuccio didn't reach him first. Di Nuccio didn't reach him. Apart from the start he'd had, Fantechi had fear to help him. When the Marshal reached the third floor left Di Nuccio had his finger on the bell and was holding it there.

A dog began to bark and then to howl. A very large dog by the sound of it. They heard it crash against the inside of the door. The bell seemed as loud as a fire alarm but that and the howling of the dog brought no one out on the landing or stairs to see what was amiss. Apart from the old lady on the top floor, the building must have been empty. They were all on holiday. Di Nuccio stopped ringing and began hammering. They heard a window or a glass door slam and break inside the flat and the dog went pounding away still bellowing. The lift doors opened and the porter appeared.

'Open this door,' the Marshal told him.

'I shouldn't—'

'You've got the keys. Open it.' It looked a good deal too solid for the Marshal to want to try breaking it down.

'It's your responsibility . . .' But he produced his bunch of keys and let them in.

The dog came bounding out of the darkness in the shuttered flat and leapt at the Marshal's shoulders, almost bowling him over.

'Giulio! Down, boy! Giulio! Don't worry, he knows me.' The porter grabbed the great beast by the collar. 'Calm down, boy, calm down. It's all right, I've been feeding him and taking him out while they're away, so . . . quiet, Giulio! Good dog.'

But the other two had left him, striding forward to where one shaft of light sliced the darkness. It came from a bedroom on the left of a broad corridor. A french window was open. Broken glass lay on the floor around it and a muslin curtain was moving very slightly in the air.

They walked out on to the balcony overlooking a courtyard with a palm tree growing in the centre of it. Fantechi lay face down on the flags below with one arm trapped beneath his body and the other flung out as though to ward people away from his crushed head. But no one came near the body and the pool of blood around the head spread undisturbed in the evening light.

'I'll call an ambulance,' Di Nuccio said.

The Marshal didn't move. After a moment a faint click distracted him and he looked upwards to see the white powdered face of the old lady looking down from the highest window on the right. She was clutching the little dog close to her and when she saw what was below she retreated quickly and closed her shutters. The Marshal went on staring out. The porter appeared below near the body and, after bending over it, looked up and made a negative sign to indicate there was nothing to be done, but the Marshal didn't respond. He was staring down but without really seeing the body on the flags. He saw Clementina, not lying dead but dancing round and round in the square, her face red with food and wine, happy on the last night of her unhappy life. He saw Bruno, at times, too, bouncing to attention with a click of his well-polished heels.

'For God's sake, Bruno, don't do that behind my back! You'll give
me a heart attack!'

'Sorry, sir.'

'And don't call me sir!'

Then another image came into his head, of someone he'd never seen at all. A woman lying, not face down like the man down there but on her back, her smoothly oiled and tanned body catching the last rays of the sun before it sank beyond the sea's horizon.

'Ah, Marshal! Good morning!'

'Look who's here!'

'Lovely day, isn't it?'

'Nice to see you again, Marshal. What will you have?'

The Marshal faced Franco across the bar. He hadn't expected such a welcome. Even people he'd never seen before were smiling in his direction over their breakfasts. Perhaps the grateful coolness of the misty September morning had something to do with the general cheerfulness. The city had begun to bustle again as if set going by clockwork, and the passing traffic added its noise and smells to those of the teeming bar. The butcher came in, fat and smiling in his white apron, having left his wife in charge while he grabbed a quick coffee, and he, too, greeted the Marshal and laid a big red hand on his shoulder.

'I hope your wife's not going to desert us completely now her own shops are open again.'

'I don't think she will. She enjoyed coming here. It's just that lately she's been spending all her spare time at the hospital.'

'With that youngster? Did he never come round?'

'Not yet.' And today his parents would arrive. As soon as the doctors had decided it might help if someone were there talking to him, in spite of his lack of response, the Marshal's wife had spent hours by his bedside. He knew she was glad to do it and felt better for no longer being at a loose end without her own boys. It's an ill wind . . .

'You must tell her,' the butcher said, 'that we'll always be glad to see her. I like a customer who understands what she's buying. Will you have a coffee with me?'

'Whatever the Marshal has is on me,' interrupted Franco, smiling and nodding his large head. 'Nobody's paying for his coffee—what about a drop of something in it?'

'No, no,' the Marshal said, 'just a coffee.'

When it came it tasted better than any coffee had for months.

The sky seemed higher and the filtered light was alive and shimmering. He could breathe better and the traffic, which everyone complained about all year round, was as cheerful as a brass band in the sunshine. Bruno must get better; it couldn't be otherwise.

'Something to chew?' suggested Franco, who was busy making toast.

'No, no. I'm fine as I am.'

His idea in calling here had been to give Franco a gentle hint about his after-hours activities being known about, but now he was here he didn't feel like striking a sour note that would spoil the atmosphere. He could always call some other time. Whether his wife would still come and shop down here he couldn't say, but he himself would surely drop in for a coffee at Franco's whenever he found himself in the neighbourhood. He liked these people, Franco and his big placid wife especially.

'Just fancy,' Franco was saying, 'you finding out about Clementina losing her husband and child in the flood and all these years she never said a word.'

The Marshal became aware of being surrounded by curious and expectant faces and realized what was expected of him in return for his coffee. He told them as much as he could, enough to make them feel they were in the know without touching on matters that were
subjudice.

'It was quite something,' he finished up, 'learning what the flood really meant. I was still down in Sicily then—of course we saw it on the news but it didn't mean so much from a distance.'

'Just as well for you you weren't here,' the butcher said, laughing, 'though you'd have been all right where you are. The Pitti Palace was never under water because of having that slope up to it.'