'I suppose ... I remember holding my breath a bit because of the smell.'
'And you're not absolutely sure at what point you turned the gas off.'
'I did turn it off, though . . .' But he still hesitated, frowning.
The Marshal got off the edge of the table and went to look at the cooker.
'You see? It's off'
'I see.'
He looked behind it and then pulled back the flowered curtain next to it. Behind it there were three shelves with a few plates and cups, a mug with some cutlery in it and, as he had expected, a blue gas canister underneath. Few of the houses in the old Quarter were connected to the town gas supply. The Marshal took the canister by the handles and rattled it.
'Empty.'
'But there must have been enough in it to kill her, poor soul,' pointed out Pippo. 'Why should she do a thing like that? Of course she hadn't a bean . . .'
'I need to make a phone call.'
'There's no phone here.'
'I didn't think there would be. What about the flat below?'
'They've probably got one.'
The Marshal made for the door.
'What about me?'
'Stay where you are. Don't touch anything.' Though what use it was saying that at this stage, thought the Marshal as he plodded down the steep stairs.
The door of the flat below was shut tight which surprised him a little. Not the nosey sort. He pushed the bell. The flat must have been as small as the one above it since he could hear voices and cutlery going quite clearly, noises which stopped when he rang. Even so, it was some time before the door was opened by the plump-cheeked young woman he'd seen before.
'Yes?'
'I'm sorry to disturb you but I need to telephone urgently. If you wouldn't mind . . .'
By the look on her face she did mind but she opened the door and let him in.
'Good evening.' The Marshal turned his hat in his hands and excused himself again to the young man sitting at the table in the kitchen to his left. There had been no hurried clearing of plates, which made the Marshal wonder why they had been so long answering the door.
'He needs to telephone.'
'That's all right.' The young man got up, smiling.
'Don't interrupt your meal.'
'I'll just show you where the phone is. Don't want you to get lost in these great halls.' He passed in front of the Marshal and switched on the light in another room. It was a cheerful living-room, filled with books and with brightly coloured rugs scattered on the floor. 'Help yourself. I'll leave you in peace.'
The Marshal made just one call, to Headquarters in Borgo Ognissanti. His commanding officer, he knew, was away on holiday in the mountains and he was put through to a young lieutenant he didn't know. Giving the facts as briefly as he could, he finished: 'I'll stay on here until somebody from the Public Prosecutor's office arrives.'
'Good. Well, if you feel you can cope with everything . . . You can't imagine how difficult things are here with just a skeleton staff.'
'Of course. Don't worry, I can cope.'
When he had hung up he glanced around the room and then switched off the lamp and opened the door. As he did so he heard the man say quietly, 'Don't worry.'
They were sitting at the table but not eating. The Marshal told them not to get up.
'I'll see myself out—but I'm afraid I might have to disturb you again later, or perhaps tomorrow morning. Routine inquiries, you understand.'
'Of course—if you could make it tomorrow I'd be grateful. We'd planned to go out tonight.' His wife watched him as he spoke and then looked at the Marshal for his answer.
'Tomorrow, then.' It was amazing. They hadn't asked him a single question or even so much as mentioned their dead neighbour's name. It was true that he hadn't mentioned it himself. For reasons of his own he didn't want the truth getting about just yet. He closed the door softly as he went out. They looked a nice couple, intelligent too, but odd not to be at all curious.
He dismissed them from his mind when he heard voices coming from above and, since he had left Pippo alone, that meant new arrivals. This could hardly be an instant result of his phone call. He was annoyed and quickened his step, arriving on the landing above breathless, his hat clutched to his chest. The door was open and the tiny flat seemed to be full of chatter and cigarette smoke.
'For God's sake . . .' He hadn't been gone five minutes!
Pippo was talking animatedly to a stocky young man in dark blue. An elderly woman was sitting on an upright chair in the bedroom, apparently waiting for something.
'What's going on here?'
Pippo interrupted himself and the younger man turned, cigarette in mouth, grinning lopsidedly.
'Galli!' The Marshal recognized the journalist from the Nazione. 'How the devil. . .'
'I have my methods.' Galli held out his hand and the Marshal was obliged to shake it. Not that he didn't like the man, he'd always found him honest in his job and you couldn't say that for so many journalists. But he had an infuriating way of turning up too soon. Too soon for the Marshal, at any rate. And there was that story of the time he not only turned up at the scene of a crime before the police got there but found a witness, which the police had failed to do, and instead of informing them he published the man's statement in the paper, pointing out that the police hadn't. . . Oh well. There he was.
'I'll go if I'm in the way,' Galli offered.
'You mean you've already got what you want.' He hadn't, though, not from talking to Pippo, the Marshal consoled himself. Unless he'd taken a good look at the body. He was no fool.
'You won't get more than four lines out of a story like this,' he hazarded, without actually lying.
'Are you kidding? In the middle of August? If my gran's cat committed suicide I'd give it half a page and a photo!'
The Marshal was relieved. Even so, he said: 'I'd rather you went before the Substitute Prosecutor arrives.'
'Right you are. If it turns out she had a bag of diamonds on top of the wardrobe or anything, or was the rejected daughter of some foreign prince, let me know.'
'Hm.'
'Or even if the old girl had been crossed in love we'd do a special edition. God, it's hot. It's foul working in August.'
'Go on holiday, then.'
'And leave you in peace, you mean? Not me. I can see myself, squashed into a square inch of beach with the riff-raff. I went to London last month. It was so damn cold I wore an overcoat the whole time.'
He was certainly suffering from the heat. His face had a greyish pallor and there were dark circles under his eyes. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.
'I'll be off, then. If I can be of any help to you, just shout.'
It was impossible to stay angry with the man even when he was as cheeky as this. And it was no more than the truth since he often had been of help.
'I'll bear it in mind.'
'So long, then!'
The Marshal glowered at Pippo who flushed.
'Have I said something I shouldn't?'
'How should I know? I don't know what you told him.'
'Nothing I hadn't told you. I never thought. . . You didn't tell me not to let anybody in.'
Which was true. The Marshal gave it up and looked towards the bedroom where the elderly woman was still sitting perfectly still, staring straight ahead of her as if in a dentist's waiting-room.
'And who's this?'
'Franco sent her up.'
'Oh yes? And did Franco send Galli up, too?'
'Who?'
'That journalist.'
'I don't think so, no. He just turned up. Said he was on his way to supper with friends and saw the crowd outside.'
'I see.'
'If you don't want her, you can send her away.'
At this point the Marshal, too, fished out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. Perhaps he'd do better to go home and leave Franco to deal with the whole business. The woman continued to stare straight ahead. What on earth did she want
? He went in to her.
'Well? Did you want to speak to me?'
The old woman looked at him as if he weren't quite right in the head.
'Just tell me whether you want me to stay or go,' she said.
Since he couldn't find a reply to that, it was just as well that she added after a moment, 'I haven't touched her. Franco said to wait for your permission.'
'I see. You've come to lay her out, is that it?'
'Of course. As she has nobody I'll stay the night.'
'No, no. She'll be taken away.'
'I understand. Franco said there might be formalities.'
'Formalities, that's right. I'd rather you left, if you don't mind.'
'I said, didn't I? Just tell me whether you want me to stay or go. As you want me to go . . .' She stood up, very tiny and neat.
'Wait. . . Did you know her well?'
'Clementina? Of course. Everybody knew her.'
'But som'e must have known her better than others.'
She thought for a moment and then said, 'No.'
'How do you mean?'
'They didn't. Everybody knew her the same way.'
'Well, would you mind leaving me your name and address, anyway.'
'There's no need. I live next door, and if you want me just tell Franco and he'll give me a shout.' And she was gone.
It was Pippo who let her out. He had lit a cigarette, perhaps absent-mindedly, and now he hovered on the landing, shuffling from one foot to the other and wishing that he, too, could leave.
The Marshal, who had remained in the bedroom, called to him, 'Somebody down there wants you.'
The noise below the window had increased and a number of people were calling Pippo's name. He went to the window, the cigarette dangling from his mouth, and leaned out. The Marshal stood back and watched him without comment. Pippo's white shirt, no doubt his best one put on for the holiday, was stuck to his back with sweat. The sunset had faded but it was no cooler.
'What's up?'
'Your wife said to say she's gone back up. The kids have to eat.'
'All right.'
'What's going on up there?'
Pippo shrugged his shoulders and then leaned out further as a car horn hooted and the crowd began to open up. Somebody shouted, 'Second floor!'
Pippo withdrew his head.
'Somebody's arriving. I can't see who on account of the scaffolding.'
The Marshal went to the door. It sounded like a whole army was pounding up the stairs. The Substitute Prosecutor appeared first, looking up at the Marshal and taking the steps two at a time.
'Good evening, sir—' the Marshal began.
'Where is she?'
'Here, in the kitchen. I don't think there'll be room for you all at once.' For the Prosecutor had his registrar with him and behind them came the lab people and the photographer laden with equipment.
'What's in there?' demanded the Prosecutor.
'The bedroom.'
'Doctor!'
The doctor from the Medico-Legal Institute emerged from the group on the stairs and pushed his way forward.
'In here.'
The Marshal barely had time to remove the ridiculous tea-towel from the corpse before the Prosecutor snapped, 'Who moved her?'
'The man who found her,' the Marshal said, straightening up slowly. Surely the Prosecutor couldn't imagine he'd done it? 'He found her with her head in the gas oven and thought he might be in time to—'
'Gas oven? Doctor . . .'
The doctor had made his way into the kitchen, stepping across the body. Now he bent over it.
'Who's moved her?'
The Marshal mopped his brow and began again, 'The man who found her. It seems—'
'Found her with her head in the gas oven,' interrupted the Prosecutor.
The doctor frowned.
'Well, we'd better talk about it after the autopsy . . .'
The Marshal was more than a little annoyed. He knew as well as they did that those wine-coloured marks on the body showed how it had lain after death and that if she'd really died of carbon monoxide poisoning they'd have been a much lighter red. But they weren't going to discuss it in his presence. They would discuss it privately and then the Prosecutor would give him his orders. It was their way of telling him, in case he didn't know, that he was only an NCO. The Marshal knew from his captain, however, that the worst of them treated officers in the same way. The best of them didn't do it to anybody. This looked like being one of the worst of them, to judge by the way he'd swept in without so much as a good-evening, let alone introducing himself, since the Marshal didn't know him from Adam. Probably annoyed to have his meal interrupted. And then when the case goes badly, thought the Marshal, summing the man up, yours truly will be to blame.
As these thoughts passed through his mind, his face remained impassive and his large bulging eyes stayed fixed on the peeling wall in front of him like those of a bulldog waiting for a command.
At nine-thirty, all the rooms in the tiny flat were lit with weak, unshaded light-bulbs and the Marshal was alone. The Prosecutor, the doctor and all the technicians had gone through the rituals attending sudden death and taken their departure. Pippo, having told his story, rather better the second time round to the Prosecutor, had gone home to his wife and supper and the TV. The body still had to be taken away and seals put on the doors and windows, but in the meantime the Marshal was alone, expressionless, looking.
He looked in the fridge first. It was tidy and clean enough but so old and scratched as to look a bit sleazy, and all the more depressing for having so little in it. A small box of milk in the door, one egg and a paper-thin slice of sausage on a tin plate.
'Sometimes she'll ask him for an egg, just like a child asking for a sweet.'
'And does he give it to her?'
Wrapped in a bit of newspaper . . .'
One of the last things the Prosecutor had said, wondering why anyone should have wanted to kill her, was 'Had she money?'
And the silent Marshal had opened his big eyes wider than ever to suggest the man look around him and see.
'It doesn't necessarily follow.'
It was true, of course, as far as it went. Even Galli, the reporter, had quipped, 'If it turns out she had a bag of diamonds on top of the wardrobe . . .'
The thought sent him wandering into the bedroom. He wasn't searching the place systematically. Perhaps he should have done but he didn't want to. He was content to sniff about the place with no aim in mind. He pulled the one straight chair towards the scratched wardrobe and climbed on it carefully, not at all convinced that it would bear his weight. It creaked a little but it held. There was no bag of diamonds up there and nothing else either, except a thick layer of dust and fluff. The crazy woman's cleaning mania had been as unsystematic as the Marshal's searching. He got down and opened the wardrobe door.
'Who the devil . . .' He couldn't have been more surprised if he'd found someone hiding in there. As it was, his first thought was that someone had removed Clementina's clothing, and who on earth could have done it? Yet there was nothing in there except a few wire coathangers and a plastic-wrapped bundle lying at the bottom. This, when he opened it, contained two old woollen dresses that reeked of mothballs. He replaced the bundle and straightened up to look about him. There was a small chest of drawers against the opposite wall and he went over to it, opening the three drawers one after the other and making a mental inventory. It didn't take long. A few pieces of much worn underwear, a heavy cardigan, darned on both elbows and a lighter one in rather better condition, two pairs of thick stockings and another old woollen dress, this one, too, wrapped in polythene and filled with mothballs. That was all. Hadn't she even a coat? And what about shoes? The shoes, at least, he found under the bed. She'd been wearing nothing on her feet when she died and he found her slippers under the bed, too. She'd probably been asleep when it happened then, and that housedress with no buttons was her nightdress which would account for her appearing at the window
in it at siesta-time that day last week. Still, she must have had a summer dress. Hadn't his wife said so, and that she wore it every day? So where was it? There was only one place it could be, and yet the scaffolding . . . He went to the window and looked out. It was there all right, tied on to the scaffolding itself, washed and dried, hanging there in the lamplight. The scaffolding had prevented her from using the washing-line on a pulley below her window, and from seeing out properly too. Had she been the one to pull away the netting that should have covered all of it? Perhaps not, since the planks hadn't been laid at that level, only lower down. A funny way of doing a job to half finish it and leave it there all August.
He leaned out and retrieved the dress. The lights were on in the flats of the house opposite and he could hear a television from an open window. He heard a voice calling up from the street below in the hot, lamplit night.
'Martha!'
'What is it?'
'I'm going to Franco's if you want some cigarettes.'
'Get me two packets, then, will you?'
'How is she?'
'No different. I can't leave her. If only it weren't for this heat. . .'
The Marshal withdrew and closed the window. He looked at the flowered frock. All she had. And one egg and a slice of sausage in the fridge. If the evidence weren't against it, it would be easy enough to believe she'd committed suicide, though there were people in even worse condition, ill and in terrible pain, ill-nourished, lonely, and still they hung on to life at all costs. Besides which, there was no forgetting the day of his black eye, and Clementina as he had seen her outside the bar afterwards, noisy and bumptious, threatening all comers with her sweeping brush. Crazy she may have been, but she was full of life even if she did only have one frock that she washed and hung out every night. What the devil did she live on, anyway ... a pension most likely. He returned to the kitchen, stood in the middle of it, looking about him and then looked behind the bit of curtain again. At the back of one of the shelves, in such a gloomy corner that he hadn't seen it before, was a biscuit tin. He sat down at the table and opened it. He found a thousand-lire note and a few coins. There was no pension book and no rent book either, but at least there was her identity card.
Anna Clementina Franci, born 14 May 1934 in Florence. Citizenship: Italian. Residence: Florence. Civil Status: widow Chiari .Profession: none.
The Marshal and the Madwoman Page 4
