'I'll get you a glass.'
'No. I don't want anything. What were you talking about? Clementina, I suppose.'
'About the way she cleaned the square,' Franco said, 'even at night.'
'She was a strange one all right.'
'Did she always have this mania?' the Marshal asked.
'As long as she's been here and that must be ten years— isn't it, Franco? You never know, maybe she got that way when she lost her husband. It takes some women funny.'
'When did she lose her husband?'
'I couldn't tell you. I'm only guessing she was a widow because she wore a wedding ring. It's funny, now you mention it, but although she always had plenty to say for herself in her own way, she never said a word about her past.' Pina took a long drag on her cigarette which was stained with bright red lipstick. 'You can see somebody every day and in the end you don't know that much about them. I do know she had a bit of a job up to not so long ago, though goodness knows who was good enough to give it to her.'
'What sort of job?'
'Cleaning, of course!' Pina laughed. 'I know it sounds like the ideal job for her, poor creature, but she had her own ideas about cleaning and they weren't everybody's. I wouldn't have wanted her cleaning my house, I can tell you.'
It was true that when the Marshal had been in Clementina's flat he had found it tidy enough but certainly not fresh and sparkling. He'd put it down to everything in it being so old but perhaps it hadn't been too clean, at all. There was all that fluff on top of the wardrobe . . .
'Somebody doing her a good turn,' Pina suggested, 'though I don't know who. She hadn't a soul in the world to care for her.'
'Where was this job?'
'Some sort of office, wasn't it, Franco?'
'That's right. Not far from here, near the river. I don't know the name of the place.'
'I ought to know,' Pina said, 'she mentioned it many a time when she was going there . . . What the devil was the name of it?'
The Marshal didn't urge her or insist on its importance because he knew that would make it harder to remember. He couldn't even be sure that it was important but he still felt that the murder had been an 'outside job', nothing to do with the people here in the square, and anything which connected Clementina with someone outside the area might be useful.
After racking her brains a while longer, Pina stubbed out her cigarette and heaved herself up from the small chair.
'I know who'll remember. Maria Pia! Pippo's wife,' she explained to the Marshal. 'You've met Pippo.'
'Yes, I've met Pippo.'
'Well, if anybody remembers it'll be her. She never forgets a name or a face. I'll give her a shout.'
'Now?'
'She won't be in bed. She never goes to bed before midnight.'
And Pina waddled slowly to the open doorway. The Marshal saw her pause there on the pavement. One of the men at the tables must have said something to her in an undertone. Whoever it was couldn't be seen from inside. Pina shrugged and murmured something of which the Marshal only caught the word 'Franco'. He looked across at the barman, who smiled and said, 'She won't be long. Do you mind if I leave you a minute and wash a few glasses? We can still talk.'
'Of course.'
They heard Pina outside calling up in the darkness.
'Maria Pia! Maria Pia!'
Shutters creaked and banged open.
'What's up?'
'Can you remember what the place was called where Clementina worked? That office?'
'Why?'
'The Marshal's here and he wants to know.'
'But she stopped going there a while ago.'
'It doesn't matter, he still wants to know.'
'Wait . . . it's on the tip of my tongue . . .'
Why did Franco, behind the bar, remind the Marshal of some sort of mechanical toy? He was so big and his bald head was so shiny . . . and now he wrapped a huge apron round his paunch—but it wasn't his shape that did it. . . That was it. It was because whether he was talking or silent, working or doing nothing at all, his large head bobbed slightly as if it were on a spring. It was that, along with his constant gentle smile, which made him look like a giant toy.
'There! I knew she'd be the one to ask.' Pina waddled back in, triumphant, and smiled at the Marshal. 'It's called "Italmoda". Something to do with the clothes trade but I don't know exactly what.'
'Did she work there long?'
'As long as I can remember. She always worked there, didn't she, Franco?'
'Ever since she moved here. Only three mornings a week, though.' Franco lifted a steaming wire basket of glasses out of the sink.
'Make me a camomile tea, love, while you're there. And then we might as well close, what d'you think?'
Franco only nodded and smiled. He dropped a camomile teabag into a white cup and held it under the boiling water spout.
'Don't close early on account of my being here,' said the Marshal placidly. How could he make them understand that he didn't want to disturb their normal habits without admitting that he had guessed what they amounted to? On the contrary, it was essential that things went on as usual, but there was no way he could openly say so. All he risked saying was, 'I'm not here to keep an eye on you, you know . . .'
If they started closing early, he would lose his best watchdogs. The best thing he could do might be to gain their confidence by taking them into his. He was pretty sure he could trust them not to gossip, and in any case, Franco had already said he knew it wasn't suicide. Their amiable solidity and their position of trust in the neighbourhood convinced him. Even afterwards, when the story got out with tragic consequences, it never crossed his mind to blame them. He remained convinced that he had done right in saying as he did: 'There's something I'd like to say to you in confidence, to both of you.'
He waited as Franco dried his hands and came back to the table with the teacup for his wife.
'Sit down a minute.' He glanced around him, but the television was flickering in front of empty chairs and no one was playing the computer game that was beeping somewhere out of sight. Everyone was outside, hoping for a whisper of cooler air that never came.
'Whose deal is it?'—'Mine. One more hand and I'm off to bed . . .'
The Marshal leaned forward a little towards the couple facing him across the round table but his gaze was averted, fixing the doorway to be sure no one appeared there to listen in.
'Clementina didn't commit suicide. I'm sure of that.'
'There! It's what you said, Franco.'
'The Marshal knows I know. I told him.'
'I must say, though,' pointed out the Marshal, 'that I can't begin to imagine how you found out. You didn't even look at her.'
'There was no need to. As soon as Pippo said he'd found her with her head in the oven I knew. There wasn't enough gas in that canister to kill a sparrow. I checked it myself yesterday. She was forever running out of gas. They're not that keen on delivering just one and she sometimes hadn't the cash for two. She was pestering me yesterday when we were up to our eyes in work getting ready for the party. She thought I might have a spare canister but I didn't, and with the two-day holiday coming up she thought she was going to be without. I managed to find time to go up and check and I told her she'd enough to make her coffee and that she'd be eating here that evening and I'd see she got some leftovers or something tonight. They'll be open tomorrow so I was sure she'd manage. No great mystery, you see. Even she wasn't crazy enough to try and gas herself without gas.'
'No. Well, there it is. The fact that she was left with her head in the oven like that can only mean that somebody wanted us to think it was suicide.'
'Oh, Franco, just imagine.'
'How did they do for her, then.'
'I don't know. There'll be an autopsy. Now. . .' He turned his gaze on to them, one by one, 'You were right in thinking it had better not get about. I've told you two, not just because you already suspected something but because I think you can help, and I don't want anybody else ro
und here to find out.'
'You surely don't think that anybody round here—'
'No,' the Marshal reassured Franco, 'I don't think anything of the sort. But if people get to know, the papers will get to know and so on. I prefer to let whoever did it think he's pulled the wool over our eyes. It's the only advantage we have over him at this point.'
Franco mulled this over for a few minutes, his shiny head bobbing gently as he thought. Pina watched him, sipping her tea daintily.
'If it's nobody round here,' Franco pointed out, 'I don't see what help we can be to you—not that we're not willing, you follow me, it's just—'
'Don't worry, I'm not expecting you to do anything. Just keep your eyes open. If I start asking questions around here the story will soon be out, but you can chat to your customers, it will be natural enough for everyone to talk about Clementina after what's happened. You might pick something up, anything odd that involved her in the last few weeks, for example.'
'Everything about Clementina was odd,' put in Pina.
'But perhaps some stranger visited her recently.'
'Nobody as far as I know.' Franco's brow was corrugated.
'When did she stop working, do you know that?'
'I can tell you that,' Pina said, 'because it was my birthday. July 15th it was. I offered her a glass of something on the strength of it—she liked a glass when she could get it, and she said "Here's to that bastard and good riddance" and I said "What's this? Have you packed in your job?" To tell the truth, I thought it more likely that she'd got the sack, probably cracked the boss with her sweeping brush, but I didn't say so. Anyhow, all she said was, "I know my rights and what he says isn't true! I won't go!" So what the truth of it was I don't know.'
'I'll find out.'
'I suppose you will, but I don't imagine anyone would— you know—do that . . . because they were having trouble sacking her from a cleaning job. Well, you know more about these things than I do.'
'But you'll be better at keeping a watch on things round here. I'm sure you realize as well as I do that it wouldn't be worth my while putting even a plainclothes man on the job here where everybody knows everybody.'
'He'd stick out like a sore thumb,' Franco agreed. 'I see what you mean and you're right, of course. They did once send a plainclothes man round here for something or other, and everyone knew right away.' He glanced at his wife and then back at the Marshal. 'You don't think the chap would come back?'
'We're not safe in our beds, then!' cried Pina.
'I'm sure you are,' the Marshal assured her. 'Don't worry.'
'It gives me the creeps, I don't mind telling you,' Pina said. 'After all, Clementina wasn't safe in her bed—d'you think she was asleep when it happened?'
'Quite probably.'
'I'll bet she was,' Franco said, 'because if she'd had the chance to get one scream out she'd have woken the whole of Florence with that voice of hers.'
'You know,' said Pina thoughtfully, 'it's a shock. I mean, nobody expects somebody they know to get murdered, but I think I'd have been more surprised to hear she'd done away with herself. Whatever her faults, she wasn't one to feel sorry for herself. She might crack you one with her brush, she might swear like a trooper and even criticize the food you gave her as if she were in a restaurant, but she never asked for pity or felt sorry for herself. From the minute she got out of bed in a morning to the minute we could persuade her to go home and get back into it, she was out there and doing; cleaning, quarrelling, playing cards, swearing, giving as good as she got. . . She'd never have committed suicide in a million years, no matter what troubles she had. Am I right, Franco?'
'I think you are. And to my way of thinking it's just as well she was crazy. Given how poor she was and that miserable flat and not a soul in the world, she'd have had a miserable life if she'd been normal and kept herself to herself. It's just as well she was the way she was.'
'You may well be right,' the Marshal said. 'Anyway, let your customers have their say, and if it turns out anybody noticed anything unusual or saw any stranger about lately, let me know.'
'You'll be back, then?' Franco asked.
'At some point. I'll phone you in a day or two if I don't get a chance to come round. And now I'll be on my way and leave you in peace.' He got to his feet.
'You can rely on us,' Franco promised.
Only about half the tables outside were still occupied.
At one of them, Pippo's white shirt glowed yellow in the lamplight.
He interrupted his deal to say, with a touch of self-importance, 'Good night, Marshal. Will we be seeing you again? I imagine there'll be an inquest.'
The Marshal only gave a noncommittal grunt and then added, 'Good night to you all.'
CHAPTER 4
The drawer was stiff and he had to give it quite a yank before it opened.
'Salva! Is that you?'
'Mm.'
'I thought I heard you come in. What on earth are you up to out there?' She was already in bed and he hadn't meant to wake her but he couldn't resist taking a look in the drawer in the hall.
'I'll be with you in a minute,' he called.
There ... a box of buttons, another box with just his uniform buttons . . . the first aid kit that wouldn't fit in the bathroom cabinet, a sewing kit, the pliers . . . the pliers? He'd spent an hour looking for them the other day . . . Before long he unearthed what he was looking for, a shoe box full of old snapshots. They were the snaps that hadn't been considered worthy of the photograph album. Some were out of focus, some had been taken into the sun and some were even superimposed, showing two-headed monsters or background ghosts. He found one of the boys on the beach down at home and was amazed to see how small and plump and babyish they looked. He couldn't remember them being like that. Of course he'd seen very little of them at that age because of being posted here. He looked at the date scribbled on the back and dropped it back in the box. The photos right at the bottom were old and faded and had belonged to his mother. He had no idea how they came to be there, but there they were. Some things seemed to follow you about wherever you went without anyone thinking to take care of them, while other, more important things got lost when you moved. He was sure it was the same in every family. And yet in Clementina's flat he hadn't seen a single photograph. She'd been married but there wasn't a wedding picture. And even if she'd had no children, she'd been a child herself. She had a past, a family like everybody else. How was it possible that there wasn't so much as a single snapshot in her home? He closed the shoe box carefully and the drawer with difficulty.
'Salva! What on earth . . .?'
'I'm coming.'
She was sitting up in bed with the bedside light on. The air was heavily perfumed with mosquito-killer and a fan was whirring in one corner, though it seemed to be doing little except redistribute the hot air.
'Did I wake you?' He began unbuttoning his shirt.
'I wasn't asleep or you would have done, banging about. Whatever were you doing?'
'Looking at old photographs.'
'Ours? What for? Which photographs?'
'The snaps in that box in the drawer.'
'At this time of night? They're none of them any good, anyway. They want throwing out.'
'But they never do get thrown out, that's the point.'
'I don't know what you mean. I'll go through them one of these days, but they do keep on accumulating, year after year.'
'Exactly.'
'I wish I knew what you were talking about.'
'About Clementina, I suppose.'
'That madwoman?'
'That's right. She's dead.'
'No!'
'Yes. And there wasn't a single photograph in her flat, not one snapshot.'
'But—is that why you were called out?'
'Yes. I think I'll get a glass of water, do you want anything?'
'No, but have you eaten?'
He'd forgotten about that. 'No ... I might have a sandwich.'
'I'll make i
t for you.'
'No, no. Stay where you are.'
Sitting alone in pyjamas at the kitchen table with a sandwich in front of him gave him an odd feeling which he didn't identify at once because he was distracted. He was trying to think whether he'd ever in his life been in a house without a photograph or two in it, but he couldn't. He'd known peasant families down at home when he was small who hadn't enough to eat and certainly never owned a camera, but even they had pictures of First Communions and weddings. Clementina might have been crazy, but in his book that didn't account for it. The trouble was that once a person was labelled as crazy, everything they did or said was put down to that. How many times had it been said up to now? 'Of course, she was crazy.' 'Everything about her was odd.' 'You have to remember she wasn't in her right mind.' Well, he wasn't convinced. He wasn't convinced because somebody had killed her. You don't kill a woman because she's a bit funny in the head and goes cleaning the streets after dark. You kill her for a good reason which probably had nothing to do with her being mad.
The clock on the shelf ticked softly against the sawing rhythm of the cicadas in the Boboli Gardens behind the Palace, and it struck him, at last, that sitting here alone with his sandwich reminded him of his grass widower days. It wasn't an unpleasant memory since it made him feel all the more satisfied with the present. It would be even better when the boys came back. How babyish and fat they'd looked in that photograph . . . He got up and rinsed his plate. He was wakeful, despite the late hour, and he wanted to chat to Teresa for a minute if she wasn't already asleep. He switched off the kitchen light and was pleased to find the lamp still on in the bedroom, though his wife's eyes were closed. He switched the fan off.
'Are you asleep?'
'Almost. . . What time is it?'
'Late, but you can always sleep in tomorrow.'
'I never sleep in. You know very well that once I'm awake . . .'
The Marshal and the Madwoman Page 6
