I'm all right now you're here, or if there's a bird . . . I've been all right this morning, I've . . .' He loosened one arm, keeping the other tight to himself. 'I've sat here by myself and felt lonely in my chest but I've sat still, sat still, and kept it in my chest because when it goes up in my head . . .'
He clutched at his huge forehead with his free hand, then looked up, quicker than the Marshal to catch the sound of footsteps.
'Signor Mannucci's coming back.' He regarded the archivist with earnest eyes. 'I've been all right this morning.'
'So the nurse said. She's been looking at you from the window and she noticed how quiet you've been.'
'Is she going to come out and sit with me?'
'She can't do that, Angelo. You know she has a lot of people to look after. Don't you feel up to going in for a while?'
'I can't. The smell . . . the noise is so terrible, terrible. I need to be quiet.'
'All right, old chap. You sit here and be quiet. We'll leave you now—if you've finished, Marshal?'
The Marshal got to his feet. He'd already learned more than he'd hoped for and he was afraid of exciting the unfortunate Angelo.
'We have to go now.'
'But we were having a talk about Clementina. I'll remember her sister's name, I'll remember. Wait . . . just let me think, I have to think. Wait. . .' He flung his head down on his knees and put his fists to his temples, suddenly silent, rocking slightly.
Mannucci touched the Marshal's shoulder. 'We might as well go now,' he said quietly, 'he stays like that for two or three hours at a time.'
The Marshal allowed himself to be led away. When they were far along the drive he turned to look back. Angelo was hunched over on the bench, exactly as they had left him.
'I'm afraid you're upset, Marshal,' Mannucci said with a note of curiosity in his voice. 'I suppose anyone who's not accustomed . . .'
'No, no,' said the Marshal, realizing with some embarrassment that Mannucci was staring at his watering eyes. He pulled out his handkerchief. 'I'm allergic to strong sunlight. Left my sunglasses in the car, I think.'
But he was convinced that Mannucci didn't altogether believe him.
'Poor Angelo. He was much better when there were milder cases and short-term patients here. He had more company. There was one old man who used to sit with him for hours. That's all he needs. When the fear gets too much for him he becomes violent. All day and every day he battles with his fear and if he reaches bedtime and his sleeping pill without having had a crisis, he's happy. When the nuns were here they saw to it that he was never left alone, but now we haven't the staff and such patients who are left frighten him. Ah, Marshal... I badger the newspapers and the Council as much as I can but there's no news and no votes in an Angelo. Was he any help to you?'
'I think so, yes. He thinks Clementina lost not only her husband but a child, and that she never breathed a word about it herself. He also said she had a sister. Could it be that her sister collected her pension for her and brought it or sent it here?'
'It's more than likely. That's the case with most long-term patients. I only wish there was somebody here from Clementina's day who could be more helpful. I'm afraid Angelo and I are the only survivors.'
When they reached the Marshal's car, the first thing the Marshal did was to unlock it and reach inside for his sunglasses which he put on rather ostentatiously. Only then did he say: 'Thanks very much for all your help.'
'I'm only sorry it was so little. I just wish I'd called you straight away when that character turned up here. It's a long time, I must say, since we've had to get the law in.'
'Did it happen often in the past?'
'Now and then, when a patient went completely wild. These days they're kept under control with drugs but I remember one chap—weighed over 25 stone—and when he let loose even five or six men couldn't hold him. It often ended with them locking him in wherever he happened to be and sending for the police who'd throw tear gas in through the window. It was the only way, though there was one doctor here at the time who could get him under control just by throwing a wet sheet over him. An old trick, but it worked. Well, I'll let you get about your business. If that chap turns up again . . .'
'I'm afraid he won't,' the Marshal said, getting into his car, 'but if by any chance he should, keep him waiting and telephone me directly. Here's my number.'
'At the Pitti Palace? I didn't know there was a Station there. Right you are. I'll do what I can, but I'm inclined to agree with you. He got what he was after and won't be back.'
The Marshal drove towards the exit. The car seat was burning through his trousers and the steering-wheel was red hot, too. The spacious grounds had been full of trees and he had stupidly parked out in the open. He wound down his window, hoping for a bit of a breeze as he drove along the river bank. In his quarters the shutters would be closed and the rooms fairly cool. His meal would be ready and there would be a misted bottle of white wine in the fridge. With a sigh he drove past the Pitti Palace, leaving it all behind him, and turned right towards Clementina's house. For a moment he wasn't sure whether he had the keys with him but then he found them buttoned into his top pocket. Even so, he changed his mind and rang at the street door. The last thing he wanted was to give the young couple a fright by appearing unannounced on their stairs. It seemed to him that for some reason he hadn't yet fathomed they were frightened already. Of course it would disturb anybody, having a suicide in the building, but he wasn't satisfied with that as the only reason. He rang again and waited, hoping they hadn't slipped away a second time. The window above his head opened and a face peered down through the scaffolding. The street door clicked open.
The Marshal stepped inside and began climbing the stone stairs, hat and sunglasses in hand. It had been the young woman who had looked down at him but it was her husband who let him into the flat. The Marshal was puffing a little from the steep steps and he didn't speak at first, only looked around him. The flat was very tidy and the young people who had struck him as a nice couple the first time he'd seen them looked even nicer. The wife was wearing a freshly ironed apron and had probably been about to serve their meal. The Marshal noticed two small wet stains on the bodice of her cotton dress, one on each side of the apron bib. The husband must have been laying the table and was still holding the cutlery in his hand. When the Marshal didn't speak at once he perhaps took it as ill-humour, for he said quickly:
'I'm afraid that yesterday . . . We hadn't forgotten you said you'd call but we had to go to my mother-in-law's rather urgently.'
'I'm disturbing your meal,' the Marshal said as he got his breath, ignoring this apology, 'but I won't keep you long.'
'That's all right,' the young woman said, 'it can wait.'
They looked uncertainly at each other and then Rossi said, 'Perhaps you'd like to sit down.'
'Thank you. Your stairs are a bit steep.'
'Yes. Of course, we're used to it.'
'How long have you lived here?'
'Just over three years.' It was always Rossi who answered. They were both as tense as springs.
'I suppose you can tell me something about Clementina, then, having had her for a neighbour for three years.'
As soon as he asked the question he felt them relax a little. Rossi even sat down opposite the Marshal, though his wife remained standing. 'She must have been a bit of a nuisance by all accounts, with the noise she made.'
'Clementina? Well, not so much during the day but she was often pretty rowdy at night. We never said anything to her because that would only provoke more noise. She was always ready for a fight when she was in a rowdy mood.' Rossi glanced up at his wife and, getting his message, she sat herself on the arm of his chair and tried to smile.
'What I was wondering,' began the Marshal carefully, 'was whether she had any visitors recently. You see, by all accounts, she was a cheerful sort of character even if she was a bit off her head. It makes me wonder if somebody or something could have upset her or frightened h
er enough to make her kill herself. You see what I'm getting at?'
'Yes . . .' said Rossi, 'I suppose you're right. She was cheerful enough as a rule.'
'There's nobody been round here bothering her recently, that you know of?'
'No.' He said it too quickly and his face was red. So was his wife's. They were poor liars, which made him sympathetic to them since they obviously weren't accustomed to telling lies. And the thought gave him no pleasure, really, because they were believing every word he said and he was lying through his teeth, talking about suicide and pretending not to know about Clementina's visitor. He was a better liar than they were. Occupational hazard, perhaps.
'Think back more carefully,' he insisted, 'you just might recall something that's slipped your mind up to now and I'd be so grateful to you. You see, in the course of my inquiries—not hereabouts, as it happens—' he wasn't going to blow his best spy—'I've come across a man who knows Clementina and says he came round here a few weeks ago. I'd rather not mention his name and we've no proof, of course, that he did or said anything to upset Clementina, but we have to check everything in our business, as I'm sure you understand.'
They both nodded, their eyes fixed on him as though he had them under hypnosis.
'This man,' he went on, 'is a biggish chap, not tall but bulky, and he has a limp . . . and the thing is, he said he saw the signora here . . .' He stared at Signora Rossi with his big, bulging eyes. 'And that made me think that with a bit of luck you might remember having seen him.'
There was a silence. They knew they were trapped, all right, and he was sure it would be she who spoke first because she was much more agitated than her husband.
What happened next was so unexpected that the Marshal got to his feet in alarm and dismay.
Instead of speaking, the young woman burst into tears, putting her head down on her knees and covering it with both hands as great sobs shook her. Both men were standing over her. Rossi placed a hand on her hair and she threw her head up, shouting, 'Tell him! For goodness' sake, tell him! I don't care any more, I'm sick of the whole business. We'll go and live at my mother's, anything! Tell him . . .' She collapsed, sobbing again.
Rossi took her by the shoulders and brought her to her feet. She kept her head down but her hands were now covering her breast.
'Go and see to yourself,' her husband said quietly, 'and try to calm down. Leave it to me.' She shook him off and left the room, still crying.
The two men sat down again.
'Where's the baby?' asked the Marshal.
'At her mother's—we didn't tell her why because her heart's bad and she hasn't to be upset, so . . .'
'Where on earth was the baby last time I came in here? It wasn't here or in the room where I telephoned.'
'I took the carrycot into the bathroom before we let you in.'
'So that's what you were doing to keep me waiting so long.'
'There were other bits of stuff to hide, as well—how did you guess?'
'I didn't, then. But just now, your wife's dress . . . I've got two children myself. . . It's not good for her, you know; she could get a fever if she's been feeding the baby herself up to now. Not good for the baby, either.'
'We didn't know what else to do. It's in the contract that we're not supposed to—'
'I understand. But all this has nothing to do with me. Surely you didn't think I was spying on you?'
'Of course not, but what difference does that make? If we have to give evidence at an inquest—or even if some journalist puts our name in the paper—It's not just the baby. My wife was the one who signed the contract for this flat before we were married and there's meant to be just one person living here. We've been trying to find another place for over eighteen months but every time we go and look at one it turns out they only want foreigners who'll move on quickly so they can keep raising the rent without problems, or else they expect an enormous bribe. The worst flats are those that claim to be rent-controlled. Then they not only expect a bribe but they want double the official rent and give you a receipt for half of it. It's a jungle. If we can't manage to hang on to this flat we'll be on the streets.'
'What about your mother-in-law?'
'She lives in Arezzo. I'm still trying to get my degree at the University of Florence, plus I've got a job. I can't get here from Arezzo every day and there's no work there.'
'What is your job?'
'I work as a draughtsman and I'm studying to be an architect.'
The Marshal sighed. There was nothing he could do.
'Have you been to get advice from the Tenants' Association?'
'We went to them immediately when we got notice to quit.'
'And what did they suggest?'
'They think we'll have a better chance by telling the truth about the baby even though we have broken the contract, because it always takes longer to evict a family than a single person. But it's risky and a lot depends on the personal sympathies of the judge. There's a hearing coming up soon and we still haven't made up our minds what line to take. Then there was that thug who came round here.'
'The man with the limp?'
'Yes.'
'Then it wasn't Clementina he came to see?'
'Oh, he went up there, too. My wife saw him. She's always on the alert because the agency we rent through could always send someone round unexpectedly. They do that sort of thing.'
'She could have refused to let him in, you know.'
'He got in under false pretences. The trouble was that Linda, my wife, was so panic-stricken, thinking it was somebody come about the flat, that when this man claimed he was checking on TV licences she was so relieved she let him in without thinking and went to get the licence from the drawer in the kitchen. When she came back he was looking round the place in a way that disturbed her. She showed him the licence and he just grinned at her. Then he said:
' "Have you got somewhere to go when you're thrown out of here?"
'"Who are you? You haven't come about the licence."
' "Just my little joke. It's a nice place, this, for one person, not for a couple with a baby."
'What could Linda do? If only I'd been here, but I was at work. I suppose he knew that, the bastard!'
'He must have given some explanation of who he was.'
'Oh, he gave a name—Bianchi—false, I imagine. He said he reckoned things would go badly with us if anyone found out about the baby but that he could help us. He said he'd come from the agency to check up on us but that he could always keep his mouth shut. He said he even knew about one or two other flats.'
'How much did he ask for?'
'Three million.'
'Did you pay up?'
'On a draughtsman's salary? We haven't a penny to spare. We thought of my mother-in-law but because of her weak heart we were afraid to tell her the real reason and that would have meant inventing some other excuse, even supposing she could afford to help us. In the end the only thing we could think of was to go back and tell the woman at the Tenants' Association.'
'And what did she say?'
'At first she said it was a pity we had no proof of what had happened, since it would have put the owners in the wrong and could have helped us. Of course there was no proof, there was only our word for it. Then she thought of telephoning the agents on our behalf without saying who she was. Then they might have let something out and she'd be a witness.'
'But they were too clever for her?'
'Not at all. She simply asked for Signor Bianchi, saying she had some money for him and wanted to make an appointment to come to the office with it. She didn't give her name but she managed to mention the address, ours that is, so that they could easily have thought she was Linda. The girl who answered simply said, "There's no Signor Bianchi here. You must have the wrong number."
'She insisted, saying perhaps she'd got the name wrong, but the girl on the other end said there was only the owner of the agency who was a woman and another girl besides herself working there.
/> '"He said he came from here?" she asked. "Do you mind holding the line a moment? I think I should tell my employer."
'In the end the owner of the agency came to the phone herself and when she heard the full story she was furious and wanted to call the police, though she didn't in the end.'
'Hm,' the Marshal said, 'then it sounds as though our friend Bianchi was here on his own account. There might well be a good living to be got out of people in your situation. It would only be a question of getting the right information.'
'But how could he? How did he come to know we were threatened with eviction?'
'I don't know. He could work somewhere where he could get information about cases coming up for a hearing. It wouldn't be that difficult. You don't happen to know what he said to Clementina?'
'No. Linda tried . . . wait, I'll ask her.'
He was gone for some moments and then brought his wife back from the bedroom to which she'd retreated. She had changed her dress. 'It's all right,' he was saying, 'I've told him everything. Don't worry. He wants to know about Clementina.'
They sat down close together and he kept her hand in his.
'I can't really tell you much,' she said, 'but I knew he'd been up there because I saw him go up the stairs when he left here. I waited behind the door until I heard him going down—I think that was when I first noticed his limp. He dragged one foot. When he'd gone I went up and knocked on her door. When she opened it she was almost stark naked. It was just after lunch and she often used to take a siesta wearing an old cotton overall with no buttons down the front. On a warm dry day she'd even wash her dress through so it would be clean for the evening. Then she'd wash it through again at night. People thought she was out of her mind completely but it's not true—oh, it's true that she had that mania for cleaning the square and that she tended to get worse as it went dark, and it's also true that she liked flirting with the men. But most people only saw her at her worst, that is, when she was out there shouting and creating. But, you know, the rest of the time she often behaved quite normally and got on with her life, such as it was, in quite an organized way. She was very poor.'
The Marshal and the Madwoman Page 11
