'That depends. During the week not much after one, but Fridays and Saturdays the men sometimes stay until three-thirty or four.'
'Is there any sign of it from outside?'
'None at all, except at the time when they leave.'
'And somebody must keep a lookout. Good. Thanks. Oh —before I forget, Clementina Franci had a sister, or I believe she did. Get on to the registry office tomorrow morning and see if you can find her residence papers.'
The rain was certainly clearing his head! When Di Nuccio had shut the door he dialled the number of the Questura. This was a tricky business since the police were unlikely to put themselves out for the rival force.
'Questura. Good afternoon.'
Well, here goes, thought the Marshal, and began to explain what he wanted. He was put through to two different offices before being told that his best bet was to ring the Commissariat of San Giovanni, right in the city centre.
'If you're not sure which Commissariat was involved, that's your best bet because it's the nearest to the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova where people like that are usually taken.'
'Thanks.'
The man who answered the phone at San Giovanni was a Sicilian and from the Marshal's own province, to judge by his accent, so things couldn't have been better.
'Guarnaccia, did you say?'
'That's right.'
'Over at the Phti Palace? Well, that's a turn-up! My cousin's little boy used to be at school with your two—wait, don't tell me . . . Giovanni and . . . Toto! Am I right?'
'Quite right.'
'They left last year—are they up here now with you?'
'Yes—at least, just now they're down at home for the holidays, at my sister's.'
'So's my little girl, and the wife, too. It's no joke working through August. Just listen to that thunder! I can hardly hear myself speak. This rain's a relief, though.'
'It is.'
'Well then, what can I do for you?'
'I want to trace a Dangerous Persons certificate—though I'm only guessing that it might have been made out there as you're the nearest to Santa Maria Nuova.' He explained the situation as briefly as he could.
'How many years ago, did you say?'
1967—at least, that's when she was taken to San Salvi.'
'Right you are, I'll have to go to Records where they'll tell me they're short-staffed but don't you worry. Just leave it to me. If it's here I'll find it.'
'Thanks very much.'
'I'll phone you the minute I get it—and if it turns out it's not here, leave it to me just the same. A couple of phone calls will do the trick and it's better if they come from me. You know what I mean . . .'
'Of course. I can't thank you enough.'
'Don't mention it.'
Good, said the Marshal to himself again as he hung up, and this time with reason. Whether it was because the two of them came from the same place or because the other man, too, was feeling bucked up by the change in the weather, or even a bit of both, things could not have gone more smoothly.
Di Nuccio tapped at the door again and came in with a large envelope.
'This just arrived from the Public Prosecutor's office.'
'Thanks.'
The envelope contained a copy of the pathologist's report. It was a wonder the Prosecutor had been good enough to send it rather than have him go and collect it. No doubt he'd seen enough of the Marshal to last him a while—or had he cheered up because of the cooling rain, too?
The Marshal opened the envelope and started reading.
At the end of half an hour he had learned only one thing. Clementina had been given a blow to the back of her head, an extremely efficient and bloodless blow which had probably been meant to stun her before her head was thrust in the gas oven but which had killed her. Her lungs had taken in no carbon monoxide. But then, there was little enough of it available in that almost empty canister. The assailant, thought the Marshal, had too much muscle and too little brain for the job. That Clementina had had a child he'd already heard, albeit only from Angelo. There was nothing else that interested him. She had been in fairly good general health and she had died in the early hours of the morning, between three and five was the pathologist's estimate. That was all. And if the pathologist had given him an analysis of every cell in Clementina's body, it wouldn't have told the Marshal what he wanted to know. He got up and went to the window. A rivulet had formed on the path coming down from the gardens to the gravelled area below and the heavy rain bounced up from it as it swirled along. Once, Clementina had been somebody's young wife with a child to look after. What had happened to her husband and child that had sent her into an asylum for ten years, to be then turned out into the world to play the part of a village idiot? What if it were something violent? Had she witnessed their violent deaths? A witness not in her right mind shut up in an asylum was no danger to anybody—especially as she didn't speak for years—but when she got out. . .
'No, no.' The Marshal frowned. She'd been out for years, so why now? Why now? And what the devil did happen to the husband and child? Well, if it was something criminal he could find out. He went back to his desk and, without sitting down, rang Borgo Ognissanti and asked for Records. At first he asked them to check 1967 but then, on second thoughts, he added:
'Try '66 as well.' For all he knew, her illness could have begun at the end of '66 or the very beginning of '67— damn the man who'd got away with those documents. And shouldn't he have thought of that when he asked for the Dangerous Persons certificate?
He rang the San Giovanni Commissariat again and was embarrassed to realize that he hadn't thought to get that helpful policeman's name. It was lucky for him that the boy on the switchboard didn't wait for him to ask. When he heard who was calling he said at once: 'Do you want Extension 12 again?'
'Yes. Thanks.' And the familiar accent was soon coming over the line, though sounding surprised.
'I'm afraid I haven't got anything for you yet.'
'No, no, it was just that it occurred to me that you should check 1966 as well as '67 because I don't know what month she arrived at San Salvi, and if it was January, for instance . . .'
'I get you. I'll check the second half of'66, then.'
'And there was something else. I shouldn't be asking all this of you . . .' Not that there was any reason why he shouldn't but it did no harm to say so.
'Ask anything you want,' said the policeman, impelled by this remark to show himself even more generous than before, 'What's the problem?'
'I'm trying to trace, in that same period, any case of violence involving the deaths of a man and a child. All I have is the surname, Chiari, and they were the family of Clementina Franci.'
'You can't specify the type of crime? It might be a help to Records.'
'I don't even know that there was a crime, let alone what type. I only know that the husband and child died. I'm even guessing as to their dying together, and that the circumstances were unusual or violent enough to have driven this woman out of her mind. All you can do is check that period and that surname.'
'Mm. Could have been a road accident, though, couldn't it, or a gas explosion. Anything.'
'People don't usually lose their wits after a thing like that. Oh, you're right, of course, it could have been anything, but I still think it's worth checking, if you don't mind.'
'I don't mind. Anything to oblige. You've got me curious by this time ... I mean, I saw it in the paper about this Franci woman. She committed suicide, didn't she?'
'And you think I'm going to an awful lot of trouble for a suicide? I'm sorry, I might have told you before since by now the Prosecutor leading the inquiry will have let it out to the papers. She was murdered.'
'I see. Keeping it quiet, were you?'
'It was set up to look like suicide and it seemed as well to let the culprit think he'd got away with it for the time being.'
'Might get cocky and show his hand, you mean? Seems a good idea to me. What are you letting it out for
?'
'I'm not. The Prosecutor is.'
'Enough said. Who've you got?'
The Marshal named him.
'Christ.'
'Yes.'
'Not his sort of case, at all. Won't hit the national papers and he's ambitious. I suppose he got saddled with it because it's August and there's nobody else.'
'Didn't we all.'
'Including me, now, eh? Well, I'll do all I can.'
'Thanks a lot.'
And the Marshal hung up, still without having thought to ask the man's name. At least he had the extension number, which he wrote on his pad, and with a bit of luck his wife might know who the man was.
'That'll be young Spicuzza.'
'You know him?'
'I've never met him—do you want another slice of ham?'
'I wouldn't mind.'
'You may as well finish it. He's a cousin of Annamaria Rizza, Annamaria La Rosa she was, before she was married. You must remember the La Rosa family. Their eldest boy gave them a lot of trouble at one time. Finish the melon as well, it won't keep.'
'What sort of trouble?'
'The father was a baker—on the corner of Via Gramsci next to that shop that sells fishing tackle, you know the one —and the son . . . now, what was he called . . . Corrado, that's it, didn't want to go into the business. He wanted to be a mechanic. He had a passion for cars and could fix anything, even as a boy. His mother was quite ill over it. After all, to let the business go out of the family, it would have been the end of the world—it had been her father's. Anyway, it turned out he met a nice girl and that settled him down. He runs the baker's now his father's retired, but I think he still does car repairs at weekends. The sister has a boy who was in Giovanni's class. We used to chat once in a while outside school when they were smaller. I remember her mentioning once that her cousin was in the police up here. I suppose it came out because of you being here. What did you want to know about him?'
'Just his name.' But he couldn't help thinking that in his small home town there could be no Clementina with a complete blank in her past. Florentines had long memories but each Quarter was like a separate village and that complicated things. Clementina wasn't from San Frediano.
'I've made a cake,' said the Marshal's wife, interrupting his wandering thoughts. 'It's the first time I've ventured to use the oven unnecessarily in weeks. I've made one for the boys upstairs as well.'
'You've no call to be doing that,' growled the Marshal, pleased. 'They're old enough to look after themselves.'
'A treat now and then does them no harm. They're good lads.'
'They're not here to be mollycoddled. They get enough of that at home and it takes me all my time to toughen them up''
'Well, I don't think a slice of cake will ruin their characters,' said his wife mildly, knowing he was pleased but allowing him to pretend he wasn't. 'And young Bruno's given up cooking so they're back on spaghetti and tomato sauce every night.'
'Given up cookery?'
'I saw him this morning when I was going shopping. He said his genius was being thwarted because all the shops are shut—or at least the fancy ones are that sell the funny things he needs. I wish he'd go back to painting.' She had hung one of his offerings in their entrance.
'I wish he'd stick to his job.'
'You always said you couldn't complain about him in that respect.'
'I'm not complaining. But he's . . .'
'What?'
'I don't know. Unpredictable. That's what he is, unpredictable. I never know what to say to him.'
'That's because he's artistic and you're not.'
'Hmph.'
'And whatever you say, I'm fond of the lad. He's so cheerful, so full of enthusiasm for life.'
'I didn't say I wasn't fond of him,' grumbled the Marshal, 'he's just a bit of a handful, that's all.'
'Well, in a few months he'll be gone. I'll get the cake.'
The storm had been over for some time and given way to such a brilliant sunset that the rooms were filled with the pink glow of it as if with some artificial light.
'We'll sleep better tonight,' the Marshal's wife remarked when she was clearing away the supper things. 'That storm's cleared the air beautifully.'
It was true that they fell asleep more easily than they had done for some time but, even so, the Marshal's sleep was troubled and at one point he found himself struggling with what he felt was a very nasty situation, though he wasn't sure exactly what it was. One thing he was sure about was that he didn't want to answer the telephone because he knew that the Prosecutor was on the other end of the line boiling with rage. The worst of it was that, even without picking up the phone, he was getting the full blast.
'Have you seen her clothes? Look at them, man, look at them!'
And the Marshal went through Clementina's pitiful selection of clothes again and saw, to his horror, that all the buttons on them were bright blue. What's more, there was still a button missing from her only cotton dress and as he picked it up, Linda Rossi said in his ear, 'You see, I told you.'
How could he have failed to notice the bright blue buttons before? He thought he'd looked through everything so carefully. He began to sweat with embarrassment at his stupidity and the doctor looked at him sadly and said:
'We can't move the body, you know.'
The Marshal sweated even more. That the body had remained in the flat all this time because of his failure to notice the buttons . . . and in this heat, too, though there had been the storm . . .
'She'll sleep better,' his wife said.
Clementina was in her bed. He was relieved that she was only asleep and not dead. The important thing now was to keep her alive or he stood to lose his job.
The phone went on ringing so there was a telephone in her flat, after all, but he refused to answer it until all those boxes of clothes had been removed.
'Will you sew the other buttons on her frock? I have to sit here with her or she'll die. She's very frightened.' He was pleading with Linda Rossi and the German girl but they didn't understand him. The girl went on crying and Linda Rossi only stared at him and said: 'Why don't you answer the phone?'
'I can't.'
'The phone,' she insisted, grasping his arm.
'I can't!'
'Salva!*
He opened his eyes, wide awake.
'The phone, Salva. Do you want me to answer?' She had already switched the bedside light on.
'No, no.' He reached out and picked up the receiver, glancing at the alarm clock. It was a quarter to three in the morning.
CHAPTER 8
'Guarnaccia.' His head was still so full of his dream that he was both surprised and relieved to hear young Bruno on the other end of the line and not the Prosecutor.
'There's a call for you, Marshal. Says his name's Franco and that it's urgent—he says you gave him this number and that—'
'Put him through.'
'Marshal? It's me. I think you'd better come round here right away.' The big barman's voice was as soft and calm as ever, despite the urgency of his message.
'What's happened?'
'There's a man trying to get into Clementina's flat— he's probably got in by now. I saw him climbing up the scaffolding and since they've been and taken those seals away—'
'I'll be right there.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'Just keep out of sight and watch.'
'Right. And if he tries to leave I'll stop him.'
What was the use of saying the man could be dangerous? Franco had been running things round there in his own way for years and there wasn't time to argue with him now. The Marshal hung up and struggled quickly into some clothes.
'Where are you going?' His wife was alarmed.
'Out. Don't worry.'
When he stopped at his office to pick up his holster, Bruno was there, fully dressed, and he had woken Dj Nuccio who was on his way down from the dormitory, cursing sleepily.
'You can't go by yourself, Marshal,'
said Bruno earnestly, as though it were the Marshal who was only eighteen years old, not himself. 'I thought I should wake Di Nuccio, too.'
'Mph. Let's go.'
Unpredictable as ever, but the boy was right. They took the van.
'Turn into any side street before you get too near the square,' ordered the Marshal.
They did the last brief stretch on foot and it was difficult to prevent their footsteps from echoing so that they had to slow down as they neared Clementina's house.
Whoever had climbed up the scaffolding was still in there. They saw a pale flash of torchlight pass across the window and vanish. Then Franco's bulky frame emerged from the shadows.
'He's still up there,' he whispered.
'Go back home.'
'But, Marshal—'
'Go back home, and quietly.' There was no need to add that. Franco retreated as silently as a big cat in the jungle.
'Shall I start climbing up?' whispered Bruno.
'No.' The last thing he wanted was a National Service boy getting hurt. But what was he going to do? Thanks to the Prosecutor, he no longer had the keys to the flat, and while they could catch their man easily enough by waiting down there in the shadows, he wanted, more than anything, to know just what he was doing up there where there was nothing to steal and where the evidence, such as it was, had already been collected. He was hardly the ideal person himself to be swinging around on scaffolding. Before he could decide, the street door opened and he whipped round to grasp the arm that came round it.
'It's me.' Young Rossi's face appeared bleached white in the shadows. 'There's someone up there. I just called your number but they told me—'
'Be quiet. Go back up to your flat and stay there—and don't make a noise on the stairs.'
But Rossi had felt slippers on and vanished as silently as Franco had done, leaving the street door ajar. The Marshal began to fear that, sooner or later, some little noise would bring the whole neighbourhood out to collect under Clementina's window once again, and any confusion would make it that much easier for the man to get away. As if to confirm his fears, a light went on in Pippo's flat, opposite. He made a sign to the boys to keep still and silent, hoping they were invisible in the shadows under the scaffolding. They watched the lighted window but no face appeared there. They heard a bout of coughing, a flush of water and the light went out.
The Marshal and the Madwoman Page 14
