The Marshal touched Di Nuccio's arm and pointed upwards.
'But try and surprise him,' he murmured, 'I want to know what he's doing.'
Di Nuccio began to climb and a shower of raindrops was released from the torn netting. The Marshal watched him anxiously, knowing it must all be wet and slippery, but Di Nuccio was careful and avoided the soaked planking which would otherwise have made his climb easier. He made no noise.
The Marshal could feel Bruno's disappointment, though his face was barely discernible. He sent the boy round the corner at the end of the building to wait out of sight in case the intruder slipped through their fingers. Then he stood himself inside the street door and waited, hoping that Di Nuccio wouldn't have occasion to fire a shot and wake up all the neighbours.
The wait seemed inordinately long. The streets were so silent that he heard a train whistle and screech as it pulled into the central station on the other side of the river. Then nothing except the sound of his own breathing. He peered up through the blackness of the staircase. After what seemed half an hour but couldn't have been more than three or four minutes, the lights came on and he heard Di Nuccio's voice two floors above. So there had been no struggle, no drama. Di Nuccio had managed to surprise him, just the sort of job he would enjoy. Once he heard their steps begin to descend he started to breathe more easily and began climbing the stairs. They were so steep that he made slow progress—but why were the others coming down even more slowly? Much too slowly. He heard Di Nuccio mutter something angrily and a sound of protest from the captive. He paused to listen and realized at once that their slowness and the dragging noise of one pair of footsteps meant that they'd caught the blackmailer with the limp. But a second realization, that he was exaggerating his slowness on purpose, didn't come quickly enough. Before they came into view, the automatic timer controlling the dim stair lights clicked off, and as the Marshal felt about on the flaking plaster of the wall for a switch he heard a thud followed by a gunshot, of deafening loudness in that confined space.
'Marshal!'
He was already thudding up the stairs, having found a lightswitch.
Di Nuccio was getting slowly to his feet, holding one shoulder with a bloody hand.
'The window . . .' His face was greyish.
The Marshal passed him, sliding the Beretta from his holster as he reached Clementina's flat. But the man was already out on the scaffolding. Lights were going on in every house in the street and people were banging shutters open to hang out and call to each other, 'What's happened?'
'Damn!' He could start shooting in the darkness at the risk of hitting a by-stander. The man was swinging down towards the platform of planks below to his right.
'Bruno!' It all depended on him. He was a well-set-up lad and could defend himself, but the man swinging down on the scaffolding looked more like a gorilla than anything human. He couldn't see Bruno because of the planks and the netting but he heard his running steps and the fugitive heard them, too. He set off at a limping run along the platform and it wasn't his limp that stopped him but the rainwater left by the storm. He skidded and fell heavily on his hip. His head hit a joint in the metal poles with a crack that would have broken any normal skull but he wasn't even stunned. As his impetus took him over the edge of the platform he called out, trying to the last to save himself, but his clutching hand slid off the edge of the slimy wood and he fell, sending the hanging net swinging outwards and crushing the upturned face of Bruno who had just arrived below.
The Marshal was sitting with his hands planted firmly on his knees, staring with big, troubled eyes at the white wall in front of him. His hat was on the formica chair beside him. The other chairs in the corridor were all empty except one at the far end where a grey-haired woman sat crying silently, every now and then dabbing her cheeks with a rolled-up handkerchief. The lights in the corridor were dimmed and the occasional loud remark of some invisible nurse sounded incongruous in such a hushed atmosphere. At the end of the corridor there were double doors with two round windows labelled 'Operating Theatre. No Admittance to Unauthorized Persons'.
Was that where Bruno was? He had no idea. He had been alive when the ambulance came, but he had lain so still in the road beneath the blanket that Pippo's wife had brought down that it didn't seem as though he would ever move again.
Franco had stood there looking down at the huddled form and said, 'Poor kid. He looks bad.' And then with typical insouciance he'd added, 'Hadn't you better call in reinforcements to take your customer away? You'll be wanting to go to the hospital with this lad.'
'He got away,' the Marshal had growled.
'Like hell he got away,' said Franco calmly, 'I've locked him in the lavatory at the back of the bar and two of my regulars are standing guard. Oh, don't worry, he's not armed, I checked. But I thought you'd want to dispose of him before the ambulance arrived.'
A nurse came hurrying along the corridor and the Marshal got to his feet. But she walked straight past him and spoke to the silently weeping woman who stood up and followed her. Even in her grief she was visibly embarrassed because she hadn't had time to dress herself properly. The Marshal saw that she wore no stockings and was pulling her cardigan over her chest to hide what was perhaps a none too clean old frock in which she did the housework. Had her husband had a heart attack? Probably. And now maybe he was dead The nurse had led her into a small, brightly lighted room and closed the door, but he heard some low murmurs of explanation broken into by the woman's wail of grief and fear. Then things quietened down and the corridor was silent again. Once, he thought he heard the squeak of a trolley and half rose to his feet, but no trolley appeared.
They had given Bruno oxygen in the ambulance. What did that mean? Someone had said, 'Don't worry. I've seen people come through worse than this.' It was a funny thing that ambulance men, while looking so sound and reliable, always had a cheerful air about them. Why should that be? It seemed unlikely that they were chosen for it. Perhaps it was something about the job itself, but it was odd. Postmen were a bit like that, too, but that wasn't the same sort ofjob at all . . .
The Marshal's head gave a sudden jerk. Had he been falling asleep? Di Nuccio was coming along the corridor with his arm in a sling. He was still extremely pale but, apart from that, he looked fit enough.
'How are you feeling?'
'Fine. It was only a flesh wound. Could have been worse, the way that gorilla smashed me when the lights went off.
Even so, it's not going to be much fun admitting that he made me shoot myself in the shoulder, whatever the circumstances were. How's Bruno doing?'
'I don't know.'
Di Nuccio sat down next to the Marshal.
'What are you doing? Get a taxi and get yourself to bed.'
'I can't leave till we know about Bruno.'
'You'd be better off in bed. It could be all night.' But he let Di Nuccio go on sitting there because otherwise he would be sitting there alone, waiting for the nurse to come for him as she had come for the weeping woman to say . . . No! Bruno was young and healthy and full of life. He would pull through.
'Bruno'll make it,' Di Nuccio said, as though reading the Marshal's thoughts. 'He's as fit as a fiddle. He lent me those dumb-bells of his when he was going through his muscle-building phase and I couldn't do a tenth of what he could do.'
But the Marshal thought to himself: What good are muscles if your brain's damaged? He didn't speak, only went on staring at the wall in front of him. There were a lot of things going through his head but he was dumb. The effort of speaking grated on his nerves. He wanted Di Nuccio to go on talking to fill the silence, but not about Bruno. He wished, not for the first time during this case, that Lorenzini were with him. Young Brigadier Lorenzini was only the same age as Di Nuccio but there was something more solid about him, somehow.
'Do you think there's somewhere we could get a coffee?' Di Nuccio asked.
'What . . .?'
'A coffee. Or even a glass of water. I'm feeling a bit off
.'
The Marshal turned to look at him and was filled with remorse. The boy was on his last legs. Even if it was only a flesh wound, he'd lost a fair amount of blood and should have been in bed resting, instead of which he was sitting here waiting for news of Bruno and keeping the Marshal company. And the Marshal had only wished Lorenzini had been there instead.
'Stay where you are,' he said. 'There's some sort of vending machine in the waiting-room along there. I'll get you a drink.'
'I'll go.'
'Sit still.'
After the artificial gloom of the windowless corridor it was a shock to find that dawn had broken. The glass-fronted waiting-room was filled with a pale pink light that made the rows of empty chairs look squalid in contrast. Because of yesterday's storm the sky seemed much higher and purer.
The Marshal fished for coins in his pocket. The machine offered a choice of coffee or hot chocolate and he had a feeling that in his condition Di Nuccio would be better off with hot chocolate, well sweetened. He also had a feeling that Di Nuccio wouldn't thank him for it so he pushed the button for coffee.
Coming back along the corridor, he saw that Di Nuccio was slumped back in his chair as if he were asleep, but when he reached him he saw that the boy's eyes were open.
'Here, drink this.' He gave him a small paper cup and took a sip from his own. It was only then that he thought to ask, 'What was he doing when you climbed into the flat? Did you manage to surprise him?'
'Our friend the gorilla? I did, but I should have got there two minutes earlier, even a minute would have done it.'
'What was he doing?'
'Burning something.'
'Burning what?'
'Paper. And it's no use asking me what paper because there's no hope of finding out. He was in the kitchen when I climbed in at the bedroom window which he'd forced and left open, and I smelled burning right away. But whatever it was he'd already burnt it in the kitchen sink and turned the tap on it. It was probably only because the tap was running that he didn't hear me come in. I looked in the sink and there was nothing left of whatever it was except a little blackened water.'
'So how do you know it was paper?'
'The smell of the smoke, like when you light a fire with newspaper. The smoke was still hanging in the air in the kitchen—and I don't know what else he could have burnt so easily and completely.'
'I suppose you're right. But what papers? I didn't find a thing.'
'Well it must have been something well hidden because look at the amount of time he was up there. We had plenty of time to get there and catch him at it, so he must have had to search.'
'He didn't say anything?'
'Not a word. After the first shock of feeling my Beretta in his ribs he gave a quick look about him like a trapped animal and then grinned at me as if to say, So what? There's not much you can do about it now.'
'We'll see about that.'
'He'll be done for breaking and entering but do you think a blackmail charge would stick?'
'I don't know. There's no letter, no real evidence. Only the Rossis' word against his. But from the way you say he reacted to being caught, I'm willing to bet that it's not the first time he's been arrested.'
Rapid footsteps were coming along an adjoining corridor. A nurse appeared at the turning and made straight for them. She recognized their uniforms.
With no preliminaries she snapped, 'Have this boy's parents been informed?' She shot a vicious look at the coffee cups as though she'd caught them in the middle of a drinking orgy.
'I—they were seeing to it from Headquarters . . .'
'In that case, why aren't they here?'
Di Nuccio spoke up: 'They won't be able to find them. Bruno told me they've gone abroad on holiday, so . . .'
The nurse didn't answer him but looked at the Marshal, furious, 'This patient should be at home in bed!' It was clear that she held the Marshal responsible for the condition of both boys and, since he felt much the same way himself, it was with mumbling humility that he dared to ask:
'How's it . . . how is he?'
'There's no change. He's still unconscious. There's nothing you can do here. You'd better leave, both of you.'
She turned and marched away, her white shoes slapping on the tiled corridor. The Marshal stood where he was, looking after her uncertainly. It was Di Nuccio who had to decide.
'Let's go. We can come back in the morning.'
'It is morning.'
They walked side by side along the corridor. When they went through the door to the waiting-room their tired eyes were dazzled by the rays of the sun and the Marshal paused to put on his dark glasses.
'I'll call a taxi.'
On the way back to the Pitti Palace they were too exhausted and depressed to talk. They both had their heads back and their eyes closed so that the driver, when he pulled up, called out, 'We're here!' thinking they were asleep.
'Go straight to bed,' the Marshal said as they reached the top of the staircase and he unlocked the door. 'And stay there all day.'
'But we're so short—'
'Go to bed.'
He didn't intend to go to bed himself. It wasn't worth it for a couple of hours or less. His first thought was to go to the kitchen and make himself a decent cup of coffee to wash away the taste of the weak and bitter hospital brew, or the taste of the hospital itself. He opened the shutters and the kitchen window and got the coffee on as quietly as he could. Even so, his wife appeared in the doorway in her cotton nightdress, her hair ruffled and her face pale with sleep.
'I didn't mean to wake you.'
'I wasn't properly asleep. I've been waking up every hour since you went out. What's been happening?' She got two coffee-cups out of the cupboard. 'You look dreadful.'
'Bruno's hurt.'
'Bruno ... Oh no!'
'I'll tell you about it in a minute but let me drink this coffee first.'
'But at least tell me if it's serious.'
'Yes. At least, I think so.'
'And his parents?'
'Di Nuccio says they're abroad on holiday.'
When the coffee came bubbling up the warm air was filled with its scent and the birds were chirping on the grass outside so that it didn't seem possible that anything tragic had happened.
'Tell me about it, Salva.'
He told her. They didn't sit at the table but stood near the sink, looking out of the open window and sipping their coffee. The clear burning sun was soothing to the Marshal's tired face though it made his eyes water.
When he had finished telling her, she said, 'You should try and get some sleep.'
'No, no. By this time ... I think I'll ring the hospital in an hour.'
'Is there no way of tracing his parents?'
'They're abroad. I've no idea where, so until Bruno comes round . . .'
'Has he any other injuries besides his head?'
'I don't know.' Why hadn't he asked? He should have insisted on seeing the doctor in charge instead of letting himself be bullied by an ill-tempered nurse. When he telephoned he would demand some detailed information.
But when he telephoned, the doctor who'd been on nights was no longer there. He was told that Bruno was in an intensive care unit and that there was no change. He was still unconscious.
And somehow the day had to be got through.
At least his numbed and trance-like state caused by lack of sleep took the edge offhaving to deal with the Prosecutor. He would have been informed already, of course, by Headquarters, after they'd taken the man with a limp away. Perhaps he was already on his way to question him in the cells over there. The Marshal decided to let things take their course and wait for the Prosecutor to call him, meanwhile writing out his report. He settled down at his desk, glancing every now and then at the telephone. Dead on nine o'clock it rang. So soon? He took a couple of deep breaths before picking up the receiver.
'Is that Marshal Guarnaccia?'
'Speaking.'
'I shouldn't be disturbing you
but. . .'
'Who is it?'
'Linda Rossi.'
'Ah. Good morning.'
'Good morning. I hope I'm not. . . How is that poor boy?'
'Not too good, I'm afraid. Still unconscious. What can I do for you?'
'I just wanted ... Is it true? About Clementina?'
'Yes, it's true. I'm afraid I couldn't tell you sooner—but don't let it upset you too much. The man who broke in last night is in custody. There's no danger to you.'
'It was a shock when I opened the paper. You'll think me awful, disturbing you like this when you've got so much on, but. . . We called you last night, you know, at least, my husband did, but you'd already left. Franco said—'
'Yes. I know.'
'We were trying to help.'
'I'm very grateful to you.' If he didn't open the way for her they might go on like this for hours. 'Is something wrong? Do you need my help?'
'Oh, you don't know how grateful we'd be if—my husband— We only heard yesterday when we went to the Tenants' Association. The date of the hearing's been confirmed. It's unbelievable what some people will do to get you out —there was a couple whose case was heard yesterday, their flat was falling apart, literally falling apart, and they'd been begging for years for it to be fixed. A huge chunk of plaster had fallen on their little boy's head and the floors weren't safe—and do you know what the owner's lawyer claimed? That they'd repeatedly sent workmen round there and the tenants had refused to let them in. Bare-faced lies, just like that! And they were so surprised by such an unexpected and outlandish accusation that they were too shocked to defend themselves. If you're honest yourself you can't imagine anyone being capable of pulling a trick like that. And of course, owners are always richer and more influential than their tenants. They have friends in high places. You're just helpless. And what the lawyers are saying about us is a pack of lies but unless we can—'
'Just a minute,' interrupted the Marshal. 'What are they saying?'
'That's just it. If they'd brought up about my getting married and having a baby in the house we were ready for them. But obviously they've decided that the baby could make things drag on longer since we'd have been given more time to find other accommodation. So they've made up this story, saying I've been sub-letting, having paying guests. It's completely untrue but how can we prove it?'
The Marshal and the Madwoman Page 15
