'How can they prove it?'
'They claim they have a witness, but even if their witness is lying, what can we do? It's our word against theirs. I promise you it's not true! We've never even had so much as a friend to stay overnight. There isn't room!'
'I believe you. But what do you want me to do?'
'You're our only hope. The woman at the Tenants' Association asked us if we could produce a witness, somebody official, not a friend or neighbour, somebody who'd be believed.'
'I see. But what can I have witnessed, exactly?'
'We told her what had happened—about Clementina— and it was she who suggested it, otherwise I wouldn't. . . You've called on us, you see, a couple of times, unexpectedly, so if you would say that you had seen no sign of anyone camping out here, as it were . . .'
'I see,' said the Marshal again. 'Well, I'll probably be able to do that.'
'I have to give your name,' Linda Rossi insisted anxiously, 'I'm supposed to go round there today and give in a list of witnesses who will be appearing . . .'
'All right. Put my name down.'
'I'm afraid you'll have to—I don't know your name. We just know you as "the Marshal" . . .'
'Guarnaccia. Salvatore Guarnaccia.'
'Thank you. Oh, Marshal, I'm so grateful to you. And bothering you at a time like this when you must be so worried about that boy.'
That boy . . . The Marshal had hung up but his hand stayed on the receiver. Was it too soon to ring the hospital again? That boy . . . How often had he said those words, shaking his head?
'He's unpredictable . . . that's what he is . . .'
He couldn't remember exactly how long it was since he'd last phoned. More than an hour, surely? Anything could happen in an hour. Or nothing. No change. Sometimes people stayed in a coma for years. But they hadn't said precisely that he was in a coma, they'd said unconscious and that's not the same thing. He didn't know enough about these things to know what questions to ask and he just let them palm him off with non-information. Well, they couldn't stop him telephoning, even if it annoyed them.
But the phone began ringing under his hand. He'd all but forgotten the Prosecutor. Well, the sooner that was over, the better.
'Guarnaccia?'
'Speaking.'
'Good morning. I've got news for you—I just hope you don't think I've been too long about getting it.'
It certainly wasn't the Prosecutor, but it took the Marshal some seconds to realize that it was Spicuzza from the San Giovanni Commissariat. Bruno's accident had wiped this train of thought from his mind. Fortunately, Spicuzza carried on chattering, pleased as he was with himself, and there was time for the Marshal to recover his wits.
'Bad news first—if you could call it that. I can't find any record of a crime which might have involved this woman's husband and child—I see the story's out in the morning's paper, by the way.'
And of course the Marshal hadn't. If only he weren't so slow! The Prosecutor wasn't so far wrong in his judgement, he had to admit.
'Anyway,' Spicuzza went on, 'nothing for you in that line but I've got her Dangerous Persons certificate. It was made out here on December 28th, 1966.'
'Then you have her address of the time?'
'Yes, she lived in the Santa Croce Quarter—don't worry, there's a photocopy of the certificate on its way to you by hand. You'll have it any minute. But there's something else—'
'Wait—does it say who applied for the certificate?'
'The hospital authorities, I'm afraid. That's not much of a help to you, is it? It looks like she was already in hospital when she went loony. In fact, there's a note attached to this certificate—just a slip of paper, written by hand, to the effect that, despite the Dangerous Persons certificate, she was to remain where she was until her physical condition improved enough for her to be transferred to the psychiatric ward of the same hospital, Santa Maria Nuova, for observation.
'Her physical condition?'
'That's right. And the note's signed illegibly but by a consultant dermatologist. It took me a while to make it out but that's what it says, all right. Did you see her body? Were there any burns, skin grafts? I said it might be an accident, if you remember.'
'There wasn't a mark on her that I could see, and nothing of that sort in the pathologist's report, either.'
'Maybe the hospital could help you.'
'That's true, though it's twenty years ago. I think I'm more interested in that address for the moment. Thanks, anyway, for being so helpful.'
'You're welcome. Goodness knows there's nothing doing here. We got a pickpocket this morning—in the cathedral, if you please. Excitement of the week. Been doing the round of churches and museums with the tourists. Cultural type.'
'Oh, that pickpocket.'
'Done the Pitti Palace, as well, has he? Silly twit—he'd dressed himself up in holiday clothes and was carrying a camera and guidebook, nicked, of course, but you can't fake that three-day city sunburn and the dazed look they get from an overdose of museums. Once we knew he was operating it didn't take long to find him, and catch him in the act.'
'My compliments,' the Marshal offered, 'and thanks again.'
Di Nuccio tapped and came in. 'Marshal?'
'Why aren't you in bed?'
'I feel all right, honestly. And don't you remember, you told me to ring the registry to see if I could trace the madwoman's sister? Not much use, though. Without the first name and her address the computer won't produce.'
'Surely there's some way of doing it! If I knew her first name and her address I wouldn't be asking.'
'That's what I said but I was told pretty sharply that they're not a police records department. I still think there must be a way of getting at the information but since the head clerk's away on his holidays—'
'We'll have to wait till September 1st. Don't tell me.'
'I'm afraid so. Is there any news?'
'Nothing. He was still unconscious last time I rang.'
'How long ago?'
'It must be an hour.'
'Couldn't you try again?'
'I'm going to.'
'Call me if there's anything—oh, I almost forgot what I came in for. This came for you, by hand.'
Ten minutes later the Marshal took his hat and jacket from behind the door. He stopped in at the duty room before leaving.
'How's your shoulder?'
'All right. I'd rather stay up, Marshal, really—'
'Can you do a bit of typing with one hand?'
'I suppose so. It just means one finger instead of two.'
'Well, if you can't, get one of the other lads to type for you and finish typing up the notes of the report that's on my desk. I've already done the bulk of it and I'll look through it when I get back.' He didn't say that he was incapable of sitting still and concentrating. Any excuse was good enough to get out of the office and walk to shake off the dread that was gripping him.
'Did you call—'
'There's no change.'
'But don't they say anything else?'
'Yes. They say there's a clot lodged in his brain and that they'll probably operate today.'
'Jesus . . . Marshal, I found this on his locker.'
It was a postcard from Bruno's parents. They were in Vienna and going on to Amsterdam. The message ended:
'See you Sept. 1st. Love.'
'Should I inform Headquarters? You never know, they might be able to—'
'Yes. Call them.'
'You're going out?'
'I'll be back by lunch-time. If not I'll telephone.'
He walked. He felt that if he walked far enough and with enough determination he might somehow ease the weight on his chest and breathe properly again. He walked steadily, looking neither right nor left, seeing only a dark-tinted blur of colours and hearing only a deadened buzz of meaningless noises, like someone half asleep on a train. Sometimes he bumped into groups of tourists who walked uncertainly, gazing up at the high buildings and blocking his way. He was
aware of their stopping to stare after him but he never turned to apologize. His dark glasses cut him off from them and their world. He crossed the river and walked up the embankment on the other side.
There were times, in his more lucid moments, when he would get angry with himself during a difficult case for his lack of brains and efficiency. He'd even been known to make lists and plans and draw diagrams which he would then stare at for hours without their suggesting anything to him other than his own stupidity. Then, at a certain point, he would forget all about them and go his way, absorbed, inexorable, following his instinct. It had happened with almost every case he'd been involved in and he had never stopped to think about it afterwards because he found his own behaviour a bit embarrassing and preferred to forget the whole business as soon as it was over.
This time there was no deceiving himself with lists, no futile efforts at putting his limited intelligence to work on a lot of contradictory facts. This time, probably because of Bruno, there was none of that. There was only pity for a poor old woman attacked in her bed whom he had thought to keep alive in his dream by sitting with her.
'Will you sit with me?'
It was Angelo who had first aroused that pity. Angelo, whose face lit up at the sight of a bird.
And Bruno. He couldn't keep Bruno alive by sitting with him, though, God knows, he'd have been only too willing to sit there night and day. They wouldn't even let him in. Would they shave his head? And his parents were enjoying their holiday, little knowing what was waiting for them when they got back. His own two boys . . . He'd always taken it for granted that they'd do their National Service with the Carabinieri. . .
'Look out!'
A crocodile procession of Japanese tourists had jostled him off the narrow pavement into the path of a taxi. The driver had just braked in time and was glaring at him. The Marshal shrugged and stepped back. He must pull himself together. He'd already walked a little too far along the embankment and he crossed over and went back a few yards. Heaven knew how far he would have walked if it hadn't been for that taxi. He made his way to the church of Santa Groce and stopped in front of its marble facade to fish out the address from his pocket. The street he was looking for was a tiny one, just off the square, and when he got there he found the road up and planks laid over gaping holes, though no one was working. The shops all had their metal shutters down except for what looked like a fishmonger's where some alterations were going on. A grey-haired man with a big moustache was standing in the doorway with a brush in his hand. Seeing the Marshal hesitate, looking at the door numbers, he smiled at him:
'Nice mess, this,' he said.
The Marshal looked beyond him into the shop. They seemed to be re-doing the place while it was shut for the holidays.
'I mean the road,' the man went on, 'and God knows when they'll be done. New gas pipes. A few more storms like yesterday's and we'll be baling out like in '66.'
'Were you here then?' the Marshal asked, waking up at the thought that he might have found somebody who'd known Clementina.
'Where would I have been? See this counter?' It was an elaborate affair of marble with coloured inlay. 'You won't see many like it these days, but all this part in front used to be closed in with glass. Smashed to bits. And two world wars it had gone through without so much as a chip! And the cellar! Where all my stock was! We had to use gas masks to go down there and clean it out. I hope I'll never have to go through the like again.'
'No ... I wonder if you could help me. If you were here all that long ago, perhaps you knew a woman—she'd be in her thirties—who lived over there at No. 5.'
'What name?'
'Clementina was how she was usually known.'
'Clementina, Clementina, doesn't ring a bell. What was her surname?'
'Franci. Anna Clementina Franci. Her husband was Chiari.'
'Say no more! I'm with you now. It was the Clementina that baffled me, never knew she was called that. Anna Chiari's the woman you mean.'
How odd it sounded. She had become a real person. Anna Chiari, not crazy Clementina.
'Did you know her?'
'Of course I knew her. Chiari had a leather shop right there on the ground floor and she was a customer of mine, poor soul. She never came back after they took her away.'
'Dino!' called a voice from the back of the shop.
'Just a minute! What did you want her for?'
'Didn't you see in the paper that she's dead?'
'Dead?'
'Dino!'
'I'm coming! Well, I didn't, but then I'm not much of a one for reading the paper, I watch the news on television. She recovered then? I'm not so much surprised she's dead as surprised to hear she was still alive. They said she was very bad—'
'Dino! The van's waiting and he's blocking the street!'
'I'll have to go.'
'Wait! What happened to her? I need to know.'
'Dino!'
'I'll have to go, but ask anybody round here—ask Signora Santoli, No. 5, first floor. It's a long story but she's always glad of company—All right, all right! I'm coming!'
He dropped his brush and dived into the back of the shop leaving the Marshal to stare across at No. 5.
CHAPTER 9
'Who is it?'
'Carabinieri.' There was a spyhole in the door and the Marshal had no doubt that an eye was peering out at him, checking on his uniform. He stood back a little so she could see him better and then waited as a number of bolts and a chain were undone. The door opened and a woman looked at him inquiringly. Although she was well past middle age she was robust and very upright and so neatly dressed that she might have been expecting a visitor.
'Marshal Guarnaccia. I apologize for disturbing you but I'd like to talk to you for a moment.' Seeing a shade of anxiety cross her face, he added, 'Please don't worry, there's nothing wrong. Just a bit of information you could give that might help me with an inquiry.'
'I see. I just wondered because sometimes my mother-in-law . . .' She glanced over her shoulder and then beyond him at the opposite door. 'You'd better come in. The neighbours will think . . .'
He followed her into the entrance hall, which was small but gleaming with cleanliness.
'Come into the sitting-room where we can be comfortable.'
The sitting-room was as clean and polished as the hall but it was anything but comfortable. The shining bare floor and symmetrically arranged chairs gave it the air of a well-to-do dentist's waiting-room. There was even a neat stack of magazines on a low, carved table.
'Please sit down.'
At least it was cool and the Marshal was glad enough to sit himself down in one of the chilly leather armchairs, placing his hat with his sunglasses inside it carefully on his knee. The woman sat bolt upright on a hard chair facing him and waited for him to begin.
'It's about a woman who used to live in this building. It's a long time ago now, but perhaps you remember her. Her name was Anna Clementina Franci. Her husband was Chiari and I believe he had a leather shop in the ground floor here.'
'Anna—?' Her face became more animated. 'But ... I read in the paper this morning . . .'
'That she was murdered. Yes. I'm trying to find out something about her past and since you were her neighbour . . .'
'I see. But it's a long time ago, as you say. I understood from the article that it was burglars. At least, that was the impression it gave, so I don't quite see . . . Forgive me, you know your job best I'm sure. I'm just a bit surprised, that's all.'
'Murders happen,' the Marshal said, 'and sometimes they happen to people you know.'
'It's not that. I know what you mean, but, frankly, what surprised me when I saw the article was not that she was dead but that she'd lived on all this time, though I gather she wasn't her normal self.'
'No, she wasn't normal. She was in San Salvi for quite a number of years until most of the patients there were discharged.'
'Oh, I knew she'd gone into San Salvi.'
'You did?'
<
br /> 'Certainly. I went to see her there.'
'Really? You were close friends, then?' He couldn't imagine this kindly but rather prim lady among the inmates of San Salvi. Nevertheless, she looked like a strong character, the sort to do calmly what she saw as her duty, however unpleasant it might be.
'I wouldn't say close friends exactly—but I'm being neglectful, I do beg your pardon. On such a hot day you must be in need of refreshment.' Her eyes glanced off his sweated uniform and the Marshal became conscious of what he must look like after a long and agitated walk in the heat. This woman looked the sort who would remain cool and composed no matter what the temperature, and no matter what her feelings. She went across the room now to open a heavy, dark cupboard. There were three or four bottles in it and a neat row of small glasses, but the Marshal had visions of long-opened, sticky vin santo. This wasn't a house that saw many visitors, he was sure.
'You're very kind,' he said quickly, 'but what I'd like most would be just a glass of water.'
She straightened up. 'Of course. I'll get you one.'
While she was gone, a tiny, ancient woman with a walking-stick came into the doorway and stopped there, staring at the Marshal in that unselfconscious way of small children when they stare at a stranger.
'Good morning.' The Marshal started to get to his feet but the old lady, hearing footsteps approaching behind her, vanished. He heard a voice say very quietly, 'Go to your room.'
'I want my breakfast.'
'You've had it already. Did you forget? Go to your room, now.'
A door closed. Signora Santoli came back with a glass of water in her hand. The Marshal was still on his feet.
'Do sit down. You mustn't mind my mother-in-law. Did she come in here?'
'Just as far as the door. I suppose she was curious to know who was here.'
'Please don't mind her. She's become more or less a child.'
'A stroke?'
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