The Marshal and the Madwoman

by Magdalen Nabb

  'Why in two weeks?'

  'Because my two-month trial period would have been up and he'd have had to take me on permanently.'

  'But you don't like it there.'

  'I know, but then I could have left.'

  'You want to be taken on permanently so you can leave?'

  'Yes. And now what am I going to do? How can I manage now?'

  He went through his pockets looking for another handkerchief. There wasn't one but he found a packet of paper tissues in a drawer and pushed the lot across the desk to her.

  'Thank you. You're the only person who can help me. I don't know where else to turn.'

  By this time he'd worked it out. 'Is it your police permit that's the trouble?'

  'Of course. That's what I'm saying. If he takes me on—'

  'I see. To get a five-year permit to stay in the country you need to prove you've got a permanent job and can support yourself.'

  'My temporary one's going to run out—they gave it to me to cover my trial period and then I'm supposed to take a letter to the Questura from him saying I'm employed—'

  'All right. Well, that's not the end of the world. You'll just have to get another job and another temporary permit and start all over again.'

  'But they won't give me any sort of permit when all this comes out! And even if I do what Laura says and walk out now the police will still catch up with me, won't they? They'll think I'm involved although I didn't know anything about it until Laura's husband—'

  'This Laura—I take it she's someone in your office—just what did she tell you?'

  'About what he's up to! When I told her how he'd screamed at me about the labels. She told her husband and he knew right away what was going on and said he's not the only one doing it by a long way and that he's heard people are after him for payment and if it comes to a head then the whole thing will come out. To think he's been taking it all out on me, that's what's so awful! How could I have known about those stupid buttons? I had an order for three thousand pieces to—'

  'Signorina, will you explain what exactly you think he's "up to"?'

  'It's the labels.'

  'Not the buttons?'

  'The buttons have to be changed, that's the whole point! I've felt ill all day just thinking about it. The doctor's given me antibiotics and he says it could be a virus but he doesn't know what I'm going through.'

  'Would you like a cup of coffee?'

  'No. Yes. I could do with smoking a cigarette if you wouldn't mind.'

  'Go ahead.'

  He got up and asked Di Nuccio to bring some coffee and then let her ramble on until it arrived before trying again.

  'What exactly is the problem with these labels?'

  'They say "Made in Italy" and they're not.'

  'The labels?'

  'The clothes. They're made in Taiwan or some such place. I don't know where. It's fraud, Laura's husband says. There's a law against it.'

  'There is.'

  'So it's true, then. And he thinks he can get away with it by having the clothes finished off in Italy, so he gets the buttons sewn on here. Only this time the manufacturers made a mistake and sent the stuff with buttons already on and I didn't know it was serious, how could I? The order was late so—'

  'All right. Drink your coffee, it's getting cold.'

  'Now I've got his wretched buttons changed and the order's so late the buyers rang up from Germany this morning and refused to take it. He'll sack me.'

  'Well, for the moment he's away, isn't he?'

  'He rings up every day. And he's been back I don't know how many times, rushing in and screaming abuse at me and then dashing back to his bitch of a wife at the seaside. If you ask me, she's the cause of all the trouble. After all, the business is in her name. Women like that make me sick. They never do a stroke of work themselves, they always find somebody else to slave for them. Anyway, the way things are going she'll have to find some other mug because that cancelled order will be the last straw. Laura does the accounts, or she did, and she says so. If he goes bankrupt, what will happen to me?

  'Nothing, Signorina.'

  'If I leave, like Laura says, before the crash, it might look as if I'm running away because I'm involved in the fraud, but if I wait till he sacks me it'll be that much more difficult to get another job, so what shall I do?'

  'Nothing.'

  'How can I do nothing?'

  'Go home and get a good night's sleep. Then go on with your work as best you can and start looking for another job. Nothing will happen within two weeks even if he is going to go bankrupt. If you then get your full permit, well and good. If not, then I'll write you a letter for the Questura which will help you get another temporary one until things get sorted out.'

  'But he could still sack me because of this order.'

  'Well, if that happens—'

  'I'll come and tell you right away.'

  'All right. . . you come and tell me. Now you must excuse me.' He got to his feet.

  'I'll tell you right away. I'll go back to the office now and see how things are. He may have turned up.'

  'All right.'

  'And then I'll ring you.'

  He managed to get her out of the door and she went on her way still weeping.

  'Di Nuccio!'

  'Marshal?'

  'Get me those people who telephoned earlier . . . the Tenants' Association.'

  'Right away.'

  More people's problems. And yet, all the time, in the back of his mind was the one thought: By the end of the day I have to find him.

  He picked up the phone as it started to ring.

  'That number for you, Marshal. It's a Signora Betti.'

  'Hello? Am I speaking to Marshal Guarnaccia?'

  'Yes. Can I help you?'

  'I rang earlier but you were out.'

  'I know. I've already told Signora Rossi that I'm willing—'

  'Oh, it's not about the Rossis—I'm more than grateful to you, of course, they're good people and deserve help—but I wouldn't be disturbing you for that. Didn't they tell you? I left a message saying it was urgent.'

  'Yes, they told me.' Didn't she know that everyone who called here said it was urgent, be it a murder or a missing cat?

  'It's about Signora Franci.'

  'Clementina?'

  'Yes, Clementina, as they called her. When I saw in the paper this morning that she'd been murdered it was a terrible shock. They said it was suicide before and knowing what newspapers are—well, first of all, is it true?'

  'That she was murdered? Yes, it's true.'

  'Then I did right to call you. I think I can help.'

  'The owner of the house?'

  'Exactly! Then you already know.'

  'I'd very much like to hear what you know, beginning with his name.'

  'Fantechi. Carlo Fantechi.'

  'Thank you. And his address?'

  'That I don't know, I'm afraid. We've been dealing through the agents who let the flats. They'll be closed at this time but if you get in touch with them in the morning they'll be able to tell you.'

  But still the Marshal was convinced that he hadn't that much time to waste.

  'What I'm really concerned about,' Signora Betti went on, 'is that I may be indirectly to blame for what happened.'

  'You?'

  'Yes. That's if my suspicions are justified. The trouble was that when she came to see me I couldn't make up my mind about her. She was very strange—well, I saw in the paper after it happened that she'd been in San Salvi but I didn't know that when I met her. I didn't know what to make of her, and that's the truth. There were moments when she seemed quite crazy, which made me wonder if she was telling me the truth, and yet every now and then she would give me such a sharp-eyed glance that I was at a loss. I don't know if I'm making sense to you.'

  'You are.'

  'Well, you probably know more about her than I do. She could have been making the whole thing up or it could have been true and she was exaggerating her own eccent
ricity. In the end I decided not to act until she produced some evidence. Judging by what happened to her, I'm afraid that was a terrible mistake. However, the story was a complicated one and I'm not sure, even now, what I should have done. I'll explain as briefly as I can. In the first place she came to me because, like the Rossi couple, she'd been threatened with eviction. When I asked her the terms of her rental contract she said she didn't have one. She said she didn't pay rent and had a right to the house for as long as she lived.'

  'Did she say the house belonged to her sister?'

  'Yes. It was -true then? It's such an outlandish tale that I'm more than relieved you already know something of it. Yes, the house had been her sister's she said, but the sister's now dead, so it's the property of her brother-in-law though she had the right to live in it for her lifetime. That, as far as it went, seemed normal enough, but what came after it was less credible. If she'd told me outright she'd been in San Salvi the whole thing would have made sense, but she didn't. What she told me was that this man was virtually terrorizing her, threatening to have her locked up unless she got out so he could sell the flat. When she still didn't leave she said he threatened to stop her pension.

  '"They'll put me away. If I can't prove I've got a house and a job they'll put me away. But I won't go!"

  'She was quite clearly terrified but what she was saying made no sense at all. This man must have been trying to make her believe she'd have to go back into the asylum. If only she'd told me about San Salvi I'd have made inquiries there. If she'd been in there all those years it may well be true that she no longer had control of her own money, even her pension. I'm afraid I just didn't believe her, at least, not sufficiently.'

  'What did you do?'

  'I told her that if, as she claimed, she had the right to reside in the flat under the terms of her sister's will, then she should get hold of a copy of the will and bring it to me. If it were true, then in no circumstances could she be evicted and we would defend her. That was the last I saw of her. Oh—another thing she said was that he'd tried to trick her out of leaving the house once before by offering to send her on holiday, on a cruise, of all things.

  '"But I'm up to all his tricks! My sister was a fool all her life to go on putting up with him, but I'm no fool! He won't get me locked up!"

  'Is it surprising that I didn't believe her?'

  'Not a bit.'

  'If only she'd told me the whole truth. Well, what's done is done. But now I'm pretty sure that man was not only threatening her but cheating her, I mean if he was legally responsible for her . . .'

  'Yes. I think he may well have cheated her out of a large inheritance.'

  'And I sent her to ask for a copy of the will! We're supposed to be here to help people, but I've been thinking about it all afternoon, ever since I first tried to call you. If it hadn't been for me, he might have pushed her out of her flat but she'd still be alive today.'

  'Helping people isn't easy. She didn't tell you the truth. People never do.' He didn't, even so, tell her the Rossis had tried to hide their baby from him. After all, he hadn't told them the truth either, had he?

  'But in this case the consequences ... I told her, you see, that we have a lawyer here who would look into the matter. She must have threatened him with that. When I heard she was dead—even when they said it was suicide—I felt terribly guilty for not quite believing her. When it turned out to be murder—do you think her brother-in-law did it?'

  'Yes and no. He got somebody else to do it.'

  'There must have been a great deal of money involved for him to have taken such a risk.'

  'I doubt if it was as simple as that. I don't imagine he's a professional criminal, just a desperate man. He's probably already spent her money.'

  'Perhaps you're right. Whatever the reason, I doubt if I'll ever quite forgive myself, though I feel slightly better for having told you.'

  'I'm more than grateful to you.'

  'It's the least I could do. I'll be honest with you, though. I had my doubts about involving myself, but Linda Rossi turned the scale. With all this on your hands you found time to help them. I couldn't for shame go about my business and not help you with this. When you need me as a witness I'm ready.'

  She rang off.

  So now he knew how Clementina found out, or tried to.

  '/won't go!' She had said that same thing to someone else, too, hadn't she? The memory had barely time to come to the surface of his mind before the phone rang again. If he hadn't been so absorbed by the idea that was forming he might have prevented Di Nuccio from putting the call through, but before he knew where he was, the tearful voice was in full lament, and this time she was even sobbing. He hadn't a hope of interrupting and didn't try.

  'He's not here but the driver hasn't even turned up and now I've no idea where that order's finished up. And that's not all!'

  The memory surfaced and the images fell into place. He waited for a gap that would allow him to make himself heard.

  'Laura just phoned me to say she's heard a rumour he's in prison—that's why he didn't turn up—not him, our driver! What if the police come here? You're the only person who can help me—I promise you I didn't know, I didn't know anything! The fact that I didn't change those buttons is proof, isn't it? Well, isn't it?'

  'Signorina, please stop crying and calm down. It's all over.'

  'But what shall I do?'

  'Nothing. At least, carry on going to the office every day for now.'

  'But if the police come?'

  'The Carabinieri will come. I'll come. And nobody, at this stage, will be bothering you. Do you understand?'

  The only answer was a sob, but it was a quieter one.

  'Now, listen carefully: the business card you gave me had the name—' he fished it out of his pocket—'the name Antonella Masolini.'

  'I told you, it's in her name—'

  'That's right. Her maiden name, I imagine. Is the husband's name Fantechi?'

  'Yes. Carlo Fantechi. Do you know him, then? Does that mean he's already been in prison?'

  'Not necessarily, but I think he may well have been and that that's where he met up with your driver.'

  'It wouldn't surprise me at all to hear that Bruti's been in prison, he's such a nasty bit of goods.'

  'Can you tell me how long your boss has been married to this Antonella Masolini?'

  'I don't know for sure but not all that long. Maybe about four or five years.'

  'Give me their address, will you?'

  'Here or at the seaside?'

  'Both, if you like. Where is he now?'

  'I think he's at home. He telephoned from there before I came to see you and he said he'd be coming in first thing tomorrow morning, so I suppose he's still here.'

  'And did he call you every day?'

  'Every morning, even when he was at the seaside.'

  'You told him, then, that I'd been to see you?'

  'You said I should tell him, that you'd be coming back . . .'

  'That's all right. I remember what I said. Try to remember now exactly what you said—I mean about Clementina. Did you tell him I said she'd been murdered?'

  'I think so ... I suppose I must have done—but what's that got to do with—'

  'Give me those addresses.'

  He wrote them down. He'd got what he wanted without waiting until tomorrow. But he still had to collect that warrant and, for all he knew, the respectable grey-haired man who now had a name but who was always one step ahead could be driving towards the nearest border.

  CHAPTER 11

  'Not bad . . .' Di Nuccio couldn't help commenting as he followed the Marshal into the spacious entrance hall. In front of them was a broad marble staircase with a red carpet running up the centre and a group of tall potted plants on the first landing. 'It looks more like a hotel. . .'

  'Can I help you?'

  The window of the porter's lodge was on their left and a thin face was peering out at them over the top of a newspaper. The Marsh
al walked over and said: 'Fantechi.'

  'They're away.'

  Ignoring this, the Marshal asked, 'They own their flat, don't they?'

  'They all do in this condominium. It belonged to his first wife.' He gave a sign to Di Nuccio and they both stepped inside the lodge, out of sight.

  'How long have you been here?'

  'Me? Fifteen years . . .' He folded the newspaper and looked from the Marshal's blank face to Di Nuccio's belligerent one. 'Is something up?'

  'Yes,' said the Marshal, without bothering to tell him what. 'Which floor?'

  'They're away, I tell you.' He tailed off as the Marshal's blank stare was suddenly replaced by a dangerous one. 'It's the third floor—listen, I'm not getting myself into trouble for anybody. It was him told me not to—in any case, it's true there's nobody up there.'

  'Where's he gone?'

  'Only to get cigarettes. He rang down and asked me to go but I can't leave the place unattended, my wife's not here. So you see it was true when I said there was nobody—'

  'We'll wait. What's his wife like, the second one?'

  'His wife? Listen, I can't—' 'You can't what?'

  'Nothing. I'm just saying ... I don't think I should be giving information without people's permission.'

  'No? I didn't ask you for any information, I asked for your opinion. What's she like?'

  'Well . . . young.'

  'How young?'

  'No spring chicken but I bet she's more than twenty years younger than him. I'd give her thirty-five or thirty-six, and flashy with it, you know what I mean?'

  'No.'

  'Well, he's careful not to let her out of his sight much and I don't blame him.'

  'No? But he has let her out of his sight. She's at the seaside and he's here, even though he told you to say he wasn't and not to let anybody up. If I were you I wouldn't get on the wrong side of the law for him.'

  'What's he done?'

  'Who said he'd done anything?'

  'No need to, is there, if you're here?' He hadn't said a word against Fantechi but the Marshal, observing his sharp face and steady eye, reckoned he had every one of the residents summed up and didn't much care for this one.