The Marshal wanted a good look at all of them but he couldn’t concentrate. His gaze returned again and again to Neri Ulderighi who never ceased to cry during the ceremony.
He was up there screaming . . .
William Yorke had heard him screaming when he thought he’d heard a shot. Screaming in the darkness. The Marshal, too, had heard him in the darkness. At least, he couldn’t be sure but he thought he had. Playing the flute in the dark. Not unnaturally, it occurred to the Marshal that the boy might have some problem with his eyes and he looked at him now, from behind his own protective glasses, with even more curiosity. How often it had happened to the Marshal to be stared at by people who thought he was crying when he’d simply forgotten to put his glasses on? But the movements? The way his head kept jerking and falling forward? He was crying, he must be.
The prayers were over and the coffin was being carried inside the tomb, the only noise the feet of the bearers on the gravel, then silence, punctuated by birdsong. The Marshal, looking about him for his boy, was drawn to Neri again and this time, with a little start of surprise, he realized that Neri was looking straight back at him. He seemed to have stopped weeping but he was nevertheless being supported by the priest, who began trying to lead him away. Neri stopped him and spoke urgently in his ear. Then he looked again across at the Marshal. What could he want? The Marshal himself had a strong impression, which he could give no logical reason for, that he wanted help.
Now it was the priest who was talking, his hand gesticulating close to his mouth as though he spoke in a whisper. The Marshal was standing so still watching them that a blackbird hopped right by his big shoes, chinking its love song and hopping away on the grass behind him. The priest’s arm went round Neri’s shoulder. Neri was much taller and bigger, yet it was plain to see that the priest was controlling the situation. Neri might have been a big child. It was just what a child would have done when thwarted, to turn back as he was led away and insist on staring at the Marshal.
The Marshal could make nothing of it. He glanced at the Ulderighi tomb and then at the tall white angel guarding what he now saw was a small child’s grave. Corsi’s bones were at rest and tiny invisible birds were singing in the cypresses.
Seven
‘He’s a humper at the central market and, by all accounts, every bit as nasty as his mugshot suggests.’ Lorenzini had the photo in his hand as he made his bleary-eyed Sunday report. He hadn’t worked all night for a long time and his body ached all over. The Marshal hadn’t even told him to sit down. He was standing there at the window with his shoulders hunched and his back to the young brigadier and you’d think from his gruffness that he’d been the one to work all night.
‘I’m sorry, but there was just nothing,’ Lorenzini continued. ‘I’ll go on trying, of course, but what makes it look so hopeless is that because of the jobs they do one goes to bed practically at the time the other gets up.’
‘What about the football? Isn’t this Tiny character involved in that?’ There must be a point of contact between Tiny and someone inside the Palazzo Ulderighi. Who else could it be but Leo? ‘He sounds the type, thug like that.’
‘It’s the first thing I checked. He couldn’t play, naturally, because he’s got a criminal record—you may not believe this, but the players are theoretically meant to be the sons of noblemen of the city.’
‘Hmph.’
‘I suppose centuries ago they were. Anyway, this Tiny did have something to do with it but years ago, well before Leo got involved. He’s quite a lot older, you know.’
To Lorenzini’s relief the Marshal did at last turn from the window and take a good look at him.
‘Why don’t you sit down? You look worn out.’
‘Thanks.’ Lorenzini sank into the first chair he saw but the Marshal stayed on his feet, staring at the map of his Quarter as if it might reveal to him of its own accord the spot where Leo and Tiny made whatever deal resulted in Tiny’s prints on the shoes of Buongianni Corsi.
‘What about this club where Leo works?’
‘I went there last night. He’s a bouncer and on the door most of the night—but not last night because of today’s match. It’s a private club, a sort of mini disco. Ghastly place, underground and painted grey and black. Suffocating. I looked at the list of members. Tiny’s not on it. I showed the mugshot around as well in case the regulars had seen him there as a guest. Nothing. I stayed around till closing time. It seems hopeless. Tiny must start work at dawn when our friend Leo is snoring in bed.’
‘Try bars—and restaurants, presumably they’re both awake at supper-time. Maybe even that pizzeria opposite the palazzo. No, wait a minute. Go home and get some rest. Give me that.’
The Marshal took the mugshot, got into his jacket and slipped the picture into his top pocket. ‘I’m going to the Ulderighi place. I’ll make a start— What about his previous convictions? Have you—’
‘I spent all this morning on it, but Leo’s name never cropped up in any of the reports on Tiny—well, you did say it was unlikely . . .’
‘All right, all right. If there was nothing, there was nothing.’
‘I haven’t even had lunch,’ grumbled Lorenzini all but inaudibly. He might as well not have said it. The Marshal wasn’t listening, nor was he displeased with Lorenzini’s efforts. He was disturbed, and he couldn’t have put a name to what was disturbing him if you’d paid him for it.
‘Oof!’ That was nothing more than an involuntary protest against the fierce blast of the sun as he came out on to the unprotected forecourt of the Pitti Palace. Heat was shimmering above all the parked cars and the Marshal, sheltered by hat and dark glasses, wondered at the temerity of the tourists who seemed to want to expose themselves to burns.
Disturbed. He had been from the start but then he’d put it down to being afraid for his own skin, or at least his job. It wasn’t that now because, whatever happened, those prints of Tiny’s were a justification for an inquiry. He wasn’t harassing the Ulderighi family and he could even be protecting them. He didn’t believe that but somebody else might.
‘Excuse me . . . Excuse me . . .’ Why the devil didn’t people move? Standing there blocking the pavement that was anyway only wide enough for one. ‘Excuse me . . .’ He could do without arriving at the Ulderighi house with smears of ice-cream on the sleeve of his uniform.
It wasn’t until he stopped under the scaffolding to ring the porter’s bell that he remembered the match. All these people collecting on the pavements were there to get a good view of the procession. What was the matter with him? The kids had been on about the match all morning and all through lunch, still annoyed, of course, that they weren’t allowed to go and would have to watch it on television. Teresa had, at some point during the meal, put an infuriated stop to the whole discussion and already he’d forgotten that the match existed. Asleep on his feet. His mother used to say it, his teachers often said it. Teresa, if she hadn’t said it in front of the boys, had likely enough thought it, because he hadn’t, as far as he could remember, contributed a word to the argument.
‘Oh, it’s you . . .’ The porter’s usual greeting, accompanied by the usual piano music.
The Marshal stepped inside without even answering. He was getting pretty sick of being treated like a door-to-door salesman. Once they were through the gates and within range of the feeble light-bulb the Marshal pressed the light-switch and thrust the photograph from his pocket at the porter. ‘Have you seen this man?’
‘Seen him? How do you mean?’
‘I mean what I say. Have you seen him? Has he been in this building? Is he a friend of your son’s?’
‘I don’t know who he is. All these questions.’
‘That’s one question I didn’t ask you. I already know who he is. I want to know if you’ve seen him.’
‘Well, I haven’t.’
‘You might have to swear to that on oath.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
The Marshal didn
’t answer but crossed the courtyard to ring the bell of the music studio. The music didn’t stop at once but continued to the end of a phrase. The Marshal, glancing behind him, saw that the porter had vanished into his lair.
‘Oh, it’s you!’
Ah well, at least he said it pleasantly. He was as spruce and shining as ever.
‘Do come in. Is there any news?’
‘Not really. I won’t come in but I wanted to show you this.’
‘Heavens! What a monster! I tend to look like a wanted criminal myself on my passport photographs but this must be the real thing.’
‘Yes. This is the real thing. Have you ever seen him before?’
‘What, in the flesh, you mean?’
‘Yes. Hanging around this house, for instance, or with the porter’s son.’
‘Absolutely not! Oh, I suppose he doesn’t look quite as bad as that in real life but I think he’d be fairly memorable just the same, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I think he would. If you should see him, even hanging about in the street near here, would you get in touch with me?’
The Marshal offered him a card with his telephone number and tucked the photograph out of sight. ‘I’ll want to show this to the other tenants if they’re about.’
‘Well, Hugh might well be in but Flavia went away for the weekend, I think.’
‘Yes, I think I heard her say she was going away. It’s of no importance. I’ll need to come back tomorrow, in any case, when the dancing school’s open. I’m sorry to have disturbed your playing.’
‘That’s all right—oh, I knew there was something I wanted to tell you if you came back! It almost slipped my mind but, talking about disturbances, do you know that there was a noise the other night that sounded exactly like a shot? Woke the whole place up and gave yours truly a fright! Well, I mean, after what’s happened . . . Still, I suppose it could have been anything and we’re all present and correct. Wasn’t it weird, though?’
‘You needn’t have worried. It was a firework.’ The Marshal had no intention of saying who’d let it off but it did occur to him to say, ‘I’m surprised you didn’t tell me about this right away, given, as you say, what’s happened.’
It wasn’t an accusation. He said it very mildly.
‘Well, I expect I would have if I’d seen you and you’d asked. I mean, one doesn’t go rushing round to the cara-binieri to say one’s heard a noise, if you see what I mean.’
‘Yes, of course.’ The Marshal wasn’t all that convinced of the logic of this statement but within a day or two he was to be convinced of its truth.
‘Marshal . . . a word with you.’
Emilio had returned to his piano. This whispered appeal came from the other side of the courtyard where the lift had just descended. The Marshal peered across through the gloom and saw, standing by the lift doors with the keys in his hand, the family priest. The Marshal walked slowly across to him, the familiar disturbed feeling of foreboding coming to the surface once again.
‘Good afternoon, Father.’
‘Please . . .’ He was being asked to step into the lift. ‘It’s rather urgent, would you mind . . .’ The priest continued his ‘rather urgent’ whispering as the lift rose.
‘I’m sorry,’ the Marshal said, ‘I didn’t hear what you said.’ The priest only came up to his shoulder. The hand that he laid on the Marshal’s uniformed sleeve was plump and white as a baby’s.
‘It’s all for the best, I do feel that or I wouldn’t have dreamt . . . Here we are.’
They emerged on the floor where the concert had taken place.
‘This way.’ Plump as a waddling pigeon, he bustled along the darkly polished passage in front of the Marshal. The double doors to the two great drawing-rooms were closed on either side. They continued to the end and the priest opened a heavy brass-handled door. ‘Just a moment . . .’ He turned on a light. There was nothing beyond the door but a staircase, one flight of smooth stone steps leading up to another door like the first.
The Marshal wanted to ask where the devil he was being taken but he was distracted by the thought of somebody saying to him at some point, ‘You never see him on the stairs.’ Who . . . He was getting short of breath, but so was the priest. He was slowing down a good bit. Thank goodness for that, anyway. They were steep, these stairs, and slippery and all you could hang on to was a worn and heavy rope looped through iron rings set into the wall. The Marshal’s hands were big and he could only just manage a grip on such a rope. The little priest was using both hands. He paused at the top on the brass handle of the second door but didn’t turn it.
‘I just want to warn you that the minute I’ve shown you in I shall leave you. I feel it’s better that you see him alone.’ All this still in a whisper.
‘What exactly—’ began the Marshal.
‘Shh! Now he’s very distressed, so I do hope that once he’s told you what he wants to tell you you’ll leave. You’ll find me here. You understand that all this is because there is a serious threat to his health. A very serious threat, otherwise . . . Do go in, do go in.’
And the Marshal found himself hustled through the door, which was shut on him. Behind it he heard the priest’s shuffling steps go on upwards. For a moment he stood quite still wanting to be sure that the room was quite empty. It was. He knew by instinct where he was even before crossing the room to look down from the window. The diminished courtyard lay below him. He was in the tower, though not at the top of it. The piano music was still just audible. There was a good view of the entrance. He saw the porter come out and let someone through the gates. A woman. No one he recognized. Not that it was easy to recognize someone from above like that—he’d hardly have known who the porter was if he hadn’t seen him come out of the lodge. But this woman had red hair so it wasn’t anybody belonging to the house. She started up the staircase and disappeared from view.
‘You never see him on the stairs . . .’ He was pretty sure that Flavia Martelli had said that about somebody, but who and why he couldn’t recall. These northerners talked so damn fast you couldn’t keep up with all they were telling you. Well, sooner or later it would come to him. Difficult to work out whose flat was whose from here, but if Dr Martelli was away then that one was most likely hers with all the shutters closed. So next door on her . . . left, if he remembered rightly—yes, that was the painter’s flat. Easy to see right into it. Surely there shouldn’t be that much light in a room on the courtyard where even the midsummer sun didn’t penetrate? Must be some special lighting. Probably he was painting. There he was. Waving some sort of coloured sheet about in the middle of the room. The Marshal heard a bell ring quite clearly. Amazing! It must have been the painter’s bell because he dropped the sheet at once and went off. Of course, sound always travels upwards and in the enclosed space of the courtyard . . . His thoughts were interrupted by what happened next. He saw the red-haired woman come into the centre of the painter’s room. Fido himself followed and encircled her from behind with his arms. Then he stood back. The red-haired woman took off her clothes quickly and lay down in full view of the window.
Once over the initial shock the Marshal began to reason that what the woman was doing was posing. He knew that sort of thing was done—but in full view of the window? With all that artificial lighting he could surely close the shutters. In full view . . . But it wasn’t true, not the way he’d thought. The Marshal was looking round the other windows now and it wasn’t true. The woman was arranged on some sort of low dais where Fido had thrown the coloured sheet. The flats were on the top floor of the building. The only window high enough to look down on the naked woman was this one.
A faint noise behind him made him jump and he turned away from the window as though he felt guilty. Neri Ulderighi stood facing him, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. He didn’t approach the window but the involuntary glance over the Marshal’s shoulder and the blush which darkened his face told everything. Almost everything.
‘You were very kin
d to come and see me. Father Benigni said . . . Won’t you sit down?’ His voice was quiet, or weak, perhaps, as though he were unused to speaking to people. ‘Will you sit here? Father Benigni always sits here. You see, it’s comfortable. My chair is close and we can talk.’ Neri had turned a faded round leather chair away from a table in the corner so that it faced the Marshal. The Marshal, again, was very conscious of Neri’s size and bulk and the awkwardness of how he held his head. He wasn’t crying now, though the Marshal had an idea that he might have been not long before because his eyes seemed too bright and his face was flushed. He had no idea what to say to him. How could he have? He was a total stranger, an enigma, and what, anyway, did he want? So the Marshal said nothing and Neri fixed him with shiny beseeching eyes.
Don’t take me back to that house . . .
They were Corsi’s eyes, the eyes of the corpse he must but couldn’t abandon, and whatever Neri wanted to tell him he knew from the sickly feeling of apprehension in the pit of his stomach that he would be sorry to know it. If he found words at last it was only to put off the evil moment. He glanced past Neri to where the table behind him was covered with tiny leather boxes. ‘I heard you were a collector.’
It was as easy as distracting a small child. The anguished eyes filled with pleasure.
‘Oh yes, indeed. It takes up almost all my time. Do you know much about antique coins and medals?’
‘Nothing at all, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh dear. But then, why should you . . . You must have a great deal of work to do and then . . . Father Benigni very wisely told me that it would be wrong to take up too much of your time unnecessarily. Father Benigni is always very thoughtful of the needs and problems of others. He’s always tried to teach me to be like him, but I’m afraid I’m a bad pupil.’
‘You have problems of your own, I imagine. I understand that your health—’
The Marshal Makes His Report Page 13
