A Dead Man in Naples

by Michael Pearce

  ‘In my case, it’s chaste, Marchesa,’ declared Chantale.

  ‘Of course. And an Englishwoman’s natural reserve. But then, you are not an Englishwoman, are you, Signorina? Where are you from? Libya?’

  ‘Morocco.’

  ‘Ah, then, our gallant soldiers will still have some way to go even when they get to Libya, if they want to find someone like you. They will just have to pedal further, that’s all. Which they may well be prepared to do, of course, if they see someone like you at the end of the road. However, I am forgetting. The French have got there first. Closely followed, it would appear, by the British.’

  ‘Seymour is a policeman,’ said Richards. ‘We thought that while he was here he might take a look at that Scampion business.’

  ‘It’s taken them long enough to send someone,’ said the Marchesa. And is he up to the job? said her look of cool appraisal.

  ‘I would appreciate a private word with you, Marchesa,’ said Seymour.

  ‘No words are private in Naples,’ said the Marchesa, ‘but you can try. I shall be in the San Stefano at lunchtime.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be having lunch with me,’ complained Vincente.

  ‘Why, so I am. Bring your fiancée along, Mr Seymour, and she and Vincente can entertain each other while we talk. Vincente is my cousin, Signorina, and quite safe. That is, he’s entirely biddable. I find that it is not what men have in mind that is significant – they all have the same thing in mind – but whether they’ll do what they’re told. Vincente will always do what he is told.’

  ‘Luisa, you bitch!’ said Vincente.

  ‘The San Stefano at one,’ said the Marchesa.

  * * *

  The cyclists began to wheel their bicycles away to the square in front of the Palazzo Reale where they congregated before and after the races.

  ‘My last time,’ one of them said to Vincente. ‘I’m off to Libya next week.’

  ‘Lucky sod!’ said Vincente.

  The other man looked at him curiously.

  ‘Your turn never comes up, Vincente, does it?’

  ‘I know, Umberto. It’s not for want of reminding. I remind them every time.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘But you’re right. I’m beginning to think it can’t be an accident. I think my father must have fixed it.’

  ‘You think he doesn’t want you to go?’

  ‘I think my mother doesn’t want me to go. And she can wrap my father around her little finger.’

  ‘Can’t you bypass them somehow?’

  ‘I thought of speaking to Alessandro, Luisa’s husband. He’s well up in Rome. I would ask Luisa to speak to him, only she says she doesn’t want to lose her little cousin just yet. Not until another good dancer comes along. “Listen, Luisa,” I say, “there are dozens of good dancers among the officers.” “But they’re all so sweaty,” she says. “It’s all the bicycling they do. And, while we’re on the subject, Vincente, can I just drop a hint?” “I always have a shower when I get back to the barracks after racing,” I say. “Yes, but before you get back to barracks –”’

  ‘That’s unreasonable!’ said Umberto.

  ‘That’s what I tell her, but she waves it away.’

  Umberto laughed. ‘She’s a character, isn’t she? A real character!’

  ‘She’s all right,’ Vincente conceded. ‘It’s just that she’s a bit out of place down here. “That’s why I can’t let you go and get yourself killed just yet, Vincente,” she says. “You’re the one thing I’ve got to remind me of Rome. Without you I would dwindle away. Just disappear.” I’ve tried it – tried getting her to speak to Alessandro. But somehow it never works. She always slips away somehow. “I’m the wrong person,” she says. “I never speak to my husband, and in the days when I did, he never listened to me.”’

  ‘Well, keep trying,’ said Umberto, wheeling his bicycle away.

  ‘They are so beautiful,’ sighed Francesca.

  ‘If I had as much money as they have, I would be beautiful, too,’ said Giorgio.

  ‘Money isn’t everything,’ said Francesca.

  ‘Maybe, but it means you can buy a good bicycle.’

  ‘If things work out the way you want,’ said Francesca kindly, ‘you will be able to buy a good bicycle.’

  ‘Yes, but it will take so long! Another eighteen months before I can enlist, then three years in the ranks, and only then can I come home. And buy a bicycle.’

  ‘And marry,’ sighed Francesca. ‘I will still be waiting for you, Giorgio.’

  ‘I’ll probably get shot,’ said Giorgio gloomily.

  Francesca laid her hand on his arm.

  ‘Do not say that, Giorgio. Do not ever say that. Even in jest.’

  ‘Maybe I won’t die,’ said Giorgio, pleased with the effect he had produced.

  Seymour went over to one of the race officials who was just packing up.

  ‘Another successful event,’ he said.

  ‘It was, wasn’t it?’ agreed the man.

  ‘The loss of that poor Englishman who was killed doesn’t seem to have affected things.’

  ‘No, it hasn’t. Of course, other people stepped in. Vincente, for example. These days, though, it mostly runs itself.’

  ‘Ah, you say that. But without the help of devoted people like you –’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. There would be others. I used to race myself, you know. But then I had an injury.’

  ‘It’s good of you to stay involved.’

  ‘I’d go mad, otherwise. I was about to be posted but then, when the injury happened, of course I couldn’t go. I’ve just been hanging around here!’

  ‘I was shocked when I heard about the Englishman. Stabbed! In broad daylight! I didn’t realize that sort of thing happened down here.’

  ‘Well, it does. There are plenty of people in the back streets who are a bit too ready with a knife.’

  ‘But why? He doesn’t seem to have been the sort of chap who would bring a thing like that upon himself.’

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘I wondered if it was anything to do with the racing?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Why should it be?’

  ‘Well, look, I’m a stranger here so I wouldn’t know. But there’s a lot of betting, isn’t there? And I wondered if that could be something to do with it?’

  ‘Well, it could, to be honest. There is a lot of betting, although I didn’t notice there was that much on us. But where there is betting, there is usually the Camorra. And if there was something going on, they might be ready to use their knives.’

  ‘Who would know about this? About the betting world, I mean? The lottery is municipal, isn’t it? We have private bookmakers at home.’

  ‘Well, we don’t exactly have bookmakers, but just about every bar in Naples has a finger in the pie. You could try asking in one of them. But I’ll tell you what.’ The man laughed. ‘The person to ask is Father Pepito.’

  ‘Father Pepito?’

  ‘Yes. He has a parish just outside Naples. Or, at least, he did have until they caught up with him. They found that there was an obscure lottery office in a little village and every week a considerable sum was being paid out in winnings. They looked into it and found that the winner was always the same man, a priest.

  ‘He was a man of exemplary piety and spent all his winnings on good causes, the Church, charities, gifts to the poor. Never on himself. So people said, well, look, maybe the Madonna helps him. Gives him the tips in a dream. She might do that if it was all for the poor.

  ‘And his bosses in the Church, the Cardinal himself, so they say, said, well, look, he’s only doing good, and, certainly, the people he helps could do with the money. The Church is glad of the money. And then charities, well, they’re all beyond reproach. Of course, we’ve got to be sure that it’s all above board. Well, they checked, and everything was above board. So they said, well, okay, you can go on. But keep it decent. And how do you do it, by the way?

  ‘Well, he
said, before I became a priest I was a professor. At Salerno University. I was a mathematician and interested in probability theory. And I worked out this system . . .

  ‘Well, of course, they couldn’t leave it like that and wanted to know more. But he wouldn’t tell them. No, he said, I’m using it for God’s purposes and that ought to be enough for you. But it wasn’t enough for the people in the tax office and they began asking questions.

  ‘Well, I don’t know what they found, but one day Father Pepito got called in by the bishop. I don’t know what was said but after that Father Pepito stopped placing bets. I think a deal was struck with the tax authorities. They would take no action if the betting stopped and the bishop kept an eye on him. Anyway, after that, Father Pepito stopped betting. He was transferred to another church, one closer to the city, where the bishop could see what he was doing, and concentrated on his duties as priest.

  ‘But if you need to know anything about betting in Naples, he’s the man I suggest you go to.’

  When, later, Seymour and Chantale got to the San Stefano, they found Vincente there but no Marchesa.

  ‘She’s awful!’ Vincente said. ‘She always does this!’

  ‘She’s awful!’ Vincente ‘Doesn’t turn up?’

  ‘Oh, she turns up. Eventually. But late. Always late! But at least you are here, Signorina,’ he said, kissing Chantale’s hand, which Chantale liked but Seymour didn’t.

  He led them into a large lounge. It was a very high room with shutters over the windows and glass doors which opened on to a little patio with orange trees in pots and small tubbed palm trees. In one corner, behind the orange trees, there was a table and benches.

  ‘This pleases you?’ Vincente said to Chantale.

  ‘It seems just right. Cool in the shade but with a little air.’

  ‘Yes. Inside, it is cool but there is no air.’

  ‘Will the Marchesa find us?’ asked Seymour.

  ‘Oh, yes. When she gets here,’ said Vincente gloomily. He brightened. ‘We could have a drink,’ he said, ‘and put it on her bill. Alimoncello, Signorina? They do cocktails here but I don’t know that I would recommend them. I think I shall have a beer.’

  ‘A beer for me, too, please,’ said Seymour.

  Vincente disappeared inside and came back followed by a waiter with a tray on which were the various drinks, together with bowls of pistachio nuts and olives.

  ‘If she leaves it too long, we’ll have lunch,’ he said. ‘We’ll put that on her bill, too. She’ll complain but she’s got pots of money. Her husband, Alessandro, is a banker. Not a lot of it comes my way, though, I have to say.’

  ‘And your cousin has been banished here, I gather,’ said Seymour.

  ‘Banished?’ said Chantale. ‘To Naples?’

  Vincente nodded. ‘Alessandro insisted that she leave Rome. It got so bad. But where could she go? She barely knew that there were places outside Rome. Milan? But that is where Alessandro does a lot of business and he wasn’t having her there. Florence? But that was where she had been before and where it got so awful. Naples was the only place left.’

  ‘Florence was where she met Signor Scampion, wasn’t it?’

  ‘He was one of a crowd. The D’Annunzio crowd. When D’Annunzio got thrown out, she was at a loss. Didn’t know what to do. Became even wilder.’

  ‘And Scampion?’

  ‘Got wilder, too. They all did.’

  ‘He was banished to Naples, too.’

  ‘Yes, but it was at about that time that he discovered bicycling. It was all the rage. I got myself a bicycle and started to go out every afternoon. We formed a club. That’s where Scampion got the idea. It was the same people, really. Army officers. We were all browned off, with nothing to do. Waiting for Libya. So bicycling was a life-saver. Well, then we all got posted down here – it’s a transit camp, you see. People on their way to Libya. And then Scampion came along and said, why don’t we set up a club here, too? The Racing Club of Naples? And so we did.’

  ‘And you’ve carried on with it?’

  ‘Yes. I was the obvious man. I’d been helping him do the running. Well, I didn’t mind. It gave me something to do. A life-saver for me, too.’

  ‘And it seems to have really taken off,’ said Seymour.

  ‘Well, yes, it’s proved pretty popular. Of course, we have a big turnover. More people leave after a time. But then new people are always coming, that’s the other side of it. So the Club stays much the same size.’

  ‘And mostly army officers?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘I just wondered if you took in many members from outside?’

  ‘Well, in principle it’s open to anyone. But in practice – well, I suppose it’s pretty well all officers. The thing is, you see, we couldn’t just have anybody. They’ve got to be the right sort.’

  ‘And there aren’t people of the right sort in Naples?’ asked Chantale.

  ‘Not really. You know, Naples is a poor town. Oh, it seems very nice, I know, with the bay and all that. But there’s not a lot of money around. There isn’t much money in the south as a whole. Southern Italy is very poor. So there aren’t, really, people of the right sort.’

  ‘There’s a bit of a gap, then, between the Club and the town?’

  ‘There are not many other bicyclists in Naples, if that’s what you mean. But I think that they like to see us. For one thing, when we race every Saturday it’s a bit of fun for them. The Neapolitans like a spectacle. Besides, well, you know, it’s the army. And there’s a lot of pride in the army just now. People like to see us. I think, you know, we do a lot of good. Just by showing ourselves. Waving the flag, as it were. Reminds them there’s a war on. And the fact that we’re off to fight pretty soon, well, I think it has an effect on people.’

  The Marchesa swept out on to the patio and paused.

  ‘My dear!’ she cried. ‘A thousand apologies! I’m late again – I bought a few things and they took so long to wrap them up! Has Vincente been looking after you? I’m sure he has! And are these drinks? I could do with one myself after the morning I’ve had! Vincente, order a cocktail for me!’

  ‘Well, I could, but are you sure?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be sure?’

  ‘They don’t do very good ones here. And they haven’t heard of half of them. If you’re hoping for a Fuzzy Bear, I would forget about it.’

  ‘No Fuzzy Bear? Couldn’t you show them how, Vincente? I’m sure you could.’

  ‘Well, I could, if they had everything I need.’

  ‘Tell them to send out for things if they haven’t got them,’ advised the Marchesa.

  ‘It will take ages,’ grumbled Vincente, but he went off.

  ‘He fusses,’ said the Marchesa, ‘but –’ she smiled at Chantale – ‘he’s very biddable. Why don’t you go and bid him, my dear?’

  Chantale stayed put.

  ‘No? Oh, well . . .’ She shrugged. ‘He’s really quite nice when you get to know him. As I’m sure you would find.’

  Chantale studied her glass.

  The Marchesa laughed.

  ‘I was just trying to arrange things so that I could have a private tête-à-tête with Mr Seymour. To talk business. Business,’ she repeated with emphasis.

  ‘Do you want to talk business?’ Chantale asked Seymour.

  ‘Well . . .’

  He was beginning to see that there could be a disadvantage about having Chantale with him.

  Chantale got up and stalked away: not in the direction Vincente had taken, however.

  The Marchesa watched her go, smiling.

  ‘And you really are here to investigate poor Scampion’s murder?’ she asked, putting her hand on Seymour’s arm.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. It seemed so wrong, somehow, to kill a man like that.’

  ‘Like what, Marchesa?’

  ‘Well, you know. An innocent. That’s how I always thought of him. An innocent like you have in those vast Russian novels. Untouched by
evil although evil is going on all around him. But he never sees it. We are a terrible lot, you know, the Roman crowd. Or what I think of as the Roman crowd, although I suppose that when Scampion got to know us we were the Florence crowd. But Florence is just a suburb of Rome, anyway. Or it was when D’Annunzio was there.’

  ‘You know, Marchesa, I never knew Scampion. And, of course, I never knew “the Roman crowd”. But when you speak of them I think I know what you mean. And from what I have heard of Scampion I find it hard to see him fitting into that world.’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t! Not at all.’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t! Not ‘Then how . . .?’

  ‘I don’t quite know. He was already part of it when I arrived. But I have a dreadful feeling . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That it was through that awful bicycling. It had just become the rage, you see. All the smart young were doing it. A lot of the young officers were doing it and of course they were all well connected. It could have been through them. Or he could simply have met someone at a party. There were plenty of those. Anyway, he got to know D’Annunzio and after that he was simply carried away. On the crest of a bicycle, you might say.’

  ‘D’Annunzio was an enthusiast for bicycling?’

  ‘No, no. At least, not actively. He liked to watch the young officers, with their over-developed thighs, but to watch was about all he wanted. I think he was afraid he might fall off. He wasn’t bothered about hurting himself but he was afraid he might look ridiculous. He couldn’t bear to appear ridiculous. No, riding horses was more his line. He was a divine horseman. Oh, and aeroplanes. He liked driving aeroplanes. Anything that smacked of the cavalry. Not bicycles, however. But it could have been at a race that they met. D’Annunzio took a fancy to him and after that he was always in his company.’

  ‘And whirling in a great social whirl?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Meeting people he would not otherwise have met?’