Death in Autumn

by Magdalen Nabb

  He was looking for confirmation of what both he and the Substitute Prosecutor had suspected that chilly early morning on the river bank when the doctor had made his first examination. They had seen bruises on the neck and a laceration round one side.

  FOR THE ATTENTION OF THE SUBSTITUTE PROSECUTOR OF THE REPUBLIC FOR FLORENCE

  The undersigned Dr Maurizio Forli was, on 29th September, called by the Procura of Florence to examine the body of an unidentified corpse recovered from the river Arno. Following the external examination of the body at the point of recovery a request was made for dissection and forensic examination for the purpose of supplying information on the time and cause of death and the identification of the corpse.

  In answer to specific queries received in relation to the aforementioned request:

  1. Death occurred six hours before recovery of the corpse.

  2. Cause of death was throttling.

  3. The body is that of a female of approximately fifty years of age.

  There followed an account of the external examination of the body, beginning with clothing and jewellery and noting that according to the presentation of hypostasis the victim had been naked at the time of death and had been left in a supine position for 3-4 hours after death occurred. Excoriations on the forehead and hands containing clay and grit had been caused by the rolling of the body on the river bed, the major part of the corpse being protected by the fur coat. The signs of throttling were dealt with at greater length.

  . . . pronounced cyanosis of the face . . . asymmetrical bruising accompanied by half-moon lesions, the bruising being more extensive and the lesion deeper on the left side of the neck, indicating that the aggressor was right-handed.

  But it was the next paragraph which interested the Captain.

  Laceration surrounded by extensive bruising on the left side of the neck suggesting the removal by violence of a heavy necklace. It should be noted:

  a) The form of the laceration suggests a necklace matching the bracelet worn by the deceased.

  b) The extensive bruising surrounding the laceration indicates that it occurred before death.

  c) The position of the laceration indicates that it was made by a left to right movement while the victim was supine.

  The Captain read the paragraph through again but still it made no sense. If the motive was robbery the attacker would have taken all the jewellery, not just one piece, and the same thing applied if robbery was a simulated motive. And if the attacker had for some reason wanted only the necklace it would have been easier to remove it after the woman's death. That only left a violent quarrel as the reason for ripping the necklace off, but it hadn't been found..The attacker had taken it with him and either kept it or thrown it in the river.

  'Or maybe,' murmured the Captain to himself, 'he ripped it off because it was simply in his way.' Gradually, he was building up in his mind a picture of an exceptionally cool-headed murderer who acted quickly and calculatedly so that the victim had no warning and no chance to react, and who had calmly dressed the body in the fur coat and taken it, possibly in the passenger seat of a car, to the river. He read through the rest of the autopsy report without much hope of finding anything helpful.

  The woman had had a slightly enlarged heart, probably congenital, which would have helped her attacker in that she had probably lost consciousness very quickly after he had begun throttling her.

  Stomach contained approximately 200 grammes of milk partially coagulated . . . kidneys and pancreas normal . . . reproductive organs normal . . . scar dating back fifteen to twenty years probably connected with a difficult birth ... It should be noted:

  a) that the lungs contained no water.

  b) that the stomach contents carried no odour of alcohol. . .

  She hadn't been too drunk to react, then. Had she been asleep? There were no marks on the body to suggest that there had been a struggle with her attacker, but if she was asleep it made no sense to rip off the necklace instead of unfastening it. The Captain sat alone, struggling to make sense of such information as he had on the unknown woman. Then he reached for the telephone.

  'Get me Stazione Pitti.'

  But it was Brigadier Lorenzini who answered. 'I'm sorry, sir, the Marshal's out on his hotel round.'

  'Ask him to ring me when he gets in.'

  'Yes, sir. He should be back any minute . . . But he was late getting off with it being Monday morning.'

  'I understand.'

  Monday morning was always the same. People returning late on Sunday night after a day out or a weekend away would find the house broken into or the car or the dog missing, and first thing Monday morning they would be queueing up with sheets of government-stamped paper to report the theft. It had been after eleven-thirty when the Marshal had finally managed to get away, determined to check on two boarding-houses that he kept a particular eye on. Afterwards he decided to make a brief call at a more luxurious hotel which he had to pass anyway on his way back.

  The Riverside Hotel was quiet when the Marshal arrived. Lunch was being served in the main dining-room, and the blue-carpeted breakfast lounge to the right of the reception hall was empty apart from one elderly couple who were probably waiting for a taxi. Some matching luggage was stacked near the door. The receptionist, a smooth young man wearing a black silk bow tie, handed the blue register over with no other comment than a prim 'good morning'. The Marshal was on first name terms with the receptionists, proprietors and porters who received him in more modest hotels, and conducted open warfare with those of some particularly seedy ones, but here he was regarded as a necessary evil and kept at a distance. On the whole he preferred open warfare to chilly politeness. Nevertheless, the fact that he was none too welcome didn't perturb him in the least and he took his time just as he always did, reading each registration carefully with his protruding eyes that noticed everything and betrayed nothing. When he had finished he handed back the register without a word since that was the way they did things here. A little white dog had come out from the open door behind the desk, but the minute the receptionist spotted it, it gave a nervous start and disappeared again.

  The Marshal made for the door where a porter in a red and white striped jacket was loading the luggage into a taxi, while a queue of honking cars waited impatiently behind it. The elderly couple came out behind him.

  'Just a moment!'

  The Marshal went on his way assuming that someone was calling to the departing couple, but the receptionist had followed him out and caught up with him. He seemed slightly embarrassed. 'Perhaps you could help with a small problem . . .' Sooner or later people always did want help with some problem, whether small or large, and they didn't think twice about asking, no matter how unhelpful they had always been themselves.

  The Marshal turned and followed him back in. He gave the man no encouragement but stood there, his face expressionless, waiting. 'It's about this dog . . .' The animal had reappeared and was now standing with his front paws on the lower rungs of the receptionist's stool, quivering nervously. The Marshal looked down at it and then back at the receptionist.

  'Well?'

  'Something will have to be done about it. It can't stay here and I thought perhaps you ... It belongs to one of our guests—not that we normally allow animals but she's been here years so we felt obliged to make an exception. Nevertheless . . .'

  'What do you want me to do? Arrest it?' The Marshal's tone was dangerous. As if he had nothing else to do but worry about a half-pint dog!

  'You don't understand. Normally she takes it with her when she goes on a trip but this time she's left it and without so much as a by-your-leave! We really can't be expected—'

  'Have it put down or send it to the RCPCA.' The Marshal turned to leave again.

  'Wait! That's what I want to know, if we have the right. If not, then when she comes back . . .'

  'Leave it alone, then, it's doing you no harm.' He had reached the door but the other followed him, thoroughly agitated now.

/>   'That's what you think! It hangs around the reception desk the whole time because the night porter's always made a pet of it. In a hotel of this class that sort of thing can't be tolerated, surely you can understand that.' He didn't add 'even though you're never likely to set foot in one as a guest' but he might as well have done. 'The manager insists I do something but I can hardly shut the animal up in her room, there's no knowing what damage . . . AH I want to know is what our legal position is.'

  'Ask a lawyer,' suggested the Marshal drily.

  'We can't waste a lawyer's time over a thing like this; besides which, that would cost more money than getting a vet to put it down!'

  'Well then, stop wasting my time and leave it be. Don't tell me in a place like this you can't afford to feed it. It's no bigger than a rabbit.'

  'And if she doesn't come back?'

  'Why shouldn't she come back?' The Marshal had lost hope of shaking the man off. They were on the doorstep and he kept tugging at the sleeve of the Marshal's black uniform, glancing back every few seconds to make sure he wasn't wanted inside. The taxi moved off followed by an angry chorus of hooting and the porter went inside. At this point the receptionist lowered his voice to a confidential gossipy whisper.

  'Well, for one thing, I know for a fact she didn't even take a suitcase. We keep them in store in the attic for her since she's here permanently.'

  'If she didn't take a suitcase,' said the Marshal, 'then she won't be gone long, will she? And now—'

  'Hm. It's not my place to say . . .' He glanced over his shoulder again. 'It's not my place to say, but. . . I've never liked her . . . perfectly respectable on the surface and I've nothing against her, nothing concrete, but there's something. You understand what I mean? I imagine that in your job—'

  'No,' said the Marshal, 'I don't understand you.' The man certainly made a better impression when he confined himself to 'thank you and good morning'.

  'It's been eight days.'

  'What has?'

  'She's been gone eight days and a woman of that sort doesn't go away for eight days without a suitcase. Maybe she couldn't pay her bill. This month's was due. If we keep this dog and she's vanished we'll be stuck with it. Now do you understand?'

  The Marshal didn't answer. He made a calculation and then walked back into the hotel with the receptionist fluttering behind him.

  'Well, I'm glad to see you realize that something's got to be done. It's all very well for the manager to say—'

  'Give me back the register. How old is this woman?'

  'Forty-eight. Well kept, I'll admit, but—'

  'Height?'

  'About my height. . . What's this got to do with the dog?'

  'Blonde?'

  'Bleached. You know her? There, I knew there was something. I can always tell.'

  'Where's her registration?'

  'Wait, I'll find it for you . . . I just knew, it's a feeling I get . . . here.'

  The Marshal looked at the information, slowly took out his notebook and copied it down carefully. He buttoned the notebook back into his pocket. 'You'll be hearing from us.'

  'I do hope it's nothing serious,' lied the receptionist, then remembering just in time: 'What about the dog?'

  'You'll probably be able to have it put down, if that's what you want.' At the doorway he couldn't resist turning to add sententiously: 'But you just might have to identify a corpse first.'

  'A corpse? You mean she's . . . Me . . .? Oh my God!' That wiped the excited expression off his face. 'I'm afraid I'd faint . . .'

  'I'm damn sure you would,' growled the Marshal to himself, going on his way.

  CHAPTER 3

  'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.' Captain Maestrangelo returned to his office that afternoon to find the Marshal sitting there patiently, his big hands resting squarely on his knees. They talked for a few moments about the latest on the new drug gang. The Marshal knew the parents of one of the youngsters who had died and so had a personal as well as an official interest in the case. After a while the Captain said: 'I gather you got my message, but there was really no need to come over, I just wanted to bring you up to date on that body in the Arno affair. It's not a suicide. I spoke to the magistrate this morning . . .'

  The Marshal listened carefully to a summary of the contents of the autopsy report. It wasn't until the Captain said: 'Identifying her is still going to be a real headache,' that he offered: 'There's a possibility that I've found out who she is . . .'

  They didn't go immediately to the hotel since they would have to see both the day and the night staff. Maestrangelo telephoned the manager and asked for all the personnel to be present that evening at the time of the evening changeover. The response was polite but decidedly reserved.

  'Am I allowed to ask why?'

  'It would be better if we discussed that when I arrive.'

  'He knows why,' commented the Marshal when the Cap- tain had hung up. 'That receptionist will have told everybody in the place.'

  It was already dark by the time their car crossed the bridge under which the body had been recovered, and a drizzly rain was falling into the river. There was so much traffic clogging the narrow streets at that hour that it was fortunate the hotel had an underground garage beside the entrance.

  As it turned out, the Marshal had been right. The receptionist had told everyone in the place. There was an atmosphere of mild excitement when the carabinieri were shown into the manager's crowded office, but nobody seemed unduly worried or tense apart from the receptionist himself, whose name was Guido Monteverdi and who kept edging up to the Marshal at every opportunity to give some new reason why he was the least appropriate person to identify the body. The Marshal was relieved that it was the Captain who took his statement while he himself took that of the night porter, a quietly spoken, pleasant man in his late thirties who did his best to be helpful without resorting to gossip. He and the Marshal sat facing each other across a cluttered desk in the small office where the hotel's accounts were kept, and from where the usual noises of the hotel were only just audible. The porter gave his name as Mario Querci and answered the routine questions about his birth and place of residence. Then he began to speak of the missing guest.

  'No, I wouldn't say she was a happy woman. She often seemed to me disappointed with life, a little bitter, but she never seemed moved to do anything about it. I suppose a lot of people are like that.'

  The Marshal, watching him as he spoke, wondered if the night porter himself wasn't like that, too. You didn't often find a fairly presentable, youngish man in a job of that sort. More often than not they were retired men, or none too healthy ones who found the work easy to cope with. Perhaps in this class of hotel such people weren't acceptable. He made no comment but let the other go on talking.

  'I always felt that she'd had some real disappointment at one time and that it had embittered her.'

  'Did she say so?'

  'No . . . nothing specific. But it might be the case, even so. There could have been something that happened a long time ago in her own country. She'd been living here about fifteen years and I've only been here for eight, so . . .'

  'Where were you before?'

  'In a hotel further north. I suppose, more than anything, it was the fact that she had trouble sleeping that gave the impression that she was unhappy.'

  'She had trouble sleeping so she came down here and passed the time away chatting to you, is that it?'

  'Yes . . .' He seemed embarrassed.

  'Well, 1 suppose in your job you're bound to listen a good deal to people's problems whether you want to or not.' He was typical, the Marshal thought, of the sort of porters, waiters and barmen whom everyone calls by their first names and who are always willing to do small favours in an unaffected way, always with a friendly, conspiratorial smile. 'What about visitors?'

  'She never had visitors, though she wasn't alone in the world, I know that.'

  'How?'

  'There were letters, not often but fairly regularly.
I take the post in before I leave in the morning.'

  'Letters from her own country?'

  'No, I can't think there was ever one from Germany, at least, not that I remember, though there could have been, I suppose, without my noticing or on my night off. They came from all over the world. She wrote letters, too.'

  'In answer to the ones she received?'

  'I don't know . . . No, I think they always went to Germany. You'd have to ask the receptionist; she'd leave them with him during the day if she didn't go out and post them herself.'

  'Did she go out much?'

  'I don't think so. Again, you should check with the day staff. She did go away occasionally for a few days.'

  'Had she been away recently?'

  'No, not for over a year, if I remember rightly.' He hesitated a moment and then said: 'I told you she never had visitors and she didn't as a rule, but . . .'

  'Well?'

  'Well, you could hardly call him a visitor—1 mean, he didn't go up to her room as you might be thinking—but there was a man who came in and asked for her, a very respectable-looking man, tallish, well-dressed. She came down and met him here and they went out together.'