The Captain had to interrupt him; 'You know he's involved with the guard at the villa? It means that they're probably in this together and that if Scano's boy risked going to the villa something must have gone badly wrong. This may not be a professional job but Scano's boy isn't that much of an amateur. What went wrong was presumably the death of Piladu's son. There's still a missing link but I think we'll find it in Florence, not up here. In any case, we can't wait. If something's gone wrong, then we have to try and get the girl out while she's still alive, if she is alive. If Maxwell pays the ransom I don't think there's much hope. At the moment he's under control, but I don't want to give him time to try going over my head.' He said this without looking at the Substitute, though he would have liked to see his reaction.
'But we can't go up there at night!' complained the Brigadier. 'It'd be a fiasco. You know they sleep with both eyes open and a rifle under the pillow—not to mention the fact that it's still lambing season and most of them will be up all night! I don't want my lads shot at in the dark and yours don't know the ground.'
'I'm going up there in the daytime,' the Captain said. 'And all I need is to have you go with me and the warrants. The helicopter boys will see to the rest. You know as well as I do that Rudolfo's the only one involved who has a house up there. There's nowhere else the girl can be.'
'Poor Rudolfo,' said the Substitute, watching the other two curiously. 'I wonder what they promised him?'
'Very little, I imagine,' said the Captain irritably, 'and he wouldn't have got it, either, but he was going to lose his grazing rights, which for him meant he was going to lose everything.'
'He still is,' the Brigadier said. 'He still is, the young idiot, and just as he was getting on his feet. Sometimes I don't know if I wouldn't rather be ... I don't know. I think I ought to check on my motor-bike patrol.'
In the taxi that had waited all evening in the piazza for them, the Captain glanced sideways at the point of glowing ash and said politely, 'I hope I didn't take you away from something more important this evening.'
'As a matter of fact you did,' replied the Substitute gravely, 'but for heaven's sake don't worry about it, you've got enough to worry about already.'
It was impossible to see in the dark whether the habitual spark of irony accompanied this remark.
The Captain took this problem, along with all his others and his irritation, to bed with him.
CHAPTER 10
At ten-thirty next morning Captain Maestrangelo stood at the window in his office looking down intently at the street. A packet of aspirin and half a glass of water stood on the tray on his desk. He had slept badly and woken badly and was fighting against the sort of headache that usually came on after a big case was finished. It was a devastating headache but, oddly enough, as a rule he didn't mind it. He would suffer it, even nurse it along, for a couple of days, and when it went he would forget the case along with the pain. But if it came on now . . .
His face was pale and his eyes half closed against the sunlight. Nevertheless he stayed there watching. There was hardly any traffic, just a few parked cars and a cluster of mopeds around the door of the bar opposite. People were coming out from Palm Sunday Mass at the church of Ognissanti, pausing to chat to families going in to the last service and then passing under his window carrying sprays of olive leaves. Most of them went into the newsagent's and the bar to buy the Sunday edition of the Nazione and a tray of cakes wrapped with gold and white paper and curly gold ribbons.
If she didn't come by twelve they would have to leave anyway. He was taking a group of his own men plus dogs and their handlers out to the helicopter base where he could brief them together with the pilots. It wasn't an easy operation and the timing of it was important. Sunday was the one day on which most of the mountain shepherds ate their midday meal indoors. Their wives and children joined them on Saturday night and on Sunday they ate together before the visitors went down the mountain in a long procession.
It was then that Rudolfo, if he wanted to avoid suspicion, would lead his flock down to the villa.
The Captain intended to make his attack at one-thirty when the fewest possible people would be out in the open. He couldn't leave Florence any later than twelve o'clock. There was no sign of her in the street but a taxi might draw up at any moment. If they had given his note to her exactly as he had said . . . Even then she might have decided not to answer him, or she could have let it be seen by accident before knowing what it was.
There were few people left in the street. The occasional car went by but no taxis. Then he saw her. She was coming along the opposite pavement on foot and was looking up at the buildings as if she were not sure of being in the right street. She paused a moment, looking worriedly across at the main entrance, and then she crossed the road. The Captain picked up his telephone before it had time to ring.
'Bring her up.'
It was ten to eleven. He hoped she had made up her mind to talk and would not make him lose valuable time persuading her.
'Signora.' He opened the door for her himself and dismissed the escort with a nod.
'My husband doesn't know I'm here.'
'Please sit down.'
'I don't want to waste your time. I told Debbie about the house only John didn't know. You don't know my husband, Captain,—he's not like this; he's an impatient man and used to having his own way, but he isn't like this.'
'I understand.'
'Yes ... of course you understand. You must be so used to always seeing people under stress ... I told Debbie about the house because they'd quarrelled, she and her father, and I was afraid that if she didn't try and make it up with him he would change his mind. They're very alike and both of them are stubborn. Debbie had said she didn't want to come back to the States. She never would say why but I felt almost sure she was doing it against him, either to spite him or to gain his attention. She may have had other reasons. I think my husband told you on the phone that buying the house over here was my idea. I thought that way I could bring them together. I have no children of my own and I really thought I could be a mother to Debbie . . . If I tell you that was one of the main reasons why I married John . . . But I just couldn't reach her. It's a terrible thing to see someone unhappy when you want to help them and you can't. We saw so little of each other, and I suppose it was too late. She was almost grown up and there was no reason why she should want me. She didn't choose me, I've often told myself that. I thought maybe I was just being selfish, it's so difficult to analyse your emotions. After a while I decided it was best to try and help her get on better with her father, and now by interfering between them I've been the cause of her being kidnapped. If I'd known how important it was about the house—I didn't understand until I got your note. I heard John's side of your conversation but he wouldn't talk about it afterwards. He said he wanted to call the Ambassador.'
'Did he call?' asked the Captain quickly.
'He did. But as far as I could make out the Ambassador was away. He has to call him again this morning. That's why I was able to get out alone. I said I needed some air, but if I don't go back soon . . . Do you think you'll find Debbie?'
'I'll find her.'
'When I think about her . . . She never liked the dark. I keep thinking she's in the dark, I don't know why that should be. They wouldn't keep her in the dark?'
The Captain frowned and murmured something sufficiently incomprehensible for her to take it as a negative.
'You must think I'm a very foolish woman, Captain.'
'I think you are a very good woman, Mrs Maxwell,' he said, rising.
'I'm sure I don't understand why.'
'It would need my Sub-lieutenant', he said, ringing for the escort, 'to explain.'
Bacci wasn't sure if he'd done the right thing. He should have asked the Captain but with the Substitute's eyes fixed on him he hadn't felt able to, and later there had never been time. Well, in theory he was doing what he was supposed to do since this was the time of day he always spe
nt with Katrine and he had been told not to vary the routine. It would have been different if the other girls had been in the flat, but they were both away for the weekend. He had reasoned that, even if they couldn't talk there, the morning concert might do her some good, that she had never willingly set foot out of the flat since it happened, that in any case he had a father's responsibility towards his younger sister, and he had promised to go and hear her. So it had seemed better all round that they should go. If they had stayed in the flat . . .
The sunshine was pouring in through a high window on the right, warming a square of the dark red polished floor and making the rest of the room look gloomy by comparison. All the seats were filled and a number of people were standing by the door. The audience consisted chiefly of parents of the conservatory students.
The pianist was complaining about the sunbeam which was falling across her face so that she couldn't see her music. Someone got a long pole and closed the shutter.
Bacci didn't follow a note of the "Primavera" sonata. The violinist was a heavy, dark-skinned girl from South America, and both the girls had graduated from the Florence conservatory the previous year, according to the programme notes . . .
The music flowed around him but without soothing his nerves. They couldn't, after all, have stayed in the flat. He could just see the top of his mother's head, right at the front . . . There was no reason why the Captain should ever find out. He didn't ask what they did or said every morning, but left it to Bacci to report any snippet of information he managed to get from her. Sometimes he was so tense in her presence that he couldn't speak at all. If he could have talked to her in Italian it would have been different, but his correct English, which he had learned from his mother who had had an English governess, and which he only ever spoke with her friends or on a case that required it, was of no use to him now. They talked to each other exchanging facts but not communicating.
Her fair hair was so long that it touched his hand whenever they sat side by side. He absently slid his programme nearer to her so that it touched him now, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She was very pale. He couldn't remember her being as pale as that since she left the hospital. She didn't seem to be concentrating on the performance because her eyes kept moving from side to side, although she sat very still.
After a while they clapped, and then his sister walked on to the low platform that was surrounded by a frothy sea of pink and white azalea plants. She had put her hair up so as to look older than her sixteen years but even so she straightened her music and her shoulders with such self-consciousness that the maturity of her voice came as a shock to him just as it always did. Had Katrine too been surprised? She was frowning a little as if trying to concentrate, and she was even paler than before.
'Are you all right?' he whispered, leaning closer.
'Yes . . .' She took the programme from his hand as if wanting to know what the song was, but her eyes were shut as she bent her head over it. He pointed to 'Pergolesi' and she lifted her head again to look from side to side.
If she really hadn't felt up to coming out she would surely have said? She had seemed quite tranquil as they walked in the sunshine through the crowded cathedral square where spectator stands were being erected ready for the Easter celebrations. He had explained to her about the imitation dove that would fly out from the high altar during the Easter mass and light a great cart of fireworks. He had promised to take her to see it. If she really hadn't wanted to come out . . . The trouble was that she would never say, she would only look away and murmur vaguely, 'You decide . . .'
It was difficult to know whether she had understood everything he had tried to explain to her about his being involved in a case in which she was the chief witness, about his career, and how he had a mother and sister to support.
'We have to wait.'
'It doesn't matter.'
It mattered to him. Sometimes the Captain caught him staring at him fixedly, willing him to get the case under Instruction. He couldn't hold out much longer if only because he wasn't getting any sleep. Sooner or later he would be too exhausted to think straight and would give up the fight against himself. Would she say the same thing afterwards? 'It doesn't matter . . .' But she had to cope with a foreign language too. Some days were better; she would curl up on the sofa and talk dreamily about their taking a trip to Norway together. She barely seemed to notice if he stroked her hair as they talked, but if he moved she would say quickly, 'Don't go away,' and bring his hand back to her forehead. Then he would be filled with tenderness.
She was staring at the platform again. She wouldn't understand the archaic Italian of the song, and he slipped a pencil from his pocket to scribble a translation on the programme for her.
'If you love me, if you breathe
Only for me, sweet shepherd boy . . .'
The irony, he thought, was lost in the translation but he went on with it anyway. He was desperate for her to learn Italian. How could he make love to her in English? He had to touch her arm to make her look at the programme.
'But if you think I have to
Love you in return . . .'
Her gaze was wandering, he knew, but he finished the verse.
'Little shepherd, you're an easy one to fool.'
She had looked at the first lines but now she wasn't reading any of it. He followed her eyes to the sides of the room where there were huge tapestries depicting nymphs and shepherds playing in a landscape filled with trees and winding streams. The greens and golds were all faded and darkened to a dull blackish colour that looked all the drabber in the presence of so many fresh flowers. The song was almost over.
'Se tu m'ami, se tu sospiri
Sol per me, gentil pastor . . .'
He moved as soon as he saw the first bead of sweat break on her pallid face, and then he was almost too late.
'Get me outside.'
People were clapping as he stumbled between the rows of seats with her and out into the garden, where she reached out one hand to clutch at the trunk of a flowering cherry, then doubled up over his arm to vomit into a tidy bed of daffodils.
Men in forage caps were milling around below in the courtyard, their voices and footsteps resounding throughout the building. They were ready to leave. In the Captain's office the Substitute snapped his briefcase shut and his registrar handed over the warrants that had been made out for Rudolfo, Scano's boy and the gamekeeper.
'And the other two?' the Substitute asked.
'Pratesi I'll have brought in but not arrested yet. I don't think he'll give us much trouble once he's confronted with the others. He won't know them, of course, apart from the base-man, nor they him, but it will have its effects all the same. Demontis, the much despised brother-in-law, I had hoped to get by now. The man who's watching him followed him as near as possible to the mountain the first time but he couldn't go any further without being seen—the same problem we had with Scano's boy yesterday. Since then he's been waiting for him higher up on various tracks. Once he hits on the right track he should be able to follow him to the place where he leaves the food and then watch who picks it up. It's a job that takes time. He'll get there in the end but we can't wait. There might be some news this morning since he usually goes up on Sunday—though this week he's been twice . . .'
'Which means?'
'That they've lost a feeder. It might well have been Piladu's son. But I still don't know why Scano's boy risked going to the villa unless they've lost a guard, too, which would really put them in difficulty. There must be one other guard besides him and Rudolfo, who's always there but who has to milk and make his cheese and who—'
He was interrupted by the telephone.
'Yes? Speak up, would you? There's a lot of noise coming from outside. Wait . . .' He took up a pen and began to write quickly. 'That's all right, you needn't explain exactly where, the Brigadier will tell me . . . No, you needn't do anything except come back in and write your report. We're going up there now.' He slipped the n
ote into his pocket.
'You can give me that warrant for Demontis. We're ready to go.'
But the phone rang again.
'Sub-lieutenant Bacci on his way up with Miss Nilsen. It's urgent.'
The Captain looked at his watch.
'I've got ten minutes . . .'
'Do you want me to see them?'
'There may be something I need to know. I'll see them next door if you would prepare that warrant for me?'
'Of course.' The Substitute signed to his registrar to sit down again.
'If we can pick them all up at the same time we won't lose any of them.'
When he saw the state the girl was in he sat her in an armchair and sent his adjutant to get her something to drink.
'A brandy might be best . . . and a glass of water.'
'She insisted on coming straight here,' said Bacci, who was almost as pale as she was.
'In ten minutes I have to leave. Has she already talked to you?'
'In the taxi coming here.'
'Then you tell me everything in brief, and quickly. If you know who the contact was, then tell me that first.'
'There were any number of possibilities, though one in particular is most likely.'
'What do you mean by any number?'
'Miss Maxwell was perfectly normal in her behaviour at school—except that she was perhaps too much the model student—but every so often she would disappear, usually for about three days, once for a whole week. Nobody remarked on it because all the students are foreign and occasionally take trips home or go on sightseeing tours. A lot of them are studying other things besides Italian and so they take time off to prepare for exams. Nevertheless, when she disappeared for a week without saying anything to Katrine who was her closest friend, Katrine went round to the flat a number of times, thinking she must be ill. The third time she went she got Debbie to come to the door but not to let her in. She had to try another three times over two days before she succeeded in talking her way in. Twice there was a man in the background but not the same one each time, she's sure. She was obviously very unhappy and managed to conceal it most of the time.'
Death in Springtime Page 12
