'If you're sure there's nobody else,' the Lieutenant's voice interrupted, though he, too, was looking at the snapshot, 'we may as well go downstairs and have a sandwich and then I'll get someone to drive you back over to Pitti."
'I'd as soon walk over, sir; stretch my legs. But the sandwich would be welcome.'
In the bar on the courtyard downstairs, the carabiniere who served them knew the Lieutenant's habits and poured him out a small glass of beer to drink with his sandwiches before saying:
'And for you, Marshal?'
It would never have occurred to him to drink beer, but he felt like being companionable and ordered the same.
'A northern habit.' The younger man raised his glass. 'Your health, Marshal.'
There were no other customers and the barman turned his radio on at full volume. The bluish fluorescent light, the immaculate tiled floor and the neat rows of bottles had a desolate air about them at this time of night when the night patrol cars had gone out and everything had fallen silent.
'I've got a northern lad at Pitti,' the Marshal said to fill the emptiness.
'Of course! One of the boys from Pordenone!'
'You know them?'
'Everybody's heard of them. I don't know them personally, though I've seen them together. A friend of mine teaches at the NCO school, Lieutenant Cecchi; he told me about them. It seems they spend every free minute they've got together. They don't really come from Pordenone, you know, but from right out in the wilds. Pordenone must have been the only town they'd seen until they enlisted. At any rate, when they first arrived here, everything they saw was compared to "the one in Pordenone" and the name stuck to them. Odd, when they're so inseparable, that they didn't apply for admission to the school together.'
'I can't persuade the lad,' said the Marshal unhappily. 'He just doesn't have any ambition for the future.'
'Well, if I were you, I'd keep trying. Cecchi says the brother's doing well. Now, I suppose we may as well call it a day. If you think of anything, anything at all, give me a ring. Otherwise, I'll see you in Piazza Santo Spirito tomorrow morning. I can't honestly say that I'm looking forward to another tête-à-tête with Signora Giusti . . .'
'If you think it would be of any help, I'll come along early and go up with you.'
'It might help a lot; she seems to think well of you—but it is your day off, after all.'
'If I'm going to the funeral.. .' The Marshal shrugged.
'Well, if you're sure. What time does the social worker get there?'
'I should think that if we make it half past nine, she should be there by then.'
'I still feel we may be harassing a very old lady unnecessarily.'
'It might turn out to be unnecessary,' persisted the Marshal calmly, 'but you needn't worry, sir, that she'll feel harassed. As I said, she likes attention.'
'Even so, I must say I'd rather we had something on this Signora Goossens that everyone insists is such a paragon of virtue.'
'It's hard to believe it,' agreed the Marshal, 'with that hard and tight-lipped face . . .'
'But . . .you've seen her, then?'
'No, no,' lied the Marshal placidly, 'I'm just going on your description, sir, that's all.''
'I see. You're sure you prefer to walk home?'
'Quite sure.'
Again, before leaving he assured the Lieutenant that if anything important occurred to him he would telephone, no matter what the hour. Something did occur to him and the hour was three-fifteen in the morning. He didn't telephone because, whether it turned out to be important or not, nothing could be done about it then, if there was anything that should be done at all. He had woken suddenly, not groggy but wide awake, as though it were time to get up. Although he had no recollection of it, his brain must have been ticking over while he slept and the person missing from his list last night had clicked into place and woken him up. Even though he was so wide awake he was afraid he might forget again, so he rolled over and switched on the lamp by the telephone where there was a notepad. On it he wrote: 'The sister.' Then he went back to sleep.
CHAPTER 9
When the alarm clock went off at eight, an hour later than usual, the Marshal was already awake, his mind ticking faster than the clock as he lay staring across at the photo of his little boys on the chest of drawers facing him.
'Two of them,' he said aloud, referring not to the little boys but to Signora Goossens and her sister. 'One who arrived on Tuesday and the other who arrived . . . when? On Sunday or earlier, I suppose. Two of them, blast them! What the devil were they up to? What sort of hold had the Dutchman over them that he could make them come out here after all these years? Whatever it was, they killed him for it. Or one of them did—not this one, Signora Goossens, they'd checked on when she came over, and two people had identified her, the neighbour who saw her going downstairs and Signor Beppe. She was out of it then, as far as the actual poisoning was concerned, but they must surely have worked the thing together, getting him to keep an appointment at which he expected to see his stepmother. That's why he said it wasn't her, because it was the sister. They quarrelled violently . . . what about? About whatever they quarrelled over ten years ago ... the thing nobody will tell me about. Everybody swears there was no quarrel but, damn it, all families quarrel! Why shouldn't this one? Maybe it was a quarrel that involved them all, the studio and Signor Beppe, old Signora Giusti, all of them, and nobody dares speak out. It's hopeless . . .'
He got up and started to get himself ready. As he was shaving his temper rose at the thought of so many people deceiving him to cover something up. Especially at the thought of Signor Beppe. He could have sworn that Signor Beppe was an honest man, and yet he was so insistent that Signora Goossens was good and generous, that although she left after the funeral without a word, there had not been any quarrel. He said there couldn't have been because Toni was in Amsterdam at the time—
The Marshal cut himself.
'And it's no more than you deserve,' he growled at himself as he scrabbled in the bathroom cabinet for a styptic pencil, tumbling things out as the Dutchman had done. 'In Amsterdam, indeed! So why wasn't he at his own father's funeral? Because that's the way it sounds, if the woman left immediately . . . And there hadn't been a row? He may have found a girl-friend up there but you don't miss your own father's funeral for that!'
That meant that the quarrel must go back to before old Goossens's death . . . perhaps to the time when Toni decided to go and work up there. Giving up the search for the styptic pencil, he stuck a scrap of newspaper over the cut and carried on getting dressed.
When he went into the front office, Gino was at the switchboard.
'Good morning, Marshal.'
' 'Morning. Where's Lorenzini?'
'Upstairs, sir, typing a report. Somebody's just reported a 500 missing from the car park here. Shall I call him?'
'Never mind . . . I'm going out.' On second thoughts he said, 'I'll call him myself.'
He went to the foot of the stairs and shouted: 'Oh! Lorenzini!'
'Yessir!' Lorenzini clattered down.
'I want you to go back to the Pensione Giottino.'
'Keep an eye on that woman again, sir?' He began rolling his sleeves down.
'Exactly. At eleven-thirty she'll be going to a funeral at Santo Spirito. I'll be at the church, so once she arrives there I'll take over. I can't see her going anywhere before that but just keep watch, in case.'
'Right, sir.'
'Where's Di Nuccio?'
'Upstairs, sir.'
'Tell him not to go out until you get back.' He lowered his voice: 'I don't want Gino left in on his own; he's too young . . .'
As he went out, the Marshal rumpled Gino's chrysanthemum head and said, 'Take care, lad, I'll keep in touch with you.'
'Yes, sir. Will you be back for lunch, Marshal?'
'I don't know. I'll tell you when I phone . . .' Sometimes, on his day off he lunched at the NCO's club, but he had no thought of going there today.
The sun's blaze seemed more intense than ever since the rain had cleared the air yesterday. Heat shimmered from the roofs of the cars and coaches outside the palace, and swarms of Japanese tourists, always the earliest on the move, were pouring in through the main entrance. The postcard-seller was already doing a brisk trade and the ice-cream cart had just arrived. The Marshal made his way down the slope between the cars and went into a bar on the corner of the next piazza for some breakfast. The guard from the bank across the way was leaning on the ice-cream fridge in the doorway. He spent most of his morning there, sheltering from the heat, staring across at the bank and frequently dipping into the fridge where he kept his bottle of mineral water.
'Isn't it your day off?' asked the barman, when the Marshal ordered his breakfast and picked up a bar of chocolate from the counter display. 'How come you're in uniform?'
'I'm going to a funeral at Santo Spirito.'
'Ah,' said the barman. 'That must be the Dutchman, am I right? The one who committed suicide.'
Which didn't improve the Marshal's temper.
The Lieutenant was waiting for him when he reached the piazza and he quickened his pace a little.
'That's all right, Marshal; I got here a little early. Not that I'm expecting anything to happen, but even so ... I thought perhaps we'd call in on the goldsmith since we're here, just in case any thing's cropped up.'
'Good idea, sir . . .' The Marshal was wanting a word with the goldsmith, himself.
The apprentice was seated in a dark corner of the studio, dressed in a dark suit that he had probably had since his First Communion, as the sleeves were too short for him. He got up as they entered.
'Signor Beppe's in the back,' he whispered, 'if you want me to fetch him.'
But Signor Beppe had heard them come in and he appeared immediately, coming forward to shake both their hands without a word.
The Dutchman had been laid out in the dark suit and tie he had brought with him. Someone had thought, since last night, to put white gloves on his damaged hands. A black rosary was wound about them. He looked altogether solid and Dutch as he lay there. It had been his eyes, dark and merry, that had been his mother's legacy, that and his talent for drawing and designing. The Marshal crossed himself, then beckoned to the goldsmith to follow them out of the room.
Outside the frosted glass door, after a glance at the Lieutenant for permission, the Marshal said:
'I'm sorry to bring this up on the day of the funeral, but we have very little time . . .'
The goldsmith followed the Marshal's words carefully, evidently puzzled at a sudden lack of friendliness in his tone.
'When you said Signora Goossens left here immediately after the funeral, did you mean that literally? The same day?'
'More like the same hour. She didn't even come back to the house, as far as I know, and nobody had seen her for three days before that, the three days during which the post-mortem took place because of its being a sudden death. She shut herself up in the flat and didn't want to see anyone. She must have been deeply upset.'
'Did you go to the funeral? You would have known if anything had happened, like a quarrel?'
'No, I wasn't there.'
'You weren't . . .' The Marshal stared at him and then at the Lieutenant who seemed as puzzled as the goldsmith as to where this was leading.
'Even so,' the goldsmith pointed out, 'I don't see who she could have quarrelled with; Toni was in Amsterdam.'
"Why?'
'Why? Well, he was working there then. He was courting his wife, too. And in any case, she didn't invite him to come, so . . . Excuse me a moment . . .'
A hearse had drawn up outside and the undertaker's men were getting out.
'I'll have to leave you a moment, they want to seal up the coffin and take it over to the church. This way,' he directed the men. 'In here.'
The Marshal took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. 'I don't understand this at all . . .'
i can't quite see what you're getting at . . .' The Lieutenant was cool and impeccable in his uniform; the Marshal, being out of temper, had already become overheated and was sweating profusely which, in this weather, was a disaster. There was no hope of cooling down again until he got the chance to take a cold shower.
'I'm trying to get at the reason why the Dutchman wasn't at his own father's funeral. If there was a quarrel, perhaps it occurred before old Goossens died. I also ought to tell you, sir, that I left someone off my list of people last night. It was stupid of me and I can only think it was because I'd had nothing to eat all day other than a sandwich.'
'I'm sorry, I should have seen you got a decent meal in the evening but there really wasn't time—but how is it you didn't eat at lunch-time?'
'Something cropped up,' said the Marshal crossly, mentally kicking himself. He couldn't go on like this . . . perhaps it would be better to come clean ... but if it ended badly? And it was the Lieutenant's first case . . .
'Who was it? The person you forgot?'
'The sister. Signora Goossens had a sister who lived out here with her for a time and was, by all accounts, an unpleasant character, jealous and vicious. At least,' he corrected himself, 'according to Signora Giusti, she was. Nevertheless, it seems that Signora Goossens always helped her, and I'm wondering if they now live together in England, and if it was the sister who was here on Sunday night.'
"When the Dutchman was expecting his stepmother?'
'Exactly. That would be why he was surprised. And then along comes Signora Goossens, the virtuous, all surprised to find he's dead.'
'But why, Marshal? I'm afraid none of this will impress the Substitute Prosecutor, even as a theory. Why should this terrible pair murder the poor man?'
'To be honest, sir, I haven't the faintest idea, and what's more, I don't think we have much hope of ever finding out, even if we had a year to do it in, let alone a few hours. We're dealing with intelligent people, crafty people. What sort of hold does this Goossens woman have over the people round here that they all defend her, in spite of her vanishing, in spite of the way she looks! Family quarrels, sir. They're the very devil in families like this where everybody covers up for everybody else, even relations they hate, rather than have a scandal.'
'Perhaps,' said the Lieutenant, 'we should go up and see Signora Giusti. Time's getting on. We can at least find out the sister's name which will help us to try and find out when she arrived here and where she stayed. Even so, I'm afraid that we may be too late.'
'It's probably too late already. Signora Goossens may have stayed for the funeral but the sister will already have left.'
The coffin was being brought out and they moved up on to the staircase to let it by. As it was carried out into the blinding sunlight of the piazza by the goldsmith and his fellow workers, the shoppers and stallholders paused to cross themselves, and a group of young German holidaymakers in shorts stopped to stare. One of them took a photograph of this bit of local colour.
The Marshal climbed the staircase behind the Lieutenant.
At first, nobody answered their ring, and when, after a long wait, a harassed social worker opened the door, they could hear Signora, Giusti wailing somewhere behind her. It wasn't the wheedling little sob that she could turn on and off at will, but a very different noise, a repetitive, rhythmic wail like that of a child lost or left alone too long.
'She fell out of bed,' explained the social worker, 'some time during the night. She's very distressed and she's hurt her wrist. What is it you want?'
'Could we see her for a moment?' the Lieutenant asked, glancing unhappily at the Marshal who had got him into this.
'You can if you like. It might bring her round a bit. I've put her back to bed . . .'
She opened the bedroom door for them.
'I'm going to make her a warm drink so that I can give her a sedative.'
The outer shutters of the bedroom were closed, and the sunlight made a striped pattern on the white counterpane and the bare floor.
&nbs
p; 'Signora Giusti,' whispered the Marshal, bending over her. But she didn't answer. The steady, rhythmic wail continued. It was more like an animal sound than a human one. It must have been going on for hours because her voice was hoarse. One frail hand lay outside the white cover with a bandage round the wrist. The Marshal was afraid to touch it with his own great hand. Instead, he whispered again:
'Signora Giusti, we've come to visit you . . .'
This time there was a slight break in the rhythm and she moved her head a little.
'We've come to visit you,' he repeated, not knowing what else to say.
'I really think we'd better leave,' murmured the Lieutenant unhappily.
But then the old lady seemed to notice them, and the eerie wailing modulated into a human sobbing.
'I fell out of bed,' she wept, 'and I've hurt myself; look at my poor hand, look at it. . .'
'I know,' said the Marshal softly, 'but you'll be all right now.'
'Have you come to see me?'
'Yes, we've come to see you.'
She didn't even ask if he'd brought her anything.
'I've brought you some chocolate,' the Marshal said, but she went on weeping, sometimes breaking into the inhuman wail again, sometimes crying like a child.
'I had to lie on the floor, all night on the floor . . . and I didn't know even what time it was . . . because it was dark . . . and I thought I was going to die ... on my own ... on the floor . . .'
'It's all over now . . .'
'I don't want to die on the floor . . .'
Death of a Dutchman Page 16
