Death of a Dutchman

by Magdalen Nabb

  Funerals, quarrels and diamonds. And all of this because the sister, apart from anything else, had been too mean to pay for what Signora Giusti called 'a respectable burial'. She mustn't have known what burial in the ground would mean; it mustn't be the custom where she came from. And nobody had enlightened her, everybody assumed she knew —naturally, since she was supposed to be Signora Goossens who had lived many years in Italy and had respectably buried her husband in that same cemetery. Who would have thought fit to comment on her decision? Who even knew about it, apart, that is, from Toni who must have been the one to come up here and put those flowers on his parents' loculo. He knew, and he was sure that his stepmother wasn't the sort to leave her sister's bones neglected when the ten years was up . . .

  'Hello? Lieutenant Mori, please. I know he's in conference with the Substitute Prosecutor, it's about that that I'm ringing . . . he's expecting . . . yes, yes, and hurry up . . . Hello? Hello? Thank you. Lieutenant? Marshal Guarnaccia. I have to be quick; I'm still at the cemetery. I've found out everything, or more or less everything. That woman isn't Signora Goossens but her sister. Signora Goossens died ten years ago and the sister registered the death in her own name ... yes ... yes—I don't know except that between the death and the funeral she shut herself in the flat and refused to see anybody, and after the funeral she left without coming back to the flat. The stepson was in Amsterdam, anyway, and no one seems to have been invited to the funeral. She settled in England well away from where Signora Goossens had lived and sold the English house through her solicitors... well, all she had to do was imitate the signature, letters can be typed ... in any case it seems they looked fairly alike, so ... I know because of the ring which I think I mentioned to you yesterday, a unique piece which Signora Goossens always wore and which wouldn't come off once she put on weight. It was still on the body which I've just seen exhumed. The sister was too mean to pay for a loculo and obviously didn't realize what a free burial in the ground would entail—I don't know, maybe it's not the case in England . . . The point is that the re-burial order was sent on to Amsterdam when it arrived here - . . it's easy to see why, all the mail addressed to Goossens T. was left at the studio for Signor Beppe to deal with; after all those years it's not surprising that neither he nor the postman remarked on the letter from the Council being marked Sig.ra and not Sig.

  'The Dutchman had been expecting something of the sort because he mentioned the possibility of his stepmother turning up now. There are flowers on his parents' grave, which suggests he came up here when he was in Florence and so knew about the sort of burial . . . yes, it would be only natural . . . exactly, it was his one chance of seeing her—and I wouldn't be surprised if, in sending the letter on he offered to see to the re-burial himself if she couldn't bring herself to do it, and that would have been the end, he .would have seen the ring. At all events, she must have intended to come up here with her so she must have been desperate even before they actually met and he recognized her. She must have come out here quite prepared to—no, it's being sealed in, how could I stop them, we'll need a warrant . . . But there is evidence, the ring! All right, but surely he can take my word for it . . . !'

  It was incredible! Surely, after all this they couldn't refuse . . .

  'Yes. Yes, sir, I know you can only do your best—but there are witnesses; Signora Giusti . . .'

  But Signora Giusti, the Lieutenant informed him, was still lying as they had left her except that there was now a nurse beside her. She had no specific injuries and she might well come round to her normal self at any time, it had happened before. But she also might not. If she lived there were plenty of witnesses to the fact that she was a chronic liar. An interview with the Substitute Prosecutor would be a heaven-sent opportunity for her to air her juiciest accusations.

  The Marshal was beside himself.

  'There's another witness! A neighbour who knew Signora Goossens for years! The blind flower-seller in the piazza—he'll swear this woman isn't her. All right, he's blind but . . . even so, he can still hear! He can still tell one person from another—yessir. Yessir. What should I do now? Very good, sir. I'll follow her as long as I can but if she leaves the country . . .'

  If she left the country that was the end. If they hadn't enough evidence for a warrant now they could forget the whole thing. Impersonation wasn't an extraditable offence and they had nothing concrete on her as far as the murder was concerned.

  He could see the woman approaching at a distance. It must be over. Quickly he dialled Pitti.

  'I don't know who's supposed to be paying for all this,' grumbled the official. 'I'm supposed to pay for all my calls . . .'

  The Marshal flung five hundred lire on the table and glowered at him.

  'Gino? All right, lad?'

  'Yes, sir. Lorenzini's been in and wanted to speak to you but he had to go out again. There are witnesses who saw that car being driven away this morning, a couple who happened to park their car right next to it just as it was being stolen. They've just come back and, when he saw what time they'd parked there, the attendant asked them to wait and came to tell us. Lorenzini's out there now getting a statement. He's left a message here, though, in case you rang—shall I read it out?'

  'Never mind, it doesn't matter.'

  'But, Marshal, Lorenzini said it was vital, that you needed to know urgently . . .' There was disappointment in Gino's voice.

  'I know, but I've already found out. It was the death certificate of Theresa Goossens . . .'

  'No, that's not the name—'

  'That's right. . .of course it's not. . .what is her name?'

  'Lewis.' He had difficulty pronouncing it. 'Joyce Lewis.'

  'All right.' What sort of mentality did you have to register your own death like that? 'There's nothing else?'

  'Only . . . the man from the Pensione Giulia phoned again. He was furious.'

  'Oh, was he? And why was that?'

  'Because . . .' Gino was embarrassed at having to repeat it. 'Because he says you're always round there pestering him—that's what he said, Marshal—'

  'All right. Go on.'

  'But that when he needs you you don't show up. If he rings again—'

  'If he rings again tell him to call 113!' growled the Marshal.

  The proprietor of the Pensione Giulia did ring again, speaking in a furious whisper:

  'You get round here or I'll report you! Do you hear? I'm a respectable citizen and I have a right to help when I need it. All you lot ever think about is harassing people! But I'll have you fired! I know people in this town, I'm a personal friend of . . .'

  Gino, who had never even heard of the influential people the man claimed as his friends, didn't know what to do. If somebody with influence tried to get him fired would the Marshal be able to stop him? He thought so. On the other hand, he'd heard of cases, not of people being fired, but of their being suddenly transferred. He had to stay in Florence with his brother. They had never been separated . . .

  The phone rang again.

  'Is somebody coming or not?'

  'I . . . yes . . . someone will come ..." Perhaps Di Nuccio would . . .

  'Well, make it quick, I'm telling you! This is serious!'

  'I think you should phone Headquarters then, and they'll send a patrol car round . . .'

  'I'm phoning you, aren't I? Because you're two minutes away. If I have to phone your Headquarters you'll be sorry.'

  The respectable citizen didn't say that he didn't fancy having any trouble-shooters from Headquarters nosing around his place; the Marshal was a pest but there was a bit of give and take. Better the devil you know . . .

  Gino put the phone down. Perhaps Di Nuccio . . .

  Di Nuccio, still in his sullen and uncommunicative phase, was upstairs typing with the fan placed on the desk beside him and his shirt open to the waist.

  From the top of the stairs Gino said:

  'There's this man from the Pensione Giulia keeps ringing up wanting one of us to go round there
..."

  'Tell the Marshal when he rings,' mumbled Di Nuccio without looking up from his work.

  'I did. He said tell him to ring 113.'

  "Well then.'

  Gino waited but Di Nuccio went on typing without saying anything further. It was hopeless trying to talk to him this week.

  'We need some mineral water,' he ventured timidly. 'That's the last bottle you've got there. Somebody will have to go to the bar . . .'

  'Damn! Now you've made me make a mistake!' Di Nuccio had no real desire to trouble with getting himself smartened up to go out and get broiled. He typed a noisy row of X's irritably over his mistake.

  'If you'll listen for the phone until Lorenzini comes in,' Gino said, 'I'll go.'

  'The Substitute Prosecutor wasn't pleased, I can tell you... we haven't told the Consul yet so he must be wondering what these interruptions are all about. We'll have to tell him and the mother-in-law, I suppose, before they leave. Anything further at your end?'

  What more do they expect? wondered the Marshal, but he said: 'No, except that she gets more and more frightened . . .'

  They were in a tourist self-service restaurant and he had her in view from the cashier's desk where he was telephoning. She had selected an unappetizing array of brightly-coloured food and was sitting with it untouched before her, taking occasional sips of water with a trembling hand.

  'She's so keyed up that if I moved in on her now she'd crack completely.'

  'There's little chance of that, I'm afraid. We haven't been able to get in touch with the Instructing Judge who may or may not have signed the Archiviazione. It seems he's on an express train on his way up from Rome.'

  'Then surely he won't have signed, since it was to be done after the funeral . . . It's something, anyway, if the Substitute Prosecutor wants to get in touch with him. At least that means—'

  'It means he's covering himself against all eventualities. Nevertheless, he doesn't altogether disbelieve your story."

  Good of him, thought the Marshal.

  The woman still wasn't eating and one or two of the other customers had begun to stare at her. He was aware that on his right holidaymakers were streaming noisily past the window where, on a refrigerated stainless-steel shelf, rows of stemmed glass dishes held identical blobs of imitation ice-cream topped with bright red strawberries.

  'He pointed out, of course . . . are you still there, Marshal?'

  'Yes.'

  'He pointed out that we still have nothing concrete, that Signora Goossens could have given this ring you mentioned to her sister.'

  'Except that she couldn't get it off, if you remember.'

  'That's something that would be pretty impossible to prove at this stage. In any case, as a piece of evidence it doesn't weigh very heavily against the woman's embarkation card—you hadn't forgotten about that?'

  It was true that he had ceased to think about it. But if there were no longer two suspects and this woman had only entered the country on Tuesday, the day after the Dutchman's death . . .

  'There's no chance of there being any mistake?'

  'Hardly. We all know what the French customs and immigration are like ... in any case I saw her ticket which was for that date.'

  'I see.'

  'You don't think,' the Lieutenant suggested hopefully, 'that she might have an accomplice, a man perhaps, whom we know nothing about?'

  'No . . .' The Marshal looked across at her; she was dabbing shakily at her mouth with a handkerchief. 'No, I'd say she was a loner.'

  'Well, there it is then. I've got someone checking on where the Dutchman bought his food—I was able to persuade the social worker to let me borrow a photograph from Signora Giusti's album. I take it you've ceased to suspect the old lady?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, we'll do what we can . . .'

  There was something about that 'we' that included officers and magistrates only; the Marshal very much feared he had lost his only ally. He put through a call to Pitti next, staring straight at the woman as he did it. She was only a hairsbreadth from collapse but her iron hard selfishness was keeping her going even as her frightened eyes watched his every move. He was her enemy. She couldn't know that he was powerless to touch her and no doubt she imagined that his phone calls concerned traps he was setting for her all over the city. Had she been able to hear them she would have been baffled.

  'Gino? Oh, it's you, Di Nuccio. Has Lorenzini come in?'

  'Yes, he's only just started his lunch. Shall I call him?'

  'There's no need. Just tell him to stand by, I may need him again. Where's Gino, anyway?'

  'He went for the water.'

  It was very hot. The streets were empty when Gino walked down Via Mazzetta towards Piazza Santo Spirito after dropping off the empties at the bar on the corner. He would collect the full water bottles on his way back. He had decided that he would call at the Pensione Giulia just to keep the proprietor quiet, and if there really was a problem he would ring Headquarters himself. That way, he thought, he would be suiting everybody. The Marshal hadn't meant it about 113, he had only said that because he was in a temper about something. Anyway, he'd had to come out for the water so it was only common sense, whichever way anyone looked at it . . .

  The proprietor was waiting anxiously behind the door upstairs.

  'You took your time! This way, they're in room ten.'

  'Wait,' Gino said, for though he knew very little of the world he had learnt from the Marshal to be cautious. 'Tell me first what's going on.'

  The man looked nervously towards the corridor that led to the bedrooms and said in an undertone:

  'There are two rum characters holed up in there that I don't like the look of at all, and I'm sure that at least one of them is armed. I got a glimpse of a holster . . .

  'Listen . . , two youngsters booked into that room last night. They arrived late on the train from Rome. Nice kids, well-dressed, good-looking . . . and plenty of money ... I could see that right away. The room's booked for two nights. After they'd gone out this morning, these two rum characters turned up. They gave me a fright, I can tell you.'

  'Why?'

  'Why? Well, just their attitude. They started off asking for the young couple, polite enough, but when I said they were out but were expected back before lunch, they looked at each other, funny-like, and went off muttering in the corner over there. Eventually, they said they'd wait. They insisted on waiting in the room itself and since I have no sitting-room . . . well, I didn't like to refuse. I found them a bit sinister, you know what I mean? I called you right away, you know, so if anything happens . . .

  'They've been in there ever since . . . they insisted I didn't say anything to the couple when they came in, that they wanted it to be a surprise. Well, I know from experience what that sort of surprise means . . .'

  'You do?'

  'In a manner of speaking.' The respectable citizen pulled up sharply. 'The things I've read in the papers . . ,'

  'And what happened when the young couple came back, or did they? Gino was copying all this carefully into his notebook.

  'Well, I warned them, didn't I? I don't want anything nasty happening on my premises. They left straight away.'

  'What time was that?'

  He calculated. 'Just over an hour ago. That's when I started calling you again ... if those two come out they're going to start on me, aren't they?'

  'This couple: they left without their luggage and without offering any explanation as to who the two men might be?'

  'Well, they'll be back, of course.' He sounded a little less sure of his ground now. 'They haven't even paid me. I watched them go from the window there. They got into their little car and drove off round the block.'

  'Just over an hour ago.' Gino looked at his watch. 'What time did they leave the first time?'

  'Early-ish ... I suppose just after eight.'

  At half past a car was stolen at Pitti.

  'You said before they came on the train.' Check all the ordinary d
etails, the Marshal always said.

  'So they did . . . Well, maybe they borrowed a car ... I never thought . . . What are you going to do?'

  'Ring Headquarters.' What else would the Marshal do? 'And look at your blue register.'

  'Lieutenant? It's me. Any news?'

  'Nothing. Someone will meet the Ambrosiano express when it gets in from Rome and collect the Magistrate. Where are you now?'

  'Back at the Pensione Giottino where she's staying. She's in her room, supposedly taking a nap.'

  But she wasn't asleep. The Marshal, to the manager's fury, had gone up to the next floor and knelt down unashamedly to look through the keyhole. She was sitting rigidly on the edge of the bed, staring straight ahead and wringing a small handkerchief between her thin, claw-like hands.

  'There's not much I can do unless the Substitute Prosecutor decides . . .' The Lieutenant sounded nerve-racked. Was he wishing he'd never got into this?

  The Marshal persisted. 'You said you saw her train ticket; what made her show it to you?'

  'I think I'd told her that the funeral was Thursday and she said she thought her booking on the return journey was for Wednesday. She got it out to check and I took the opportunity . . .'

  'The opportunity she was offering you, sir,' finished the Marshal as politely as he could. Why couldn't there have been an experienced man on the job! 'I don't know how often there's a flight to England, but if she took one on Monday, could she not have got there in time to get the train back and arrive here on Tuesday?'

  'I'm not sure . . .'

  The Marshal waited patiently.

  'I'll speak to the Substitute Prosecutor; if he agrees we could start checking. It would take time, of course . . .'

  'And we haven't got any. Even so . . .'

  'I'll do what I can. In the meantime, if you want to get home, I could try and get him to send someone . . .'

  But the Marshal had to stick it out to the end, even if she won. It was no longer a matter of choice. He had no willpower to do anything other than doggedly follow this woman who filled him with horror, plodding after her until some outside force separated them.