The Marshal and the Madwoman (16 page)

'So how do you know it was paper?'

'The smell of the smoke, like when you light a fire with newspaper. The smoke was still hanging in the air in the kitchen—and I don't know what else he could have burnt so easily and completely.'

'I suppose you're right. But what papers? I didn't find a thing.'

'Well it must have been something well hidden because look at the amount of time he was up there. We had plenty of time to get there and catch him at it, so he must have had to search.'

'He didn't say anything?'

'Not a word. After the first shock of feeling my Beretta in his ribs he gave a quick look about him like a trapped animal and then grinned at me as if to say, So what? There's not much you can do about it now.'

'We'll see about that.'

'He'll be done for breaking and entering but do you think a blackmail charge would stick?'

'I don't know. There's no letter, no real evidence. Only the Rossis' word against his. But from the way you say he reacted to being caught, I'm willing to bet that it's not the first time he's been arrested.'

Rapid footsteps were coming along an adjoining corridor. A nurse appeared at the turning and made straight for them. She recognized their uniforms.

With no preliminaries she snapped, 'Have this boy's parents been informed?' She shot a vicious look at the coffee cups as though she'd caught them in the middle of a drinking orgy.

'I—they were seeing to it from Headquarters . . .'

'In that case, why aren't they here?'

Di Nuccio spoke up: 'They won't be able to find them. Bruno told me they've gone abroad on holiday, so . . .'

The nurse didn't answer him but looked at the Marshal, furious, 'This patient should be at home in bed!' It was clear that she held the Marshal responsible for the condition of both boys and, since he felt much the same way himself, it was with mumbling humility that he dared to ask:

'How's it . . . how is he?'

'There's no change. He's still unconscious. There's nothing you can do here. You'd better leave, both of you.'

She turned and marched away, her white shoes slapping on the tiled corridor. The Marshal stood where he was, looking after her uncertainly. It was Di Nuccio who had to decide.

'Let's go. We can come back in the morning.'

'It is morning.'

They walked side by side along the corridor. When they went through the door to the waiting-room their tired eyes were dazzled by the rays of the sun and the Marshal paused to put on his dark glasses.

'I'll call a taxi.'

On the way back to the Pitti Palace they were too exhausted and depressed to talk. They both had their heads back and their eyes closed so that the driver, when he pulled up, called out, 'We're here!' thinking they were asleep.

'Go straight to bed,' the Marshal said as they reached the top of the staircase and he unlocked the door. 'And stay there all day.'

'But we're so short—'

'Go to bed.'

He didn't intend to go to bed himself. It wasn't worth it for a couple of hours or less. His first thought was to go to the kitchen and make himself a decent cup of coffee to wash away the taste of the weak and bitter hospital brew, or the taste of the hospital itself. He opened the shutters and the kitchen window and got the coffee on as quietly as he could. Even so, his wife appeared in the doorway in her cotton nightdress, her hair ruffled and her face pale with sleep.

'I didn't mean to wake you.'

'I wasn't properly asleep. I've been waking up every hour since you went out. What's been happening?' She got two coffee-cups out of the cupboard. 'You look dreadful.'

'Bruno's hurt.'

'Bruno ... Oh no!'

'I'll tell you about it in a minute but let me drink this coffee first.'

'But at least tell me if it's serious.'

'Yes. At least, I think so.'

'And his parents?'

'Di Nuccio says they're abroad on holiday.'

When the coffee came bubbling up the warm air was filled with its scent and the birds were chirping on the grass outside so that it didn't seem possible that anything tragic had happened.

'Tell me about it, Salva.'

He told her. They didn't sit at the table but stood near the sink, looking out of the open window and sipping their coffee. The clear burning sun was soothing to the Marshal's tired face though it made his eyes water.

When he had finished telling her, she said, 'You should try and get some sleep.'

'No, no. By this time ... I think I'll ring the hospital in an hour.'

'Is there no way of tracing his parents?'

'They're abroad. I've no idea where, so until Bruno comes round . . .'

'Has he any other injuries besides his head?'

'I don't know.' Why hadn't he asked? He should have insisted on seeing the doctor in charge instead of letting himself be bullied by an ill-tempered nurse. When he telephoned he would demand some detailed information.

But when he telephoned, the doctor who'd been on nights was no longer there. He was told that Bruno was in an intensive care unit and that there was no change. He was still unconscious.

And somehow the day had to be got through.

At least his numbed and trance-like state caused by lack of sleep took the edge offhaving to deal with the Prosecutor. He would have been informed already, of course, by Headquarters, after they'd taken the man with a limp away. Perhaps he was already on his way to question him in the cells over there. The Marshal decided to let things take their course and wait for the Prosecutor to call him, meanwhile writing out his report. He settled down at his desk, glancing every now and then at the telephone. Dead on nine o'clock it rang. So soon? He took a couple of deep breaths before picking up the receiver.

'Is that Marshal Guarnaccia?'

'Speaking.'

'I shouldn't be disturbing you but. . .'

'Who is it?'

'Linda Rossi.'

'Ah. Good morning.'

'Good morning. I hope I'm not. . . How is that poor boy?'

'Not too good, I'm afraid. Still unconscious. What can I do for you?'

'I just wanted ... Is it true? About Clementina?'

'Yes, it's true. I'm afraid I couldn't tell you sooner—but don't let it upset you too much. The man who broke in last night is in custody. There's no danger to you.'

'It was a shock when I opened the paper. You'll think me awful, disturbing you like this when you've got so much on, but. . . We called you last night, you know, at least, my husband did, but you'd already left. Franco said—'

'Yes. I know.'

'We were trying to help.'

'I'm very grateful to you.' If he didn't open the way for her they might go on like this for hours. 'Is something wrong? Do you need my help?'

'Oh, you don't know how grateful we'd be if—my husband— We only heard yesterday when we went to the Tenants' Association. The date of the hearing's been confirmed. It's unbelievable what some people will do to get you out —there was a couple whose case was heard yesterday, their flat was falling apart, literally falling apart, and they'd been begging for years for it to be fixed. A huge chunk of plaster had fallen on their little boy's head and the floors weren't safe—and do you know what the owner's lawyer claimed? That they'd repeatedly sent workmen round there and the tenants had refused to let them in. Bare-faced lies, just like that! And they were so surprised by such an unexpected and outlandish accusation that they were too shocked to defend themselves. If you're honest yourself you can't imagine anyone being capable of pulling a trick like that. And of course, owners are always richer and more influential than their tenants. They have friends in high places. You're just helpless. And what the lawyers are saying about us is a pack of lies but unless we can—'

'Just a minute,' interrupted the Marshal. 'What are they saying?'

'That's just it. If they'd brought up about my getting married and having a baby in the house we were ready for them. But obviously they've decided that the baby could make things drag on longer since we'd have been given more time to find other accommodation. So they've made up this story, saying I've been sub-letting, having paying guests. It's completely untrue but how can we prove it?'

'How can they prove it?'

'They claim they have a witness, but even if their witness is lying, what can we do? It's our word against theirs. I promise you it's not true! We've never even had so much as a friend to stay overnight. There isn't room!'

'I believe you. But what do you want me to do?'

'You're our only hope. The woman at the Tenants' Association asked us if we could produce a witness, somebody official, not a friend or neighbour, somebody who'd be believed.'

'I see. But what can I have witnessed, exactly?'

'We told her what had happened—about Clementina— and it was she who suggested it, otherwise I wouldn't. . . You've called on us, you see, a couple of times, unexpectedly, so if you would say that you had seen no sign of anyone camping out here, as it were . . .'

'I see,' said the Marshal again. 'Well, I'll probably be able to do that.'

'I have to give your name,' Linda Rossi insisted anxiously, 'I'm supposed to go round there today and give in a list of witnesses who will be appearing . . .'

'All right. Put my name down.'

'I'm afraid you'll have to—I don't know your name. We just know you as "the Marshal" . . .'

'Guarnaccia. Salvatore Guarnaccia.'

'Thank you. Oh, Marshal, I'm so grateful to you. And bothering you at a time like this when you must be so worried about that boy.'

That boy . . . The Marshal had hung up but his hand stayed on the receiver. Was it too soon to ring the hospital again? That boy . . . How often had he said those words, shaking his head?

'He's unpredictable . . . that's what he is . . .'

He couldn't remember exactly how long it was since he'd last phoned. More than an hour, surely? Anything could happen in an hour. Or nothing. No change. Sometimes people stayed in a coma for years. But they hadn't said precisely that he was in a coma, they'd said unconscious and that's not the same thing. He didn't know enough about these things to know what questions to ask and he just let them palm him off with non-information. Well, they couldn't stop him telephoning, even if it annoyed them.

But the phone began ringing under his hand. He'd all but forgotten the Prosecutor. Well, the sooner that was over, the better.

'Guarnaccia?'

'Speaking.'

'Good morning. I've got news for you—I just hope you don't think I've been too long about getting it.'

It certainly wasn't the Prosecutor, but it took the Marshal some seconds to realize that it was Spicuzza from the San Giovanni Commissariat. Bruno's accident had wiped this train of thought from his mind. Fortunately, Spicuzza carried on chattering, pleased as he was with himself, and there was time for the Marshal to recover his wits.

'Bad news first—if you could call it that. I can't find any record of a crime which might have involved this woman's husband and child—I see the story's out in the morning's paper, by the way.'

And of course the Marshal hadn't. If only he weren't so slow! The Prosecutor wasn't so far wrong in his judgement, he had to admit.

'Anyway,' Spicuzza went on, 'nothing for you in that line but I've got her Dangerous Persons certificate. It was made out here on December 28th, 1966.'

'Then you have her address of the time?'

'Yes, she lived in the Santa Croce Quarter—don't worry, there's a photocopy of the certificate on its way to you by hand. You'll have it any minute. But there's something else—'

'Wait—does it say who applied for the certificate?'

'The hospital authorities, I'm afraid. That's not much of a help to you, is it? It looks like she was already in hospital when she went loony. In fact, there's a note attached to this certificate—just a slip of paper, written by hand, to the effect that, despite the Dangerous Persons certificate, she was to remain where she was until her physical condition improved enough for her to be transferred to the psychiatric ward of the same hospital, Santa Maria Nuova, for observation.

'Her physical condition?'

'That's right. And the note's signed illegibly but by a consultant dermatologist. It took me a while to make it out but that's what it says, all right. Did you see her body? Were there any burns, skin grafts? I said it might be an accident, if you remember.'

'There wasn't a mark on her that I could see, and nothing of that sort in the pathologist's report, either.'

'Maybe the hospital could help you.'

'That's true, though it's twenty years ago. I think I'm more interested in that address for the moment. Thanks, anyway, for being so helpful.'

'You're welcome. Goodness knows there's nothing doing here. We got a pickpocket this morning—in the cathedral, if you please. Excitement of the week. Been doing the round of churches and museums with the tourists. Cultural type.'

'Oh,
that
pickpocket.'

'Done the Pitti Palace, as well, has he? Silly twit—he'd dressed himself up in holiday clothes and was carrying a camera and guidebook, nicked, of course, but you can't fake that three-day city sunburn and the dazed look they get from an overdose of museums. Once we knew he was operating it didn't take long to find him, and catch him in the act.'

'My compliments,' the Marshal offered, 'and thanks again.'

Di Nuccio tapped and came in. 'Marshal?'

'Why aren't you in bed?'

'I feel all right, honestly. And don't you remember, you told me to ring the registry to see if I could trace the madwoman's sister? Not much use, though. Without the first name and her address the computer won't produce.'

'Surely there's some way of doing it! If I knew her first name and her address I wouldn't be asking.'

'That's what I said but I was told pretty sharply that they're not a police records department. I still think there must be a way of getting at the information but since the head clerk's away on his holidays—'

'We'll have to wait till September 1st. Don't tell me.'

'I'm afraid so. Is there any news?'