The Marshal and the Madwoman (7 page)

The Marshal only gave a noncommittal grunt and then added, 'Good night to you all.'

CHAPTER 4

The drawer was stiff and he had to give it quite a yank before it opened.

'Salva! Is that you?'

'Mm.'

'I thought I heard you come in. What on earth are you up to out there?' She was already in bed and he hadn't meant to wake her but he couldn't resist taking a look in the drawer in the hall.

'I'll be with you in a minute,' he called.

There ... a box of buttons, another box with just his uniform buttons . . . the first aid kit that wouldn't fit in the bathroom cabinet, a sewing kit, the pliers . . . the pliers? He'd spent an hour looking for them the other day . . . Before long he unearthed what he was looking for, a shoe box full of old snapshots. They were the snaps that hadn't been considered worthy of the photograph album. Some were out of focus, some had been taken into the sun and some were even superimposed, showing two-headed monsters or background ghosts. He found one of the boys on the beach down at home and was amazed to see how small and plump and babyish they looked. He couldn't remember them being like that. Of course he'd seen very little of them at that age because of being posted here. He looked at the date scribbled on the back and dropped it back in the box. The photos right at the bottom were old and faded and had belonged to his mother. He had no idea how they came to be there, but there they were. Some things seemed to follow you about wherever you went without anyone thinking to take care of them, while other, more important things got lost when you moved. He was sure it was the same in every family. And yet in Clementina's flat he hadn't seen a single photograph. She'd been married but there wasn't a wedding picture. And even if she'd had no children, she'd been a child herself. She had a past, a family like everybody else. How was it possible that there wasn't so much as a single snapshot in her home? He closed the shoe box carefully and the drawer with difficulty.

'Salva! What on earth . . .?'

'I'm coming.'

She was sitting up in bed with the bedside light on. The air was heavily perfumed with mosquito-killer and a fan was whirring in one corner, though it seemed to be doing little except redistribute the hot air.

'Did I wake you?' He began unbuttoning his shirt.

'I wasn't asleep or you would have done, banging about. Whatever were you doing?'

'Looking at old photographs.'

'Ours? What for? Which photographs?'

'The snaps in that box in the drawer.'

'At this time of night? They're none of them any good, anyway. They want throwing out.'

'But they never do get thrown out, that's the point.'

'I don't know what you mean. I'll go through them one of these days, but they do keep on accumulating, year after year.'

'Exactly.'

'I wish I knew what you were talking about.'

'About Clementina, I suppose.'

'That madwoman?'

'That's right. She's dead.'

'No!'

'Yes. And there wasn't a single photograph in her flat, not one snapshot.'

'But—is that why you were called out?'

'Yes. I think I'll get a glass of water, do you want anything?'

'No, but have you eaten?'

He'd forgotten about that. 'No ... I might have a sandwich.'

'I'll make it for you.'

'No, no. Stay where you are.'

Sitting alone in pyjamas at the kitchen table with a sandwich in front of him gave him an odd feeling which he didn't identify at once because he was distracted. He was trying to think whether he'd ever in his life been in a house without a photograph or two in it, but he couldn't. He'd known peasant families down at home when he was small who hadn't enough to eat and certainly never owned a camera, but even they had pictures of First Communions and weddings. Clementina might have been crazy, but in his book that didn't account for it. The trouble was that once a person was labelled as crazy, everything they did or said was put down to that. How many times had it been said up to now? 'Of course, she was crazy.' 'Everything about her was odd.' 'You have to remember she wasn't in her right mind.' Well, he wasn't convinced. He wasn't convinced because somebody had killed her. You don't kill a woman because she's a bit funny in the head and goes cleaning the streets after dark. You kill her for a good reason which probably had nothing to do with her being mad.

The clock on the shelf ticked softly against the sawing rhythm of the cicadas in the Boboli Gardens behind the Palace, and it struck him, at last, that sitting here alone with his sandwich reminded him of his grass widower days. It wasn't an unpleasant memory since it made him feel all the more satisfied with the present. It would be even better when the boys came back. How babyish and fat they'd looked in that photograph . . . He got up and rinsed his plate. He was wakeful, despite the late hour, and he wanted to chat to Teresa for a minute if she wasn't already asleep. He switched off the kitchen light and was pleased to find the lamp still on in the bedroom, though his wife's eyes were closed. He switched the fan off.

'Are you asleep?'

'Almost. . . What time is it?'

'Late, but you can always sleep in tomorrow.'

'I never sleep in. You know very well that once I'm awake . . .'

He got into bed and picked up the alarm clock.

'I've already set it. What happened to that poor old woman?' Her eyes were wide open now. 'Or don't you want to tell me?

'I'll tell you . . . but you mustn't say a word outside these four walls because I don't want it to get about yet. It was set up to look like suicide but somebody killed her.'

'Killed her? That harmless old thing? But surely she hadn't a penny!'

'What's that got to do with it?'

'Well... I don't know. I just thought—I don't know.'

'As far as I know she hadn't a penny, but somebody killed her, even so. Not a word to anybody, think on!'

'I won't say anything. You needn't have told me if you didn't want to. There's no need to get annoyed.'

'I'm not annoyed.' But the truth was that he was annoyed and it showed in his voice. Annoyed with himself because he'd got so distracted by the photograph business and the old woman's madness that the obvious idea of her being killed for money had quite gone out of his head. And when all was said and done, what did he or anyone really know about Clementina? She might have been a miser. There could be money tucked away that they hadn't managed to find, however unlikely it seemed. Her past was a mystery, which brought him back to the photograph problem. Who was she? Where was she until ten years ago? That's what he needed to know.

'Well, if you'd rather not talk about it I'll switch the light off'

'What? No ... I was just thinking, that's all. But switch it off, anyway.' All of a sudden he was tired..It had been a long day, and tomorrow looked like being a longer one still.

Morning, in August, was the best time of day, the only time when the body felt cool enough and light enough to be active and the head clear enough to make the decisions of the day. The Marshal was in his office a good hour before the boys on day duty came down. Before that he had heard them getting up and showering upstairs, their voices thick with sleep when they muttered the occasional remark to each other. Outside his window the air was still and birds were chinking among the laurel bushes. He heard the park keepers arriving on the ground floor, where their office was directly below his. On a morning like this it would have been nice to live out and to walk to work through the Boboli Gardens. He got up and opened the window. The morning air was just warmed by the sun and smelled of the trees instead of the heavy traffic that burdened it for the rest of the year. He leaned out a little for a glimpse of the red dome and white marble tower of the cathedral against a pale, misty blue sky. It always pleased him. His freshly-ironed uniform felt good against his skin. He would have given a lot to get out of his office at this hour, but he had things to do and by the time he was ready to leave both the air outside and his uniform would be hot and sweaty. So he stayed where he was for a moment at the open window, making the most of it until he heard the boys come clattering down the stairs.

"Morning, Marshal.'

"Morning, lads. Sit down a minute, both of you. Everything all right?' This remark was addressed to the boy on the left, a big, cheerful lad doing his National Service.

'Yessir!' He would insist on saying Sir and saluting with a snap of his heels at the most unexpected moments. The Marshal found him disconcertingly military. The other boys laughed at him. Di Nuccio was smirking now. The Marshal maintained a pop-eyed solemnity.

The door burst open while somebody was still knocking on it.

'We're going to get the post, Marshal.'

'Wait.' The Marshal pushed the preliminary report of last night's events into a large envelope. 'Deliver this to the Public Prosecutor's office first—and put a spurt on this morning because I want to send Di Nuccio here out as soon as you get back.'

He had good reason to tell them to hurry. Going for the post at Headquarters was everybody's favourite job, since they were bound to bump into old friends over there and always got in a quick coffee and a few minutes' gossip. The Marshal knew this and pretended not to.

When they'd gone he had a few words with the National Service boy whose name was Bruno, taking care to avoid Di Nuccio's smirk as he did so. You couldn't help liking this lad although he was so eccentric. When he'd first arrived he'd been a physical fitness fanatic and spent every spare minute exercising with dumb-bells and chest expanders. Three weeks later he took up painting in watercolours and the dumb-bells vanished. And it wasn't as though you could criticize him for doing things superficially. As long as his enthusiasm lasted he gave himself to it heart and soul and got results. The boys got endless fun out of him but there was no denying that his muscles were impressive and only the week before he'd won some sort of prize for one of his paintings. The Marshal, for his part, couldn't complain. If he'd wanted to, the lad could have gone straight to university and put off his military service for years but he had accepted his call at eighteen and bounded into uniform, bursting with enthusiasm even for that. He was the only boy the Marshal had ever come across who seemed to be enjoying the experience, even when it consisted just of standing around in a draught on guard duty. Nothing deflated him and nothing dismayed him.

'Can I ask you something, sir?' asked the bright-eyed Bruno as soon as he lit on a pause in the Marshal's fatherly lecture.

'Don't call me "sir".'

'Nossir—Marshal, are you allowed to eat with us?'

'What. . .?'

'Can we invite you up to eat a meal with us, sir?'

'Don't—!'

'Sorry.'

'He's taken up cookery!' put in Di Nuccio, stifling a burst of laughter.'

'Chinese cookery,' corrected Bruno seriously. 'I've always been a good cook. I'm planning a special dinner—not yet, because I can't get the ingredients I need until the shops all re-open. But I want to invite you, too.'

'We'll see . . .' muttered the Marshal, nonplussed. 'You'd better get on duty. I want a word with Di Nuccio.'

Bruno jumped to his feet, fired off a salute and marched out as though he were under guard, slamming the door behind him.

'That boy . . .' began the Marshal, but he tailed off, at a loss for words.

'He's taken over all the cooking, all of it!' said Di Nuccio, letting his laughter out. 'We're in clover!'

'You haven't been exchanging duties without—'

'Oh no. He does all his regular duties and cooks as well. We might as well enjoy it while it lasts.'

'I suppose so . . . Does this mean he's given up painting?'

'Looks like it.'

'Hm. We'd better get to work. First of all, do you know anything about a call, the night before last, concerning a disturbance in the San Frediano district?'

'I remember seeing it on the report yesterday morning— but there was nothing to it. It was referred to Borgo Ognissanti and the lad on duty called Headquarters himself so they'd inform the nearest patrol car. Apparently they passed by but there was no disturbance—and whoever the caller was never did try Borgo Ognissanti so that was that.'

'I'm afraid it wasn't,' the Marshal said, and explained.

When he'd finished, Di Nuccio said, 'Do you think there'll be a claim of negligence?'

'No, no. The caller was correctly referred to the emergency service and the lad had the good sense to send a patrol there himself. I don't see what more he could have done even if he'd known what was going to happen.'

'That's true.'

'Now, what I want from you is some information and I want it unofficially. What's the name of that friend of yours over at Borgo Ognissanti? The one who broke his leg skiing last winter?'

'Mario?'

'That's the one. He was a neighbour of yours down home, wasn't he?'

'Same street.

'Well, as you're old friends and neighbours, both from Naples, I imagine you can get what I need from him. If I make inquiries myself action will have to be taken as a matter of course and that's the last thing I want. There's a bar in the square just across from the dead woman's house. It's my guess that there's a bit of gambling going on there —small friendly stuff, nothing to worry about—after the place shuts at night and sometimes going on until the small hours.'

'I see. Well, Mario's bound to know since it's on their night beat.'

'Just check for me. But think on, I don't want anybody poking their nose in there.'

'You don't want it stopped, then?'

'No, no. On the contrary. I want it to go on, if that's the way things are, because as long as it does go on the shutters will be down to give the impression that the place is closed and somebody, somewhere, will be keeping a lookout.'

'I see what you mean. It could be useful—provided that they're willing to report anything they might see.'

'They're willing. Nobody likes the thought of a murderer lurking about the area. But their habits mustn't be disturbed. I need their help. So, all I want to know is what time they go on till, more or less, and whether anybody who didn't know could guess from the outside that there were people in there.'