Death in Springtime (10 page)

'At the Excelsior.'

'The stubborn type, our Mr Maxwell,' remarked the Substitute once he and the Captain were alone again. 'Though it didn't seem to surprise you. Is that sort of behaviour normal?'

'It's certainly not unusual. Mothers are a great deal more help once they've calmed down and been told what to do. But then it's probably a case of ignorance is bliss. There are very few fathers of kidnap victims who aren't worried about their financial affairs being looked at too closely. The idea that someone has already taken a very close look before choosing the victim shakes them considerably. I doubt if this man is an exception.'

'He took his time getting here, too, if he was informed on Monday. Today's Saturday. We don't know when he arrived in Florence, of course . . .'

The Captain picked up the external phone.

'Get me the Excelsior hotel, will you . . . no, I'll hang on . . . Excelsior? Could you tell me if Mr John Maxwell has arrived yet . . . Wednesday lunchtime. Thank you.' He turned a pencil over and over between his fingers. 'What difference could a day or two make?'

'Not trouble finding a seat on a plane, I imagine. First class and in March.'

The telephone rang.

'Marshal Guarnaccia at Pitti for you, sir.'

'Thank you. Good afternoon, Marshal.'

'I was coming over to see you but things have happened. First of all I managed to talk to Bertelli, the husband of the weeping woman at number three. He works in a restaurant. It was he who let the kidnapper in before he left for work. His wife was in the bathroom. He noticed the one bagpiper like I did, and what I say is that we were meant to. I don't believe it was a coincidence, and if it wasn't—' he had finally sorted it out—'if it wasn't then it means that Sardinian shepherds dressed themselves up as Sardinian shepherds to do a kidnapping. It's more ridiculous than a coincidence. Somebody's trying to make sure we blame the Sardinians.'

The Captain had as good as said the same himself about the traces of lamb's meat in the truck.

'Even so, Demontis is Sardinian and so are Piladu and Scano's boy.'

'Wait a minute, I'm coming to that. Piladu's son— he's dead. That's why I've been delayed in getting over to see you. I intended to pick up my car and come over to see you as soon as I'd talked to Bertelli, but when I got back here Lorenzini had this message from up near the fort. Some children spotted the feet sticking out of the bushes by the roadside. It's in my Quarter, of course—I don't know how long he's been dead but I went up there and the doctor was still there. He said it's almost certainly an overdose. They've taken the body over to the Medico-Legal Institute. I've only just come back down.'

'You'd better come over here, anyway.'

'If we're going out to Pontino I'll have to warn my Brigadier.'

'I think we'll have to.'

The Marshal roared into the distance for Lorenzini and then said: 'It looks as if this might have nothing to do with the kidnapping.'

'I'm not sure.'

'It could have something to do with that fight in the bar, though. I'll come over, then.' He rang off.

'Piladu's son's been found dead.'

'What of?'

'Probably an overdose.'

'Who'll tell his father?'

'I suppose the Brigadier out at Pontino had better. I want to go out there.' He rang for his adjutant and sent him to bring Bacci back.

'In that case I'll go over to the Procura. You still think this boy was involved in our case?'

'Yes, I do.'

'I thought so. I'll get over there before they appoint another Substitute to look into it.'

'I suppose you should, though I imagine Guarnaccia will have mentioned it.'

'Hm. Incidentally, I've been reading some recent studies of Sardinian banditry. It seems this sort of thing's been going on ever since the Romans colonized Sardinia and drove the indigenous population of the rich pasture in the lowlands up into the Barbagia.'

'Yes, it has.' But when did the Substitute find time for his leisurely reading? He always seemed to be on the move . . .

'And they say they still call themselves "Pelliti" because they used to dress only in goat and sheep skins.'

'And send us violent political messages about freeing Sardinia from Italian rule, while investing their ransom money in land and building speculation in the south of France and even South America.'

'They only stole sheep from the Romans.'

'Sheep make a noise. People, if you point a gun at them, don't.'

CHAPTER 9

'Things aren't as they should be, of course ...' The Brigadier had at last found an appreciative audience, and he and the Marshal bounced along together comfortably in the jeep with the Captain and Bacci following in a car. 'We've been without a Marshal nearly four months—not that I can't cope, but you know how it is when half the boys you get are on National Service and by the time you've begun to knock them into shape they're ready to leave.'

The Marshall grunted.

'When I think how it was when I joined up . . . you're not so badly off down in Florence where at least you've got a central canteen, but ever since we've had to do without a resident housekeeper in the smaller stations we've had to spend half our time teaching mothers' boys to cook pasta.'

'Mmph . . .'

'It's one thing if you're fully-staffed but if you think that whichever of my boys is on guard duty for the day is responsible for the shopping as well as the cooking, and I have to put another boy on guard as substitute to him and another at the disposition of the local magistrate, and I've two out on motor-bike patrol—where am I when a case like this comes up and I've got to be out?'

'It's difficult . . .'

'I'll say it's difficult. How many men do they think I've got?'

'How many have you?'

'I've got enough just to manage, but things aren't what they should be and it's not what we were used to in the old days.'

'Ah no . . .'

'Not that a case like this comes up every day, I'm not saying that and I'm not saying I can't cope, but it should be a Marshal on this job so that I'm there if anything comes up in the village, you see what I mean?'

The Marshal grunted.

'I've said as much—though not in so many words—to the Captain, for all the good it does, but you understand what I'm talking about. This is Piladu's place, but if you ask me there'll be nobody in at this hour on a Saturday. Not until he comes home to milk . . . There'll be nobody in at this hour!' he repeated loudly, to the men behind as he got down from the jeep.

Car doors slammed and chickens scattered.

'What about his wife?' asked the Captain.

'It's Saturday,' repeated the Brigadier patiently. 'She'll be doing her weekend shopping.'

They fell silent for a moment, all of them wondering if she was shopping for the son who was lying in a dissecting trench at the Medico-Legal Institute.

'He hadn't been home for weeks, anyway . . .' The Brigadier continued their common thought aloud. 'At least, he hadn't if they were telling the truth.' It wasn't likely that they had been. The boy was almost sure to have been home at intervals, if only for a change of clothing.

'We don't know how long he's been dead,' murmured the Marshal, 'though it couldn't have been long, he wasn't . . .'

'What time do you think she'll be back?' interrupted the Captain, addressing the Brigadier.

'About half past six, I should think. In time to put her shopping away before he brings the milk in. He'll be back first ..." He looked at his watch. 'It's almost six.'

The sun had already lost its warmth and the light had faded just a little, giving the empty farmhouse and its ramshackle outbuildings a forlorn look. Bacci and the Marshal were staring in at the uncurtained window below the steps that led to the front door. They could make out stands of wooden shelving in the gloom, the nearest cheeses a luminous white, the furthest ones matured to a dark, oily yellow.

'Good many hours of work gone into that lot,' the Marshal said quietly.

' "Many the rich cheeses I pressed for ungrateful townsfolk,

Yet never did I get home with much money in my pocket,"'

quoted Bacci, who had studied at the Liceo Classico.

The Marshall gave him a funny look. 'Pecorino costs ten thousand lire a kilo.'

'But if you allow for a middleman . . .'

'They sell it directly to the shops!'

'He's here.' The Brigadier had heard the faint tinkle of sheepbells and the distant bark of the younger dog.

The black figure came into view against a jostling white drift. The old dog plodded alongside while the younger one careered wildly up and down without managing to distract the sheep who were eager to get home and be relieved of their milk.

Piladu was carrying a newborn lamb that seemed to be hanging lifelessly under his arm. When he got close enough they saw that its hind legs were twitching feebly.

He knew that four of them wouldn't come for anything he might have done. There was no need to ask what it was about. It was the Brigadier he looked at.

'You've arrested him?' But they wouldn't come just to tell him that either. 'He's dead?'

'Yes.'

The sheep were pushing into the fold, stumbling and bleating. The younger son was coming along in the distance, taking big strides with the help of an overlong crook.

'Ruff, Fido, ruff, get on . . .' said Piladu, without taking his eyes from the four men in uniform. The dog moved off a few paces and turned back, wagging his tail anxiously. 'Get on,' Piladu repeated, and the dog walked round to the back of the sheepfold. 'Was it an overdose?'

'Probably. There'll have to be . . . We'll be able to tell you for certain later.'

'It makes no difference, does it? He's dead.'

Things would get worse, not better, when his wife arrived. If it was worth asking they might as well ask now.

'This business of him going missing . . .' began the Brigadier, 'It's possible that he might have been involved in something big. If you know anything about it at all, now that—If you can tell us anything it might save a young girl's life.'

'It's his mother's fault. . . She ruined him . . .' He was lifting up the lamb's head, pulling on its muzzle to make it bleat. 'She ruined him because he was her first. If I'd had my way . . .' One of the sheep pushed its way out of the flock in response to the lamb's feeble noise. He went and laid the limp creature down on a tuft of grass near the fold to let its mother lick it.

'You could save this girl's life. It's too late to protect your lad, but you could still help her . . .

Piladu took a baby's bottle from somewhere inside his cloak. 'Too weak to do for itself.' He crouched behind the mother to squirt milk into the bottle. 'She ruined him and now he's dead.' His face was turned from them.

'Will you help us find out what happened?'

Piladu kept his face averted, staring over the heads of his lamenting flock. He might have been talking to the sheep when he said softly:

'God damn the lot of you.'

'Young ones today won't stand for it. They'd sooner take a job eight to five in a factory, if they can get it, and the worst of it is that the ones who do take it on can't find a wife. When his younger son comes of an age when he wants to get married, any girl he brings home is going to take one look at the life his mother has to put up with and she'll be off.'

'That's true ... '

Of course it's true but where's it all going to end? If nobody wants to work the land—we'll go round by the villa. Are they following behind? They are. It's tragic— there's a chap along this road that I like to keep my eye on and it's as long as it's short—to lose your eldest boy. He was never a help to his father, but even so ... It doesn't bear thinking about.'

The Marshal was thinking about his own two sons. How could anybody get over a thing like that? And the mother . . .

'Doesn't bear thinking about,' The Brigadier said again, repeatedly lifting and pushing back his hat, though he had it on perfectly straight. 'There are times when this job gets you down. Nobody wants to tell a man his eldest son's gone. Sometimes I'd sooner be doing some other job. Now, who's that? That's somebody who's up to no good . . . I'd recognize that slinking walk anywhere. Now, what's he doing round here?' He stuck his arm out of the open side of the jeep and stamped a big boot on the brake.

To their left, a figure had slipped between the trees that lined the driveway leading to the villa.

'I wonder if he saw us?'

'I don't see how he could have done. He had his back to us and other things on his mind by the look of him. Who is it?'

'That's Scano's boy, that's who that is. A lad we'd like to talk to, the Captain and I.' He stuck his head out to look behind. The Captain's car had stopped. There was no room to draw alongside.

'I'd better have a word,' said the Brigadier, withdrawing his head and opening the door.

The Captain wound down his window, baffled.

'I've just spotted Scano's boy,' explained the Brigadier.

'I didn't see anyone.'

'You wouldn't be able to from behind me. He was heading for the villa but not on the drive itself. He evidently didn't want to be seen.'

'How did you know? Why did you come this way?'

'I didn't know anything. I came this way—it's as long as it's short—because of Pratesi and his sausage factory.'

'Because of . . .?'

'Because of Pratesi. We'll pass his place in a minute. It's nothing to do with this job, I just like to drive past whenever I can because sooner or later I'll catch him at it. I can't prove anything yet but he's not just making sausages, he's got some racket going buying and selling stuff on the side and the money's not going through his books. Anyway, Scano's boy must have been going to see the gamekeeper at the villa.'

'The gamekeeper? What about that young shepherd we saw there the other day, what was his name?'

'Rudolfo? No no no, he wasn't going there, you can't get there, not from the main drive. There's a wall dividing the villa and gardens from the paddock and stables that Rudolfo uses. There's a door in it but that's been kept padlocked since the family doesn't come any more. You can only get to Rudolfo's by the road we took the other day when they found the car—or else on foot there's a bit of a patch half a kilometre on from here—and in any case Rudolfo won't be down until tomorrow, being Palm Sunday. No. It's the gamekeeper he's going to see. What should we do?'

'Your men know this area best. Get one of them out here in plain clothes and on a civilian motor-bike—better still a moped, it looks more innocent. And tell him to keep on the move.'

From the Brigadier's office the Captain telephoned Maxwell at the Excelsior, sending Bacci through to the communicating duty room to pick up the phone there.

'Has there been a further message from them?' He nodded at Bacci for a translation.

Maxwell hesitated before saying: 'Yes, there has . . .'

'Where?'

'Where . . .?'

'Through the Consulate?'

'I—I'm not prepared to say.'

'They telephoned you at your hotel, didn't they?'

Silence.

'How did they know where you were staying?'

'That's no secret, anybody could have found that out!'

'Mr Maxwell, I understand only too well that you would like to pay this ransom as quickly as possible and take no risks and that since I want to catch these kidnappers, we are working at cross purposes to a certain extent. Nevertheless, unless there's some cooperation between us, your daughter could lose her life. You need the help I can give you because if you unknowingly make a false move or fail to react promptly because you're not sure what to do, your daughter will be dispensed with as being too risky a property. She is valuable to them but her value has its limits. They assume you will get help and advice from me. The risk of having you talk to me is balanced by my preventing you from blundering or delaying. They know that, unless I am very fortunate, the only chance I'll have to catch them is the moment in which they take the ransom, and they know equally well that you won't risk your daughter's life by telling me where that's going to happen.'

'You could have me followed.'

'And you could send someone else whom I don't know. I'm sure you've already agreed to do that.'

Another silence. The Captain and Bacci looked at each other through the communicating door. Dealing through a third party made things more difficult than they were already but the young officer couldn't deal with a situation like this and the Captain couldn't risk not making himself perfectly understood. When Maxwell still didn't answer he went on more gently:

'Please try and remember that I didn't create the situation you're in but I do have more experience of it than you do. For reasons it would be too complicated to explain to you now, I believe that this may not be a professional kidnapping and that the people concerned are inefficient and very probably frightened. Had it been a professional job all that would matter from your point of view would be that you followed their instructions and moved at their pace with my help. As it is, I think every hour that passes increases the risk of your not seeing your daughter again whether you pay the ransom or not, and that by paying you may well be signing her death warrant. Consequently, if you don't feel you want to cooperate with me I shall be justified in going ahead with my job and in leaving you free to act in any way you think fit.'

'Leaving me free?'

'To take whatever line you like, yes.'

'And then what do I do when I get the answer to these questions you told me to ask, and the newspaper?'

'That's for you to decide. You may want to take the advice of your Consulate.'

'I may just do that—I'm going to call the Consul General right now!' He hung up.

After sending Bacci off to get himself a coffee from the Brigadier who was losing his patience with a recruit in the' kitchen, the Captain shut out the noise and sat down to wait, glancing now and then at his watch. He would have liked to telephone Marshal Guarnaccia who had gone back down to Florence but he didn't want to block the line, and in any case the Marshal had said something about going to the prison. It wasn't that the Captain had anything specific to ask him, but on the few occasions they had worked together the Marshal had always had something helpful to offer. The only trouble was that although he never missed a trick, he was dreadfully slow. If you asked him a question you might not get an answer for a week. The Captain knew that he hadn't got a week. For all he knew, he might already be too late.