The Marshal and the Madwoman (12 page)

'I'm afraid that yesterday . . . We hadn't forgotten you said you'd call but we had to go to my mother-in-law's rather urgently.'

'I'm disturbing your meal,' the Marshal said as he got his breath, ignoring this apology, 'but I won't keep you long.'

'That's all right,' the young woman said, 'it can wait.'

They looked uncertainly at each other and then Rossi said, 'Perhaps you'd like to sit down.'

'Thank you. Your stairs are a bit steep.'

'Yes. Of course, we're used to it.'

'How long have you lived here?'

'Just over three years.' It was always Rossi who answered. They were both as tense as springs.

'I suppose you can tell me something about Clementina, then, having had her for a neighbour for three years.'

As soon as he asked the question he felt them relax a little. Rossi even sat down opposite the Marshal, though his wife remained standing. 'She must have been a bit of a nuisance by all accounts, with the noise she made.'

'Clementina? Well, not so much during the day but she was often pretty rowdy at night. We never said anything to her because that would only provoke more noise. She was always ready for a fight when she was in a rowdy mood.' Rossi glanced up at his wife and, getting his message, she sat herself on the arm of his chair and tried to smile.

'What I was wondering,' began the Marshal carefully, 'was whether she had any visitors recently. You see, by all accounts, she was a cheerful sort of character even if she was a bit off her head. It makes me wonder if somebody or something could have upset her or frightened her enough to make her kill herself. You see what I'm getting at?'

'Yes . . .' said Rossi, 'I suppose you're right. She was cheerful enough as a rule.'

'There's nobody been round here bothering her recently, that you know of?'

'No.' He said it too quickly and his face was red. So was his wife's. They were poor liars, which made him sympathetic to them since they obviously weren't accustomed to telling lies. And the thought gave him no pleasure, really, because they were believing every word he said and he was lying through his teeth, talking about suicide and pretending not to know about Clementina's visitor. He was a better liar than they were. Occupational hazard, perhaps.

'Think back more carefully,' he insisted, 'you just might recall something that's slipped your mind up to now and I'd be so grateful to you. You see, in the course of my inquiries—not hereabouts, as it happens—' he wasn't going to blow his best spy—'I've come across a man who knows Clementina and says he came round here a few weeks ago. I'd rather not mention his name and we've no proof, of course, that he did or said anything to upset Clementina, but we have to check everything in our business, as I'm sure you understand.'

They both nodded, their eyes fixed on him as though he had them under hypnosis.

'This man,' he went on, 'is a biggish chap, not tall but bulky, and he has a limp . . . and the thing is, he said he saw the signora here . . .' He stared at Signora Rossi with his big, bulging eyes. 'And that made me think that with a bit of luck you might remember having seen him.'

There was a silence. They knew they were trapped, all right, and he was sure it would be she who spoke first because she was much more agitated than her husband.

What happened next was so unexpected that the Marshal got to his feet in alarm and dismay.

Instead of speaking, the young woman burst into tears, putting her head down on her knees and covering it with both hands as great sobs shook her. Both men were standing over her. Rossi placed a hand on her hair and she threw her head up, shouting, 'Tell him! For goodness' sake, tell him! I don't care any more, I'm sick of the whole business. We'll go and live at my mother's, anything! Tell him . . .' She collapsed, sobbing again.

Rossi took her by the shoulders and brought her to her feet. She kept her head down but her hands were now covering her breast.

'Go and see to yourself,' her husband said quietly, 'and try to calm down. Leave it to me.' She shook him off and left the room, still crying.

The two men sat down again.

'Where's the baby?' asked the Marshal.

'At her mother's—we didn't tell her why because her heart's bad and she hasn't to be upset, so . . .'

'Where on earth was the baby last time I came in here? It wasn't here or in the room where I telephoned.'

'I took the carrycot into the bathroom before we let you in.'

'So that's what you were doing to keep me waiting so long.'

'There were other bits of stuff to hide, as well—how did you guess?'

'I didn't, then. But just now, your wife's dress . . . I've got two children myself. . . It's not good for her, you know; she could get a fever if she's been feeding the baby herself up to now. Not good for the baby, either.'

'We didn't know what else to do. It's in the contract that we're not supposed to—'

'I understand. But all this has nothing to do with me. Surely you didn't think I was spying on you?'

'Of course not, but what difference does that make? If we have to give evidence at an inquest—or even if some journalist puts our name in the paper—It's not just the baby. My wife was the one who signed the contract for this flat before we were married and there's meant to be just one person living here. We've been trying to find another place for over eighteen months but every time we go and look at one it turns out they only want foreigners who'll move on quickly so they can keep raising the rent without problems, or else they expect an enormous bribe. The worst flats are those that claim to be rent-controlled. Then they not only expect a bribe but they want double the official rent and give you a receipt for half of it. It's a jungle. If we can't manage to hang on to this flat we'll be on the streets.'

'What about your mother-in-law?'

'She lives in Arezzo. I'm still trying to get my degree at the University of Florence, plus I've got a job. I can't get here from Arezzo every day and there's no work there.'

'What is your job?'

'I work as a draughtsman and I'm studying to be an architect.'

The Marshal sighed. There was nothing he could do.

'Have you been to get advice from the Tenants' Association?'

'We went to them immediately when we got notice to quit.'

'And what did they suggest?'

'They think we'll have a better chance by telling the truth about the baby even though we have broken the contract, because it always takes longer to evict a family than a single person. But it's risky and a lot depends on the personal sympathies of the judge. There's a hearing coming up soon and we still haven't made up our minds what line to take. Then there was that thug who came round here.'

'The man with the limp?'

'Yes.'

'Then it wasn't Clementina he came to see?'

'Oh, he went up there, too. My wife saw him. She's always on the alert because the agency we rent through could always send someone round unexpectedly. They do that sort of thing.'

'She could have refused to let him in, you know.'

'He got in under false pretences. The trouble was that Linda, my wife, was so panic-stricken, thinking it was somebody come about the flat, that when this man claimed he was checking on TV licences she was so relieved she let him in without thinking and went to get the licence from the drawer in the kitchen. When she came back he was looking round the place in a way that disturbed her. She showed him the licence and he just grinned at her. Then he said:

' "Have you got somewhere to go when you're thrown out of here?"

'"Who are you? You haven't come about the licence."

' "Just my little joke. It's a nice place, this, for one person, not for a couple with a baby."

'What could Linda do? If only I'd been here, but I was at work. I suppose he knew that, the bastard!'

'He must have given some explanation of who he was.'

'Oh, he gave a name—Bianchi—false, I imagine. He said he reckoned things would go badly with us if anyone found out about the baby but that he could help us. He said he'd come from the agency to check up on us but that he could always keep his mouth shut. He said he even knew about one or two other flats.'

'How much did he ask for?'

'Three million.'

'Did you pay up?'

'On a draughtsman's salary? We haven't a penny to spare. We thought of my mother-in-law but because of her weak heart we were afraid to tell her the real reason and that would have meant inventing some other excuse, even supposing she could afford to help us. In the end the only thing we could think of was to go back and tell the woman at the Tenants' Association.'

'And what did she say?'

'At first she said it was a pity we had no proof of what had happened, since it would have put the owners in the wrong and could have helped us. Of course there was no proof, there was only our word for it. Then she thought of telephoning the agents on our behalf without saying who she was. Then they might have let something out and she'd be a witness.'

'But they were too clever for her?'

'Not at all. She simply asked for Signor Bianchi, saying she had some money for him and wanted to make an appointment to come to the office with it. She didn't give her name but she managed to mention the address, ours that is, so that they could easily have thought she was Linda. The girl who answered simply said, "There's no Signor Bianchi here. You must have the wrong number."

'She insisted, saying perhaps she'd got the name wrong, but the girl on the other end said there was only the owner of the agency who was a woman and another girl besides herself working there.

'"He said he came from here?" she asked. "Do you mind holding the line a moment? I think I should tell my employer."

'In the end the owner of the agency came to the phone herself and when she heard the full story she was furious and wanted to call the police, though she didn't in the end.'

'Hm,' the Marshal said, 'then it sounds as though our friend Bianchi was here on his own account. There might well be a good living to be got out of people in your situation. It would only be a question of getting the right information.'

'But how could he? How did he come to know we were threatened with eviction?'

'I don't know. He could work somewhere where he could get information about cases coming up for a hearing. It wouldn't be that difficult. You don't happen to know what he said to Clementina?'

'No. Linda tried . . . wait, I'll ask her.'

He was gone for some moments and then brought his wife back from the bedroom to which she'd retreated. She had changed her dress. 'It's all right,' he was saying, 'I've told him everything. Don't worry. He wants to know about Clementina.'

They sat down close together and he kept her hand in his.

'I can't really tell you much,' she said, 'but I knew he'd been up there because I saw him go up the stairs when he left here. I waited behind the door until I heard him going down—I think that was when I first noticed his limp. He dragged one foot. When he'd gone I went up and knocked on her door. When she opened it she was almost stark naked. It was just after lunch and she often used to take a siesta wearing an old cotton overall with no buttons down the front. On a warm dry day she'd even wash her dress through so it would be clean for the evening. Then she'd wash it through again at night. People thought she was out of her mind completely but it's not true—oh, it's true that she had that mania for cleaning the square and that she tended to get worse as it went dark, and it's also true that she liked flirting with the men. But most people only saw her at her worst, that is, when she was out there shouting and creating. But, you know, the rest of the time she often behaved quite normally and got on with her life, such as it was, in quite an organized way. She was very poor.'

'I know,' the Marshal said, 'I've been in her flat.'

'Then you probably noticed that there's no heating at all in the place, not even a little stove.'

He hadn't noticed. It had been so hot . . .

'In winter she'd sit in Franco's bar all day watching TV because it was warm there. I always thought—I'm no expert, of course, it's just my idea—but I always thought that she was much more normal than she let on to be, apart from her mania, which she really couldn't control.'

'What made you think so?'

'I don't know but—yes, sometimes when I saw her during the day when she was quiet, there was something about the way she looked at me—she had very piercing blue eyes— and she seemed to be saying, "You know I'm not as crazy as they think but I have to keep up the game." At those times she seemed very lucid and it made me think that playing up to her image as a madwoman had become her method of survival. I don't know if I'm making any sense?'

'I think so. I'm beginning to understand. Especially as she wouldn't have been let out of San Salvi to live alone if she'd been all that bad.'

'I didn't know about San Salvi until I saw it in the paper. She never talked about her past. But after all, just think how many old women are dragging out their existence without enough money to eat properly or keep warm. If they've no family they're often left to fend for themselves because they give nobody any trouble, they're too proud, so no one notices them much. Everybody always used to say that Clementina liked attention, especially when she hung around the men—but if she hadn't behaved the way she did she wouldn't have got half the help she got, if any. Because of her pottiness she was an institution.'

'And you think she worked all that out for herself?' Even as he questioned it he believed her, thinking of Angelo sitting there alone hour after terrified hour, trying to be good while the noisy, disruptive patients got all the attention. Clementina had been in a good school, watching it silently before forming a new survival personality. Ten years of that. . .

'I said it was only an opinion,' Linda Rossi said, taking his silence for dissent. 'And it wasn't as cold-blooded as that since she really did go batty at times. I just think she kept the image up the rest of the time, that's all, because it served. Apart from that, who's to say she wasn't clever? Clever people do go crazy, perhaps more easily than stupid ones. Anyway, I'm supposed to be telling you about that day when I went up there. I was upset, of course, by that dreadful man, but I was curious as well because I'd always understood that Clementina didn't rent her flat.'