The Marshal and the Madwoman (14 page)

'I can't go back—my parents . . . Oh well, I won't bore you with all that. I can't tell you much about your cleaner, except that she was crazy.'

'I know that, but what made you think so?'

'The way she screamed and swore—good for her is what I thought—give him as good as you get. You'd think she'd been an overpaid executive the way he was sounding on about how nobody else would give her a job like he'd done and how she'd be sorry. I'm not sure she didn't go for him, to judge from the banging and scuffling we heard, and then she went screaming off down the corridor shouting "I won't go! I'm not going!" But she went, of course, and that was the last we saw of her. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't sack her because he was too mean to pay her. We didn't get our July salaries until last week.'

The Marshal looked around him again before remarking, 'This is a fancy sort of outfit to employ a crazy old woman for a cleaner.'

'I don't suppose it's that easy to find cleaners. Maybe I can get a job cleaning if the worst comes to the worst.'

'If your boss thinks so little of you, how come you're left in charge here alone?'

'Because
she
has to be taken on holiday, no matter what, and he's not the sort to trust his wife alone at the seaside like other businessmen do. She's a lot younger than he is and flashy with it. He has to be at her beck and call twenty-four hours a day and woe betide him if he doesn't give her everything she asks for.'

'Where are they on holiday?'

'They have a house by the sea in the Maremma. He'll be ringing up any minute and if all this stuff's still here that'll be my fault, like everything else. It's already late and when orders are delivered late the client can refuse to accept them. If that happens I'll be sacked, I know I will. But is it my fault that nothing gets done round here in August? Is it?'

'No, no, it's the same for everybody.'

'But it's not! You try making anybody in Northern Europe understand what August in Italy means! They don't want to know and who can blame them? That's why I did what I did—just look at this skirt! Would you say there was anything wrong with it?' She got up and snatched at the skirt trailing out of its box on the floor.

The Marshal stared down at it as she thrust it under his nose. 'Well ... I don't know much about these things . . .'

'But just look at it!'

The Marshal sighed. Everywhere he went he seemed to get lugged into other people's 'little troubles', as the Prosecutor called them. The run-down asylum, the Rossis' eviction order and now this. The girl had an endless supply of tears. He didn't know what to say. He watched her fling the skirt back towards its box any old how.

'Do you know what I was supposed to do? Have the button on the waistband changed to a slightly darker blue. Right? I couldn't get it done before September and the order had to be filled by August 20th—and there were still our labels to be sewn on. He's told me so often to buck up and show initiative that I got the labels sewn on and sent the stuff off as it was. There was no specification on the order about the buttons being a particular shade of blue and they look perfectly all right as they are. Well, don't they?'

'I suppose . . .'

'The truth was that they were supposed to be delivered to us without buttons but, since they weren't what was the use of making the order late? He went completely berserk, screaming at me over the telephone. "You had no right to take things upon yourself! You don't know what you're doing! Get that order back before it goes through Customs and if it happens again you're fired, do you hear me? Fired!"

She sat down in her chair again and began crumpling a fresh tissue without drying her tears.

'Now they've got to be taken to have the buttons changed and the driver hasn't turned up. They'll be late arriving in Germany now, anyway, and when they refuse to take them he'll blame me.'

'I'm sorry,' the Marshal offered, wondering how he could politely take his leave from this unfortunate girl. 'I'm still inclined to think you should look for another job.' He had understood something of what was going on, though the girl clearly hadn't. She might as well get out before he reported the matter as he would have to do, though he was in no hurry about it. There were worse things happening in the world than what her boss was up to.

'Would you mind giving me one of your firm's cards?'

'I've got some in my drawer. Here, take a few.'

'One's enough if your boss's name is on it.'

'It's there. Antonella Masolini. He really runs everything, if you could call it that, but the business is hers.'

'Thank you. And you can't tell me anything further about Clementina?'

'Clementina?'

'The cleaner.'

'Oh, that crazy woman. I didn't know her name. No. I never spoke to her even the one time I saw her. All I can remember about her, now, is how much she swore.'

She might well have forgotten already that Clementina had been murdered, she was so wrapped up in her own problems.

'I'll leave you my card in case you think of anything further. When will your boss be back?'

'September 1st. Do you want me to tell him you were here?'

'If you like. I'll be back, anyway.'

When he was down in the street he looked up and saw her at the window, blowing her nose and watching, no doubt, for the driver who was to come and take away the pile of boxes.

The air was so humid that the stones of the buildings had begun to look damp and the few cars passing through Piazza Pitti seemed to make the soft, swishing noise they made when the road was wet. Perhaps the dampness had made the dust settle on the tarmac, or perhaps it was just the Marshal's imagination, but everything, the sounds, the smells, the light, were those of a rainy day. Only the rain was missing. He crossed the road and started up the sloping forecourt towards the palace. As he reached the top and went left, he took off his dark glasses and turned back to look at the sky.

The first crack of thunder split the air and went rippling and shuddering away. The hills that should have been visible beyond the roofs to the south had disappeared. The Marshal felt as relieved as if that first explosion had gone off inside his own head. A big fat raindrop splashed on to his hand but he didn't hurry. His headache, long dulled by the aspirin, lifted suddenly and as he passed beneath the great iron lantern under the stone archway it was with pleasure that he saw more big raindrops falling on the gravel ahead and bending the leaves on the laurel bushes. He climbed the stairs with a quicker tread than he had done for months.

'Just in time, Marshal,' said Di Nuccio, looking out from the duty room.

'In time for what? Has something happened?'

'It's starting to rain!'

'Ah.' The Marshal removed his khaki jacket and went into his office to hang it up. A second explosion of thunder made the windows rattle and the rain began to pour down in earnest. He sat down at his desk, looking out at it with satisfaction. As a rule he disliked wet weather as much as a cat but today he was pleased to watch it rain. The more ferociously it rained, the more pleased he felt. Nothing would have induced him to be so foolish as to go out and get wet, but he liked to think of the whole hot, grubby city being washed clean by the deluge as it soaked into the red clay roofs, gurgled along the gutters and streamed down the marble statues. He could hear it drumming on the roof of the van parked below his window and on his own little car that wouldn't start. Every so often a greenish flash lit the room.

'Good . . .' he murmured to himself. 'Right. . .' without meaning anything in particular. The telephone rang and he picked up the receiver.

'Guarnaccia.'

'Salva.'

'Oh, it's you.'

'You didn't come in to lunch so I wondered . . .'

'Sorry, I didn't get a chance to phone you. I was with the Substitute Prosecutor.'

'As long as everything's all right. You didn't get caught in this rain?'

'No.'

'Well, thank goodness for that. What a storm! I shan't stir this afternoon. I'm going to get out the children's winter clothes and go through them.'

'Already?'

'Well, this weather makes you feel like doing something.

And by the time they get back and start school I won't have a minute.'

He could tell she was feeling the way he felt himself and was just as relieved at the break in the weather, in spite of her saying how terrible it was.

'I'll see you later.'

'You're not going out again?'

'No, no.'

He didn't hang up but searched on his pad for the number of the Questura, Headquarters of the State Police. He'd just found it when Di Nuccio knocked and looked in.

'I talked to Mario . . . am I disturbing you?'

'No. Tell me all about it.'

'There's not much to tell. It's more or less as you imagined. The bar shuts by eleven, or even before, after which the regulars play cards for money. Friday and Saturday nights they play Bingo as well and the wives stay, too. A stop was put to it once years ago, but of course it soon started up again so nobody bothers them any more since it's small money and local and the bar owner doesn't profit by it.'

'How late does it go on?'

'That depends. During the week not much after one, but Fridays and Saturdays the men sometimes stay until three-thirty or four.'

'Is there any sign of it from outside?'

'None at all, except at the time when they leave.'

'And somebody must keep a lookout. Good. Thanks. Oh —before I forget, Clementina Franci had a sister, or I believe she did. Get on to the registry office tomorrow morning and see if you can find her residence papers.'

The rain was certainly clearing his head! When Di Nuccio had shut the door he dialled the number of the Questura. This was a tricky business since the police were unlikely to put themselves out for the rival force.

'Questura. Good afternoon.'

Well, here goes, thought the Marshal, and began to explain what he wanted. He was put through to two different offices before being told that his best bet was to ring the Commissariat of San Giovanni, right in the city centre.

'If you're not sure which Commissariat was involved, that's your best bet because it's the nearest to the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova where people like that are usually taken.'

'Thanks.'

The man who answered the phone at San Giovanni was a Sicilian and from the Marshal's own province, to judge by his accent, so things couldn't have been better.

'Guarnaccia, did you say?'

'That's right.'

'Over at the Phti Palace? Well, that's a turn-up! My cousin's little boy used to be at school with your two—wait, don't tell me . . . Giovanni and . . . Toto! Am I right?'

'Quite right.'

'They left last year—are they up here now with you?'

'Yes—at least, just now they're down at home for the holidays, at my sister's.'

'So's my little girl, and the wife, too. It's no joke working through August. Just listen to that thunder! I can hardly hear myself speak. This rain's a relief, though.'

'It is.'

'Well then, what can I do for you?'

'I want to trace a Dangerous Persons certificate—though I'm only guessing that it might have been made out there as you're the nearest to Santa Maria Nuova.' He explained the situation as briefly as he could.

'How many years ago, did you say?'

1967—at least, that's when she was taken to San Salvi.'

'Right you are, I'll have to go to Records where they'll tell me they're short-staffed but don't you worry. Just leave it to me. If it's here I'll find it.'

'Thanks very much.'

'I'll phone you the minute I get it—and if it turns out it's not here, leave it to me just the same. A couple of phone calls will do the trick and it's better if they come from me. You know what I mean . . .'

'Of course. I can't thank you enough.'

'Don't mention it.'

Good, said the Marshal to himself again as he hung up, and this time with reason. Whether it was because the two of them came from the same place or because the other man, too, was feeling bucked up by the change in the weather, or even a bit of both, things could not have gone more smoothly.

Di Nuccio tapped at the door again and came in with a large envelope.

'This just arrived from the Public Prosecutor's office.'

'Thanks.'

The envelope contained a copy of the pathologist's report. It was a wonder the Prosecutor had been good enough to send it rather than have him go and collect it. No doubt he'd seen enough of the Marshal to last him a while—or had he cheered up because of the cooling rain, too?

The Marshal opened the envelope and started reading.

At the end of half an hour he had learned only one thing. Clementina had been given a blow to the back of her head, an extremely efficient and bloodless blow which had probably been meant to stun her before her head was thrust in the gas oven but which had killed her. Her lungs had taken in no carbon monoxide. But then, there was little enough of it available in that almost empty canister. The assailant, thought the Marshal, had too much muscle and too little brain for the job. That Clementina had had a child he'd already heard, albeit only from Angelo. There was nothing else that interested him. She had been in fairly good general health and she had died in the early hours of the morning, between three and five was the pathologist's estimate. That was all. And if the pathologist had given him an analysis of every cell in Clementina's body, it wouldn't have told the Marshal what he wanted to know. He got up and went to the window. A rivulet had formed on the path coming down from the gardens to the gravelled area below and the heavy rain bounced up from it as it swirled along. Once, Clementina had been somebody's young wife with a child to look after. What had happened to her husband and child that had sent her into an asylum for ten years, to be then turned out into the world to play the part of a village idiot? What if it were something violent? Had she witnessed their violent deaths? A witness not in her right mind shut up in an asylum was no danger to anybody—especially as she didn't speak for years—but when she got out. . .