Death of an Englishman Read online

  The Captain seemed equally determined to interrupt his report.

  '—The present Consul only met him once at one of the Mayor's receptions—the previous Consul may have known him better but he's retired and before that the Englishman was at the Embassy in Rome. His registration card—'

  'Yes, all right, we'll get to all that later. Your trip to the Consulate seems to have caused something of a stir; we're to be honoured by a visit from two Scotland Yard men—the Englishman evidently had relatives in high places. Our visitors will be on this afternoon's flight so they should be here about four-thirty. How's your English?'

  'Quite good, sir.'

  'Then be in my office here in an hour. How's the Marshal?'

  'Not too good, still in bed … there's nobody here, sir, in the office … I mean …'

  'I know. At this time of year it's practically impossible but there's a man on his way so wait for him—I can't leave him there all night. Is the Marshal … ?'

  'He needs to rest, sir. I'll be here.'

  'Yes … you'll perhaps be good enough to telephone me if anything happens.'

  'Yes, sir,' said Carabiniere Bacci meekly.

  'Sunny Italy,' remarked the Chief Inspector drily as they crossed the tarmac at Pisa, with their collars turned up against the foggy drizzle.

  'It is December, sir,' the young Inspector ventured to remind him.

  They were an unlikely couple. Inspector Jeffreys considered his chief to be a typical product of a third-rate public school, whose ignorance was only exceeded by his arrogance. The Chief thought Jeffreys was 'jumped-up working class with a chip on his shoulder and no proper respect'. Less prejudiced colleagues considered the Chief to have been, in his day, a good 'thief-taker', and the younger man to be exceptionally bright. It was said he would make a name for himself if he didn't get sacked first. The story of how, during his first week on the beat, he had booked the Mayor's car three times for being parked outside his mistress's house all night without lights was likely to follow him throughout his career. The Chief Inspector had been sent out to Florence as the man who would conduct matters so as to avoid any unpleasantness for the Langley-Smythe family. Jeffreys had been sent to get him off a delicate case at home, on the excuse that he could speak a bit of Italian. During their last hurried lunch in the canteen the Chief paused in his labours with a huge wedge of pie and chips to advise: 'Tuck in, Jeffreys, this is the last decent food we're likely to see for a few days.'

  On the plane Jeffreys had read a guide to Florence to avoid conversation.

  A pullman coach took them from Pisa to Florence. Along the motorway the bare orchards and ploughed fields on either side were shrouded in grey mist. A Carabiniere car met them at the terminal and plunged them into the labyrinthine centre of the city where the wet roofs seemed to meet overhead and the long streets with their interminable rows of louvred shutters got narrower and narrower, all of them, in the grey half-light, looking the same. They got a brief glimpse of the river embankment, then moved away again without crossing over. Two armed guards in napoleonic hats saluted them as an electronic gate slid open, and they were passed on to a young lieutenant whose gleaming black cavalry boots and dangling sword they followed up a wide staircase and along a series of corridors. The light was on in the Captain's large office. He rose behind his desk to greet them; Carabiniere Bacci was already on his feet. The Englishmen introduced themselves.

  'Chief Inspector Lowestoft, New Scotland Yard, and this is Inspector Jeffreys.'

  Some brief, polite speeches were translated by the younger men who were sizing each other up at the same time. Inspector Jeffreys, running an eye over the immaculate frontage of Carabiniere Bacci, pulled his crumpled mackintosh around him and remembered he had a button missing, which none of his three current girl-friends had been willing to sew on for him. Carabiniere Bacci, regarding the other's loose brown curls and casual attire, was feeling hopelessly inferior in the face of such ebullient confidence. The Chief Inspector was for getting down to business.

  'As far as you're concerned we're here quite unofficially, let's say to offer any assistance we can with the English side of this business. Mr Langley-Smythe's sister is married to … well, to a man of some influence who would like to know exactly what the situation is and to avoid unnecessary distress for his wife, which is why he wanted somebody on the spot—we're not here to interfere in any way with your inquiries, naturally …' He watched Carabiniere Bacci's face intently as he translated this, as though to prevent his making any unauthorized changes. The Captain was a little ill at ease, knowing that his English was too basic for him to converse with the Chief Inspector at first hand. The Chief was a bit put out by this deficiency of the Captain's himself, but he persevered.

  'I imagine we can make ourselves useful by interviewing Mr Langley-Smythe's English friends and so on, building up a picture of the sort of person he was—we already know, of course, that he was a gentleman of independent means and extremely well-connected. You probably know that he worked at the Embassy in Rome up until his retirement five years ago.'

  'We always consider it an honour,' offered the Captain gallantly in return, 'when someone chooses to remain in our beautiful country when no longer detained by business.'

  'Yes …' mused the Chief Inspector, on receiving a translation of this morsel of eloquence, 'I suppose so. Rum thing to do, really, but I suppose he'd got used to it by then, made friends and so on —there are quite a few English people here, are there?'

  'Many. It is also marginally possible, of course, that Mr Langley-Smythe might have made some Italian friends too.' The irony was lost in Carabiniere Bacci's translation.

  'Mmm …' The Chief thought it more polite not to answer that one. 'He seems to have made an enemy, at any rate.'

  'Unless the motive was an entirely impersonal one, that of robbery.'

  'No, no. I wouldn't think so. Armed robbery means professional robbery and something worth stealing. Mr Langley-Smythe was comfortably off, of course, but nothing spectacular, and what money he had was invested in England. According to his bank, he drew out a very modest amount each month, presumably for his living expenses. He wasn't a great spender or a collector either so it doesn't seem—was there anything stolen?'

  'No. Nothing stolen, as far as we know.'

  'Well, then … ?' The Chief Inspector looked at Carabiniere Bacci for an explanation, then at the Captain who was looking down at his own hands on the desk.

  'Nothing was stolen, Chief Inspector, but there was a great deal that might have been. My men found a safe in the bedroom wall, open, containing, in various currencies, a little less than half a million pounds sterling. He would also seem to have had other investments than his English ones. According to his lawyer here in Florence, he had considerable investments in this country and a numbered account in a Zürich bank. Possibly your … gentleman of influence did not feel able to be entirely frank with you in this respect.'

  Carabiniere Bacci's embarrassment over the translation of this speech was greatly increased by his conviction that he had just seen one of Inspector Jeffreys's bright blue eyes wink at him.

  'Not at all, not at all.' The Chief was red-faced. 'Of course, there was no time to discuss these things at any length. We had a report of a murder, not a robbery.'

  'Quite. However, the possibility remains that there might have been an attempt at robbery, perhaps disturbed by the victim. Shall we come to the cause of death …'

  Inspector Jeffreys gazed out of the tall window at the lights in the building opposite. He could hear a lot of traffic going by in the wet and the occasional police car leaving with its siren going. His Italian had more or less given out after the polite preliminaries, and he had no interest in this case if they were only here to do a whitewash job. Bloke was probably queer, the foreign service was full of them. He followed the Captain's words spasmodically.

  '… 6.35. One shot, fairly close range from behind. The bullet pierced the left ventricle and death w
as virtually instantaneous. He had been dead for some hours, when we find out where and when he ate we can be more accurate, but Professor Forli tells me that death probably occurred during the early hours of the morning.'

  'The weapon?'

  'My men are still looking for it. A large number of different fingerprints were found in the living-room of the flat, so we must assume, since he lived alone and employed no domestic staff, that he received a great many visitors. We're checking the prints with our files at the moment. That's really as much as I can tell you at this stage, except that he was found by the stair cleaner in the early morning, and—'

  The telephone rang.

  'Gianini here, sir, technical squad. I've got the information you wanted on that majolica bust. Doctor Biondini recognized the piece immediately, said he checked that seal himself only six months ago. The head of an angel by Della Robbia, Luca, not Andrea. It's a particularly good piece, he said.'

  'I see. Well, this throws new light on our man.'

  'More than you'd think, sir.'

  'Meaning … ?'

  'I said that Biondini checked that seal only six months ago. He wanted to check his files to make absolutely sure, in the circumstances, that he couldn't be mistaken.'

  'And?'

  'He wasn't mistaken. The Della Robbia belongs to an American woman who has a villa up near Fiesole. She married into an impoverished family of Italian nobility before the war, and with his knowledge and her money they started collecting. The husband died about six years ago.'

  'And she sold the piece?'

  'No. She didn't. It couldn't have been sold, Biondini says, without his knowledge. Besides which, she's been in California for the past two months, visiting relatives there, leaving only the servants, a married couple, in the house.'

  'And are they still there?'

  'No reply, sir. Biondini's on his way up there now.'

  'I'll send somebody—but he'll have to get on to the Protection of Patrimony group; I can't deal with it—tell him I'd like to be kept informed. Yes. Yes. Thank you.' The Captain replaced the receiver and remained silent for some moments. He didn't relish the idea of announcing to the Chief Inspector that his respectable compatriot was now suspected of being a thief, or, at least, a receiver. There was no possibility of his having bought the piece legitimately since it was registered and could not be sold, or even moved, without the approval of the State. He tried an oblique approach:

  'You don't happen to know whether Mr Langley-Smythe had an English gun licence?'

  'I could check on it for you. Why? Did he have an Italian one?'

  'No, he didn't. But he might have had a weapon, nevertheless …'

  'Has such a weapon been found? Is there any evidence to suggest he had a gun?'

  'No, not as yet …'

  'Well, if you don't mind my saying so, it seems to me that you're trying to make a case against Mr Langley-Smythe instead of against whoever killed him.' The Chief's pale blue eyes were suddenly bright. Jeffreys knew what that meant and was listening now, watching the Captain's face as an embarrassed Carabiniere Bacci translated. The Captain showed no sign of anger but he became even more formal and excessively polite.

  'I am very sorry indeed that you should think so. However, I'm sure you realize, from your own extensive experience in such a renowned place as Scotland Yard, that I am obliged to consider all possibilities, including those which are as unwelcome to me as they are to you.'

  Smoothy, thought Jeffreys, impressed.

  'Yes, well, Mr Langley-Smythe didn't shoot himself.'

  'Indeed not. But we both know that no professional would use a 6.35 or aim at the heart. It is, on the other hand, the sort of weapon often kept for self-defence, which makes it possible that a thief might have found it on the spot and made use of it if he had been disturbed.'

  'Well, naturally, I'd thought of that. It's just a question of attitude …'

  But the situation was de-fused. The cold glint in the Chief's eye, normally reserved for picket lines and left-wing militants, was fading. 'Will there be any objection to our removing the body to England for burial?'

  'I imagine not. At the moment it's in the Medico-Legal Institute at Careggi. The British Consulate will deal with all the formalities and once Professor Forli has completed his autopsy you can apply to the Substitute Prosecutor for permission.' The business of the stolen bust would have to wait. It would have been easier if there had been just the two of them but with the language problem …

  'Well, that's really as much as I can tell you at this stage. If you wouldn't mind—' he looked at his watch—'I'd like to get back to Via Maggio now and start interviewing the tenants. If we can offer you any assistance with accommodation?'

  'No need, thanks all the same. Nice girl from the Consulate fixed us up at the English vicarage— convenient enough—it's on the same street as the scene of the crime, she was telling us; we haven't been there yet. Hotels all seemed to be full up. Funny thing at this time of year.'

  'Christmas shoppers, Chief Inspector. Florence is a renowned shopping centre for the whole world, as is your own city.'

  'I suppose so. Well, we'll get along to the vicarage. We may as well make a start by having a chat to the vicar. No doubt Mr Langley-Smythe was a churchgoer.'

  'No doubt. I'll order a car for you.' He picked up his internal phone and rang a bell for the escort. 'Might I suggest that we meet here tomorrow? Late morning would be best, perhaps; I should have a full autopsy report by then, and possibly something from Records on the prints … shall we say eleven-thirty?'

  'Right. That'll give us time to make a few inquiries among the English community—with your permission, of course.'

  'By all means. I should be grateful. And if you would then be my guests for lunch?'

  'Well, that went off all right,' said the Chief Inspector, settling into the back of the car. Jeffreys didn't trust himself to speak.

  It was quite dark by now and still raining softly through the mist. As they crossed the river they got a glimpse of soft haloes of pink and yellow light around the miniature shops on the Ponte Vecchio in the distance, and the faint glimmer of what must have been a huge civic Christmas tree somewhere higher up. Their route took them by a complicated one-way system through the popular quarter where the streets, crowded with people, seemed too narrow for the car. The shops were at their busiest at this time of the evening and their wares overflowed on to the pavement. Shoppers milled about in the road, their umbrellas glistening in the dark. Tinsel glittered even in the windows of grocers' shops which were hung with Tuscan hams and fat sausages. Pyramids of tangerines were interspersed with shining leaves. Their driver was continually sounding his horn and they moved at a snail's pace.

  'Wouldn't fancy being a bus driver round here,' remarked the Chief. Jeffreys only grunted, his eyes fixed on all the food that was passing his hungry gaze.

  Via Maggio, although busy, was more sedate. Only an occasional poinsettia standing in a copper bowl in front of the dark velvets and inlaid woods of the antique-dealers' windows gave any indication of the season. At the river end of the street they stopped in front of a fifteenth-century palace that housed the English church on the ground floor and the vicar's apartment on the first.

  Inspector Jeffreys paused to thank the Carabiniere driver in careful Italian. The driver was pleased.

  'If you go out and get lost,' he offered, evidently considering this a likely possibility, 'find the river and the Santa Trinita bridge—there it is, with a statue at each corner, one for each of the four seasons, you can't miss it—then you're home.'

  'Thanks.'

  'It's nothing. See you again.' He drove off across the bridge towards the blurred lights of the city centre.

  The vicar was on the doorstep, rubbing his hands.

  'Come in, come in,' he said, clasping each of their hands in turn, 'Felicity's just making a cup of tea. What a miserable evening!'

  The Captain arrived in Via Maggio with Carabiniere Ba
cci still in attendance. As they passed the deserted porter's lodge of number fifty-eight he indicated the boarded-up window: 'At one time we could have done most of our inquiring right here—and in a palazzo signorile like this one it matters more than ever. You can be sure that these tenants hardly speak to each other and that none of them even know what's happened in the building despite the fact that one of my men has been standing guard on the ground floor all day.'

  They had brought another guard to relieve the first. 'I'll send someone else towards eleven o'clock …'

  They walked up to the first floor where R. Cesarini, Antiquario, was the only tenant, and Carabiniere Bacci rang the bell. They waited in silence beside a thick fragment of Roman pillar with a huge potted plant standing on it next to the lift. The fluted wooden doors of the flat had two heavy iron knockers cast in the shape of heads. They heard rapid, shuffling footsteps and bolts being quietly drawn. A young Eritrean woman opened one door cautiously and peered round it. She wore a blue nylon overall but her head was shrouded in a traditional white muslin veil.

  'Polizia … ?' she asked wonderingly.

  'Carabinieri. We'd like to speak to Signor Cesarini.'

  'In shop.' She pointed vaguely. Behind her a glossy pale marble floor stretched deep into the background. A warm light was shining behind double stained-glass doors on the left, making coloured patterns on a carved oak chest that stood in the hall.

  'He has two shops further up Via Maggio, sir,' murmured Carabiniere Bacci.

  The Captain looked at his watch: six … the shop would hardly close before eight. They could go round there after questioning the other tenants. 'We'd like a word with you, in the meantime,' he told the maid.

  She let them into the hall reluctantly, but she could tell them nothing. She had heard no strange or sudden noises in the night. She had seen no one unusual in the building. She didn't know the Englishman. She seemed astonished that they should expect her to know what went on in the building, as if her limited Italian prevented her from seeing or hearing anything outside her own door. She continually clutched with thin fingers at her veil as if she would have liked to hide behind it; the gesture, coupled with her small stature, gave the impression of an old woman, though she must have been in her early twenties. Her big dark eyes kept straying worriedly to the end of the passage behind her. Probably she should have been preparing the supper.