Death of an Englishman Page 4

  'Is your employer married?'

  'Yes. Married.'

  'And his wife? Where is she?'

  'Go to Calabria … and the children. Christmas. There is family …'

  'And Signor Cesarini?'

  'He will go in two days.'

  "And you?'

  'Me?'

  'Where will you go for Christmas, Signorina?'

  'Here …'

  'Alone?' The Captain glanced involuntarily beyond her at the vast apartment in which she, no doubt, had one tiny bedroom. 'Do you have any friends in Florence?'

  'Friends, yes. Eritrean friends. Girls like me.'

  'I see. Thank you. We'll speak to Signor Cesarini in his shop.'

  'Something is wrong?'

  'No.' He realized at once she was thinking of her job, her papers. 'Nothing wrong as far as you're concerned. A man on the ground floor was killed last night and we need to know if anyone heard anything or saw any strangers in the building, that's all. We needn't disturb you any longer.'

  She showed no reaction to the news. After closing the door behind them they heard her rapid steps shuffle away on the marble floor towards the kitchen.

  The second floor was divided into two flats. From behind the door on the left came the halting notes of Schubert's 'Serenade' played on the piano. From the right, someone practising an aria from Rigoletto. Carabiniere Bacci looked at the Captain.

  'Schubert first, I think.' As they waited, after ringing the bell, he said, 'You're a Florentine?' remembering the information about Cesarini's shop.

  'Yes, sir.' Carabiniere Bacci blushed with pleasure at being noticed.

  'Back in school after Christmas?'

  'Yes, sir.' He would have liked to say more but the Captain's seriousness, his gravity, was like a barrier around him. It was impossible even to imagine him smiling. 'Should I ring again, sir?'

  But the door marked Cipriani was opening. Another marble entrance hall with Persian carpets, a Venetian glass chandelier, a stiff, brocaded chair with two schoolbags thrown on it. Only as their gazes drifted downwards did they see who had opened the door: a small, fat girl with shiny black short hair and enormous round eyes. She wore a white school pinafore with its blue satin bow twisted up under one ear and she was staring up at them with disconcerting fervour.

  'Are your parents at home?'

  Without taking her eyes from them for a second, she opened her mouth until the rest of her face almost vanished and, drowning the warbling tenor next door and the piano behind her, she bellowed: 'Ma-ma!' and fled.

  The Schubert continued, limping a little at the difficult bits. The tenor next door sang on. No one else appeared.

  'Shall I … ?'

  'You'd better. Ring two or three times.'

  Still they were left waiting by the open door. They noticed a metronome clicking along with the piano. Some harassed voices were heard in the distance.

  'But, Signora, what am I to do? I can't leave this sauce!'

  A muffled reply, then:

  'She's already been and says they're big black men! I think she's left the door open!'

  'Mamma!' Small running feet.

  'I'm coming … wait …'

  At the end of the marble passage a blurred white figure appeared behind an 'art-deco' glass panel. A woman in a white, hooded bathrobe came out. The dark head of the child reappeared round a side door: 'You see!' She ran off, giggling uncontrollably.

  The woman came towards them, clopping on high-heeled slippers. Her skin was still rosy and damp from the bath and she was blotting her wet hair with the embroidered towelling hood.

  'What's happened? What's the matter—not an accident! Vincenzo—'

  'No, Signora, please don't distress yourself. We're making routine inquiries.'

  'Oh, of course, the robbery.'

  'Robbery?'

  'Wasn't the bank downstairs robbed again? My maid said there was a policeman down there when she did the shopping—we're having a lot of people to supper, my husband's family—his niece is getting engaged and so … oh dear … you'd better come in. I hope you'll excuse me, I've just taken a bath … come inside …"

  'Signora!'

  'I'm coming! Oh, heavens—if you could just wait one moment I could explain to her …'

  'Yes, of course.'

  She hurried away and they waited in the hall by the open door on the right through which the child had vanished. There was what seemed to be a playroom there, a speckled marble floor with a red, long-haired rug, a child's tricycle, books, a row of dolls on a sofa, an open door leading into a smaller room beyond. There, the struggling pianist was partly visible, her white tunic moving stiffly in time to the metronome. Every so often the music stopped and there was some animated whispering. Then it would continue.

  The woman returned. She seemed to wonder which would be the right room in which to receive them. She had tied the bathrobe around her more carefully. Eventually her distracted gaze settled on the playroom: 'In here, if you'd like to …'

  They sat down among the toys, holding their hats.

  'I'm afraid I don't know anything about the robbery except what my maid—'

  'There hasn't been a robbery, Signora.'

  'But—'

  'There's been a murder.'

  The colour quickly left her face. 'Here … ?'

  'The ground floor. Your neighbour, Mr Langley-Smythe.'

  'Oh … the Englishman.'

  'You knew him?'

  'By sight, of course. I knew he was English. He always said "Good day, Signora" in that funny flat way that English people … and so he's dead … ?'

  'He was shot. Probably in the early hours of this morning; we're trying to fix the exact time. We'd like you to think back and try and remember if you might have heard any sudden noise in the night—or even if you woke suddenly without knowing what woke you—there was only one shot.'

  'No, nothing. Nothing would wake me, you see, because I always take a sleeping pill, so …'

  'Perhaps the children? If you could call them and ask them yourself—no need to say what's happened— whether they heard any strange noises during the night or saw anyone unfamiliar in the building at any time recently. The maid, too, if she sleeps here.'

  'No, she doesn't; she comes in at eight to take the children to school and she usually leaves at six—it's just that today with this supper—'

  'Yes, you have guests. The children, then …'

  The two little girls were brought in. The small fat one had stopped giggling and taken to staring again. The young pianist, a slim, solemn girl, dark-haired like her sister, was also wearing a white school pinafore, but with the blue satin neck bow neatly in place. They stood side by side in silence.

  'Children, these gentlemen are Carabinieri and they have to ask you some questions. There's nothing to be afraid of; they just want to know if either of you heard any strange noises in the night … anything that woke you up …'

  No reaction from the two solemn faces. Eventually the older one said, 'No, Mamma, I didn't hear anything.'

  They all looked at the little one. Her fat cheeks were getting steadily redder as she suppressed a giggle. Her mother tugged the satin bow round to the front of the white collar and smoothed it.

  'Come on, now, Giovanna, it's very important for them to know if you heard something.'

  The big eyes flashed from her mother to the two men and back again. She looked about to pop. Then she took a sudden, deep breath and opened her mouth.

  'Bang!'

  And before they could interrupt her she had heaved another great breath:

  'Bang!'

  She beamed upon the assembled company and added, 'That's what I heard, Mamma.'

  CHAPTER 3

  'Speaking … Professor … you've been very quick …'

  'Doesn't take long, and I was working on him when you phoned, so …'

  'And the results?'

  'Negative.'

  'Negative? You're absolutely sure?'

&nbs
p; 'Are you doubting my—'

  'No! No, nothing like that. It's just that we now have a witness, only a child, admittedly, who swears there were two shots … it seemed to be the only possibility—that the Englishman had fired first, the gun being his, and managed to wound his attacker since there's no trace of any other bullet in the room …'

  'Or of any other blood.'

  'No, I realize that. Even so, it's a possibility.'

  'Remember, this one was shot in the back.'

  'I realize that, too; he'd hardly have turned his back in such circumstances but the child insists on the two bangs and I must confess that I think she's telling the truth. I can't ignore it because it doesn't fit some preconceived idea …'

  'That's true, but I'm afraid I can't help you. The Englishman has not fired a gun, there isn't a trace. I can give you a rough report on my other findings, if you …'

  'No—unless there's anything startling—I mustn't keep these people and I still have the rest of the tenants to see. If you could get something to me by about eleven tomorrow …'

  'Easily.'

  'Thank you. I'm sorry I had to disturb you.'

  'You didn't. I shall probably be here till nine. We're short-staffed, of course.'

  'Of course. Till tomorrow then …'

  The Ciprianis' dinner guests had been shown into the drawing-room across the passage from the playroom and were whispering and murmuring there. The Signora had gone off to dress. When the Captain returned to the playroom, the father, not long returned and still with his heavy, rainspotted overcoat slung round his shoulders, was on his knees pleading with little Giovanna who, with a gleam in her eye, had refused to elucidate unless she could sit on Carabiniere Bacci's knee. Carabiniere Bacci, distressed and deeply embarrassed, sat very still and stiff, as though he were holding a bundle of dynamite. The child was now wearing his hat and had twice been deterred from taking possession of his automatic. Schubert had started up again in the next room.

  'But, Giovanna, my little bean, my little treasure,' pleaded Signor Cipriani, 'these gentlemen are quite sure …'

  But Little Treasure was adamant. Bang. Then another bang. Two bangs.

  'Close together?' asked the Captain suddenly, thinking that perhaps an echo … in a building that size with its great stairwell …

  Giovanna pondered this point solemnly under her big hat before saying, 'No. A long time apart.' She wriggled herself round to address Carabiniere Bacci: 'Let me play with your gun—for one minute?'

  'No,' said Carabiniere Bacci stiffly. 'Little girls don't like guns. Wouldn't you like to get down?'

  'No. Little girls do like guns—I've got two of them and one's pink and shoots water but I've lost it and I'm getting a bow and arrow as well from the Befana and a—'

  'Giovanna! If you don't behave the Befana will bring you a piece of coal for Epiphany, never mind a bow and arrow, now you—'

  'No!'

  'What do you mean, no?'

  'The Befana's a good witch, Granny said so. She might bring me some coal as well as a bow and arrow, sugar coal from the shop!'

  'Giovanna, Giovanna! This is very serious! Now, please listen to the Captain …'

  The doorbell rang and the maid passed by on her way to answer it. They heard her pick up the housephone and ask, 'Who is it?' before pressing the electronic switch for the main door of the building.

  There came an echoing boom from below as the visitors closed the great doors behind them.

  'There,' said Giovanna, pleased to have her point so conveniently proved, 'Bang.'

  The Captain and Carabiniere Bacci closed their eyes in quiet exasperation.

  'You heard the big door close?' the Captain began again patiently. 'I expect it was somebody visiting. And then you heard the door again when they left. Perhaps it wasn't so late as you think and the second bang was just someone going away.'

  'No. Nobody went away. The door only banged once. The second bang was a big bang.'

  'And it wasn't the door?'

  'No.' After a pause she added reluctantly, looking away sideways, 'A gun bang.'

  'Why do you think it was a gun bang?'

  The child made no answer but went on looking away.

  'Like something you heard on television, was it?'

  She took off the hat and looked down at it in silence.

  'Is it something you saw? Something that frightened you?'

  'I want to get down.' She slid off Carabiniere Bacci's knee.

  'Do you think you're absolutely sure about the time? The time of the first bang?' The Captain turned to Signor Cipriani questioningly.

  'Yes, she can tell the time, she's a very bright child, you know. She has a little clock by her bed.'

  'With Mickey Mouse on it.'

  'And it was a quarter to three?'

  'Yes.' She gave Carabiniere Bacci his hat back. 'Papa, I want to go.' The Captain nodded his permission to the father, who released Giovanna. They watched her slip quickly out of the room. Almost immediately there was a noise of pattering and shuffling followed by a gleeful squeal.

  'Strange,' murmured the Captain, 'I would have said she was hiding something, possibly out of fear, but she seems cheerful enough now.' They heard more shuffling steps and a voice calling out:

  'Giovanna! How often must I tell you not to slide along the passage! It's dangerous … Vincenzo!' The Signora reappeared in the doorway, seeking her husband. She was dressed, elegantly dressed, but with a touch of bewildered dishevelment that might have to do with the dinner-party or be habitual but which was certainly attractive.

  'I beg your pardon, Signora, for our still being here, but I must ask you if we might take a look into the little girls' bedroom, to check whether she could have seen anything at all …'

  'Vincenzo … ?'

  'Why don't you give everyone an aperitif? I'll see to this.'

  He took them to the bedroom which the two little girls shared. One bed, against the wall, was immaculate, its snowy quilt smooth. The other, under the window, was in chaos, the crumpled quilt trailing on the floor, the pages of a comic scattered around it. The father was embarrassed:

  'Children, these days, you know …'

  They looked out of the window. Unless the Englishman had been shot in the centre of the courtyard and then brought back in, the child could have seen nothing. Her bedroom window was directly above that of the ground-floor flat. They turned away. Something black was sticking out under Giovanna's pillow; a plastic revolver. 'There's nothing to be done with her,' shrugged the distracted father, 'it's her passion.'

  'Well,' the Captain pointed out, 'she's been a great help to us in fixing the time of death. We're grateful for that.'

  'Yes, she's a very light sleeper, in fact. I've known her call out to me when I've come home well after midnight …' He blushed faintly.

  The Captain, whose tolerance normally almost amounted to indifference, could not have said exactly why that faint blush made him angry.

  'Might I ask your occupation, Signor Cipriani?'

  'Certainly. I'm an insurance broker; my offices are in the Piazza della Republica.'

  'And did you arrive home after midnight last night?'

  'I believe it was about one o'clock …' He blushed again, sensing the Captain's hostility. 'I dined with some clients at Doney's.'

  'You realize that we'll have to check that? And the time you left?'

  'You mean I'm a suspect?'

  'I mean that I must know where every tenant was after midnight last night. Was your wife awake when you got home?'

  'I think so … yes, she was reading a book.'

  The Captain's inexplicable anger subsided as quickly as it had risen. 'Do you know anything about your neighbour, Mr Langley-Smythe?'

  'Nothing, really, except that he was English.'

  'You didn't notice whether he had many visitors?'

  'Visitors? I never saw any. He seemed a solitary sort of man … Of course, he could have had, without my ever seeing them.'


  'But if he'd had an exceptional number of visitors, frequently that is, you'd probably have noticed?'

  'Perhaps … but in a building this size … and I'm out a great deal. I wouldn't care to say anything definite …'

  'I see. What about the other tenants? Do you know much about them?'

  'Not a great deal—oh, except that the Frediani upstairs are away—the wife is American, he's a jeweller on the Ponte Vecchio—they left yesterday, I met them when I was leaving in the morning. They were getting into a taxi with a lot of luggage. They wished me a happy Christmas — apparently they're spending theirs in America with her family.'

  'Do you know where in America?'

  'I'm afraid I don't … you could ask their neighbour, Miss White, she may know. It's possible she may know the wife as they're both English-speaking.'

  'Signorina White doesn't go away for Christmas?'

  'I don't think so, I think she's still here.'

  'Thank you. We'll try her … And what about your neighbour on this floor?'

  'The Judge?' They were making their way back to the front door. 'He's at home, as you can hear. He's retired and lives alone except for his housekeeper. I'm afraid I don't know much about him other than that he's fond of Verdi.'

  'Well, thank you, anyway, you've been very helpful …' An exaggeration, but the Captain was ashamed of his momentary loss of temper, which he felt to be a loss of dignity. 'Without a resident porter our job is very difficult.'

  'Ah, Captain — ' Signor Cipriani opened his hands in despair— 'you know how much a porter costs, these days? At least six million a year … and that's if you can find anybody to do it. Even with the present housing shortage, young people today wouldn't consider it. Well, we're always here, if there's anything else you want to ask …'

  The Judge could tell them nothing. Both he and his housekeeper had been in the house all night and had not been disturbed by any noise. The housekeeper confessed to taking sleeping pills and the Judge said he was a heavy sleeper and nothing ever woke him. They both retired early. They only knew the Englishman by sight, a nodding acquaintance. To the best of their knowledge he had never had any visitors.