Death of an Englishman Page 6

  'Was a member. He's dead.'

  'Dead … ? Oh …'

  'He was murdered.'

  'But that's ridiculous. I mean …'

  'Yes?'

  'I'm sorry, I mean, of course if you say he was murdered, it's just that I hadn't heard … You see in Florence—'

  'Everyone knows everyone else's business. So I heard. But not this chap's. Do you know anything about him?'

  'Well, not exactly, no, I mean, I expect—'

  'Used to steal the damned paper!' The ancient man from the overstuffed armchair had stolen up behind them and was listening in. 'Seen the feller do it, walk out with The Times in his overcoat pocket!'

  The Chief looked round at the red-faced complainant and then back at the librarian. 'Did he often come here to read the paper?'

  'Came every day,' interrupted the old man again. 'Sat in that chair opposite mine. Every morning.'

  The Chief turned round. 'I see. So you could say you were friends?'

  'Friends?'

  'If you sat opposite each other every morning I suppose you chatted? At least exchanged the odd word about the weather?'

  'Never spoken to the man in my life!' The old chap was astonished, 'Used to steal the damned paper. The Times! You ought to keep a bit of order in this place,' he admonished the young librarian. 'Want to keep that blasted woman quiet, too!'

  A woman had come in while they were talking and was quarrelling in a loud falsetto with the Italian receptionist. Her face was plaster white with powder and she wore an alice band and a long black cloak. Her hair was grey but it was impossible to guess her age.

  'But I need these books for my work!' She pronounced it 'may wark'.

  'Signora, six months! You have to come and renew them …'

  'Who is she?' asked the Chief Inspector.

  'Miss Iris Peece.'

  'She doesn't seem to be too popular.'

  'Oh, she's all right. Quite a nice old bag in many ways. She's a sort of writer …'

  'What, novels, that sort of thing?'

  'Well, that's the thing about Iris Peece … in fact … nobody knows. Whatever it is, she's been writing it for the last twenty-odd years, according to local legend. She spends her spare time giving absolutely gruesome little dinner-parties for anybody she thinks might be able to get her whatever-it-is published. They never can, of course. The chap they used to know in publishing has always either retired or died. The rest of the guests are the usual spongers whose private incomes aren't what they were since inflation.'

  'Twenty-odd years …'

  'At least. She even invited me once, when I first came out, but I don't know any publishers so I didn't get asked again.'

  'Any chance she might have known Langley-Smythe?'

  'No, I think he avoided the poor old bat.'

  'What about the other members? Did he have any friends that you know of? Acquaintances even?'

  'Nobody. Absolutely. Read the paper and took out science fiction books.'

  'Well, if anything occurs to you, anything at all, concerning Mr Langley-Smythe, perhaps you'd give us a ring. We're at the English vicarage just round the corner—give him the phone number, will you, Jeffreys?' The Chief Inspector moved away, looking about him and listening in on the shrieking Miss Peece.

  'I cannot be expected to interrupt may wark to come round here every other day!'

  'Once a month, Signora, once a month …'

  'Here you are.' Jeffreys copied the number on to a scrap of paper. The young man seemed ill at ease. 'Is there something wrong?'

  'Mm … well … yes, in fact … his library books.'

  'What?'

  'Well, he must have had two out, he always did. I'm responsible for them … mm …' The pink fingers were working nervously, 'The thing is, we close tomorrow for Christmas …'

  'I see. Well, the Italian police are in charge but I'll see if I can get them for you. If I don't get a chance to drop them off here I'll leave them at the vicarage.' This didn't seem to suit him. 'You never go there?'

  'Absolutely not! All those ridiculous old bags with their homemade cakes … you'd think it was an English village, you wonder why they live here.'

  'Why do you?'

  'Live here? Well … I have a friend … Actually, I'm doing some writing; a monograph on an almost unknown Tuscan painter. I've been working on it for some time … I might develop it into something bigger …'

  'You'll be looking for a publisher yourself, then.'

  'Mmm … Very possibly I'll meet someone here …'

  'You don't find it … depressing?' Even the new books piled on the table were beginning to bend in response to the damp. 'I mean, your customers all seem to be a bit … strange.'

  The young man looked away, clenching and unclenching his thin fingers. 'I suppose so … yes. But then,' he added tolerantly, 'I'm quite strange myself …'

  'Are you ready, Inspector Jeffreys?'

  'Quite ready, sir.' They walked out briskly and went downstairs to the street.

  'Depressing sort of place,' remarked the Chief Inspector.

  'Yes, sir, very.' Inspector Jeffreys thought he could smell the mould on his mackintosh. 'We ought to be getting along to the Carabinieri place. We'd best get a taxi. What about a coffee in that bar opposite the Christmas trees? I could phone for one from there.'

  'Good idea.'

  A woman with a tiny child in a woolly red hat was looking at the largest trees. The child's jumping and shouting, coupled with the warmth of the bar with its Christmas decorations and smells of fresh coffee and pastries, soon drove away any lingering odour of mould. By the time the yellow taxi braked noisily at the corner their sense of the real world was restored to them.

  When the electronic gate slid closed behind the Chief and Jeffreys, their escort of the previous day was waiting for them. 'If you would follow me,' he addressed them in Italian. He walked before them, one hand on his gleaming sword to prevent it from rattling.

  And cavalry boots … wondered Inspector Jeffreys. The same question was in the Chief's mind.

  'Speak any English?' he asked the young Lieutenant. The young officer apologized. He spoke Italian and French. When they reached the Captain's office he saluted and left them.

  'Good morning,' said the Captain, rising. Carabiniere Bacci, forgiven, was beside him, ready to translate. The Langley-Smythe file was open on the desk. The Captain was looking thoughtful. When they sat down he offered them cigarettes from a carved wooden box on his desk.

  'I'd prefer my pipe,' said the Chief, 'if it doesn't bother anybody …'

  'Please. Do make yourselves quite comfortable.' He looked down at the file while the Chief was lighting his pipe. They could hear, beneath the tall windows, cars streaming past in the damp, foggy street, sounding their horns impatiently at the frequent delays. Two cars left the building with their sirens going.

  'Well,' began the Chief Inspector, 'we've been having a chat with the vicar and we've been to the English library but I'm afraid we haven't got much to tell you other than that Mr Langley-Smythe read science fiction and doesn't, as far as we can gather—I should say didn't—have any friends. I hope you've had a more profitable morning than we have.'

  'A number of things have come to light,' said the Captain carefully. 'But perhaps we should begin by looking at Professor Forli's autopsy report. The weapon used, as I think I told you, was a 6.35. The bullet pierced the left ventricle and there was very little loss of blood, death being virtually instantaneous. Professor Forli puts the time of death at approximately three a.m. and this is confirmed by a witness, a child living in the building who was disturbed by a loud bang at a quarter to three. No one else heard anything, There was quite a large amount of alcohol in the bloodstream and the stomach contained whisky but Mr Langley-Smythe seems to have been a steady consumer of alcohol, according to the state of his liver; we have no reason to believe that he was intoxicated, that is, in any way incapacitated by alcohol. His health was otherwise fairly good for a man of
sixty.'

  'Excuse me …'

  'Certainly?'

  'You've established the time of death but I presume his meal, his evening meal, would have been completely digested by then. Does that mean we don't know where he ate or who with?'

  'We do, as a matter of fact. My men questioned restaurant owners in the quarter, starting from the ones nearest his home. They made a false start, unfortunately, by trying only those restaurants which they thought a well-to-do foreigner might patronize … '

  'And … ?'

  'They drew a blank. No one knew him. But as there was very little food in the house, and only coffee cups in the sink, it seemed certain that he ate out. They began trying the cheaper places. Apparently, he dined every night at about eight-thirty in a small place in a side street off Via Maggio, known as the Casalinga, the sort of place patronized by local workmen and artisans during the day and by students in the evenings. It's possible to eat a very substantial meal there for about four thousand lire. Langley-Smythe had the same table for one in a corner every night, usually eating just one course, occasionally two. He drank quite a bit of wine.'

  'Always alone?'

  'Always. Including, of course, the night he was killed. Paolo, the owner's eldest son, served him. He ate two courses: roast beef with salad followed by a crème caramel. He drank most of a litre of red. He was alone at his usual table and was reading an English newspaper throughout the meal …'

  They remembered the irate old man in the library: 'He used to steal the newspaper, walk out with it in his overcoat pocket.'

  'Doesn't seem to have liked spending money,' murmured the Chief Inspector.

  'A foible perhaps,' returned the Captain politely. 'It often happens … people who live alone … it need not necessarily have a bearing on the case but we need to build up a picture of his life and habits. What we do need to know, more than anything, is what contact he had with people other than his lawyer.'

  'He doesn't seem to have had any.'

  'But he had. A number of them. The people whose fingerprints were found in the flat. There is also the question of the money, which, you will remember, was in various currencies and which didn't pass through any bank in Florence—at least, not in his own name. Let's consider the fingerprints first.' He extracted the report from the file. 'The problem with these prints is that, according to his neighbours, Mr Langley-Smythe was never known to have a visitor, and yet we found prints on all his furniture and his pictures—prints of seven different people, altogether. Now, he may have had one visitor without anyone noticing, but not seven, I don't think. There were other prints, too—older, unidentifiable ones.'

  'What you're saying is that these are not prints of someone who broke in … You've checked, anyway?'

  'With Records, naturally. Only one person has been identified. A local greengrocer by the name of Mazzocchio. He has a van and does occasional small removal jobs on the side. One conviction for receiving, small stuff.'

  'In that case,' said the Chief Inspector, relaxing a little, 'it's quite possible that Mr Langley-Smythe had just bought some furniture and this chap Maz —Maz … whatever you call him delivered it?'

  'Quite possible.'

  'In which case there ought to be at least some furniture which has only his own prints, am I right?'

  'Quite so. His desk and the two leather chairs with it, and an armchair—and the other rooms, too, of course; the different prints were found only in the living-room.'

  'So Mr Langley-Smythe treated himself to some new furniture. We could be wasting time on this.' The Chief spoke as if to one of his Inspectors, forgetting that he wasn't in charge of the case.

  'We could.' The Captain was unperturbed. 'But I don't think so …' Sooner or later, he would have to be told about the bust. Perhaps the simplest way was to let him see it for himself. 'We're about to revisit the house —I wonder if you would care to accompany us? As a matter of fact, there's an English lady on the top floor, a Miss White, who speaks no Italian. She would, I'm sure, respond better to you than to us, if you would care to … ?'

  'Oh yes, certainly. We'll handle that for you.'

  'Thank you. We have spoken to her already, of course, yesterday, but only very briefly … since we were expecting your arrival … I hope I wasn't being presumptuous … ?'

  'Not at all, not at all.' The Chief was delighted. 'As I've said, we're not to be considered to be here in any official capacity but any help we can give …'

  'You're very kind.'

  Carabiniere Bacci closed his brown eyes in a thankful prayer for a second after translating this. The Captain was ringing for his Brigadier. 'I've ordered lunch in the Officers'Club.' As the Brigadier entered he rose, and then became aware, without turning, that Carabiniere Bacci was standing to attention behind him, rigid with expectation and apprehension. 'If you gentlemen have no objection,' he added, as the Brigadier took the file and saluted, 'Carabiniere Bacci will join us, as interpreter.'

  And once again Carabiniere Bacci was convinced that the young Englishman,who watched the proceedings with an ironic smile and never spoke, had winked.

  CHAPTER 2

  Two squad cars took them to Via Maggio after lunch; one containing the Captain and a rather mellowed Chief Inspector, his expression bland, his cheeks a little pink after a plentiful helping from a whole roast loin of pork, stuffed with sage and rosemary, and a dish of potato puree and another of green salad, followed by Gorgonzola dolce and a Chianti Riserva that was very much to his liking. The car behind carried a brigadier next to the driver, to relieve the guard on the flat, and Inspector Jeffreys next to Carabiniere Bacci in the back. It was the first chance these two had had to talk without their bosses, and Carabiniere Bacci was rather taken aback by the sudden liveliness of this hitherto silent young man. A grey drizzle was falling into the river when they crossed the bridge and drew up at the traffic lights on the other side.

  'Like England, this weather, but not as cold,' offered Jeffreys.

  'Yes. The rainy season. It starts early in November and goes on until the tramontana comes.'

  'The … ?'

  'Tramontana. The wind that comes across the mountains. It brings clear sunny weather but much colder, of course.'

  'Yes, it would be …' That seemed to exhaust the weather topic but Jeffreys persisted: 'You speak very good English. Learn it at school?'

  'Yes, I did study it at school but mostly I learned from my mother. She had an English nanny and then an English governess, so she speaks English as well as she speaks Italian.'

  It was Jeffreys's turn to be taken aback: 'And you wanted to be a cop?'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'A policeman, sorry. I mean, your family …'

  The boy flushed a little, understanding. 'My father was a lawyer and I was also to have been one, but he died when I was still at the Liceo. I have a younger sister who was still a baby. Things were rather difficult … my mother is accustomed to a certain way of life, so …'

  'I see. Hard for you. I'm sorry.'

  'No, really. It's what I wanted. I would not have liked to be a lawyer.' His brown eyes were very earnest. Jeffreys wondered if he ever smiled. Their car was stuck in a queue, inches away from a blue and white police car that had got stuck going the opposite way. Jeffreys noticed that the two drivers gave each other no nod or wave of recognition. 'Colleagues of yours?' He pointed out to Carabiniere Bacci. The other looked blankly out of the window, straight through the blue and white car. 'No,' he stated, turning back.

  'Different branch?'

  'Oh no. They are nothing to do with us at all.'

  'They have a Plain Clothes Division, I suppose?'

  'Oh yes. But so do we.'

  Inspector Jeffreys couldn't resist the image that sprang into his mind: 'Ha hal You must keep each other well-informed! Imagine what would happen if you both turned up on a job in plain clothes—and started shooting at each other!'

  Poor Carabiniere Bacci looked unhappily down at his knees with
out replying. It was fortunate that the car lurched suddenly to a halt at that point and a loud argument ensued between their driver and that of a car which had shot suddenly out from a side street.

  'Ever been to England?' asked Jeffreys brightly, when they had started to crawl along the street again.

  'No, never. I have often thought of it but … In the summer we close up the house in Florence and take a smaller one by the sea to get away from the heat … For my mother and sister, you see, it's necessary … I couldn't really … In January there is usually time to ski a little in the Apennines … If I could afford to take all of us to England—but I'm afraid they wouldn't go. The real problem is,' he sighed, 'that Tuscany has everything—beautiful cities and museums, mountains for winter sports, beaches …'

  'It doesn't sound like a problem to me,' said Jeffreys, who hailed from a council estate in Stoke-on-Trent.

  'But it is,' explained Carabiniere Bacci. 'Because we never go anywhere else —Machiavelli made fun of our claiming to be great travellers if we went as far as Prato.'

  'Where's that?'

  'About twenty minutes away from where we are now.'

  'It's that bad, is it?' He was being flippant, but glancing out at the rows of shutters, the overcrowded, confined streets, he got a brief but strong suggestion of claustrophobia that might overtake anyone who stayed long enough in the city—or maybe it was really agoraphobia, the labyrinth sucked you in and you didn't even want to leave. Jeffreys tried to imagine flying to London but the idea lacked reality. 'Well, it's easy enough to get over to London, if you want to,' he said, to convince himself, 'and I'll give you my address. Be glad to show you round Scotland Yard and anywhere else you fancy.'

  'Would you?' The younger man seemed moved. 'That's very kind of you.'

  'Be a pleasure. This is the street, isn't it? I can see the bridge at the other end.'

  'Yes. This is it. Number fifty-eight.'

  'Must be your first big case, I should think?'

  'My first of any kind. I'm still in Officer Training School but we are sent out to do some practical.'