'Can I help you?'
The young man was still playing. It was someone else who had spoken, someone who had come round the side of the building and joined the Marshal outside the window. A second young man, little more than a boy, thin and brown-haired, dressed in jeans and an old tweed jacket.
'I saw your car,' he stated when the Marshal turned to look at him, but the statement had the tone of a question.
'I'm making routine enquiries,' the Marshal said, 'regarding the owner of this villa, Signora Hilde Vogel. Do you know her?'
'No. I rented through an agency. They put an advert in
The Times.'
'In the . . .?'
'The Times.
The London newspaper.'
'I see. You're English. How long have you been here?'
'Almost a year. I paint.' He seemed to consider this an ample explanation since he added nothing further. The young man in the kitchen was still playing, watching them quizzically over his flute.
'A friend of yours?' the Marshal asked, indicating the musician.
'No. He's just arrived here. His name's Knut. He's from Norway. I don't know anything about him except that his English isn't up to much.'
'Does he speak Italian?'
'I've no idea. Would you like me to ask him?'
'Yes.'
The English boy had a certain diffidence which might be taken for politeness, but despite a strong accent and imperfect grammar he spoke Italian with a languid assurance that the Marshal found almost insolent though he couldn't have explained exactly why. He was talking to the flautist now, but the latter only shook his head very slightly and went on playing.
'Ask him if he knows the owner of this villa,' persisted the Marshal.
This time the music stopped and the young man said something and shrugged his shoulders before resuming his playing.
'No, he rented through the agent, as I did.'
'Which of you is John Sweeton?'
'I'm John Sweeton,' replied the English boy, correcting the Marshal's pronunciation.
The Marshal took out his notebook.
'And Graham . . .' He couldn't get his tongue round the surname but John Sweeton put in immediately:
'Graham didn't stay much more than a couple of weeks, though he arrived in July about the same time as Christian. He paid up the rest of the rent on his room according to the contract and then went off to Greece.'
'Who's Christian?' The name wasn't on the Captain's list of tenants.
'I don't know his surname. He's staying here on and off.'
'Is he here now?'
'No, he isn't.'
'When do you expect him back?'
'I've no idea. He comes and goes as he pleases like the rest of us.'
The Marshal was beginning to feel out of his depth and was inclined to agree with his colleague. A right funny bunch.
'He did say he was coming back?'
'Why should he say anything? His things are still here so I presume he'll be back, that's all.'
'Why doesn't he have a contract like the rest of you?'
'You'd have to ask him. Maybe he does know the owner.'
The Marshal said nothing. His big eyes were again roving over the kitchen and its contents.
'If you want to come in and look around,' said Sweeton, following his glance, 'feel free.'
'I don't have a warrant.'
Sweeton shrugged. Despite this remark of the Marshal's, he showed no curiosity as to why inquiries were being made about the owner. After a moment's hesitation the Marshal decided to go in. Sweeton took him round the place in a disinterested way.
'Nobody ever uses these ground-floor rooms much. Most of us keep to our own rooms.'
Most of the shutters were closed and the Marshal took off his sunglasses to see better in the gloom. The reception rooms were well, if sparsely, furnished with heavy antiques. The red-tiled floors were dusty and there were tiny mounds of sawdust under the furniture, showing that woodworm had been at work. Everything smelled musty. The stairs and banisters were in smooth grey stone.
'My room.' The bed was unmade and there were paintings stacked against the walls. A badly painted modernistic landscape was propped on an easel. On the floor beside it stood a flask of wine and a glass. 'I was working when you arrived. The room next to mine was Graham's. It's empty now. I suppose Knut will take it. Do you want to look?
1
'No.'
'The bathroom's up those two stairs.'
Some modernization work had been started in the bathroom and left unfinished. Tiles had been removed from the walls, leaving the cement bare. The fitments were green except for a very old-fashioned white bath with rust marks where the tap had dripped for years.
'Christian's room is on the other side of this landing. None of the others rooms are in use.' The Marshal only glanced in at the door which had been left slightly ajar. Christian's bed was made and the room was fairly orderly. There were a lot of paperback books. In the few seconds that he stood there looking in, the Marshal managed to take in everything. What he couldn't be sure of was whether John Sweeton had noticed what he had noticed. There was no way of telling from his attitude. Nevertheless, the Marshal saw what he saw. A leather belt dangling from the bedside cabinet, and beside it the two shrivelled halves of a lemon. The other things were probably hidden behind a stack of paperbacks, but even without seeing them the Marshal knew they were there.
'So I called on the Marshal at Greve on my way back.'
'Could he tell you anything?' The Captain's voice on the other end of the telephone sounded tired. In fact, he had stayed up practically the whole night waiting for his young plainclothes men to come in from their round of the piazzas and bars where they mingled with drug addicts in the hope of finding the
new
supplier.
'Well, he'd had a talk to the agent who said he'd been instructed not to let again once the present contracts ran out. It seems the place was to be restored. Apart from that, he could only repeat that they had never had any trouble with these youngsters. It seems they keep themselves to themselves and there have never been complaints from anyone about them. Of course, they're in a very isolated spot so they could get up to anything without anybody knowing,'
'And you think they're up to something?'
'I'm sure that one of the ones who's staying there now is on heroin. I had a quick look at his room and got a glimpse of the usual stuff lying about.'
'Did you talk to him?'
'He wasn't there. He comes and goes and nobody knows exactly where he is. We could have a talk to him when he gets back—incidentally, he wasn't on your list of tenants whose contracts you found, so it would be worth having a word with him in case he knew the owner and is staying there under some friendly arrangement, though of course he could just be a squatter. I've asked the Marshal out there tt>keep an eye on the villa and let me know when the boy turns up.'
'Good. If there's nothing else . . .'
'Just one thing, sir,' persisted the Marshal slowly, pausing to get the images and words in order. He didn't like the goings-on in that villa one bit but he was having difficulty explaining his disquiet.
'Well?'
'There was another boy . . . Graham something, you gave me his name . . .'
'Allenborough. You think he may be an addict, too?'
'He wasn't there. He's left. . .'
'I see. So only one of them was there?'
'No. . . there was another, a Norwegian who's just arrived . . .' Again the Marshal felt out of his depth. 'What I'm trying to say is that this Graham who left ... the English boy said he'd paid up the rent due according to the contract and gone off to Greece, just like that. You told me how high the rent was so I thought it was a bit funny, going off like that . . .' He wasn't explaining himself at all.
'No doubt,' the Captain said patiently, 'they're young people from wealthy families who can afford to do as they please.'
The Marshal gave it up, adding only: 'I'll send you my written report. Nothing new on the hotel staff?'
'We're still checking up on them but it's a long business and I can't spare more than one man to work on it. He hasn't come up with anything of interest yet. In the meantime, I've been in touch with Signora Vogel's lawyer, who's Swiss. He's going to call me back after getting in touch with the bank in Mainz tomorrow morning. It would be a help if you could visit her hairdresser—it's on your hotel route, in Via Guicciardini. His name's Antonio.'
It would be, thought the Marshal glumly, another one like that receptionist.
'I'll try and get there before they close this evening.'
But when he rang off his thoughts returned to the villa with its smell of rotting leaves outside and mustiness inside. The sound of the flute in all that silence, and the self-assurance of the English boy who couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty. And those telltale signs by the other boy's bedside, the dangling belt and the shrivelled lemon.
He got up slowly from his desk, buttoned up his jacket and took his holster from the hook behind the door. He didn't like it one bit and he was gradually beginning to decide why. Because if they were all from such well-to-do families they should surely be at home, studying or working, making a career for themselves with all the advantages they had. Instead of which they were drifting about wasting their time and drugging themselves like the poor unemployed wretches who hung about the city centre. Like the lad who had died from a bad dose two weeks ago and whose parents he knew. He decided, as he called to Brigadier Lorenzini that he was going out again, that he would call on the parents on his way to see the hairdresser.
'Antonio!'
"What is it?'
'Somebody to see you!'
The stifling atmosphere laden with the smells of wet hair and hot shampoo started the Marshal sweating before he had been in the place two minutes. And the reflections of a dozen pairs of eyes staring at him from mirrors all over the room didn't help. Among all that flimsy pink and blue nylon he felt more than usually conscious of his own bulk and that of his heavy black uniform, and he didn't know where to put himself so as not to be in the way of all the bustling assistants with their trays and towels.
Antonio finally appeared. He wasn't wearing an overall like the girls but a navy polka dot shirt and a pale blue silk scarf knotted round his neck.
'Can I help you?'
'Is there somewhere we could talk?' the Marshal asked, shifting himself as a woman was led past him, her head wrapped in pink towels.
'There's nothing wrong? If it's the woman in the flat upstairs again complaining about my using all the water—' 'No, no . . . it's about one of your clients, but I'd rather we—'
'Of course! The Vogel woman!'
'You know all about it?'
'The wife of the manager at the Riverside has her hair done here. She came yesterday. In fact, it was she who first recommended Signora Vogel to come to me—just a minute . . . Caterina! Is Signora Fantozzi dry?'
'Another five minutes.'
'I'll be in the back for a moment—No, don't rinse yet, that colour needs another two minutes. Go and comb out the little girl. This way . . . Marshal, is it? I don't have an office but perhaps Mariannina has a cubicle free . ..'
A manicurist looked up from soaking an elderly lady's hand in a small bowl. 'Number two's free. I've just switched the wax off.'
'That's fine. This way, Marshal.'
The cubicle was so tiny there was barely room for the two of them to stand beside the narrow bed with a paper sheet on it. There was a strong smell of hot beeswax coming from an odd-looking contraption in the corner. Fortunately, Antonio turned out to be much more sensible than he looked, quite the opposite of the receptionist at the Riverside.
'I don't know how I can help,' he began.
'By telling me anything you know about her. We're trying to establish what sort of life she lived, who she mixed with.' 'Hm. Difficult. She always struck me as a loner.'
'No men?'
'Well, not from the way she talked . . .'
'What way?'
'Ironic. I don't know ... a little bitter. She took good care of herself. She came here every week, for example, as I suppose you must already know, but I remember once she said she wondered why she bothered at times— joking, you understand—and that she was thinking
of
going into a convent if things didn't improve. She often talked that way.'
'But without explaining why?'
'Exactly. You wouldn't believe the way some women talk, they tell me everything, but she was rather secretive, just came out with odd remarks like that one.'
'Did you know she owned a villa out near Grove?'
'Now that she did tell me. A long time ago, I'd almost forgotten. It occurred to me at the time to wonder why she didn't live there; in fact, I asked her but she didn't seem keen on being out in the country on her own, which is understandable.'
'Did she say who did live there?'
'I think she said it was rented but I've no idea to whom. It really was a long time ago.'
'You can't think of anything else, anything at all?'
Antonio hesitated.
'Even if it seems of no importance to you, it could be useful to us,' the Marshal encouraged him.
'It isn't that. . . it's just that it's gossip, really. In my job I listen to everybody but I don't repeat. I dislike gossip.'
'In this case gossip might help us to find out who killed her and why.'
'You mean it's really true what the manager's wife told me? That you think she was murdered?'
'Yes.'
'I see. In that case ... It was a woman who has a regular appointment at about the same time as Signora Vogel. She toid me she'd seen her in a restaurant with a young man. A very young man, practically a boy. They gave the impression of being fairly intimate. They were whispering, she said. I'd rather you didn't quote me as telling you that—I mean to the newspapers and so on. I can give you the woman's name and you can talk to her yourself if you think it's important.'
'Thank you.'
A young man, practically a boy. The Marshal was thinking again of the villa, and he was liking it even less.
'How long ago was this?'
'I can tell you exactly, it was August 27th. I rarely go to restaurants since my husband died but my son insisted on taking me that day because it was my birthday—that's why I'm sure of the date.'
'A month before she died.'
'That's right. I apologize for keeping you in the kitchen but I have to see to the supper.'
The eight o'clock television news was on in the adjoining dining-room where a table was set for two. Everything in the apartment seemed as orderly and calm as the woman who was now putting a clear soup to heat. She didn't strike the Marshal as a gossip.
'Did you get a good look at the young man?'
'Not really. Signora Vogel hadn't seen me and I didn't want to stare and draw attention. She might have been embarrassed.'
'Nevertheless, you told Antonio about it."
'You're right. I suppose I oughtn't to have mentioned it. It was only because she was late for her appointment and he was saying that perhaps she'd taken her own advice and gone into a convent—it was a joke she'd made to us the week before. I didn't see any harm in telling him; after all, she had a right to do as she pleased. But the young man seemed hardly more than a boy, which I admit I found a bit shocking. You understand?'
'Yes.'
'I suppose it's having a son about that age which made me find it distasteful. She was a little younger than I am, I imagine, but even so ... Do you think all this has something to do with what happened to her?'
'I don't know.'
'I wish you'd sit down.'
'Don't worry. I don't want to disturb you any longer than I have to.'
'You must think me very rude but we eat at very regular hours because of my son. He's in his second year at university studying architecture but since my husband died he's had the business to look after as well. It's only a small firm of heating engineers but he has to be there practically all day, which means he studies late into the night. That's why I like to have supper ready as soon as he gets in. I do apologize. I just have a salad to prepare. I don't know what else I can tell you . . .'
'Anything you remember about what the young man looked like. You must have noticed something about him even without staring.'
'Ah yes . . . Well, I do remember he was tall and slim—at least, since he was sitting down it was probably his slimness that gave the impression he was tall.'
She turned down the light under the soup which had begun to boil and added a pinch of salt to it.
'What about the colour of his hair?'
'Fairish, I think . . . maybe light brown, but I can't say for sure.'
'You didn't catch anything they were saying?'
'No, but. . . well, I got the impression she was pleading with him and she looked upset. She must have been upset because otherwise she would have seen me. And then ... I couldn't help noticing . . . she wrote him a cheque. Ah . . .!' She gave a little start.
'You've remembered something else?'
But she wasn't listening to him. Her accustomed ear had caught the sound of the lift doors closing out on the landing. 'It's my son. I can put the rice in.'
When the Marshal got back to his Station young Brigadier Lorenzini was in the duty room.
'Everything all right?'
'All under control, Marshal. The boys are upstairs cooking their supper. I'll go off duty when they've finished.'
'You can go off now. You've done far more than your share of hours today.'
Lorenzini didn't wait to be asked twice but reached for his greatcoat. He had only been married and living out of barracks for a few months.
The Marshal's own wife and two little boys were down in Syracuse but they would soon be joining him. As Lorenzini clattered out in a rush he tried to imagine what it would be like to lead a normal family life again, remembering the young student of architecture coming home to a bowl of hot soup in the neat dining-room where the television was already on for him. The Marshal's own quarters were in darkness. Instead of going there he went upstairs to see how the lads were faring.
They, too, had the television on but beside it were two small closed-circuit sets for keeping a check on the gates outside. The room was steamy.
'What are you cooking?'
'Pasta with tomato sauce and hot peppers—Di Nuccio's speciality.'
'Buon appetito
!
'The same to you, Marshal. Good night.'
'Good night.'
It was after nine o'clock. The Marshal sat down in his office to write the daily orders for tomorrow, hoping that there would be no unexpected calls on his boys. When two of them came down to take over in the duty room he went to his own quarters and switched on the light in the kitchen. He, too, put on a pan of water and reached into the cupboard for a jar of his wife's tomato preserve. It was almost eight hours since he had eaten and the smell of other people's suppers had sharpened his appetite. Waiting for the water to boil, his thoughts rambled over the various young people he had dealt with in one way and another that day. First the ones out at the villa, one of whom might well have been the lover of the forty-eight-year-old Hilde Vogel; the boy who had died of drugs at age eighteen and whose bereaved parents he had visited briefly that evening; the young man who had to run the family business while trying to study for his degree in architecture at night. Lastly, his own lads cooking their supper upstairs, all of them hundreds of miles from their own homes and families. It was as if all these youngsters lived in completely different worlds. Especially the ones at the villa whose world the Marshal couldn't comprehend at all.