The Marshal's Own Case, page 7
‘Mind if I light up?’
‘No, no . . .’
‘Are you going to ring him now? Or do you want to wait till we’re quite sure?’
‘I am quite sure,’ the Marshal said, ‘I’ve seen a photo of Lulu alive.’
‘You have? How come?’
‘Yesterday, at Carla’s house.’
‘Ah, Carla. Carla’s all right. Intelligent. Brutalized by so many years on the game but intelligent underneath.’
‘Yes. What Professor Forli said about anæmia . . .’
‘They’re probably all anæmic. Pale as corpses they are, under all the paint.’
‘These hormones they take . . . it seems they lower the blood pressure, too.’
‘I wouldn’t know, though like as not they’re what makes them so unbalanced and hypersensitive. They go up in smoke at the slightest provocation—well, you saw that for yourself.’
‘Yes.’
‘But Carla’s one of the more reliable ones. Maybe you could get her to identify this head. Not a pleasant sight, mind you.’
‘No. I’ll ask her for that photo, anyway. The trouble is, there’s one of Lulu’s clients in it.’
‘Cut it. Know who he is?’
‘They call him Nanny. Apparently he has a wife and family so he wouldn’t have told them his real name.’
‘You never know. He won’t fancy giving evidence, though, none of Lulu’s clients will. It’s a non-starter even if he’s still in circulation.’
‘He is, I think. A regular client.’
‘Well, one thing’s certain, whoever bumped Lulu off was a client or a friend, not a random maniac. They ate together.’
‘From Carla’s account Lulu wasn’t the sort to have friends. “If she gets the chop it’ll be from one of her own kind.” ’
‘Carla said that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, let’s hope he’s right. We won’t have far to look, in that case. Shall we make a move?’
Luigi Esposito, otherwise known as Lulu, lived, or used to live, in the Santa Croce area which the Marshal had visited only a few days before. But the flat they walked into now was a far cry from the bare and squalid bedsitter where the cheery saxophonist was camping. It was quite large and very luxurious. Ferrini gave an appreciative whistle as they opened the sitting-room door.
‘Made a good living, our Lulu. I wouldn’t mind a stereo like that myself.’
They wandered from room to room without touching anything, waiting for the technicians to turn up. The Marshal automatically went first to the kitchen where the remains of a meal were congealed on dirty plates on a round white table in the middle of the room. If it was the meal there was nothing special to indicate it, no overturned chair, no stain of blood. The wine bottle was empty and two glasses still had dregs in them. He would have liked to look in the fridge but it was safer to wait for the experts.
‘Marshal? Where are you?’
‘In the kitchen.’
‘Come and look in here.’
He joined Ferrini in the bedroom. The double bed was unmade, but if the room was in disorder it was the disorder of opulence rather than squalor. The crumpled sheets were silk and the open wardrobe was crammed with obviously expensive clothes, including one compartment bulging with furs. Ferrini sat on the bed and bounced.
‘Perfect! And a coloured telly laid on. Videos, too—and I wouldn’t be surprised . . .’ He jumped up and crouched before the glass shelves next to the television; ‘Porn. And very special porn.’ He slid a cassette from the collection using his handkerchief and slotted it into the machine. ‘There’s a shop in the centre rents this stuff out . . . Lord, look at that. Prefer the straight stuff, myself . . .’ He sat down on the edge of the bed again and lit a cigarette. ‘What language do you reckon that is? German or Swedish?’
‘I don’t know.’ The Marshal turned away from the lurid, slow-moving image and went to look in the bathroom. There was no disorder here. The floor was white marble, the walls white-tiled. There could be no doubt that every surface was spotlessly clean. In the Marshal’s humble opinion it was a good deal too clean. It didn’t fit in with the kitchen and the bedroom. There should have been more stuff about, more signs of life.
‘They’re long enough coming,’ came Ferrini’s voice from the bedroom. ‘Christ! Just look at this!’
But the Marshal didn’t move. He stayed where he was, staring at the empty bathroom until the doorbell rang and Ferrini went to let the technicians in. Even then he kept himself apart, wandering around the rooms and doing his best to keep his considerable bulk out of the way of electric cables, open boxes of equipment and crouching figures. Nobody bothered to turn off the television in the bedroom and, every now and then, one of the men would pause in his work and park himself in front of it, sniggering or exclaiming. Once they’d finished fingerprinting the bedroom he and Ferrini started going through the drawers and cupboards. It was Ferrini who found a handbag on the floor near the bed.
‘Identity card, that’s good . . . Hm. Still resident in Naples where he was born, according to this . . . Airline ticket for Spain, even better. Gives us the date of the murder, wouldn’t you say? I reckon he must have died that day or the night before, since the others thought he’d gone.’
‘Probably. What’s that? A receipt from a bank?’
‘Looks like it . . . yes. Receipt for payment of traveller’s cheques . . . intending to spend a fair bit of money. I suppose that clinic costs but it looks like he was going to make a bit of a spree of it as well . . .’
‘Where are they? Are they in there?’
‘Wait . . . I can’t find them but there’s so much stuff in here, junk and make-up—shall I tip the lot out?’
‘Yes.’
Ferrini overturned the snakeskin bag and showered the contents on to the crumpled silk sheet. ‘I don’t know,’ he smirked. ‘The things men stuff in their handbags!’
‘Marshal?’ One of the technicians came into the bedroom dragging a suitcase. ‘This might interest you.’
The suitcase, when they opened it, was neatly packed with women’s clothing, most of it new or nearly so.
‘All ready for off,’ the technician commented as the Marshal sifted through the clothes, ‘but what’s interesting is that it was hidden!’
‘Hidden where?’
‘Pushed behind the sideboard in the sitting-room. Not the usual place to park a suitcase when you’re ready to leave.’
‘People have their funny ways . . .’ said the Marshal doubtfully.
‘Funny’s right. The sideboard had been moved out to make room for it. It stands on the edge of that Persian rug and there’s another set of depressions on the rug from where it normally stands. Didn’t want somebody to know he was leaving, do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’ The Marshal went in there and looked at the depressions on the rug but they didn’t hold his attention long. Within a moment he was at the door of the bathroom, watching. A young man was taking minute scrapings from between the wall tiles. The Marshal stared for a long time, his big eyes expressionless. Then he sniffed. The bedroom smelled strongly of perfume but the bathroom had a different smell.
‘Bleach,’ he said at last.
‘That’s right,’ agreed the young man cheerily. ‘Spotless. I’m going through the motions but I can tell you I don’t expect to find much. No signs of death in this room.’
‘No signs of life,’ the Marshal said, unconsciously correcting him. Really he was talking to himself and when the young man paused in his scraping and gave him an odd look he turned away, embarrassed, murmuring as if in explanation of his queer remark, ‘There are no towels . . .’
Everyone was so occupied, so sure of what they were doing. Everyone except himself. The technicians knew their job and it was pointless to interfere with them. Ferrini knew his job, too. He was busy writing a list of the contents of Lulu’s handbag, dropping the things back inside it as he wrote, a Cellophane bag ready to package the whole thing for removal.
‘No traveller’s cheques,’ he said without looking up.
On the TV screen a huge red mouth opened and zoomed slowly forward.
‘I’m going upstairs,’ the Marshal said. ‘Have a word with the landlady and tell her we’ll have to keep the keys and seal the place up.’
The landlady lived on the top floor. He could have taken the lift but he started up the stairs without thinking, so anxious was he to get away from the flat and that wretched television. He arrived on the landing out of breath.
‘Oh, it’s you again,’ the woman said, peering round her door without enthusiasm. ‘What is it now?’
Her grey hair was newly waved. She looked sixtyish and aggressively respectable.
‘I’d better come in,’ the Marshal said. He saw that she was none too pleased but the door opened sufficiently to admit him. He got no further than the highly polished entrance hall but he made no protest about it, standing there hat in hand.
‘What exactly is going on?’ She was already on the defensive.
‘Your first-floor tenant has been murdered.’
She didn’t repeat the word questioningly as anyone else might have done, only stared at him as though waiting for some more impressive communication. He was forced to go on without any help from her.
‘How long has he lived here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly what I say. How long has he been your tenant?’
‘What do you mean “he”? You took the keys of the first floor left. The tenant is a woman.’
‘The tenant was Luigi Esposito, a transsexual.’
‘How disgusting! I had no idea.’
‘Really? You rented a flat to someone without seeing any identity document? What about the contract?’
‘I—we hadn’t got round to making a contract. It’s something I’ve been meaning to see to . . . You know how these things are . . .’ There was no aggression in the voice now.
‘How long?’
‘She—it must be almost two years.’
‘And you hadn’t got round to making a contract.’
‘It started off on a more or less friendly basis and I suppose we just never got round to it.’
‘I see. How much did this friendly arrangement cost Luigi Esposito per month.’
‘Really, I couldn’t say without checking. I never think about money—’
‘If you’d like to check I have plenty of time.’
‘Let’s say half a million, plus condominium expenses, of course.’
‘Of course. You have the receipts?’
‘Receipts. No, you see—’
‘It was a friendly arrangement. Yes, you said so. I imagine—this being a friendly arrangement—he agreed not to register his residence here at the town hall?’
‘That’s really none of my business. I had no idea— and no idea of its not being a woman, either, I assure you. When you only see someone passing occasionally on the stairs I doubt if we so much as said good morning to each other more than once in all the two years.’
‘But you had this friendly arrangement.’ It was common enough anyway, no contract, no receipts, no rent control, no taxes, but the Lulu’s in the case, socially unacceptable and with money to spare, were perfect victims for such exploitation. He was convinced that Lulu had been paying rent in millions rather than hundreds to this highly respectable landlady but he also knew that he would never be able to prove it. And if she ‘didn’t know’ that Lulu was a transsexual, it went without saying that she would never have seen any clients going in or out. He saw her eyes wavering under his stare but he knew her sort. He was wasting his time. So all he said was, ‘We’ll need to keep the keys. The Public Prosecutor’s office will send someone to seal the entrance until further notice. Good evening, Signora.’
She watched him go without a word and he heard the door close quietly behind him as he stumped down the stairs.
‘I’ve found some good photographs,’ Ferrini announced as he saw the Marshal come in. The photographs were spread out on the bed. The television was still on but the tape, thank God, had run out.
‘Look at this one in the bathing suit. You have to admit he was better-looking than the real thing. Look at the thighs! And as for those eleven and a half ounces . . .’
The Marshal didn’t look. He went straight to the bathroom. The young technician was shutting his case.
‘I’ve finished if you want to look round.’
The Marshal said nothing, only gazed about him with troubled eyes. But as the young man started to push past him and leave he got hold of his arm.
‘The sink.’
‘What about it? It’s clean as a whistle.’
‘Pull it out.’
‘What?’
‘Pull it away from the wall.’
‘Well . . . If you think . . .’
‘Pull it out.’
‘All right—but shouldn’t we warn the owner?’
‘No.’
They weren’t equipped for a plumbing job but two of them managed to shift it, not very far but enough.
‘Ferrini!’ The Marshal called him without budging from his place just inside the door.
‘Well, well, well!’ said Ferrini. ‘Good for you!’
The technicians homed in on the spot, delighted and not at all resentful. ‘You learn a new one every day!’
The Marshal still didn’t budge. He didn’t say anything, either, only stared at the strip of tile that had been behind the sink. It was patterned with vertical trickles of red.
Five
When they got outside a fine drizzle was falling in the dark street which looked oily in the yellow lamplight.
The Marshal said, ‘We should pick up anybody who said they knew Esposito had gone to Spain. You’ve got them listed from the other night?’
‘There were only a couple, Mimi and Peppina. He didn’t seem to have many friends.’
‘As long as you know who they are and where to find them . . .’
To him the other night was no more than a blur, the doll-like faces all the same, the names meaningless. Titi, Lulu, Mimi . . .
‘You want to pick them up tonight?’
‘Tonight, yes.’
Ferrini peered at his watch in the gloom. ‘It’s early yet. There’ll be nobody there until going on midnight. We might just catch a restaurant still open, what do you think?’
‘No . . . no, I think I’ll go home if you don’t mind.’
‘All right by me.’
‘My wife will be wondering . . .’
‘Ah. Mine expects me when she sees me.’
‘I’ll pick you up at Borgo Ognissanti.’
Whether or not Teresa would be wondering, the fact was he wanted to go home for the sake of being somewhere normal and familiar, to take the taste away . . .
It was Bruno who greeted him in the first place, not Teresa. He must have heard the car on the gravel and was hovering near the door.
‘There’s this urgent message, Marshal, at least . . .’
‘What is it? We’d better go into my office.’
‘I promised to tell you as soon as you came in, so—’
‘All right.’ He switched on the light and unbuttoned his damp overcoat. ‘What is it?’
‘This boy came looking for you. He’d been to Borgo Ognissanti and they’d sent him here because of your being in charge of the case—the pre-packed—’
‘Don’t you start calling it that, too.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘And don’t call me sir.’
‘Sorry, Marshal—only with not knowing the victim’s name . . .’
‘Esposito.’
‘You found out?’
‘Today. Who’s this boy?’
‘One of the ones we picked up the other night, or so he says, I mean he looks like a he and was dressed ordinarily, little thin kid.’
‘I remember. Well? What did he want?’
‘He seemed to be scared out of his wits for a start. I suppose it’s no wonder, is it, now it’s in all the papers about the pre—about this murder. Anyway, it seems that all the people who were picked up were told not to leave Florence without permission and what it amounts to is that he’s too scared to go out at night and—and work, and he has to, to live, I mean, so he wants to leave. He says if you let him go to Milan he’ll report his address, not disappear or anything—’
‘No, no, no.’
‘I suppose not. Can’t blame him for being scared. I bet they all are. The thing is, he says he’s not really one of them so it’s nothing to do with him. He said he told them that the other night. I think he thought that because he knew you you’d make an exception and—’
‘He doesn’t know me. I saw him for five minutes when they brought him in. Listen, I’m tired—’
‘But, Marshal, I wouldn’t have—I mean, I’d have sent him away without bothering you but he does know you. He said he used to live near you down in Sicily and that your wife knows his mother.’
‘I see. Is his name Luciano?’
‘That’s right. Enrico. You do know him, then?’
‘I didn’t recognize him. I haven’t seen him since he was nine or ten.’
‘That explains it, because he didn’t recognize you either, perhaps because you weren’t in uniform, but when he went to Borgo Ognissanti today and they said that you—’
‘All right. I can’t do anything about it now. I’ll see tomorrow. But if he goes anywhere it won’t be to Milan. He can go home to his mother who’s looking for him.’
