Death in Autumn Page 13

  'It's all right,' the Marshal said, 'we've finished. You won't be seeing us again.'

  'I take it you found what you were looking for?'

  But the Marshal volunteered no information.

  About half an hour later he was sitting alone in the Querci's kitchen, balanced on a formica chair that was too small for him. He was staring out of the window at an identical window in the block across the street. The afternoon had turned grey and overcast and the atmosphere of the tiny room was dismal. The remains of a hasty cold lunch cluttered the draining-board. The Marshal's hat lay on the formica table next to the typewriter. The little girl, he knew without turning to look, was still peering at him through the crack in the slightly open door. The only voices came from the next flat.

  Signora Querci came in with a packet in her hand.

  'It was where you said, on top of the wardrobe.'

  She didn't appear to have been crying but her face and her whole body had sagged and she looked older than her years. The Marshal got up and took the package. At the door the little girl spoke in a sudden, high-pitched voice. 'Where's my dad?'

  'I've told you, he's in the hospital,' her mother said quickly, knowing that the question hadn't been for her.

  But the child, unbelieving, kept her eyes fixed in accusation on the Marshal. He was so put out that he turned and walked down the interminable flights of stairs, afraid that they would both stand staring at him while he waited for the lift.

  The call came through from Germany at a quarter to six in the evening. The sky had darkened prematurely with heavy clouds and the Captain had switched on his desk lamp.

  'Maestrangelo? I'm sorry it's taken so long but, as you thought, there was nothing in our records so I got on to Mainz right away. The trouble was finding somebody who remembered him. In the end somebody suggested a man who retired from the Force four years ago and of course it took time to get in touch with him. It seems your man was quite a character.'

  'Was his business sound?'

  'Oh, nothing wrong with his business. Import-export. He had offices in Frankfurt but his warehouses were in Mainz, which was his home town. He had a shop there, too.'

  'What did he deal in?'

  'A bit of everything except food and industrial supplies. Leather goods, jewellery, porcelain, that sort of thing. Oh, and at one time he bought inlaid marble from Carrara, finished pieces to be made into tables over here. All very profitable.'

  'Any ideas as to why he gave it up?'

  'None at all. But it certainly wasn't business problems. The firm's still going strong, though it's expanded now and deals with a lot of lower quality stuff which Becker never touched. He liked quality, and he was shrewd, too, by all accounts, very cool.'

  'Anything on his personal life?'

  'Plenty. Mainz is a smallish place and he was a wealthy and influential man, well-known if not well-liked. At one time he was apparently keeping two mistresses quite openly but he obviously wasn't one to lose his head in those matters either. He didn't marry either of them. There were rumours that he was what you might call "kinky".'

  He said it in German. When the Captain didn't understand he groped for an English or Italian equivalent and then explained, 'Odd sexual tastes. I don't know any details and it might well be just rumour. It wasn't that, anyway, that made him unpopular but another of his strange habits.'

  'His practical jokes?'

  'You already know about them?' He sounded disappointed.

  'I hardly know anything, only that he indulged in them.'

  'Well, some of them had quite serious repercussions, especially at the time when he'd got himself on to the Town Council. He somehow got a story going round that a certain very influential member of the Council was suffering from a fatal disease and immediately all sorts of secret meetings and re-alignments began. Whenever the subject came up Becker himself was careful to say it was probably an unfounded rumour. The unfortunate victim had no idea why he was losing supporters while new alliances were springing up all around him. When the truth came out he was so disgusted by his colleagues' behaviour that he resigned, which according to Becker proved that rumour was more powerful than truth.'

  'You mean he admitted it?'

  'He always did. It was never enough for him to manipulate people, he liked an audience—and after all, he'd denied the truth of the story all along. There were dozens of similar tricks but most of them didn't cause serious damage like that one, they just left people feeling foolish.'

  'Nobody ever prosecuted him?'

  'Nobody wants to admit their gullibility in public. Besides, it seems people were rather frightened of him. No doubt the worthy citizens of Mainz were relieved when he left.'

  'Your man had no ideas as to where he went?'

  'Only rumours again—and who knows whether they were started by Becker himself! Anyway, Amsterdam and New York seemed to be the most popular speculations. So, do you think he's the one?'

  'I'm sure of it. It would take his sort of arrogance and brains.'

  'I don't suppose he'll ever set foot in Germany again so I won't get a go at it. You're lucky, you'll make quite an international stir if you catch him.'

  'I would, but I doubt if I or anyone else will catch him. Thank you for your help, anyway. And if it's any consolation to you, it's about to start raining here, too.'

  The German roared with laughter. 'That little river of yours has to fill up sometime! Drink a good bottle of Chianti for me—and let me know what happens. Good luck!'

  It began raining almost immediately, lightly at first, then insistently in a steady rhythm. The tall window in the Captain's office became blurred with raindrops which rolled down in a zigzag pattern because of little gusts of wind. He got up and walked over to look out but it was hardly possible to see anything, He followed the path of a big raindrop that trickled sideways and joined itself to a smaller one. He had all the facts written down in chronological order but what mattered was to present the report in such a way as to convince the Substitute, tt would probably take him days to write. This rain had settled in for the duration. It would strip bare all the trees on the big avenues surrounding the city and churn up the smooth green river to a swollen brown flood. The city itself would be enveloped in a heavy mist for weeks, with only the golden globe on top of the cathedral dome clearly visible. It would go on until the middle of November and when it stopped it would be winter. Maestrangeio shivered at the thought, though the office was warm.

  He recognized the knock on the door when it came. 'Come in, Marshal.'

  Guarnaccia was enveloped in an enormous black raincoat. There were drops of moisture on the shoulders and on the hat he held in front of him. He seemed slightly out of breath but, as usual, the expression on his face told nothing. The first thing he did after laying his hat on the desk and removing the raincoat was to unbutton the top pocket of his uniform and drop the contents in front of the Captain. Only then did he sit down, still breathing heavily.

  'Where was it?' Maestrangeio asked.

  'Behind the bathroom cabinet.'

  'Hm . . .' The Captain ran a finger lightly over the necklace. 'And to think that, after all, it's worthless . . .' When the Marshal said nothing he went on: 'Did you ever think it odd, the fact that she was undressed but still wearing these?'

  'I didn't think about it at all. I don't know anything about that sort of thing.'

  'But you're a married man.'

  The Marshal only looked embarrassed.

  'Well, I'm no expert on women and their jewellery but I should have thought she'd have taken this stuff off before undressing in normal circumstances.'

  'I suppose so.'

  'Only the circumstances, it seems, were not so normal. Probably Querci will enlighten us. There was nothing else in the rooms?'

  'No. But there's this.' From a larger pocket Guarnaccia drew out the packet that Signora Querci had given him. 'I went to Querci's house.'

  'And removed this? Without a warrant?'


  'I didn't need a warrant,' said Guarnaccia blandly. 'I just talked to his wife and she found it and gave it to me.'

  Of course. And if Guarnaccia had been the one to talk to her the first time . . . Well, it was no use thinking on those lines now. He had allowed himself to be pressurized by that wretched Substitute and had no one to blame but himself.

  'Did she look inside it?'

  'I've no way of knowing but I don't think so. I don't think she wants to know. I think she's going to apply for a legal separation right away.'

  The Captain looked surprised. 'She seemed very fond of him, in spite of everything.'

  'She is. You could hardly call it her own decision. More like that of her parents and the hotel manager, who's some sort of cousin. It seems they came to see her all together with a lawyer. She's going to need help and they made it clear that they won't help her unless she leaves him.'

  'She might change her mind once she's over the shock.'

  'I don't see how she can. There's the child to consider."

  'I suppose you're right.' The Captain was feeling the packet as he opened it. 'Photographs, I imagine . . .'

  When the pictures were spread on the desk it was the incongruity, more than anything else, that was disconcerting. The Captain was chiefly interested in those which showed Hilde Vogel with her little boy. One was obviously taken after the christening since the baby was in a long white dress which looked antique. There were wedding photographs, too, in white cardboard folders with crimped and silvered edges, but only of the couple themselves. The elder Signora Vogel was noticeably absent, as was the ironic smile that had become so habitual in Hilde Vogel's later years. As for the other photographs . . . they couldn't be called pornographic. Erotic, rather, and artistic, too. Maestrangelo was no great expert in photography but it was easy to see that the lighting and composition were strikingly original, and he would have been willing to bet that Becker had developed them himself. It was becoming increasingly obvious that whatever the man turned his hand to, he did it brilliantly. Little wonder he thought so little of his fellow men.

  He spread the photographs out and regarded them for a moment. The background was always the same, more or less, rumpled silk or velvet in a single brilliant colour.

  'The way you would photograph a piece of jewellery . . .'

  Only in this case it was a human body decorated with glittering stones and sometimes taken from such a height as to make it seem indeed like some tiny jewelled and sculpted figurine set on rich fabric to show it off. Others were close-ups, a white curve against black velvet, diamond pinpoints of light against a deep curving shadow. The Marshal's slow, regular breathing was the only sound in the half-lit room. There was no point, Maestrangelo decided, looking up, in asking Guarnaccia what he thought of the pictures since he would certainly reply that he didn't know anything about that sort of thing. Instead, he asked him, 'Why should Querci take this stuff?'

  The Marshal dug ponderously into yet another pocket. 'I thought it might get lost, so I took it out . . . it's so small . . . there.'

  So small as to be pitiful. A head and shoulders photograph of Querci that had obviously been cut out of a group snapshot. Almost certainly, his wife and child, if not other relatives, too, had been on the photograph, and he had probably had trouble removing it from the family album without his wife's catching him at it.

  'It couldn't have been an excuse, you see, his going back that day for his shoes. Nobody knew about the seals being taken ofF.' He looked at his watch. 'I don't think there's anything else. I ought to get back. It's time my Brigadier went off duty and I expect the Substitute will want my written report on the Sweeton boy.'

  'If you could spare another half-hour or so, I'm going through the whole file. It's almost certain that the Substitute will have Querci brought up for questioning tomorrow.'

  'So soon?'

  'I'm sure of it, and if he goes all out for murder with robbery as the motive it'll mean life.'

  They were both looking at the necklace.

  'I'll call Lorenzini,' the Marshal said.

  By the time they finished it was quite dark outside the Captain's window except for a misty pink glow hanging over the city and dots of yellow light glimmering through the rain. Maestrangelo stood there looking out while the Marshal buttoned up his raincoat and adjusted his hat.

  The worthless piece of jewellery was still lying on the desk.

  CHAPTER 11

  It wasn't the Captain's fault that things went the way they did. Even so, he couldn't help feeling satisfied. The whole procedure, as far as he was concerned, had been perfectly correct. He had informed the Substitute first thing the next morning of such new developments as there had been, chiefly the business of Hilde VogePs will and the finding of the necklace and the photographs, and for the first time, the Substitute had appeared grudgingly pleased with him. As for the rest, it was mostly supposition anyway and though it would all appear in his written report it had no direct bearing on Querci's case, which was the only thing that interested the magistrate at that point. Whatever had passed between him and the English judge who had arrived that morning, it was unlikely that the Captain would be told much about it. By the following autumn John Sweeton would almost certainly be studying law at some English university, following sedately in his father's footsteps. If he were ever to be called as a witness it wouldn't be at Querci's trial but at another which was never likely to take place.

  The appointment had been fixed for three-thirty in the Substitute's office at the Procura. When Maestrangelo had insisted on the presence of Marshal Guarnaccia it hadn't gone down too well.

  'I frankly don't see the need.'

  'It was he who found the necklace, and the photographs, too.'

  'We have his written report, have we not?'

  'Yes. But we have no proof. If we'd caught Querci with the necklace on him it would be different. As it is, there's nothing to say it wasn't there all the time. There isn't even a usable print on it. We can hope that when Querci sees we've found it he'll confess, but if he doesn't we have only Guarnaccia's theory to go on, and in that case I'd prefer him to be present.'

  And Maestrangelo had got his way.

  As a consequence, the magistrate's office was quite crowded. Querci sat facing the Substitute Prosecutor across a wide antique desk, a carabiniere guard behind him on each side. The Substitute's registrar sat a little to one side, ready to record the proceedings, and the young lawyer who had been provided for Querci sat beside his client, fidgeting with the papers which he held balanced on the briefcase on his knees. Maestrangelo stood behind the Substitute's chair with a huge oil painting in a heavy gilt frame on the wall at his back. Guarnaccia, as was his habit, had backed himself into a corner where, in the shadow of a ceiling-high bookcase, he could observe everything with his big, slightly protruding eyes, and where everyone except Maestrangelo could forget his presence.

  They might have been there to recite some play, the only difference being that, though they all had the same script, they each had a totally different idea of what the outcome would be.

  Maestrangelo toyed with this idea while the official preliminaries were being got through. At that point he had no intention of interrupting the Substitute, who was conducting the scene with the confidence and panache that had got him so far in his career so quickly. He assumed it would be Querci himself, once he saw the evidence that lay on the desk in two labelled envelopes, who would make a complete confession without further difficulties. If that wasn't how it turned out it was surely the fault of the Substitute himself, whose arrogant brilliance might make a good show in court but reduced a wretch like Querci to terrified silence. He had a habit, which Maestrangelo found infuriating, of waving his hands about in elegant, dramatic gestures as though he were wearing his gown with its wide sleeves. Today he was wearing a three-piece grey suit, and Maestrangelo, looking down on him from behind, kept catching glimpses of the fine white shirt cuffs against his long brown hands as he ges
ticulated.

  Another annoying habit which the Captain had observed on many previous occasions was that of suddenly throwing himself back in his chair and with upraised arms crying, 'My dear so-and-so, you're surely not asking me to believe—'

  There he went now . . .

  'My dear Querci, you're surely not asking me to believe you weren't this woman's lover?'

  Querci didn't answer. How could he have answered when the question, if that was what it was supposed to be, was put in that way? In the short time he had spent in a cell he had lost weight, especially around his neck. His eyes had a dazed look as though he no longer cared to focus them.

  The last person Maestrangelo remembered seeing in that chair had been an old lag with a sharp Florentine tongue in his head who had given as good as he got, and the Substitute had enjoyed himself hugely. Querci's refusal to play the game, to feed him lines on which he could improvise brilliantly, was beginning to annoy him. Occasionally, with exaggerated courtesy, he would permit the defence lawyer to speak, never interrupting or contradicting him but waiting in expectant, bright-eyed silence for a long time after the young man had finished speaking as if to say that there must surely be something more intelligent or pertinent to follow. When nothing did, a faint puzzled smile would cross the Substitute's face and he would resume his questioning with pained gravity, as though the interruption had been a waste of everyone's time. It was a technique which never failed even with experienced lawyers who had learned to expect it. This time the unfortunate young man had lost his grip on himself and the case within the first ten minutes.

  The Captain was more aware of his own tiredness than of anything that was passing in the room which, in his opinion, was overheated. That might just be his tiredness too. He had gone on working the previous night long after Guarnaccia had left, typing four and a half pages dealing with Querci's case and then the embryo of a second report which he had discussed with no one except his German colleague and the Marshal. Not long after lie had finished, they had brought in the newly arrested drug supplier and he had been over an hour dealing with that. Needless to say, Galli had been on the scene well before his fellow reporters, bursting at the seams with food and wine, opinions and advice, and they had ended by having a whisky together in the Captain's office at heaven knows what hour. No doubt the whisky had also contributed something to his present vague muzziness.