The Marshal Makes His Report Read online

  ‘Who is he?’ repeated the Marshal, adding, as the dwarf opened his mouth to answer, ‘His name.’

  ‘Corsi. Buongianni. You must have heard of his famous apéritif. “Perks you up when you’re feeling down”—you’ll have seen the ad on the telly. Mind you, it’d take more than one at this point—’

  ‘And what’s your name?’ said the Marshal, glowering.

  ‘Me? I’m usually known as Grillo.’

  The Marshal could well believe it. It was the common name for a cricket, which was just what this rattling little creature looked and sounded like.

  ‘Well,’ said Grillo, rubbing his hands together with relish, ‘she’ll have to be told so you’re the man to do it. I was just wondering what to do when I saw you out there through the window. Not in here—’ he was quick to catch the Marshal’s glance at the blank walls—‘from next door. I’m not going up there. Not my job, is it? I don’t operate “up there”. The porter ought to deal with it but him and his wife are “up there” already, tarted up as butler and maid for the do. I wonder what she’ll say to this?’

  ‘Sit down.’ The Marshal was beginning to look dangerous. Grillo sat down. There was only the one chair and the Marshal stood over him glaring down with his huge bulging eyes. Grillo folded his arms and stared back brightly.

  ‘At your service, provided you don’t expect me—’

  ‘Shut up.’ But having shut him up, the Marshal wasn’t at all sure where to begin. Buongianni Corsi . . . The apéritif business rang a bell, though he never touched the stuff himself. The faint sound of a fanfare of trumpets came from outside. It seemed to come from another world. The Marshal began to feel suffocated in the small room. It was a feeling that was to stay with him for a long time. With a sigh he looked from the dwarf to the dead man and back again.

  ‘What time did you find him?’

  ‘I haven’t a watch!’

  ‘What time approximately?’

  ‘Might have been half an hour ago. I came in—’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? To clean the guns, of course. It’s my job, always has been.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Clean them? No point, was there? He’ll not be needing them. I didn’t get that stuff out if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  He didn’t miss a trick. The Marshal had deliberately not looked at the rags and gun grease on the table.

  ‘Cleaning it himself, wasn’t he? I mean, he must have been. Shot himself, I suppose, wouldn’t you say so?’

  The Marshal expressed no opinion.

  ‘You said it was your job.’

  The only answer was a long-drawn-out cackle.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing. He spent a lot of time in here, playing with his guns. Many an evening. Playing with his little pistol.’ He grinned lewdly at the corpse. ‘Preferred that to his wife and her friends. Now why do you think that would be, eh? Ha ha!’

  The Marshal glowered. He was beginning to feel like the straight man in a comic act. He decided to try a policy of threatening silence. It worked. At first the dwarf, too, maintained a defiant silence but he soon began to look uncomfortable.

  ‘Well, anyway . . . she’ll have to be told. I expect . . . I expect you need to know who and where to find . . .’

  The Marshal shifted his feet slightly and settled into stillness again. The room was so bare, windowless and severe.

  You’d have to be in a bad way to want to spend long silent evenings in it.

  ‘It’s the Marchesa you want. The Marchesa Ulderighi. His wife. You’ll find her on the first floor. There’s a concert going on, there always is on Sunday afternoons.’

  The Marshal turned to go out the door.

  ‘I’ll lock it again, shall I? I’d better, don’t you think?’ Grillo came chattering after him. The Marshal waited as he turned the key, then took it from him and slipped it into the top pocket of his uniform. He looked up to where the music was still playing.

  ‘Where’s the lift?’

  ‘You’ll have to use the stairs. Only, the family have keys to the lift.’

  ‘Where can I phone?’

  ‘Phone . . . there’s one in the porter’s lodge but you can’t use that, can you? Locked. They’re “up there” like I said, in fancy dress—’

  ‘All right.’

  The Marshal started plodding up the broad stone staircase. Perhaps, after all, it wouldn’t be politic to fill this Marchesa whatshername’s house with carabinieri and ambulance men before she even knew her husband was dead, though he’d rather have got the business off his hands and left an officer or a magistrate to tell her . . . tell her what? If he had to do it himself he’d better be careful how he phrased it. An accident . . . probably that’s what it was anyway if the fellow was cleaning his gun, happens all the time. For a number of reasons already firmly lodged in his mind, he didn’t believe what he was thinking. What he did believe, wrongly, as it turned out, was that anything involving high and mighty people like this would instantly be taken out of his hands.

  ‘Oof!’ He paused for breath and mopped his brow. At the first turning in the great staircase a carved wooden shield painted with the family coat of arms hung on the wall. The Marshal came upon it on turning the corner and it stopped him in his tracks. It was at least twice his own height and there was something about the way it leaned forward from the wall at the top that gave it a threatening air. The muffled, gentle music continued playing somewhere above. He continued his climb, slightly out of breath, and on the first-floor landing he stopped. There were high double doors to his right and left. The music was coming from the right. A concert, Grillo had said. He looked at the bell on the wall, imagining the interruption its pealing would cause. A brass plate above it was engraved in copperplate: Bianca Maria Corsi Ulderighi Della Loggia. That must be her—but why only her name? What about the husband? He hadn’t been dead when that plate was put up. Prince Consort, the Grillo had said . . . What a creature!

  The Marshal didn’t ring the bell. When it came to people who had that many names on their doorbell you did well to tread softly or you might wake up one morning and find you’d been transferred to some godforsaken spot at the other end of the peninsula. He raised his big fist and tapped gently. The music continued. It was a sad but pleasing tune, the melody picked out by what he thought was probably a flute. He knocked discreetly three more times and then tried the door. It opened. After all, it was a concert and presumably open to the public, so he stepped gingerly in. He was in a broad corridor with a terracotta floor of tiles so old and darkened with polishing that they seemed almost black. There were no windows, but light came from small silk-shaded lamps on four half-moon tables flanking more double doors to the right and left. The flute continued its soft lament and the Marshal tried to tread the polished floor in his big black shoes without making too much noise, his fists clenched with the effort. He reached the door on the left, took off his hat and pressed the brass handle.

  As the volume of the music increased he got a brief impression of a high-ceilinged yellow and white salon with the same darkly polished floor and an enormous central chandelier. There were perhaps sixty or eighty sleekly dressed people in there sitting on tiny gilded chairs. He drew the door shut quietly and stood thinking what to do for the best. Wait for an interruption in the music and slide in under cover of the applause? This was ridiculous. The woman’s husband was lying dead down there. Why the devil hadn’t she even missed him if they had all these guests? Perhaps the best thing to do, after all, would be to go out and phone for help from a bar now that the racket caused by the procession would likely be over. The only thing that made him hesitate to do just that was the thought of that chattering Grillo who was undoubtedly waiting below to see how he’d got on. By this time he could well understand why the dwarf had balked at coming up and barging in on that lot himself and could just imagine his grinning triumph at the Marshal’s own lack of courage and aplomb.

  ‘Bla
st,’ he said to himself, and thought again about waiting for an interruption in the music. Then he heard the door behind him open. He turned round to see a plump woman of middle age dressed in a maid’s uniform. She was still holding the doors open wide and was staring at him in apprehension. With a little wail of fear she turned and vanished. He could hear her calling for someone urgently.

  ‘Mauro! Mauro!’

  ‘What’s up with you now, woman?’

  ‘Mauro!’

  The Marshal had followed in her wake. The room to his right was almost identical to the other but a bit smaller and it contained two very long tables covered in white damask and set with glasses and bottles of the famous apéritif. A small service door had been left open at the other end of the room and now a man appeared there. He had a wizened, monkeylike face and was dressed in black trousers, a short striped cotton jacket and white gloves. His wife—for this was surely the porter, reappeared behind him to peer anxiously over his shoulder. Her white face was now blotched with red. It was plain that they felt as incongruous as they looked in their ‘fancy dress’ and that this exacerbated their distress at the sight of the Marshal. The porter looked not so much at the Marshal himself as at his uniform and let out a single word under his breath.

  ‘Shit . . .’

  ‘What did I tell you?’ wailed his wife. ‘Time and time again I’ve said it and nobody takes a blind bit of notice. Well, I’m glad, do you know that! I’m glad. Because even she’ll think twice before helping him again if you ask me, and so that’ll be the end of it. Even if they put him away, at least it’ll be the end! You’ll not listen to me but you’ll learn—’

  ‘Keep quiet, you stupid cow!’

  The Marshal, understanding nothing, stood where he was and remained silent. The woman shuffled back through the service door and continued her sobs and imprecations out of sight.

  ‘Well?’ The porter pushed his hands into his pockets in an attempt to look nonchalant but at once pulled them out again because of the white gloves. ‘Is he hurt himself or has he damaged somebody else, or what?’

  The Marshal, nonplussed, only stared back at him with large bulging eyes.

  As if remembering something, the porter said, ‘What time is it, anyway?’

  ‘The time . . . ?’ The Marshal glanced at his watch. ‘A quarter to six.’

  ‘But they only kicked off at half past five, so how could you have got here—or did it happen before?’

  ‘Before . . .’ Did he mean the concert?

  ‘Well, whatever happened, he’s not to blame, you can take that from me. What can you expect? They go for him, they always have done. You can stand so much but then sooner or later something has to give, am I right? You haven’t said whether he’s hurt?’

  ‘He’s dead.’ The words were no sooner out when the expression on the porter’s wizened face told him that they couldn’t be talking about the same person. He’d taken it like a blow in the stomach and was swaying on his feet now as though he might fall.

  ‘Easy,’ the Marshal said going closer and getting hold of the smaller man’s arm. Nobody was that fond of their employer. ‘Buongianni Corsi. I’m talking about Buongianni Corsi. There’s been an accident. He’s dead. You’d better sit down a minute.’ The porter let himself be led to a chair and sank down in it with a white-gloved hand against his chest.

  ‘Nearly did for me . . . heart’s not so good. Nearly did for me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Shouldn’t you take something?’

  ‘Ada! Ada!’ Loud sobs were still issuing from the room beyond and his wife didn’t hear him.

  ‘I’ll get her,’ the Marshal said. He went through the service door into a small kitchen-cum-storeroom. She was sitting on a cardboard box with ‘Bottles. With Care’ printed on it, her feet planted wide apart, her fists descending limply on her knees in time with her sobs.

  ‘Your husband needs some medicine,’ he interrupted her a bit brusquely. There would be time enough later to find out what all this was about and he didn’t want another dead man on his hands.

  She got to her feet and pushed her hair back, forgetting about the little lace cap, which went askew.

  ‘Yes! Medicine! It’s me that’ll end up in hospital between the two of them but they’ll not listen. I can talk till I’m blue in the face . . .’ Nevertheless she went off through a further door, presumably in search of whatever her husband required.

  The Marshal filled one of the wineglasses from the table with water and went back to the porter. He was still sitting down and there was a bluish tinge about his lips but he seemed calmer.

  ‘Your wife’s bringing you something.’ He gave him the water.

  ‘Thanks.’ He sipped at it, keeping his eyes fixed on the double doors which stood open. The music was still playing.

  ‘They’ll be coming through before long. I’ll have to—’

  ‘Sit where you are,’ the Marshal said, ‘or maybe we should go back there.’ He indicated the kitchen.

  ‘If we’re not ready for them there’ll be hell to pay. The Marchesa—’

  ‘The Marchesa will have other things to think about. Her husband’s dead.’

  ‘That’s true . . . You said, didn’t you, an accident. In his car?’

  ‘No. Why wasn’t he up here at the concert, do you know?’

  ‘Him? He never comes. Not his style. Leaves all that stuff to her.’

  ‘Will there be any other members of the family in there with her? Someone who’d know how to break the news to her?’

  ‘Well . . . the aunt’ll be there, I suppose. Even so, I wouldn’t worry so much on that score if I were you.’

  ‘Are there any children?’

  ‘Neri . . .’ The porter grimaced. ‘You’ll not see him, nobody ever does. He’ll be above.’ He took another sip of water and put his head down near his knees. ‘Feel a bit dizzy . . .’

  The Marshal took the glass from him. ‘Your wife’s a long time coming back.’

  ‘It’s all those stairs . . .’ He fell silent as though it fatigued him to talk. The wife did come back at last, out of breath and with her cap still askew. She gave him two tablets which he gulped down greedily. She turned to the Marshal. She had stopped crying and her look was defiant.

  ‘Well? What’s he done?’

  ‘You have a son, is that it? Is that who you’re worrying about?’ By this time the Marshal had put two and two together.

  ‘Who should I be worrying about? If he went for somebody he had good reason! They all pick on him— I’ve warned him to give it up, I’ve warned him—’

  ‘Hold your noise!’ shouted her husband, and then clutched at his chest again. He shut his eyes at the pain and said, ‘He’s come about Corsi. There’s been an accident. He’s dead.’

  The woman was silenced. She gaped about her at the serried ranks of bottles as though their presence must indicate that their producer was still alive.

  ‘What happens next?’ the Marshal asked, nodding his head towards the other room where the music had ended and there came the sound of applause.

  ‘They’ll all be coming in here.’ She straightened her apron. ‘Just look at the state I’m in . . .’ She didn’t think of the cap and the Marshal didn’t like to say anything.

  ‘And who’s going to tell her?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Rather you than me. Not that there was any love lost . . . Even so . . .’

  ‘Can you two carry on as normal here?’ the Marshal interrupted. ‘I’ll keep her in the other room, if possible—’

  But the two of them got to their feet, not listening to him. With a smartness that surprised him they had taken their places, one behind each of the long tables, and were pouring very modest amounts of the famous apéritif into the rows of shining glasses when the doors of the salon opposite burst open.

  Two

  The crowd that poured into the room caused the Marshal to back up slightly but then he stopped, his face set and expressionless, standing his grou
nd. He was well aware of how out of place he looked in his dark uniform among the pale silk and linen, in his silent immobility against the swirl of chattering movement. One or two women gave him a questioning glance before turning away to continue their conversation or reach for their glasses. No one spoke to him. They were almost all women and none of them young. One, very formally dressed and heavily made up, walked with the aid of two sticks. The room filled up with an oppressive mixture of strong perfumes. A woman backed into him as she withdrew from the long table, glass in hand, and turned as if to apologize but her expression froze as she saw him. With a swift icy glance that took him in from head to foot and dismissed him from her world, she turned and went on talking.

  ‘So talented, I think, and rather good-looking, but of course you saw “the friend” . . . My dear, Bianca for once was rather at a loss but what could she do . . .’

  ‘She should have refused. Of course, I agree we wouldn’t want to lose dear, dear Emilio. Nevertheless—’

  ‘Oh, Bianca gets away with anything, even this!’

  The Marshal, watching and listening, wondered what ‘this’ referred to and thought perhaps she didn’t care for what was in her glass. There was nothing else on offer, he noticed.

  ‘Do you think,’ a voice whispered, so close to his ear that he thought he was being spoken to, ‘that Emilio is actually homosexual?’ It was the heavily painted old lady with the two sticks speaking not to him but to a much younger woman who looked amused.

  ‘Of course. You can’t imagine he’s ever tried to hide it.’ She noticed the Marshal’s turning to stare which seemed to amuse her even more. The other woman, noticing nothing, insisted: ‘But you’re young and know about these things—is it a genetic defect of some sort or, as they say, psychosomatic? I don’t understand . . .’

  The porter appeared at the Marshal’s elbow with a tray of full glasses.