A Dead Man in Naples Read online

  ‘“Well, you may be right,” he said. “Or you may not be right. But I can’t risk it. Because if I’m right and you’re not right, I could be in big trouble. And not just me, other people. Important people, Bruno. So I can’t take the risk. It’s got to stop here. There’s got to be an end to it. That’s why I had to ask them to do it. To take care of her. As they did of the Englishman.”

  ‘“They asked me to do it,” I said.

  ‘“Jesus!” he said. “They shouldn’t have done that! She being Tonio’s widow and you being Tonio’s friend! It was a mistake.”

  ‘“It was,” I said. “Because there are other ways of putting an end to it.” And I stabbed him.’

  Maria crossed herself when Seymour told her.

  ‘Poor Bruno!’ she said.

  ‘Poor Bruno!’ echoed Father Pepe. He had called in after collecting a bundle of Scampion’s things from Miss Scampion and they were sitting around a table having a drink, which Giuseppi said he needed after all this.

  ‘These Neapolitans!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘They’re worse than Arabs.’

  ‘I am a Neapolitan!’ said Maria warningly.

  ‘And so am I!’ said Francesca.

  ‘No, you’re not!’ said Giuseppi. ‘Only three quarters of you are Neapolitan. The other quarter, which comes from me, is Roman. And it’s the only sensible quarter.’

  ‘I am all Neapolitan,’ said Giorgio, ‘and I will make up for that quarter.’

  ‘Not in brains, you won’t!’ said Giuseppi.

  ‘How is Jalila?’ asked Father Pepe.

  ‘She has gone over to your old village, Father,’ said Maria. ‘She should be safe there.’

  ‘As long as no one gets to hear,’ said Giuseppi.

  Giorgio suddenly looked worried.

  ‘Giorgio!’ demanded Francesca. ‘You have not told anyone, have you? He took Jalila’s things over for her,’ she explained to Father Pepe.

  ‘I – I may have mentioned –’

  ‘Giorgio! How could you! I told you, I told you, not to say anything to anyone.’

  ‘It was just a casual remark. Giovanni saw me coming back with the cart and asked me where I had been.’

  ‘And you told him!’ said Maria, jumping up from the table. ‘You fool!’

  ‘Giovanni is the biggest blabbermouth in Naples!’ said Giuseppi, aghast.

  ‘And his cousin is one of Their collectors!’ said Maria.

  ‘I am sorry –’ said Giorgio.

  ‘Someone must get over there and warn her!’ said Maria.

  ‘I will go!’ said Giorgio.

  ‘Take your bicycle!’ instructed Francesca.

  ‘I – I can’t. It’s all in pieces. I was working on it. But I will run all the way!’

  ‘Run, then!’ said Maria.

  Giorgio set off at the double.

  ‘And I will speak to Giovanni,’ said Maria.

  She hurried out.

  ‘It is not enough just to warn her,’ said Francesca. ‘She must be moved.’

  ‘I have friends at Ferrara,’ said Father Pepe.

  ‘I have friends at Ferrara,’ said Father Maria came back, her face grim.

  ‘It is too late,’ she said. ‘He has already told them.’

  Father Pepe sprang up.

  ‘I have my bicycle,’ he said. ‘No one will get there before me.’

  He ran out, and a moment later came speeding past the front door of the pensione pedalling furiously.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Seymour, who was a habitual early riser, was up first. Chantale, who was not, was still in bed. Francesca, who normally took after Chantale and had to be roused every morning by Maria to do her chores, had departed from her usual practice and was standing bleary-eyed by the open front door when Seymour came down. She was waiting for Giorgio, who had still not returned.

  Maria, up early as was her custom, took in the situation at a glance and at once got Francesca busy; thoughtfully taking care, however, to see that her duties mostly occurred in the dining room, from where she could keep an eye on the door.

  Giuseppi, who these days found the night rather long and usually only slept for part of it, appeared early, too. He took in Francesca at the door and then went away again; returning shortly after, however, with his gun. Maria, though, told him to take it away again, and, when he demurred, hissed that if They saw it, it would give the game away.

  A crestfallen Giorgio appeared soon afterwards.

  Francesca ran to meet him.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Giorgio, pushing her off.

  He went up to Maria and, to her surprise, kissed her.

  ‘That is from Jalila,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘And this one is from Father Pepe,’ he added, kissing her again.

  ‘He got there in time?’ said Maria, softened.

  ‘Went past me like a rocket,’ said Giorgio. ‘I don’t know how he does it on that old contraption of his.’ He looked at Francesca. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘it’s not right that someone like Father Pepe should have to rely on something like that. Oh, it was very good once, I’ll give him that. A very good machine at the time. Best model available. But it’s taken a pounding on those country roads and I think he deserves something better. I was wondering, Francesca – I’ve got a little money put by and – would you mind, Francesca? It was meant for you.’

  Francesca kissed him.

  ‘I think it is a very good idea,’ she said. ‘You always have such good ideas, Giorgio.’

  ‘Hold on a minute –’ began Giuseppi.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Giorgio. ‘Mostly I have crap ideas. I should listen to Francesca.’

  ‘Now you’re talking!’ said Giuseppi. ‘You know, Maria, this boy is improving all the time!’ He turned to Giorgio. ‘And it’s all right?’ he said. ‘Pepe got there in time?’

  ‘They were slow,’ said Giorgio. ‘They got there just after me, and by that time Father Pepe had sorted it all out. He wouldn’t tell me where she’s gone, but she’s gone.’

  Maria crossed herself. ‘God be thanked!’

  Francesca, unusually, crossed herself, too.

  Maria looked at Giuseppi.

  ‘Well, this once,’ said Giuseppi, and followed suit.

  ‘He’s going to come into Naples tomorrow,’ Giorgio said, ‘to see the race. And then he’ll call on you.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Giuseppi, ‘the race.’

  The big race between the Yellows and the Reds, or, as Naples mostly saw it, between the army and the socialists, was to take place the next day.

  Giuseppi was sunk in gloom. He could see no way in which the Reds could avoid a shattering defeat and the Red cause a heavy symbolic blow.

  ‘There’s a lot of money on it,’ said Giorgio, ‘a lot of money. And it’s all on the Yellows.’ He lowered his voice. ‘They say Our Friends have come in heavily.’

  ‘And on the wrong side, too, I’ll bet,’ said Giuseppi, depressed.

  ‘Their money is on the Yellows,’ said Giorgio.

  ‘Why?’ said Giuseppi indignantly. ‘Why does it have to be on the Yellows? You’d have thought they’d have supported the poor!’

  ‘That will be the day!’ said Maria.

  ‘Not the army, at any rate,’ said Giuseppi. ‘What has the Camorra got to do with the army?’

  ‘Too much,’ said Giorgio. ‘You know, they say there was some sort of racket they were involved in, sending arms out to Libya or something. To Libya! To our enemies!’

  ‘The bastards!’ said Giuseppi. ‘To make money out of selling arms to Italy’s enemies which they can use against our men!’

  ‘It’s all wrong!’ said Giorgio. ‘But there you are, Giuseppi. The Camorra are like the rest of us. If they see a chance to make money, they will!’

  ‘There’s a lot of money on the Yellows, is there?’ said Francesca thoughtfully.

  ‘Huge. And most of it is Camorra money.’

  ‘What are the odds?’

 
‘A hundred to one on the Yellows,’ said Giorgio.

  ‘The shame of it, the shame of it!’ groaned Giuseppi, putting his head in his hands.

  ‘Giorgio, you know that money you were going to buy Father Pepe a bicycle with? Can I have it back? Temporarily.’

  ‘Francesca! You are not –’ began Maria.

  ‘And you, Grandfather,’ said Francesca, turning to Giuseppi, ‘you’ve got some money put by, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m not throwing it away on –’

  ‘Not backing the Reds? After all you’ve said? Oh, the shame of it, the shame of it!!’ said Francesca, striking her brow.

  ‘Well, perhaps –’

  ‘And I think Rinaldo will lend me some, and Pietro. And perhaps Lucio. And maybe also –’

  ‘Francesca, you realize that if you borrow it, you will have to pay it back?’

  ‘Ah, but with those odds –’

  ‘Francesca, you are not to do this!’

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ asked Giorgio. ‘For you to skin the Camorra, the Reds have got to win!’

  ‘Well, you’re the man with ideas, Giorgio,’ said Francesca demurely.

  On bicycles Seymour had absolutely no ideas at all. He remembered, however, that Scampion had made notes on possible routes and went round to the consulate to borrow them from Richards.

  ‘It’s no use, old man,’ said Richards. ‘The Yellows have got it sewn up.’

  ‘Everyone thinks that,’ said Seymour. ‘That’s why the odds are a hundred to one.’

  Richards whistled. ‘A hundred to one! Almost worth taking a plunge at that sort of price. However –’

  ‘Father Pepe is backing the Reds,’ said Seymour.

  ‘He is, is he?’

  Richards looked thoughtful.

  ‘Look, old chap . . .’ he said, after a moment.

  Giorgio pored over Scampion’s notes with Giuseppi and Seymour.

  ‘If it’s going to be anywhere, it’s got to be at Paisi,’ Seymour said. ‘Where, according to Scampion, the road suddenly narrows. “We don’t want too many people going into that bit together.” That’s what he says.’

  ‘I don’t see how that helps us,’ said Giuseppi. ‘We could block it up, I suppose.’

  ‘And then there would be the most God-almighty pileup!’ said Giorgio, eyes gleaming.

  ‘The trouble is, it would affect both sides,’ said Seymour.

  ‘And if it was too big a pile-up, the race would be declared void,’ said Francesca. ‘And then we wouldn’t get their money.’

  ‘Better to go down fighting,’ said Giuseppi fiercely, ‘than let the Yellows win!’

  ‘Of course,’ said Francesca, ‘if we could somehow get the Yellows to let the Reds go in first . . .’

  ‘My heart has always been with the poor,’ said the Marchesa.

  ‘They would be a long way in front by then,’ said Seymour. ‘So far in front that they would think they could afford to stop.’

  ‘Have you got any colours?’ asked Chantale.

  ‘I will have,’ said the Marchesa, ‘by tomorrow.’

  ‘We’re banking on them being confident,’ said Seymour.

  ‘Ah, they’ll be confident, all right!’ said Giuseppi.

  ‘Over-confident,’ said the Marchesa, ‘if I know Italian soldiers.’

  ‘And they will like a bit of swagger,’ said Seymour.

  ‘Vincente will certainly like a bit of swagger,’ said the Marchesa.

  ‘As they’re coming up to the finishing line.’

  ‘People cheering and waving flags,’ said the Marchesa, entering excitedly into the spirit of things. ‘Girls throwing flowers. Vincente will certainly like that bit. You know, I’ve had an idea. Why don’t we line that narrow part of the road with pretty girls and tell them to throw their arms around the riders’ necks? And pull them off?’

  ‘I think we’d better stick to the original plan,’ said Seymour.

  The day of the race dawned bright. Well, that was not surprising since almost every day dawned bright in Naples. But to Francesca that day dawned particularly bright. The street leading up to the Palazzo was positively bursting with flowers. They clung to the balconies and hung from the window boxes. They garlanded every lamp post and every tree. There were flowers in the windows of the shops and in the hair of the girls.

  Francesca herself wore a huge red poppy, presented to her by Giorgio and obtained by stealth from the garden of one of the big hotels. She stood at the scheduled finishing line, along with Seymour, Chantale and Maria, and jumped up and down with excitement.

  She could hardly wait for the first riders to appear.

  In their Red shirts, she hoped, although now that the moment was at hand she could not still forebodings. Could those dunderheads win even if Giorgio and the Marchesa had set it up for them? Her heart remained obstinately in her mouth.

  One thing at least she was to be spared. The Reds would be riding in red but not in sacks. Faced with the prospect of their men revealing themselves to the world in attire which would bring shame to their womenfolk, the riders’ wives had rebelled, and had stitched up, according to Maria, something that was quite respectable. Francesca loved her grandmother but had no confidence whatsoever in her fashion sense. She feared the worst, and her confidence was only partly restored by Giuseppi, who had also seen the new kit, denouncing it as a prime example of capitalist decadence.

  Red, though, of some kind, it had to be, had to be. Although in her heart she still clung to the svelte lines and subtle tints of the Yellow and Green kit, on this occasion she firmly put aside aesthetic considerations in favour of economic ones. The Yellows, by hook or by crook – and it looked as if it was going to have to be by crook – had to lose.

  Nevertheless, as she suddenly became conscious of a distant roar at the end of the street, her heart rose sickeningly into her mouth.

  Father Pepe was standing nearby and for once Francesca felt a need to have recourse to the Church.

  ‘Will they do it, Father?’ she whispered urgently.

  ‘Sure thing!’ said Pepe confidently. And then, unfortunately, less confidently: ‘I hope.’

  But now, yes, yes, they were coming into sight. And tears were blocking her eyes and this dammed gigantic Englishman was blocking her view!

  And then Father Pepe was dancing with Maria, and Maria was shouting – surely this could not be so? She would have to check later – ‘We’ve done the bastards!’

  And then Francesca couldn’t see anything at all because there was a sudden flood of tears in her eyes, but somehow she knew that it was the Reds who were riding triumphantly up to the finishing line.

  ‘Luisa,’ said Vincente accusingly. ‘It was your fault!’

  ‘My fault?’ said the Marchesa, wide-eyed. ‘I was only doing what my people wanted!’

  It was only afterwards that Vincente, brooding over the events of the day, thought to ask himself exactly what she had meant.

  As the Yellows had swept into view – and it was the Yellows, unfortunately there wasn’t a Red in sight – Giorgio had run forward waving a huge flag. ‘Yellows pull off next left!’ Giuseppi, standing in the middle of the road – prepared as ever to sacrifice himself for the revolutionary cause – had ushered them into the lay-by where the Marchesa, unoverlookable in a bright peacock dress and with bright peacock feathers spreading all over the place, not to mention a startlingly-plunging neckline, waited with a huge banner on which were the words: ‘Victory and Honour!’

  ‘Victory’ alone would probably have done for the army riders but ‘Honour’ as well was simply irresistible. The Marchesa had greeted them with an inspiring, but rather prolonged, address, given the banner into the hands of what looked to be the fastest riders, and sent them at last on their way.

  Too late.

  * * *

  Francesca had made so much money that she was able to pay off all her creditors and give them a return that left them delirious with joy, set up Jali
la in a house of her own in Bologna, buy Father Pepe a splendid new bicycle, and ensure that Giuseppi and Maria need never again be bothered by the prospect of a collector. The Camorra, indeed, had taken such a heavy hit that they had to curtail their activities for some time to come.

  Maria, however, was not quite happy. She was glad of the money but knew that it had not been made by working, and she feared that Francesca might be lured into deeper and sinful ways and make a lot more. She consulted Father Pepe, who sighed and said that winning had not helped him much. He suggested that Francesca go to his old university and do a degree in economics or mathematics.

  ‘Although,’ he added, ‘it may be that they haven’t much to teach her. It is a pity that Alessandro is no longer with us, for I am sure he would have found a use for her in his business.’

  This was reported to the Marchesa, who had inherited most of Alessandro’s wealth, as well, of course, as having plenty of her own. This would need careful handling and she filed Francesca’s name for future reference.

  She, herself, would enter a convent. When she learned, however, that this could mean her surrendering much of her property, she thought again and decided that she would not actually enter the convent but would support it from outside and visit it from time to time, fitting in her visits to coincide with her duties at the Foundling Hospital, where she was going to help with the singing.

  Maria thought this could only do good; to her as well as the children.

  The best place from which to view the bay, said Miss Scampion, was from the top of the Vomero hill. There were two ways to go up it; one was by the wire-rope railway, which led up from somewhere at the back of the city, the other was to use the steam lift. This went straight up from the middle of the tunnel which cut through the hill between the city and Pozzudi.

  The steam lift, said Miss Scampion, was too small to take bicycles so she preferred the wire-rope railway, which, anyway, gave better views. Seymour and Chantale, on their last evening, decided, however, to come back by that route, so as to take advantage of the glorious, lingering Neapolitan sunset, and go up by the steam lift.

  They came out close to a giant pine tree which offered a frame to the lovely panorama of Sorrento and Capri, and also to Vesuvius, wreathed now in the sunset in roseate steam.