rare occasions.'
'Did she ever talk about her past? When she lived in Germany?'
'Once or twice. I know her father was killed during the war and that although she was very clever at languages she never got a chance to go on with her studies. Instead she went to work in a shop so I suppose they were short of money. Her mother died of some illness not long afterwards. Then I think she married but she never talked about her marriage or about her life after that. Only about her childhood.'
'Did she ever mention a child?'
'No, never. And I had the impression that she either divorced or was widowed quite young. She was always vague about it and 1 never pressed her. Even so ... I told your Marshal that there was certainly a man in her life but I'm sure it couldn't have been her husband.'
'You also mentioned another woman.'
'Yes. But I can't tell you any more than I told the Marshal. It was always just hints here and there. And a lot of what I'm telling you I only guessed or assumed. For instance, I think she must have married somebody fairly wealthy because to live at the Riverside costs money.'
'And her father being killed in the war, was that just guesswork or did she say so?'
'I'm pretty sure she said so.'
'Did she mention a villa to you? A villa near Greve in Chianti?'
'No, never.'
'It was owned by her father and he died only a few years ago.'
'I see.'
He showed no anger even then. There were dark rings under his eyes and it was probable that he hadn't slept properly since the day the Captain had visited his home to ask a question that might well have seemed like a pretext. It wasn't difficult to imagine him lying awake in the mornings in a darkened bedroom with his wife's typewriter clacking in the next room and the neighbours quarrelling beyond the thin walls.
'She may have had her reasons for not telling me about it,' he said gently. 'After all, I never told her about Milan.'
'Nevertheless, if all she wanted was someone to confide in, it seems pointless to have lied to you.'
'Everybody lies, even to the person nearest to them, don't you think? In any case, I don't think it was a question of having someone to confide in. I said before . . . It's not so easy to explain, but I lived alone myself, in Milan, before I got friendly with my wife. It's the little things that make you lonely. Having nobody to grumble to at the end of a bad day, nobody to make you a hot drink when you catch a cold. Whenever she had 'flu or a bad head I would go to the chemist for her, that sort of thing. And there's loneliness for affection, too. I'm not talking about sex, just everyday affection, some sort of physical contact.. .'
'And was there this sort of physical contact between you and Signora Vogel? You said you weren't lovers.'
'I told you, it's not a question of sex. We would talk about it sometimes but that's all. It made for a sort of intimacy that didn't do any harm and over the years we got used to things as they were.'
'In all those years, then, you never touched her?'
'I would massage her neck sometimes if she had a headache. Whether you believe it or not, we were more like brother and sister than anything else. Living alone as she did . . .'
'It was her choice to live alone, presumably.'
'I don't believe so. I'm sure she was disappointed with the way things were, that she had expected something better, maybe from this man I mentioned, but things had dragged on year after year.'
'So you massaged her neck,' the Captain said slowly, 'in the reception hall?'
'What . . .?'
'That's where you told the Marshal your little chats took place. That she slept badly and would come down to talk to you. And you, of course, wouldn't leave your post.'
The atmosphere in the room changed quite suddenly. Until then they might have been having a friendly talk. Now the beads of sweat reappeared on Querci's upper lip but he looked cold. When he didn't answer the Captain continued: 'You went to her room?'
'I ... I don't remember . .
'Did she ever talk about her past? When she lived in Germany?'
'Once or twice. I know her father was killed during the war and that although she was very clever at languages she never got a chance to go on with her studies. Instead she went to work in a shop so I suppose they were short of money. Her mother died of some illness not long afterwards. Then I think she married but she never talked about her marriage or about her life after that. Only about her childhood.'
'Did she ever mention a child?'
'No, never. And I had the impression that she either divorced or was widowed quite young. She was always vague about it and 1 never pressed her. Even so ... I told your Marshal that there was certainly a man in her life but I'm sure it couldn't have been her husband.'
'You also mentioned another woman.'
'Yes. But I can't tell you any more than I told the Marshal. It was always just hints here and there. And a lot of what I'm telling you I only guessed or assumed. For instance, I think she must have married somebody fairly wealthy because to live at the Riverside costs money.'
'And her father being killed in the war, was that just guesswork or did she say so?'
'I'm pretty sure she said so.'
'Did she mention a villa to you? A villa near Greve in Chianti?'
'No, never.'
'It was owned by her father and he died only a few years ago.'
'I see.'
He showed no anger even then. There were dark rings under his eyes and it was probable that he hadn't slept properly since the day the Captain had visited his home to ask a question that might well have seemed like a pretext. It wasn't difficult to imagine him lying awake in the mornings in a darkened bedroom with his wife's typewriter clacking in the next room and the neighbours quarrelling beyond the thin walls.
'She may have had her reasons for not telling me about it,' he said gently. 'After all, I never told her about Milan.'
'Nevertheless, if all she wanted was someone to confide in, it seems pointless to have lied to you.'
'Everybody lies, even to the person nearest to them, don't you think? In any case, I don't think it was a question of having someone to confide in. I said before . . . It's not so easy to explain, but I lived alone myself, in Milan, before I got friendly with my wife. It's the little things that make you lonely. Having nobody to grumble to at the end of a bad day, nobody to make you a hot drink when you catch a cold. Whenever she had 'flu or a bad head I would go to the chemist for her, that sort of thing. And there's loneliness for affection, too. I'm not talking about sex, just everyday affection, some sort of physical contact.. .'
'And was there this sort of physical contact between you and Signora Vogel? You said you weren't lovers.'
'I told you, it's not a question of sex. We would talk about it sometimes but that's all. It made for a sort of intimacy that didn't do any harm and over the years we got used to things as they were.'
'In all those years, then, you never touched her?'
'I would massage her neck sometimes if she had a headache. Whether you believe it or not, we were more like brother and sister than anything else. Living alone as she did . . .'
'It was her choice to live alone, presumably.'
'I don't believe so. I'm sure she was disappointed with the way things were, that she had expected something better, maybe from this man I mentioned, but things had dragged on year after year.'
'So you massaged her neck,' the Captain said slowly, 'in the reception hall?'
'What . . .?'
'That's where you told the Marshal your little chats took place. That she slept badly and would come down to talk to you. And you, of course, wouldn't leave your post.'
The atmosphere in the room changed quite suddenly. Until then they might have been having a friendly talk. Now the beads of sweat reappeared on Querci's upper lip but he looked cold. When he didn't answer the Captain continued: 'You went to her room?'
'I ... I don't remember . .
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