“I knew her.” Francesco jumped up from the bed and stood in the middle of the room with his arms spread, a miniature biblical prophet addressing the erring faithful. “So what? So does milkman, yes? Greengrocerman, yes? Man who cleans street?” He pushed an imaginary broom.
“Morning, Madame Camet. Nice day, Madame Carnet. You go and see cleaning man too? What is this, yes? Maybe you should leave this room, this my room.”
Francesco was still pushing the broom. De Gier laughed and Francesco swung around, eyeballing the sergeant, poking the broom at him.
“Ha,” de Gier said, and Francesco laughed too.
“You think I funny, yes?”
“Very funny, Mr. Pullini. Why don’t you lie down? Are you ill?”
Francesco coughed, held his chest, and coughed again. “Yes, cold, the storm yesterday. Make me cough, so today I rest. Today I see Franco Bergen, maybe tomorrow I leave. In Milano much to do, I cannot wait forever for Bergen to change mind. Bah.”
“The business isn’t going well, Mr. Pullini?”
Francesco turned to face the commissaris. His right hand came up, balled, and made a turning movement. “Ehhhhh. Business, it always the same. Sometimes I screw Franco, sometimes Franco he screw me. Doesn’t matter, we still friends. Same name, same character. His name Franciscus, my name Francesco.”
“So you didn’t know the Carnet family very well, did you Mr. Pullini?”
Francesco was reading the card the commissaris had given him. “Commissaire, eh? You big shot?”
There was a friendly light in the Italian’s liquid eyes and the commissaris responded. He balled his hand, turned it, and pulled up the corner of his mouth. “Ehhhhhhh.”
Francesco smiled. “A drink!” There was a sly smile on the noble face. He reached for the telephone. “Gin, yes?”
“Orange juice,” the commissaris said.
“One orange juice, two gin?”
“One gin, two orange juice.”
The drinks came almost at once and Francesco squatted on the bed, toasting his guests.
“You were out last night and caught a cold?” The commissaris had gone back to his original concern. De Gier’s eyes swept over the old man’s face. An act again, of course, but he never knew how far the commissaris acted. What was an Italian’s cold to the chief of Amsterdam’s CID? But the commissaris was always concerned with the health of others and would regularly check the cell block at headquarters and sometimes made sure that prisoners were moved to one of the city’s hospitals.
“I walk around, visit some bars, eat something, but then I come back, storm very bad. Cough.”
“Did anyone see you come back, Mr. Pullini? The desk clerk? Do you remember who gave you your key? And the time of your return, perhaps?”
“I come back ten, ten-thirty, but I no ask for key. Key he in my pocket, forget to leave at desk, always forget.” He pointed at the key on his night table. It was connected to a plastic bar that was only three inches long, it would fit into a pocket.
“Do you know Gabrielle Carnet, Mr. Pullini?”
“Sure.” The sly smile moved the clipped beard again. “She nice girl, yes? I take her out once, twice maybe, not now, before. Now I married. Gabrielle, she know. Also bad business. Gabrielle, she daughter of Madame Carnet; Madame Carnet, she own Carnet and Company. Franco Bergen, he only owns little bit. He my friend, but he not say yes or no in end. Madame Carnet, she is God, yes? Maybe I better not play around with daughter of God.”
“Really? I thought Madame Carnet wasn’t very interested in her business anymore, that she was retired.”
“Retired?”
“Yes, not work anymore?”
“I know word. Me, I know many words but I forget when I speak, I know when I hear. Madame Carnet, she not retired. She work, she chooses furniture, new models, she says to Franco Bergen ‘not buy now, yes buy now.’ She sometimes cut order in half. Me, I always get shits when Madame come in. First big order than… pfff!” He blew something off his hand. “Then nothing. I go back Milano and tell Papa ‘no order,’ then maybe order comes later but price is wrong. Low price. Madame Carnet, she clever.”
“I believe Carnet and Company owes you some money, Mr. Pullini. Do you think you will get it before you go home?”
A slight tremor moved from the eyes and disappeared into Francesco’s beard. “Money? You know, yes? Franco Bergen he tell you, yes?”
“We saw Mr. Bergen this moming. We have to ask questions, Mr. Pullini. A cigar?”
The commissaris got up and presented his flat tin. Francesco’s hand moved to the tin but he pulled it back. “No, thank you, bad for cough. I bought cigarettes this morning, low tar, no taste, but something.”
He lit a cigarette and puffed. “So you know about money. Yes. Franco Bergen, he no pay. He promise, but he no pay. This time Franco, he cat, me mouse. Little mouse, jump this way jump that way. Still no money.”
“How much is involved, Mr. Pullini?”
Francesco held his hands about a meter apart. “In Italian so much.” He brought his hands closer together “In Dutch so much.”
“How much exactly?”
“Eighty thousand guilders. Sixteen million lire.”
The sergeant whistled and Francesco imitated the whistle. He looked into de Gier’s eyes but this time he didn’t laugh.
“You were going to be given the money in cash?”
“Yes. Secret money. Goes into suitcase. But honest money, nothing to do with police. Pullini, he sells furniture; Franco Bergen, he pays cash. Bergen, he has invoices. All very nice.”
“But you didn’t get it.”
“No. Franco Bergen he says he maybe buy from other firm in Milano, not from Pullini no more. When I say ‘What about eighty thousand?’ Bergen, he has dirty ears. So maybe I get lawyer, but that later. First I talk to Franco Bergen again. He old friend, he come to Milano, to Sesto San Giovanni where Pullini business is, he stays many weeks, he goes to mountains where Papa Pullini give him beautiful little house for month. Bergen, he bring family. Bergen, he eat in Pullini restaurant, no bill. Bergen, he remember. We talk some more.”
“So you think Mr. Bergen will pay you?”
“Sure. Now he screw me but…”
“Good. I am glad to hear it, Mr. Pullini. Do you know where Madame and Gabrielle Carnet live?”
“Yes, before, I pick up Gabrielle. I remember street, Mierisstraat, nice street, big trees, maybe I can find street
“And you didn’t find it last night?”
“No.” Francesco coughed. The cough tore through his chest and he doubled up, holding his mouth into a handkerchief.
The commissaris waited for the attack to finish. They shook hands.
De Gier turned around in the corridor and caught die expression on Francesco’s face as he closed the door.
“Well?” the commissaris asked in the elevator.
“A sad little man, sir, sad and worried, but he has a sense of humor.”
“The sort of man who will push a lady down her own garden stairs?”
“No.” De Gier was watching the little red-orange light of the elevator, jumping down, humming every time it hit file next glass button. “But a push doesn’t take long. He is an excitable man and he wants his money. We may safely assume that the eighty thousand guilders are to be his, cash that he is lifting from his father’s till. So he may be a little nervous about it.”
“Sufficiently nervous to have pushed Mrs. Camet last night?”
The commissaris shook his head, answering his own question. “No, I wouldn’t think so. The amount may seem vast to us but to a businessman of Pullini’s caliber it isn’t all that much. Businessmen are usually very concerned about the continuation of their trade. Francesco will get his eighty thousand, now or later, but he won’t get anything if he pushes his client into her death. No I can’t see it. Still…”
“Sir?”
The elevator’s sliding door opened and they stepped into the hall and into a crowd of American tourists who had just been delivered by a bus and who were jockeying for position at the hotel’s counter.