Free A Dead Man in Naples by Michael Pearce

right sort in Naples?’ asked Chantale.
    ‘Not really. You know, Naples is a poor town. Oh, it seems very nice, I know, with the bay and all that. But there’s not a lot of money around. There isn’t much money in the south as a whole. Southern Italy is very poor. So there aren’t, really, people of the right sort.’
    ‘There’s a bit of a gap, then, between the Club and the town?’
    ‘There are not many other bicyclists in Naples, if that’s what you mean. But I think that they like to see us. For one thing, when we race every Saturday it’s a bit of fun for them. The Neapolitans like a spectacle. Besides, well, you know, it’s the army. And there’s a lot of pride in the army just now. People like to see us. I think, you know, we do a lot of good. Just by showing ourselves. Waving the flag, as it were. Reminds them there’s a war on. And the fact that we’re off to fight pretty soon, well, I think it has an effect on people.’
    The Marchesa swept out on to the patio and paused.
    ‘My dear!’ she cried. ‘A thousand apologies! I’m late again – I bought a few things and they took so long to wrap them up! Has Vincente been looking after you? I’m sure he has! And are these drinks? I could do with one myself after the morning I’ve had! Vincente, order a cocktail for me!’
    ‘Well, I could, but are you sure?’
    ‘Why shouldn’t I be sure?’
    ‘They don’t do very good ones here. And they haven’t heard of half of them. If you’re hoping for a Fuzzy Bear, I would forget about it.’
    ‘No Fuzzy Bear? Couldn’t you show them how, Vincente? I’m sure you could.’
    ‘Well, I could, if they had everything I need.’
    ‘Tell them to send out for things if they haven’t got them,’ advised the Marchesa.
    ‘It will take ages,’ grumbled Vincente, but he went off.
    ‘He fusses,’ said the Marchesa, ‘but –’ she smiled at Chantale – ‘he’s very biddable. Why don’t you go and bid him, my dear?’
    Chantale stayed put.
    ‘No? Oh, well . . .’ She shrugged. ‘He’s really quite nice when you get to know him. As I’m sure you would find.’
    Chantale studied her glass.
    The Marchesa laughed.
    ‘I was just trying to arrange things so that I could have a private tête-à-tête with Mr Seymour. To talk business. Business ,’ she repeated with emphasis.
    ‘ Do you want to talk business?’ Chantale asked Seymour.
    ‘Well . . .’
    He was beginning to see that there could be a disadvantage about having Chantale with him.
    Chantale got up and stalked away: not in the direction Vincente had taken, however.
    The Marchesa watched her go, smiling.
    ‘And you really are here to investigate poor Scampion’s murder?’ she asked, putting her hand on Seymour’s arm.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Good. It seemed so wrong, somehow, to kill a man like that.’
    ‘Like what, Marchesa?’
    ‘Well, you know. An innocent. That’s how I always thought of him. An innocent like you have in those vast Russian novels. Untouched by evil although evil is going on all around him. But he never sees it. We are a terrible lot, you know, the Roman crowd. Or what I think of as the Roman crowd, although I suppose that when Scampion got to know us we were the Florence crowd. But Florence is just a suburb of Rome, anyway. Or it was when D’Annunzio was there.’
    ‘You know, Marchesa, I never knew Scampion. And, of course, I never knew “the Roman crowd”. But when you speak of them I think I know what you mean. And from what I have heard of Scampion I find it hard to see him fitting into that world.’
    ‘Oh, he didn’t! Not at all.’
    ‘Oh, he didn’t! Not ‘Then how . . .?’
    ‘I don’t quite know. He was already part of it when I arrived. But I have a dreadful feeling . . .’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘That it was through that awful bicycling. It had just become the rage, you see. All the smart young were doing it. A lot of the young officers were doing it and of course they were all well connected. It could