Death of an Englishman by Magdalen Nabb Page A

short-sighted gentleman, a prominent member of the Paris (Texas) Poetry Appreciation League, was happy to be here and disposed to oblige everybody. He had taken the picture of the poet from its hook in the hall and was standing before the drawing-room fireplace holding it rigidly before him and gazing earnestly at the dimly perceived camera and Inspector Jeffreys. Jeffreys himself, having at first been taken by surprise, was now demonstrating 'being patient with old dears' for the benefit of his young colleague. But he found that if he got the huge Mr. MacLuskie and the tall Carabiniere in view, he could only see a scrap of Miss White's grey hair between their elbows. The alternative was Miss White flanked by houndstooth check and black serge. He tried kneeling.
    'Just point and press!' advised Miss White. ' Instamatic ! One of those words that turns out to be the same in Italian, I should think, let's hope so, anyway—'
    'Stand still,' pleaded Jeffreys, as the grey head bobbed in and out of the frame.
    'Right! Standing still! Fire away!'
    Jeffreys fired.
    'Marvellous! Nice to have you in it, too,' whispered Miss White, patting Carabiniere Bacci's arm. 'You must tell your friend,' she added loudly, 'that he should leam a bit of English before it's too late—he looks quite a bit older than you. You have to start young,' she admonished Inspector Jeffreys, raising her voice helpfully. 'I bet you're thirty, thirty-three? Eh?'
    'I'm thirty-two, Miss White.' The disorientated Inspector was trying so hard to sound English that his accent became quite distorted.
    'Too old,' declared Miss White. 'If you want to learn a foreign language you've got to start young, the younger the better. This young man in uniform has the right idea—look at me, can't speak a word—had everything translated but it's not the same thing, wish I could speak like a native—one thing is,' she added comfortingly to Inspector Jeffreys, 'your own langauge is a very beautiful one. Sign the book!'
    'Det. Inspector Ian Jeffreys, New Scotland Yard, London,' wrote Jeffreys, and Carabiniere Bacci left them.
    'Can't offer you any tea,' announced Miss White. 'Can't stand the stuff, but I can give you a glass of wine or grappa?'
    'I'd like a glass of wine.'
    They were settled in Miss White's private room which overlooked the courtyard, a tiny bedsitter which on other floors would probably be occupied by a servant.
    'Don't give myself much room, do I?' she asked, noticing the Inspector's discreet glances. 'But people come here to see the museum, not to see me—well, some do, to be honest, people who come back year after year, send me postcards—I make lots of friends really, trouble is, they only come to Florence on visits, always live so far away. But they don't forget, as you can see. Marvellous people.'
    The room was decked with over a hundred Christmas cards from people who didn't forget.
    'Mostly from America, England and Australia—but, here you are, look, one from Japan, look at that, snowman with little slanty eyes, lady who translated some of the poems into Japanese—sent me a copy, too, but I don't know which way up to hold it—here's your wine. In a tumbler, don't believe in those wretched little wine glasses. Well, fancy him being murdered, not surprised, of course, but fancy.'
    'Not surprised? Why not?'
    'Well, he was a dreadful man. Shouldn't speak ill, of course, but there it is.'
    'Dreadful in what way? Have his radio on a bit too loud or something like that?'
    Miss White looked at him sharply: 'If that's another joke like pretending to be an Italian, I might as well tell you I don't follow.'
    'No, I'm not joking—and I wasn't—'
    'Probably too old. Fashions change in humour like they do in everything else. A lot of young people these days can't see the humour in Shakespeare, well—all I can say is, I'm not surprised—I invited him up, you know, invite all my neighbours, Italians too, and they do come. Judge came up, marvellous man, very