The Marshal and the Murderer (9 page)

'I hope you're right.'

'So do I hope I'm right. But whether I am or not, if that's the way they're feeling nobody's going to tell us anything helpful.'

'They will. We don't know who yet but they won't all be in agreement and they've probably all got wives . . .'

'Now that's an idea. We could question their wives.'

'No, no,' said the Marshal. 'We won't need to do that. That's not the way of it at all.'

'I know what it is, Guarnaccia: you must come from a place as small as this yourself.'

'Smaller. And I'll be surprised if you don't reap a fine crop of anonymous letters tomorrow morning.'

'Good God! Well, you never cease to learn in this life is what I always say - ah! Let's have a bit of something sweet!'

The boy in the big apron had brought the sweet trolley towards them and stood waiting for their order. Niccolini rubbed his hands together, quite his old self.

'I'd say two good helpings of that chocolate cake, what about it, Guarnaccia? And don't stint, laddie. Engine can't run without petrol and we have work to do.'

They took their time eating it, and with every intention of lingering over coffee, too.

'Once I get back to the Station,' explained Niccolini, 'there'll be a dozen interruptions, especially as I've been out all morning. When Moretti's men have gone I've got a few things I want to talk over with you.'

The men weren't long in leaving but they didn't go without creating another little scene. Having finished their meal, each of them happened to go to the washroom at the end of the dining-room, and to do so they naturally had to pass by the table where Niccolini was sitting with the Marshal. None of them spoke and one or two of them even went so far as to look quite pointedly at the two uniformed men as if to emphasize that their not speaking was a deliberate act. The last of them to return from the washroom was the thrower who'd begun the argument with a neighbouring table earlier on.

This man passed by the Marshal and Niccolini without a glance but then stopped at a table almost opposite, raising his voice to make sure they could hear him, and spoke to a workman who was sitting there alone with a coffee and a newspaper in front of him.

'Well, and what do you think of this mess? What I say is that it doesn't do to have anything to do with foreigners. I've no time for them myself. Am I right or am I right?'

The man, who had the electricity company's badge on his overalls, looked up, surprised. Then he glanced across the way and realized whom it was aimed at.

'You're right enough,' he said, 'you have to be careful about mixing yourself up with foreigners . . . especially Germans.' And he went back to his newspaper.

The other looked furious but went off without another word.

'Now, what was all that about?' Niccolini frowned. 'I'd have thought everybody knew she was Swiss.'

'Things get garbled,' the Marshall reminded him, 'and she did speak German, so people would notice her accent. Who is that chap, anyway?'

'A cousin of Moretti's.'

'Then we know where he stands. Nothing to hope for there.'

'Nothing. He didn't like the answer he got, though, did he? I can't think why, can you?'

'No.'

'I suppose you're right about the girl's accent . . .'

'I noticed it in her friend. It was thick enough, though her Italian was good. I'd better go back to Florence shortly and have a word with her. Somebody has to tell her what's happened and maybe I can find out a bit more . . . though to tell you the truth she's not much more communicative than this lot here.'

'That's a big help. Well, if ever we needed some saint or other on our side it's now - and all we've got is Berti.'

'He did tell you something, then?'

'He told me one thing, the minute you'd gone next door. Do you know who that woman is? The crazy one?'

'Tina?'

'That's right. Listen to this -1 wouldn't have believed it but he can hardly have made it up. She's Moretti's sister.'

'She is?'

'Older sister. How about that for a turn-up for the books? I knew nothing about it, I can tell you - but then it seems he has nothing to do with her, married her off to that peasant farmer who keeps her practically locked up since she's not right in the head.'

'Maybe she's not right in the head because he keeps her locked up,' suggested the Marshal, remembering the silent, smelly house without windows. 'After all, he'd hardly have married her'

'Wait, I'm coming to that. You didn't see her husband?'

'No, he was out pruning.'

'Right. Pruning his orchards and that's what he married her for, that land. He's a good twenty years older than she is and a bit of a strange character on his own account. He farms a few acres on the old peasant basis of fifty per cent of the produce and for someone in that position to get their hands on a few acres of their own - well, I don't need to tell you that if you're from a country area yourself.'

'He got the orchards as a dowry?'

'Exactly. Moretti bought them for him and got the loony sister off his hands for good.'

"Where was she before?'

"With the nuns. But they refused to keep her because, although she was docile enough - they taught her a bit of housekeeping and she helped in the kitchen - every so often she'd get out at night. Needless to say in the end she got pregnant, and after that they wanted her out. Moretti either had to take her home or have her locked up unless he could find some other way of fixing her up. Well, it seems he found it.'

'Then it is true . . .'

'As I say, he'd hardly have made it up, rogue though he is.'

'No, I mean . . . she told me she'd a child and for one reason and another I didn't believe her.'

'It's true enough, though I gather it didn't live long
-
just as well maybe. Well, there it is - not much use to us, I don't suppose. Berti was trying to make a bit of a saint out of Moretti on the grounds that he could have her put away in an asylum easily enough rather than putting out all that cash - is something the matter?'

'No, no ... I was just wondering . . .'

'Of course it's true enough that the defence could make good use of a story like that if the worst comes to the worst, but what struck me more than anything is that there's a lot goes on in this town that I know nothing about.'

'And even that Berti knows nothing about.'

'I'm not so sure about that.'

'Hm. You said that according to him Moretti washed his hands of that poor woman once he'd got her married off?'

'So it seems.'

'Well, she told me she goes to see him regularly.'

'Probably made it up. Wishful thinking. How crazy do you think she is?'

'I don't know. As I said, she seems more childish than anything. I confess I more or less discounted everything she said but now I'm not so sure.'

'Well, if the old chap keeps her locked up'

'He goes to play billiards.'

'You mean she gets out when he's '

'Every week. It's not impossible. And when she told me she'd seen the girl go off down the road on Monday she said, "Maybe she went to see my brother."'

'She did? Well, it's beginning to sound plausible.'

'And you said it was her husband who found the body . . .' The Marshal fell silent, staring into his coffee cup.

The dining-room was almost empty and there was a sound of crockery being washed in the kitchen. The television was still on with the sound turned low.

'Whichever way you look at it, it comes back to the same family,' said Niccolini after a moment, 'though what any of them could have had against that lass, I don't know - oh Lord, don't look now but here comes His Worship the Mayor-to-be . . .'

The Marshal had no need to look round since he could read the approach of Robiglio in Niccolini's narrowed eyes. Nevertheless it was a very different

Robiglio from the version he had met the day before, and the Marshal was conscious of it as soon as they had shaken hands.

'Unfortunate business,' Robiglio said to Niccolini. 'I imagine this is what brought your colleague here, though you didn't care to mention it yesterday.'

"We didn't know -' began Niccolini, but Robiglio interrupted him with an arrogance he had been at some pains to conceal at their last meeting.

'Quite within your rights, of course, none of my business.' And he turned to call out: 'Tozzi! I shan't want a table tomorrow, I shall be leaving in the morning.' He gave them only a brief nod by way of salute and left them.

"Afternoon!' said Niccolini politely. 'And good riddance to you.' He added the last bit when Robiglio was out of earshot. 'Well, there goes another one who's not wanting to chat to me all of a sudden, not that it's any great loss in his case. I don't suppose he could tell us anything.'

'He seemed anxious enough to tell us one thing . . .' The Marshal's big eyes were still fixed on the door where Robiglio had gone out. 'He seemed to me to be letting us know he was leaving. I wonder why that should be.'

'You think so? Well, there's no reason why we should try and stop him.'

'None that we know of. I'd say that yesterday that was a worried man. He didn't like my being here. Now he knows why ... I wonder where he's going.'

I'll soon find out.' Niccolini jumped to his feet. 'I'll go and settle up and get Tozzi to tell me.'

'Let me . . .'

'You stay where you are. I'd better do a bit of public relations work. I shouldn't have been so sharp with him, you're right.'

'Even so, you must be my guest today.'

'I'll be your guest when I come to Florence.'

'But when'

'In the year two thousand.' And he was gone.

The Marshal struggled into his overcoat, feeling as usual, rather heavy after his lunch, especially in comparison with Niccolini who always seemed to be bursting with pent-up energy. He came bounding back now, rubbing his hands together.

'That's done! And I can tell you where our friend's going. Switzerland!'

'Signorina StaufFer?' The door had opened only a crack and he could barely see who was behind it. 'Marshal Guarnaccia. May I come in?'

The door opened slowly. She kept her head down, but despite that and her glasses he could see that she had already been crying and he didn't look forward to telling her what he had to tell her. She led the way into a small sitting-room without speaking. The furniture was mostly worm-eaten antique and obviously came with the rented flat, but there were plenty of signs of the female occupants: some potted plants on a small table by the window, a row of postcards along the mantelpiece, a neatly folded pink sweater on the back of the chair. A young man was sitting on a battered velvet sofa in the centre of the room and there was a haze of cigarette smoke in the air. The Marshal had the feeling that he'd interrupted an intimate talk, no doubt on the subject of the missing friend. The young man got to his feet.

'Is it about Monica?'

The Marshal looked from him to the girl, waiting to learn who he was.

'My name's Corsari,' offered the young man, since the girl still didn't speak but stood nervously pulling at her fingers. 'I teach at the school ..."

'I see.' And since nobody moved or offered him a seat it was the Marshal himself who suggested, 'Shall we sit down?' He took the chair where the sweater lay, balanced his hat on his knees and tried to avoid the anxious gazes fixed on him. 'I'm afraid it's bad news.'

Without looking at them directly, he was aware that the girl stiffened and drew in a sharp breath and that the young man moved closer to her on the sofa and put an arm round her shoulder.

'I knew something had happened to her, I knew . . .'

'Try to keep calm, Signorina.' The Marshal was more than a little grateful for the presence of the young man. 'Your friend's dead, I'm very sorry to tell you, and we need your help'

'I warned her! I warned her to be careful!'

'To be careful of what? You thought she was in danger out there?'

'What am I going to do? What am I going to do?'

She sat rigidly upright on the sofa, trembling violently as if she would soon explode, but no explosion came. She suddenly crumpled and let out a low howl that sounded more animal than human.

'What am I going to do? Help me . . .' She fell back against the sofa with her eyes closed and heaved in a deep noisy breath that became a dry sob and was followed by others coming faster and faster.

The Marshal got to his feet. 'Stay close to her. I'll get her a glass of water - where's the kitchen?'

'Through there . . .'

He brought the water and handed the glass to the young man who was trying to hold her still. But her body was still heaving and her eyes, magnified by the heavy glasses, stared up at the Marshal as if she were still saying 'Help me'.

'I think she should lie down,' was all the help he could offer. 'Cover her up well, she should keep warm . . .'

The young man managed to get her to her feet, but he almost had to carry her as her legs were trembling too much to support her.

'Try talking to her for a while,' murmured the Marshal as they went through the door. 'It will be better for her if she can cry properly . . .'

Then he went and stood by the plants at the window, staring across at the house opposite which in this narrow street was only a few yards away. A woman was hanging washing on a wire strung on a pulley against the crumbling wall. After pegging out each piece she pulled on the wire which squeaked loudly. There were no other noises in the street and he could hear the murmur of the young man's voice punctuated by the girl's sobs. What had Robiglio called it? 'An unfortunate business.' Well, it was that all right. Two women passed below him walking in the narrow road since the pavements were blocked by parked cars. They were gossiping intently and a youngster on a moped coming in the opposite direction almost ran into them. One of the women turned to call after him: 'Look where you're going, thoughtless young idiot!' The boy made a rude gesture and carried on, wavering a little.

The noise from the bedroom had changed. The girl was speaking now, disjointedly but through what sounded like real tears which was a good thing. The Marshal wandered away from the window and stood observing the postcards on the mantelpiece. Most of them looked as if they came from Switzerland. What would Robiglio have gone to Switzerland for? According to what Tozzi had said, he went fairly often and Niccolini had immediately jumped to the conclusion that there was some connection there with the dead girl. Even so, it didn't do to lose sight of the obvious . . .