The Marshal's Own Case (14 page)

‘You’d better change first.’ The boys were out of sight and she made no mention of what had happened, but the atmosphere was strained. They talked over it. She took the cat from him and he went to the bedroom to change. Even his socks were wet. When he was dressed again and tying his tie, Teresa came into the bedroom and whispered, ‘Salva . . .’

‘What?’ He wished she wouldn’t. He couldn’t face it yet.

‘I’ve had a talk with him. He’s very upset, you know.’

‘I know.’ She might have thought that he too was upset, but he didn’t say so.

‘Well, it’s all come out. You know how attached he was to Leonardo last year. He was his first friend—they were both a bit lost, he and Giovanni, when they first came up from down home. Anyway, it seems—’ she was still whispering, so the boys must have been next door in their room—‘Leonardo’s parents are . . . well, you know the type, active in ’68, that sort of thing and very anti-army. Anyway, they must have said something, I don’t know what, and Leonardo found another friend and dropped Totò completely. That’s what started the trouble. You know, once these things come to a head they fade away. I’m sure he’ll settle down now. I’ve had a long talk to him and he knows the first thing he must do is apologize to you.’

‘No. I don’t want . . . Leave him be.’

‘But, Salva, it’s only right—’

‘Not just now. If you say it’s sorted out, that’s enough. I don’t want him being forced to apologize.’

She stared at him, not understanding his hurt or his embarrassment. Before she could say anything they were interrupted by Giovanni shouting, ‘Mum! Mum! There’s a cat in the kitchen!’

They went in there and found Giovanni holding the orange and white cat in his arms, his eyes alight. ‘Where’s it come from? Is it for us?’

‘No, no,’ the Marshal said, ‘it’s just a stray from Boboli. I have to give it to the park keeper downstairs.’ He was glad he’d forgotten. It provided a distraction.

‘Can I give it some milk, Mum?’

‘If you like . . .’ With a swift glance at her husband she added, ‘Go and tell Totò. You can both give it some milk.’

When Totò appeared, the Marshal all but kept his back turned to him, not wanting to catch his eye.

The boy bent down to stroke the cat, which purred loudly and rubbed itself against him. He too said, ‘Is it for us?’

‘No. It’s a stray from Boboli.’

Giovanni poured some milk into a saucer and put it on the floor. The cat sniffed at it cautiously and then settled nearer and began to lap it up. Teresa switched the light on. It was warm in the kitchen and there was a newly baked cake on the table. The shutters were closed against the rain. When the cat had licked the saucer clean, Giovanni picked it up again.

‘Let me hold it,’ Totò said. ‘You held it before.’ He took it in his thin arms and stroked it. ‘It’s purring, I can feel it.’

‘Hear it, you mean,’ said Giovanni.

‘I can feel it as well. It’s thin, isn’t it, Mum?’

‘That’s because it’s a stray.’

‘Why can’t we keep it?’

‘Because it’s a stray,’ the Marshal said, ‘and it could have all sorts of diseases.’

‘We could take it to the vet.’ Totò was still looking at his mother, avoiding his father’s eyes.

‘Well . . . it looks healthy enough . . .’ Teresa hazarded.

‘Cats are for the country,’ the Marshal said, ‘where they can run about. It’s not right to keep animals cooped up in flats in the city.’

‘It could still play in Boboli!’ Totò’s eyes were filling up.

‘It’ll run off. It’s wild.’

‘I could find it again. I know where they play, near the fish pond where the tourists sit to eat their sandwiches, I’ve seen them. I want to keep it and get a basket for it! It’s thin and lonely.’ Totò began to cry in earnest, his face already white from his upset, sobbing for his own misery in the name of the cat that he clutched with all his might. All at once he put it down on the floor and ran, still sobbing, to the bedroom.

‘It’s not right,’ the Marshal repeated.

But Giovanni and Teresa were both looking at him as though he were the hangman.

‘I’m going to do my homework,’ Giovanni said. He walked out without a word to his father.

‘There’s no need for you all to turn on me,’ the Marshal protested. ‘It’s not right to keep animals in a flat.’

‘One animal. One small cat. We weren’t thinking of opening a zoo.’

He picked up the cat, which started to purr again at once.

‘Shouldn’t you be back in the office? I’ve got to wash this floor if you’ve finished in here.’

‘I thought at least you would know I was talking sense. You at least should realize that it’s not right—’

‘All right. Do what you think fit. Take the wretched cat away.’

But as he left he heard her mutter, ‘What’s right isn’t always what’s good.’

So what was that supposed to mean?

Eight

‘H
is age?’

‘I don’t know his age, only the name and that he lives in Milan. He may be some sort of commercial traveller—at any rate he does a job that brings him fairly often to Florence, or used to.’

‘Well, if all you want is his place of residence I can get that from the town hall—if he’s still here . . . Nearly a year ago, you said?’

‘It may not be very accurate . . .’ The Marshal wasn’t all that sure if the address was all he wanted. He’d picked up the phone the minute he’d walked into his office, wanting to plunge himself into work so as not to give himself any time to think.

‘Wait,’ he added. ‘One other thing—his civil status. I’d be very interested to know if he’s become divorced or separated during the last year.’

‘Divorced or separated . . . I’ve made a note. What about any previous convictions? Interested?’

‘No. Yes . . . I suppose you’d better check but it’s unlikely. I think you’ll find he’s a respectable man.’

Only after putting the phone down did he hear an echo of the irony that had been in his voice when he said it. ‘A respectable man.’ It no longer meant anything to him. He’d come across a lot of ‘respectable’ people during this case. A respectable bourgeoise landlady who ‘didn’t know’ Lulu was a transsexual, this undoubtedly respectable Milanese businessman whom Lulu had blackmailed, the respectable jeweller who had given Titi a diamond ring and claimed it back on his theft insurance, and all the others . . . night after night queuing in their cars by the hundred in the lamplit park. All of them respectable men and most of them with wives and children. It didn’t mean what it had once meant to him . . . the priest, the marshal, the local magistrate. ‘Other people’s dads make stacks of money . . .’ Was that all it came down to? Totò—but he didn’t want to think about that. He picked up the phone again.

‘Ferrini.’

Thank goodness for that. ‘Guarnaccia speaking. Come over to Pitti, will you? I need to talk to you.’

‘To Pitti?’ There was an uncomfortable silence before he went on. ‘I . . . well, I’d better ask the Captain . . .’

‘Ask . . . What do you mean? You’re still on this case with me, aren’t you—they haven’t replaced you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, then?’

‘They haven’t replaced me but I’ve been taken off it, even so. Surely you expected—Once Peppina was inside. I imagine the Prosecutor thought you didn’t need extra help any more, so . . . If you like I’ll talk to the Captain, but I don’t think—’

‘I’ll talk to him myself.’

He had dialled again and the number was ringing when he put a finger on the receiver rest to stop it. He ought to think first, have his story ready. Ferrini was right, as usual. He should have expected it. As far as the Prosecutor was concerned, the case was virtually solved. Peppina was inside. A charge had been brought and the search was off. What need had he officially for Ferrini?

He sat there for over five minutes, staring at the map of his Quarter on the wall facing his desk, trying to think of a story, his finger still parked on the receiver rest. Then he let go and dialled. He hadn’t thought of anything and he never would, not if he sat there until tomorrow. Thinking wasn’t his strong point, he wasn’t equipped for it. You needed brains, and the one who had the brains was the Captain. The number rang.

‘Maestrangelo.’

‘Captain, Guarnaccia speaking.’

‘Ah, Marshal. Everything going all right?’

‘No.’

‘Oh . . .’

‘Hmph! No, sir. I need Ferrini.’ Well, there was no point in beating about the bush. He had to have what he needed and the Captain must get it for him. That was all there was to it.’

‘Ferrini . . . one of the two men I put on the case with you . . .’

‘I just want Ferrini.’

‘The Public Prosecutor gave me to understand that the case was—’

‘Yes, sir. He’s brought a charge.’

‘And you’re still as unconvinced. Guarnaccia, remember what I said to you earlier.’

‘Yes, sir. That’s what settled it. I mean, I had my doubts before but it was what you said about it being a cold-blooded killing. It must have been carefully planned and carried out over a period of some hours at least, maybe two days. Peppina’s unbalanced, hot-tempered, impulsive.’

‘I said all that? You don’t have some other suspect up your sleeve, by any chance?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know where he is.’

‘Not the mythical witness, I hope?’

‘No. But I want to find him, too. The man I’m after had a serious grudge against Lulu. Blackmail. It may well have ruined his life.’

‘In that case— Have you informed the Prosecutor?’

‘I’d rather find the man first, otherwise . . .’ There was no need to go on. He knew the Captain’s feeling about the anomalous function of the Prosecutor who was meant to act as an impartial judge during the inquiry and then to appear in court for the prosecution. He wasn’t going to kill himself looking for a witness who would demolish his court case. They would have to present him with an alternative to Peppina before he’d move. He waited, letting the Captain chew this over before adding, ‘You chose a good man in Ferrini. Give him back to me and I’ll find this man.’

‘All right, Guarnaccia. I’ll call the Prosecutor now and see what I can do.’

‘You won’t—’

‘Leave it to me. I’ll tell him you’re overworked over there already and that you’ve never run a case on your own—well, anyway, I’ll think of something.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll call you back.’

And the Marshal stared at the map on the wall for another seven minutes. When the Captain called back with the good news he ended with a word of warning.

‘Just one thing, Guarnaccia: it’s just as well that you’re the blue-eyed boy with the Prosecutor for the moment, but from now on you’re on your own. Whatever you’re up to I don’t know about it.’

‘Yes, sir. I understand.’

‘And good luck.’

‘Thanks.’

He no longer stared at the map while he waited. Instead, he went through the autopsy report again. He was halfway through when Ferrini knocked and walked in.

‘Got it, sir!’ Bruno’s eyes were alight when he burst in on them.

‘Don’t call me sir.’

‘Sorry, Marshal. But what a piece of luck!’

‘We could do with some of that,’ remarked Ferrini.

‘You found him?’

‘Better than that! Here’s his taxi number and the name—he picked up Peppina at the trattoria at eleven-forty that night. Here’s the record of the call. He took him to his usual place down the park, as you said.’

‘How can he be so sure it was Peppina? This just records the time and the run.’

‘That’s not all, sir—Marshal! He gave me this.’ Bruno offered the Marshal a small slip of paper. ‘Peppina was broke after the restaurant bill and couldn’t pay. The driver filled this out—Peppina should have a copy— anyway, he never got paid but wasn’t too worried. He said it happened all the time but they always pay up when they’re in funds. He was just biding his time until he picked him up again.’

‘Only we picked him up instead,’ Ferrini said. ‘What a half-wit not to realize he had the makings of an alibi.’

‘Anything else you want me to do, Marshal?’

‘No—Yes. Take this package of medicine over to Borgo Ognissanti and see it’s given to the man in the cells. Take some cigarettes, too.’

When he’d gone they looked at each other.

‘It looks as though you might be right,’ Ferrini said.

‘It doesn’t much matter,’ the Marshal pointed out, ‘whether I am or not. Peppina’s not off the hook yet but if he did it, well, he’s inside and nothing lost. So let’s say he didn’t. Let’s say he’s telling the truth—and can you imagine anybody preparing a story like his beforehand and leaving out this slip of paper?’

‘Or even cleaning that bathroom so nicely?’ Ferrini grinned. ‘All right. I’m with you. But the timing of it . . .’

‘Yes, that’s the trouble.’

‘Let’s go back over it—assuming Peppina’s story’s true. Somewhere around midnight he was in the flat with Nanny and there doesn’t seem to have been a dead body floating about, so it either happened long before and Professor Forli’s losing his grip, or afterwards.’

‘Afterwards . . .’ The Marshal thought a bit and then said, ‘If it was afterwards—even the meal.’

‘Could have been. They eat at all hours, not your nine-to-fivers.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Menu,’ announced Ferrini, taking up the report on the contents of Lulu’s stomach: ‘fried chicken breast, salad, bread, shop-bought chocolate ice-cream cake, red wine, sleeping pill. Lovely!’

‘But before . . . If Lulu didn’t leave for Spain but Nanny thought differently . . .’

‘You can’t be sure of that—are we believing
everything
Peppina says?’

‘I don’t know. Yes. For the moment, yes.’

‘Well, one of the things he says is that Nanny’s stuff was all over the bedroom, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘So if it’s true he said he was going home when he left Peppina in the park—well, we didn’t find any men’s stuff.’

‘He’d have gone back . . .’

‘And I wonder what he found? Lulu? Lulu plus pal from Milan? A dinner party? A corpse?’

‘He could have disturbed the murderer, it’s true.’

‘Who ran off and came back with his saw in the morning! I hope you’re not thinking of telling the Prosecutor all this. We’d both get transferred to Palermo.’

‘No,’ the Marshal said, ‘I’m not telling him anything, not yet . . . They should call me from Milan . . .’

They called. Ferrini watched the Marshal’s face as he answered, but as always it was expressionless and told him nothing. So he listened, his face puzzled.

‘Speaking . . . Yes. Good—the address? I see . . . I see. No, I hadn’t thought of it but . . . Wait—when exactly? I see. No, there’s no point. Leave it at that. Thanks.’

The Marshal replaced the receiver and rubbed a hand over his still expressionless face.

‘Moved, has he?’ Ferrini’s voice had a touch of impatience at the Marshal’s slowness. ‘Left the country?’

‘No, no . . .’ He slumped back in his chair. ‘A road accident almost a year ago. Who knows? Maybe he was driving home from here after the upset with Lulu. It happened on the motorway. Anyway, he’s dead.’

‘Dead . . . Well, that’s that, then.’

‘Yes.’

‘What are you going to do now?’

‘Find Nanny.’ The Marshal stood up. ‘We’ll set off now. And I hope you’ve got a raincoat.’

They took with them Ferrini’s list of all the transsexuals in the city. All two hundred and odd of them.

They woke them from their drugged daytime sleep, bleary-eyed and sullen, unable to talk or even to listen until they’d had a coffee, a cigarette, a glass of sugared water. They felt too tired, too sickly or too muddle-headed to remember. The questions were always the same.

Do you know the man they call Nanny?

Do you know his real name?

Even just his first name?

How tall is he? Taller than me? Than Ferrini?

They interrupted them at their toilette, dressing-gowns pulled around exotic underwear, white lace, black chiffon, red satin. They did their best but were in a hurry and had to carry on, listening as they peered and preened, brushed and painted and sprayed, answering in monosyllables or with only a shrug.

Did he have any distinguishing marks?

A prominent mole, a birthmark, a tattoo?

Did he have a Florentine accent?

Any accent at all?

Any speech impediment?

Later, when they began to find nobody at home, they went to the four or five trattorie where they met to eat in little groups, interrupting them as they wound their spaghetti, poured more wine, stubbed out cigarettes, sometimes in full ashtrays, sometimes in the remains of food they couldn’t get down. They gave what answers they could, disputing among themselves or with enemy groups at other tables, their gaudy clothes and masculine voices attracting amused attention from dining couples and families.

Did he go with anyone else besides Carla and then Lulu? Have you seen him around recently?

When?

Before Lulu’s death or after?

In the daytime or only at night?

Later still, after seeing so much food, Ferrini suggested eating and supposed that the Marshal would prefer to go home and meet later. The Marshal, to his surprise, didn’t want to go home. They ate together in a smallish place that was about to close, where one waiter served them grudgingly and another started stacking chairs and sweeping before they’d finished. Their clothes were soaked, as Ferrini pointed out, and he asked where they were going next, hoping he’d say ‘home’.

‘To the Cascine.’ And they set out again in the rain.

They approached them under dripping trees in the shadows and under umbrellas beneath the white-globed lamps. They stopped them getting into cars and were waiting for them when they got out.

Did you get the impression he was rich?

From his clothes, his car?

What make of car was it? What colour?

Was it a Florentine number plate?

Only when the rain was falling on the deserted wet black avenues of the park did they give up and go home. All they had found out, after questioning almost seventy people, was that Nanny’s car, which was large and expensive and either beige or red or dark blue or black, might have had a Florentine number. Ferrini had caught a cold.

After three days of unrelenting rain, when the Arno was boiling angrily through the city and people were pausing to glance at the danger level marked under the Santa Trinita bridge, Ferrini’s cold developed into Chinese ’flu and the Marshal had eaten no meal except breakfast at home.

‘There are only nineteen of them left,’ Ferrini said, swilling down two more aspirins and consulting the list on the Marshal’s desk. He’d made a tentative suggestion the day before that it might be worth trying to get the Prosecutor’s approval of what they were doing so that they could officially haul the remaining transsexuals into the barracks and save themselves time and energy.

The Marshal had said no. He didn’t give any explanation, knowing that Ferrini would assume he wanted to avoid annoying the Prosecutor. Perhaps that was even partly the case. But at the back of his mind were the words one of them, he couldn’t remember who, had shouted at Ferrini that first night.
‘If a nun gets murdered
do you break into the convent at three in the morning and drag
the other nuns round here for a going-over?’