The Marshal's Own Case (18 page)

He only looked confused and didn’t speak.

‘You’ll be tried. It’ll be in all the papers. I’m sure your wife and your mother will do all they can to protect your little girl, but sooner or later she’ll find out. Fossi, do you understand what I’m saying to you? I have to arrest you.’

The tired eyes stared back at him without expression. The Marshal looked at the gun still lying on the floor.

‘I’m going outside for a moment,’ he said, ‘and then I’m coming back in with my men.’

He turned and walked out through the little theatre and opened the broken door. Ferrini was waiting with Lorenzini and young Bruno, the three of them huddled as close to the building as possible in a hopeless attempt to shelter from the beating rain.

‘You can come in,’ he told them.

Ten

‘S
weet Jesus.’ Ferrini looked into the torchlit room over the Marshal’s broad shoulder.

The Marshal himself said nothing. Both the gun and Nanny were exactly as he had left them. They took him away, Ferrini leading the way out with the torch, the two younger men flanking the handcuffed prisoner. The Marshal retrieved the bag with the clothing and the gun. As they left the darkened room, Nanny hesitated and looked behind him.

‘Lulu . . . ?’

Then he went with them quietly.

When they got out of the car at Borgo Ognissanti they covered Nanny’s shoulders with his jacket. He might have seemed a comic enough figure as they led him along the corridors in his trailing evening gown of sequins showing, in spite of the jacket, a muscular male chest, his men’s black shoes treading heavily, his thin face smeared with make-up. But though a few of the uniformed men they passed turned to stare after them, not one of them, seeing the big drooping hands, the head which sagged as though he no longer knew how to hold it upright, the haunted eyes, seemed inclined to laughter.

For almost three hours people bustled around him, asking questions, photographing him, fingerprinting him, taking him from room to room. He continued silent and quiescent. When they showed him the typed version of his confession he hesitated, unsure what they wanted. When they asked him if he understood what was happening he nodded. When they asked him to read the statement through he stared at it to oblige them. When they asked him to sign it he signed. His hand was shaking. Only once did he interrupt the voices around him to say that he wished to wash his hands. Thinking that he needed to relieve himself, they took him to the lavatory.

When they put the handcuffs back on him and he understood that they were going to lock him up, he searched the faces around him until he found that of the Marshal and asked, ‘Will they let me see her one day, before I die?’

The Marshal understood that he meant his little girl but didn’t know what to answer.

There was still a lot he had to go through. Lawyers, the Instruction, trial and appeal. But throughout it all and throughout the rest of his life until he died in prison, Nanny was never to speak again. Nor was he ever to see his child.

The Marshal arrived home that night to find the house in darkness. He switched on the light in the entrance and stood there in his wet clothes, sick at heart and drooping with tiredness. He had no idea what time it was. The light dazzled his eyes and he felt sore and aching all over. Then the bedroom door opened and Teresa was there, holding her dressing-gown around her.

‘Salva,’ she murmured, her face anxious, ‘I waited up for you.’

He had no words to tell her how grateful he was. It was all he could do to move wearily towards her and reach out.

She held him without speaking until he relaxed his hold. Then she moved back a little to look at him.

‘Salva, your clothes are soaked through . . . Whatever’s happened? You look terrible.’

‘I don’t feel so good,’ he admitted.

‘Have you not eaten all day?’

‘I don’t know . . . No . . . perhaps at lunch-time . . . No, no I haven’t.’

‘Get out of those clothes and then come in the kitchen.’

He did as he was told.

Once in his thick dressing-gown in the still warm kitchen, he sat himself down and let Teresa make a place for him at the table which seemed to be covered in plates and dishes with silver foil over them. He ate everything she gave him hungrily, though he refused wine, and only when he was all but sated did he take notice of the number of elaborate dishes on offer.

Without total conviction he said, ‘It’s not Sunday.’

And she laughed at him and said, ‘Salva, you’re the absolute limit, you really are! It’s your birthday.’

‘Is it?’

‘Why do you think I was so disappointed when you said you wouldn’t be home to lunch? And then I got it all ready again tonight . . . You are a comic. Sit still, I’ve got something to show you.’

She went off to the sitting-room and came back with a rather clumsily wrapped parcel that looked to have more sticky tape than paper in the making of it.

‘You’ve bought me a present?’

‘Open it and see.’

It took him some time to unstick it all and when he’d succeeded he stared in puzzlement at the contents.

‘Its for your desk, to put papers in.’

It was an oblong tray made of thin wood and covered all over with some sort of red, velvet-like paper. Glue had played as heavy a role in the lining as sticky tape had on the parcel. There was an envelope, too, from which he took a brightly-coloured birthday card. Inside it said, ‘Happy birthday from Totò.’

For the first time in days a little smile lit his face.

‘He made it himself? For me?’

‘At school. You can’t imagine how long it took him, he’s so clumsy with his hands.’

‘Like me.’

‘He was so afraid he wouldn’t have it ready in time. He overdid it a bit with the glue.’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a little something for you from me and from Giovanni too, but they can wait until tomorrow when you’re rested. Let’s go to bed.’

When they were settled and the light was out, she sensed that he was lying awake beside her.

‘Can’t you sleep?’

‘I’m all right. I was just thinking . . .’

‘Think tomorrow. You’re worn out.’

‘Yes, but . . . All that time . . .’

‘What?’

‘All the time that Totò was going through . . . He was working on my present . . .’

‘Ever since term began.’

‘And I thought, I really thought, that day he attacked me that he hated me. If you’d seen his face . . .’

‘Salva! He’s only a child. He loves you—if anything, he’s more attached to you than to me, even though Giovanni looks so much more like you . . . It’s funny. It’s because he loves you that he reacted so strongly. He was so upset and a child can’t always sort out the difference between love and hate.’

‘Perhaps adults can’t either . . . And all the time he was making me a tray.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ll never understand people. You . . . Teresa, I wish I’d let you talk to the Luciano woman.’

‘I would have done, if you’d let me. It must have been a terrible shock for her.’

‘It was. Perhaps she didn’t mean the things she said.’

‘What did she say?’

‘It doesn’t matter, now. You’ll call her, will you?’

‘I’ll do it first thing tomorrow. But the boy . . . You should be the one to talk to the boy, Salva. Surely something can be done?’

‘I’ll try.’

She was right, of course. And the boy had come looking for him, frightened, and had been sent away. He’d done everything wrong, clumsy as usual . . . all that glue . . . He was no good with his hands and people were laughing at him as he tried to push them through the grille but they were too big. The cat thrust its head at him, purring, but he was too clumsy to help. He’d used as much glue as he could but where did glue come into it anyway? He must be falling asleep, that’s what it was. He’d have to try again tomorrow.

‘Have you seen the mother?’ Ferrini asked.

‘Just long enough for her to give me a nasty look. She talked to the Prosecutor.’

‘The wife didn’t come?’

‘No. She took the first available plane to Finland with the child.’

‘Can’t say I blame her. Well . . .’ Ferrini pushed his chair back and lit up. ‘I think that’s about it. A case brilliantly solved according to the manual. At least, that’s how it will look to the instructing judge now that we’ve written him a good script.’

Ferrini and the Marshal had completed their reports in a borrowed office at Borgo Ognissanti, working, once again, late into the night. The Marshal was hunched over the mound of papers, looking gloomy.

‘You could be a bit more cheerful. We’ve done a good job.’

‘Sorry. It’s this business of Peppina.’

‘Oh, come on, the worst it can come to is receiving. He’ll get off lightly.’

‘I know—but he’d planned to get out, to give up prostitution, and now . . .’

‘Listen, Marshal, I don’t want to speak out of turn but I don’t think you should give too much credence to what that sort tells you. They’ll all give you hard luck stories and say they want to get out, but believe you me, they never do it, or not more than one in a million. You don’t find that amount of tax-free money working in an office, you know.’

But the Marshal was unmoved. ‘Nobody would have them in an office. Anyway, Peppina was hoping to set up a little fashion business. He’d got as far as signing on to do the exam at the Chamber of Commerce. I talked to him this morning. He’s already scared to death of turning up for the exam even though they’ve no legal excuse to refuse him.’

‘Hm. Well, I admit that if he’s signed on for it that sounds a bit more convincing. Anyway, if you feel that strongly about it why don’t you try getting the Prosecutor to drop the charge? You’ve got him in the palm of your hand right now. He’s had his picture in the paper three days running.’

‘I could try.’

‘Try. After all, it’s thanks to you that the business of the traveller’s cheques has been dropped as far as Carlo Fossi’s concerned.’

‘And rightly so.’

‘Rightly so, if you like, but it could have been pursued.’

‘It would have been useless cruelty. He’s already got so many aggravating circumstances against him, malice aforethought, use of a poison, damage to the corpse. He’s only got one life to spend in prison, and it won’t be a long one either. It seems his mother was telling the truth about his bad heart.’

‘I agree with you. I doubt he’ll ever set foot out of prison except for his trial. But, given the motive, I wouldn’t be surprised if he got very little more than the minimum twenty-one years while if the Prosecutor tried for the profit motive . . . Well, as you say, he’s only got one life—That reminds me, how’s young Bruno?’

‘All right but quieter.’

Bruno, who had been like a kid playing Cowboys and Indians from the day they found Lulu’s remains until the night of the arrest, had grown up apace when stricken by the sight of the criminal he’d been so enthusiastically chasing. A sawn-up body had failed to shock him but the broken travesty of a human being which had once been Carlo Fossi had both moved and frightened him. He was now, as the Marshal said, quieter.

‘I think I will talk to the Prosecutor, if you feel it’s worth it.’

‘I’m sure it’s worth it—but try not to take it too much to heart if it doesn’t come off. They’re not the sort of people you can help because they don’t help themselves. I know a good many of them and the only one with any sense is Carla—but even he doesn’t get out, though he’s been talking about it for years.’

‘It can’t be an easy decision,’ the Marshal pointed out, ‘to have the final operation, especially for someone like Carla who seems to have found some sort of equilibrium at the half-way stage. How can anyone know how they’d feel . . . afterwards.’

‘There’s some truth in that. It’s not the real reason, though, if you ask me. Do you know what I think? I think it’s a sort of arrogance—unconscious maybe, but it’s there. They don’t think they’re something less than a real woman, they think they’re something more because they’ve been brought up in a culture dominated by men and they won’t be in any hurry to give up the three or four extra ounces that entitles them to keep one foot in the winning camp.’

‘You think so?’ The Marshal pondered a moment. ‘It hadn’t crossed my mind, I must admit.’

‘Only an opinion—and you’d better not bring it up with the Prosecutor when you’re making your appeal for Peppina!’

‘I wouldn’t dream—’ But Ferrini was laughing at him.

‘I wasn’t serious. You have to laugh in this job or it gets you down. By the way, there’s a rumour going about . . .’

‘A rumour?’ Was he joking again?

‘About a promotion. Well, don’t tell me if you don’t want to, of course.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘You don’t mean you turned it down?’ Ferrini’s face was incredulous.

The Captain’s face had been equally incredulous.

‘You understand you may never get such a chance again?’

‘Yes.’

It was possible now for a non-commissioned officer to be offered a commission if he showed particular aptitude. The Marshal had not only rejected the idea out of hand, he had appeared positively horrified. The Captain had talked to him at some length but hadn’t succeeded in making him budge an inch.

‘I can understand your reluctance. You have a family and,
of course, you’d have to leave them for some time. Even so . . .’

He found himself, as so often happened with Guarnaccia, talking to a blank wall. The Marshal was glad he understood about not wanting to leave his family after all the years he’d had to wait to have them with him in Florence! He wasn’t going anywhere, not even if they made him a general, never mind a lieutenant. That’s what made him reject the idea out of hand. What horrified him was something else. There was some studying involved, exams! No, no . . .

‘No, no . . .’ he said again, now, shuddering at the thought.

‘You mean you
didn’t
turn it down?’

‘No, I mean I did. I think we’ve finished for tonight, don’t you?’

‘If you say so.’ Ferrini stubbed out his current cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and switched off the desk lamp. He stretched himself and stood up. ‘It’s been a long day.’

‘Yes.’ But there was still something the Marshal had to do. He had to see the Luciano boy and was embarrassed to have to ask Ferrini where he was to be found. Having got the directions, he stood up himself and started getting into his coat, carefully avoiding Ferrini’s cynical glance.

‘A family from my home town . . . You know how it is . . .’

Ferrini made no comment but turned out the main light as they left.

The boy was sitting on a bench under a dark and dripping tree. If the Marshal’s headlights hadn’t picked up his pale, crossed legs he’d have missed him despite the white globes of the nearest lamp. He got out of the car and approached the seated figure.

‘What do you want? I haven’t done anything.’