'Eh? What does that mean?'
'Well, she went to Berti every day, so if one day she gets off the bus and goes to Moretti's without bothering to cross the road and tell him so, even though his car's there . . .'
'He'd have known already, of course. Obviously, Moretti was getting ready to fire and Berti was going to take his stuff there so he'd be the one . . .'
'To tell her she could go there.'
'He'd have told her Friday. It's obvious.'
'I expect you're right.'
'Of course I'm right. But he should have told us! I can't do with people who waste my time.'
'Can I park here?'
'Fine, fine. Man must think I was born yesterday.'
The Marshal parked the car.
The wave of heat and good smells of roasting meat which greeted them as they pushed open the glass door was as welcome and comforting as it had been the day before, but the Marshal had a feeling that the noise of conversation in the big dining-room was louder and more agitated than he remembered it. Whether that was true or not, there was no doubt that on Niccolini's first loud "How do you do?" it dropped suddenly and petered away into nothing within seconds, leaving his greeting hanging in the air. A colour television set at the end of the room was giving out the lunch-time news. The Marshal hadn't noticed it on his first visit though it was probably on every day, but now the newscaster's voice was clearly audible above the sound of cutlery and the crackle of the kitchen fire.
Tozzi came hurrying towards them between the rows of tables with their chequered cloths, an anxious smile fixed on his face.
'There's a table coming free in a minute or so next door if you . . .'
'Don't bother,' Niccolini interrupted, 'we'll be fine here at my usual place.' And he sat himself down facing the television.
The Marshal sat down opposite him, aware that every pair of eyes in the big room was fixed on them. Tozzi went off and didn't come back. A small boy in a white apron which was much too big for him came to take their order, and little by little the conversation around them was resumed, but in subdued tones. The newscaster could still be heard and the Marshal turned and stared at the scenes from some foreign war without following what was going on. When they were served Niccolini ate a dish of spaghetti with a show of appetite and enthusiasm, but the Marshal knew he was upset. It must have been the first time he had walked into that room without almost everyone in it greeting him cheerily. And the Marshal was willing to bet it was also the first time that he hadn't gone straight to the kitchen to lift the lids of the big pans to see what good things were cooking and then warm himself at the fire, chattering to everyone around him. His own feelings of annoyance gave way to one of distress on behalf of this once-cheerful giant of a man who found himself all of a sudden in a situation he couldn't cope with. Coming as he did from a very small town in Sicily, the Marshal was familiar enough with these sullen silences which often had little or no personal ill-will in them and which, once past, were forgotten as if they'd never happened. But Niccolini was a city man, a Roman, who had probably never encountered such united hostility in his life, and his character being so exuberant and sociable, he was bound to take it all the harder. On top of which he was probably wishing that at least he had one of his own men with him, perhaps the young brigadier he had mentioned with whom he usually ate, instead of a stranger who had been planted on him against his will.
The Marshal watched him sympathetically but Niccolini avoided his eyes. He was affecting to hum a tune to himself and studying the menu intensely as though he had never eaten here before and didn't know the dishes of each day by heart. The best thing would be to say something, start up a conversation which would at least fill the silence at their table, but try as he might the Marshal couldn't think of anything to say. The arrival of their second course was a welcome distraction, but it would have been so much better if Tozzi had served them himself and passed a word or two with them. There wasn't much hope of starting up a conversation with this fourteen-year-old boy with thin red hands and the enormous apron, and all the Marshal got out was a mumbled 'Thank you'.
Then a group of Moretti's workmen came in and once again the noise level dropped perceptibly. They took the only free table which was just inside the door, so that they never came into Niccolini's line of vision. Nevertheless, he noticed the change of atmosphere and followed the Marshal's glance.
'Who is it?'
'Moretti's men.'
'Anybody speak to them?'
'Not at first, but one of them's just turned round to talk to somebody at the next table. They look to be arguing, though . . .'
'Hear anything of what they're saying?'
'Nothing.' The general conversation had resumed, and with that, the television and the noise from the kitchen it was impossible to pick up a word from so far away.
'Moretti's not with them,' the Marshal added.
'Never is. He and his brother eat at home, except when Moretti brings a customer here. Are they still arguing?'
'Yes. It's one of the throwers, I don't know his name ..."
By this time the thrower was well aware of the Marshal's watching him and he deliberately raised his voice to make himself heard, though still talking to the same man at the next table.
The Marshal couldn't make the remark out, even so; all he heard clearly was the word 'foreigner' spoken in a tone of loud disgust. He could guess the import well enough, that everybody's life was being disturbed by some foreigner having got herself killed, someone who had nothing to do with them and so didn't count. It fitted in well enough with their general attitude to outsiders.
'Have some of this spinach,' said Niccolini suddenly, reaching over with a loaded spoon.
The Marshal opened his mouth to protest that he wasn't at all fond of spinach, but realized in time that if Niccolini had begun feeding him again the spoonful of bitter greens was worth more than its face value.
'Thanks.'
A trolley with a huge bowlful of tagliatelli on it rolled past the Marshal and stopped. Tozzi stood looking down at them.
'Everything to your satisfaction, gentlemen?'
'Fine, fine,' Niccolini answered.
'A bad business, this, about the girl.'
'That's right,' said Niccolini, 'a bad business.'
'Bad for everybody. In a small place like this . . . You mustn't mind the lads being a bit restrictive . . .'
'I must n't?'
'What I mean is, there's no cause to take it personally. People round here have a tendency to stick together and bury their differences when there's trouble from . . .'
'From outsiders?'
'You know how it is.'
I'm beginning to.'
'It was the same during the war.'
'This isn't a war. An innocent girl got herself brutally murdered and nobody in this town gives a damn as far as lean make out!'
'That's not necessarily true. Nobody wants trouble, that's all.'
'Well, they've got it. And what's more they'll go on having it until I put that murderer away. If you like, you can tell them that from me because I reckon that every one of Moretti's men knows who killed that girl as sure as they know they're going to eat that pasta- and maybe you'd better serve it to them before it goes cold.'
'Look, if I've spoken out of turn I beg your pardon. It's just that I know these men and you haven't been here long enough to understand ... In short, I was trying to be helpful.'
'If you want to be helpful you just give them that message from me . . . and maybe bring us a sweet since we've finished here.'
'I'll send the boy.'
As Tozzi pushed his trolley towards Moretti's men Niccolini met the Marshal's big expressionless eyes.
'You don't need to tell me. I shouldn't have been so sharp with him.'
The Marshal said nothing.
'It's true, we seem to have made enough enemies as it is without creating more ill-feeling. I can see you disapprove.'
The Marshal said n
othing.
'I just can't do with the way these people think they can make a fool of me.'
'As far as that's concerned,' said the Marshal slowly, I'm inclined to agree with Tozzi. I don't think you should take it so personally.'
'Oh, all right, I know it's not me as a person. If you like it's my uniform they're ignoring. Let's say I'm taking it personally on behalf of the army.'
'Well, I wouldn't bother.' The Marshal remained placid. 'I think the army will survive it.'
Niccolini's face broke into a grin. 'You're right! Why should I bother?' He laughed, 'What a fool I am! Every time I lose my temper I look at myself in the mirror and say, "Niccolini, you're a damn fool! Why should you bother?" I should be more like you and take things calmly. I bet it takes a lot to make you lose your temper. No, no, you're right. We'll take things calmly. Sooner or later we're bound to find out who's responsible for this business.'
'If it comes to that,' the Marshal said, 'I'd be happier if we found out sooner rather than later.' He was looking past Niccolini to where Moretti's men were eating.
'You don't think ..."
'That they'd take the law into their own hands? Yes, I do. I think it's just a question of time and that they're working themselves up to it. It's been at the back of my mind since this morning when we interrupted that fight between Moretti and Sestini, but it struck me even more just now when Tozzi mentioned the war. I imagine there were a good few scores settled on the quiet here once the fascists were out.'
'No doubt, no doubt. But then that happened everywhere.'
'Yes. But in the cities it was often a case of lining anybody in a black shirt up against a wall, regardless. In the villages it was a bit different, more personal and a lot less hysterical. You see what I mean?'
'Well, I do . . . but no! The climate was different then. In all that chaos people could get away with anything and they did. No, no. I see what you mean - that may be the way feeling runs, but let's not exaggerate. They can't imagine they'd get away with anything like that now.'
'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 ra
ther 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.
The Marshal and the Murderer Page 8