The Marshal and the Murderer

by Magdalen Nabb

  Just as well he'd managed to phone the Captain before coming over here, though he hadn't been able to tell him much apart from the girl's home address. After all, there was nothing concrete to tell, nothing cut and dried that you could put in a report or even explain on the phone. Not that the Captain expected anything unreasonable.

  'I'm just interested in your impressions at this point . . .'

  Which was all very well, but the Marshal wasn't a great one for explaining things. You needed someone with brains for that sort of thing. Someone with the gift of the gab like this fellow sounding off now . . .

  '. . . Florence at the end of the thirteenth century could in a way be said to have anticipated what, at the end of the seventeen hundreds, five centuries later, was the atmosphere of revolutionary France. The Guilds became republics within the Republic, and the artisans, while having no active part in the government . . .'

  'If you have any ideas, even in a general way . . .'

  But the Marshal never had ideas. His mind was full of images that jostled each other without resolving themselves into anything definite: the hostile gaze of a red-stained man, his feet buried in clay shavings; the silent, smelly little room where Tina's cat warmed itself against a terracotta bowl of ashes; the dreariness of a high black wall in the rain . . . What was the point of trying to explain stuff like that, even if he'd been capable of it? It may well have been to cover his embarrassment that he had said, rather prematurely, he thought on reflection, 'We might need the Fiscal Police . . .'

  'Really? You mean '

  'I don't know, it's nothing definite - I've no proof that there's anything . . . we'd better wait and see.'

  Thank goodness the Captain hadn't insisted but had asked him instead how things were going with Niccolini. That at least was something he could answer.

  'All right, I think, We're getting along. At any rate I get along fine with him and I hope he doesn't mind having me around ... It was a bit difficult at first ..."

  'I'm convinced you'll work well together. Now if you'll give me the girl's home address I'll see about getting in touch with her parents.'

  He wouldn't have been so convinced, thought the Marshal, if he'd seen them that morning. Still, he was right, after all. The Captain was an intelligent man.

  And so, if it came to that, was that young fellow . . . what was his name? Corsari. Hm. Very smooth hands he'd had, and something else ... his ears, that was it. Funny ... he couldn't remember having noticed them at the time but now he could see them as clearly as if they'd been in front of him. Clean and pale and so sharply modelled they might have just come out of a mould. What was it Niccolini had said? You're the sort of person who notices things . . . a fat lot of good that was, noticing things that were irrelevant. Those great moulds of Sestini's up in that damp, freezing room with the rain coming in at a broken window ... he hadn't caught on to what they were, though of course they were in pieces. Must have been drying there above the kiln. Funny how you could see those great big red pots in gardens all over Tuscany and never wonder how on earth they were made . . . That was what the half-empty room smelled of. . . damp plaster, and the rest of the rooms had the clean earthy smell of wet clay. All of it so cold and then the sudden heat of the kiln when they fired . . . That couldn't be very often. Most of the time it must be a pretty uncomfortable place to work, especially in winter, but they were used to it. Not the girl, though. It couldn't have been much fun working in that desolate, ramshackle factory in winter, especially when it was empty. Hadn't he thought that same thing already? No . . . that was to do with Berti's place when he'd thought she surely couldn't have stood out there in the rain waiting - well, she'd found a way round that because there was Tina. Had she found a way round it at Moretti's too? There she didn't even have Berti to drive her into the town to get a hot meal. Berti could have picked her up there, of course, if he'd wanted to . . . but no, Niccolini said she hadn't turned up to eat. Funny that she'd never missed before so that nobody realized she sometimes went to Moretti's. It would have been logical, after all, for Berti to have given her a lift. What other solution could she have found that one day . . . There was Robiglio's house across the way ... He remembered there being a face looking out there too and tried to imagine the pale indistinct figure he had seen, beckoning . . . too far-fetched altogether. Must be something simpler, something more obvious. What if she was killed before lunch? That could be it, in which case Berti did go there and so knew . . . Well, the autopsy would tell. Even so, he felt he was missing something, something that had already crossed his mind right at first, just as it had crossed his mind that if Berti kept his place locked up and wouldn't give her a key . . . No. It was there somewhere but he couldn't grasp it. No doubt it would come back to him when he wasn't trying to remember. At least he could stop at Berti's tomorrow and ask him outright whether he usually picked the girl up and drove her to the restaurant when she was working at Moretti's. He might be a shifty character but the Marshal had a feeling that he wouldn't risk telling a downright lie if he was asked the right question. Had she given him the treatment, the teasing job? Probably she considered him too old to bother with. No doubt the young brigadier would have got the full works if it hadn't been that Niccolini had always been present -and there was an odd business! Niccolini had a head on his shoulders and you'd think he'd have cottoned on to her tricks. Of course, in a way he had, but like young Corsari, he had insisted that it was all very light and charming . . . 'Teases him a bit but nothing out of place.' But something was out of place all right. For one thing it couldn't be true that some man or other hadn't succeeded with her. At that age she must surely have a lover - unless she'd been crossed and was going through a bad patch, taking her revenge. But no, the bitterness would have shown through -and young Corsari would have known by this time, having remained friends with the girls for so long. And since he was so anxious to defend her behaviour he'd have been the first to offer that as an excuse. He was no fool.

  'Well, there's something wrong somewhere . . . must be me that's a fool if I can't see it!'

  'Salval'

  'What?'

  He came to himself with a start and found himself being gazed at reproachfully by a boneless-looking saint with her mouth hanging slightly open. He blinked and looked around him as if the brilliant chandeliers high above him had just been switched on.

  'Salva . . .' murmured his wife, blushing in her embarrassment, 'Whatever's the matter with you? You've been scowling at everybody for the last twenty minutes and now you're talking to yourself . . .'

  'I am? Well, what of it? Nobody can have noticed in all this chaos.'

  'Lots of people noticed. And you haven't so much as glanced at a single painting.'

  If that whey-faced saint with her mouth open was anything to go by the Marshal reckoned he hadn't missed much, but he didn't say so. He made a valiant effort at craning his neck and standing on tiptoe and managed to glimpse a few gilded frames over and around the crowd of people. He hadn't even noticed, to tell the truth, that at some point the long-winded speech had come to an end and he had been carried along with the rest to view the exhibition.

  One good thing was that they had lost the velvet-hatted woman somewhere along the way. After a moment he found that the crowd had pushed them aside and rolled on so that for the first time he had a whole painting before him and no heads in between. He stood still, staring at a curious little figure to the right of it and then let his gaze roll over the rest. If he stopped off at Berti's on the way tomorrow, might it not be wise to have another word with Tina while he was at it? Crazy though she had seemed, such of the things as she had told him that he had been able to check on had turned out to be true. There was no knowing what else-

  'Ah, Marshal! Signora, good evening. Well, Marshal, I see you're admiring the Parmigianino. Lovely, isn't it? A very original work and so modern, of course, for its time.'

  They both shook hands with Dr Biondini and the Marshal's big eyes widened in perplexity.


  'You were quite engrossed in it,' said Biondini, smiling. 'Now I feel guilty for having interrupted you.'

  'Ah . . .' And he turned to the picture again, this time seeing it whole and wondering what he should say. 'Well . . . but isn't it . . . the neck looks a bit on the long side to my way of thinking . . .'He felt his wife's fingers digging into his arm and thought he'd probably said something he shouldn't.

  'Of course!' Biondini laughed. 'You're quite right. In fact it's known as the Madonna with the long neck.'

  His wife's fingers relaxed their grip.

  'I'm afraid it's a terrible squeeze here this evening, but there are some lovely things to eat and drink if you can only get to them - and if you can drag yourself away from the Madonna with the long neck! You certainly do notice things, but then I suppose it's your job, isn't it? You are quite a character!'

  *

  'Oh, Salva, you really are a one, and no mistake!'

  'Who, me?'

  It was almost ten o'clock but what with eating so late after the opening his wife had only just finished clearing away, and sat down beside him on the settee where he was watching television, or pretending to watch it. The film had already started when he'd come in from the kitchen and turned it on and he hadn't the faintest idea what it was about.

  'I give up!'

  He became aware that his wife was knitting with some agitation, stopping every so often to count stitches ferociously. Something was up.

  'What's the matter?'

  'Never mind, if you're too tired to talk about it.'

  'Talk about what?'

  'About what? But if I've tried to tell you once I've tried five times - about the boys having to go right across the city with practically nothing in their stomachs to a gymnasium that's half the size of this room just to run about in the dust. They'd be better off staying at home!'

  'Run about in the dust . . . ?'

  'What else can they do in a room that size? And they call that physical education! If it weren't so far away they could at least have their lunch but with only one hour between that and the last lesson they've no time for more than a sandwich, the buses being what they are. Anyway, I think you should come with me to the meeting.'

  'What meeting?'

  'Oh, Salva! The meeting I'm telling you about if you'll only come back to earth for a minute. It looks better if you come. You haven't once set foot in the school. People will think they haven't got a father.'

  'But everybody round here knows me ..."

  'That's not the point. You should show an interest. It's at six-thirty tomorrow night.'

  'At six-thirty? I won't be here ... at least I don't think so.'

  'You're not going to be out all day again?'

  'Mmm.' She gave out a dramatic sigh and counted some more stitches but that seemed to be the end of the matter. They watched the film in silence for a quarter of an hour before she spoke again.

  'Who's that? That's not his wife . . .'

  'Eh? Whose wife?'

  'His wife. The one we just saw leaving on a plane. The woman we got a glimpse of at the airport was blonde. Wasn't his wife a brunette and taller?'

  'I've no idea.'

  Another dramatic sigh.

  'Your mother was right, God rest her soul. Half the time you're asleep on your feet.'

  'Mmm.'

  They went to bed straight after the news. Before going into their bedroom his wife went in as usual to cover up the youngest boy who always slept sprawled out with the blankets trailing down to the floor. The older boy slept huddled in a heap with his head almost invisible. The Marshal hovered at the door, the expression in his eyes like that of a jealous mother cat, though he didn't go in. Despite his wife's remark about his not taking enough interest, the two plump dark-haired boys were the centre of his existence. It was true that his wife was the one who did everything including giving them a hiding when they'd been up to mischief, but then she would always add, 'If I tell Papa what you've done, you'll get a real hiding!' And they would beg her not to. Naturally, she would tell him on the quiet and he would play up to his menacing image by glaring at them with huge threatening eyes, but the real hiding never happened. He was incapable of laying a finger on them.

  When they were settled in bed and his wife had turned out the lamp he suddenly said in the darkness, 'Maybe it's because I eat too much.'

  'What is?'

  'You said I seem to be asleep on my feet. Maybe I eat too much and that's what makes me dozy.'

  'Don't be ridiculous.'

  'All right.'

  'It's because you've got something on your mind. Is it work?'

  'Perhaps.'

  She didn't insist. He had never got into the habit of talking about work problems with her, in part because he tried not to think about them when the working day was over, which wasn't easy given that they lived in the barracks. But it was also because they had been separated for so long when he had been sent to Florence and she had had to stay with the boys down in Syracuse because there was his sick mother to look after. He had got into the habit of brooding on things by himself. Even so, after a moment he sighed and said, 'You're right. I've got an unpleasant business on my hands . . .'

  'Is that why you've been out so much?'

  'Yes.'

  'Try not to think about it. Get a good night's sleep.'

  Easier said than done. When he did drop off his head was still filled with those same images of the rainy pottery town, and nobody could have been more surprised than he was when he woke feeling refreshed and light as if the whole business had been resolved in the simplest possible terms during the night. If he had dreamed he had no recollection of it and he found it very difficult to come back to the reality of having understood nothing at all and of being back at square one where he had been the day before. Even when he had reminded himself of the fact, the light, confident feeling remained.

  'Well, you certainly look more cheerful this morning,' his wife remarked as he sat down before his big cup of milky coffee and a brioche. 'Did you sleep well?'

  'I must have done . . .' There was no explaining it, and what was more he had the feeling that what was at the bottom of it was that he must have remembered during the night the fact that had eluded him yesterday. Again he was convinced that it was linked to the girl's being locked out in the rain, but if he had indeed remembered during the night he recalled nothing of it now.

  Before leaving, he went into his office to fill in the daily sheet which he hadn't managed to get to the evening before because of the exhibition.

  'Are you going to be out all day again?' Brigadier Lorenzini, though perfectly capable of managing everything in his absence, looked as if he and the lads were being left orphans.

  'I'll get back as early as I can this afternoon.'

  But he wasn't to see his office again for a long time, if only he'd known it. He got into his greatcoat and, after a glance out of the window at the bright wintry weather, fished about in the pockets for his sunglasses and put them on. At the bottom of the stairs he greeted the park-keepers in their office on the ground floor, and came out blinking even behind his dark glasses into the bright day. His battered little car was parked in deep shadow alongside the squad car and the van on the gravel just outside the door. As he got in and started the engine he glanced over the laurel bushes at the glittering marble bell-tower and the red-domed cathedral wreathed in a pale bluish mist and remembered that yesterday should have been his day off. It would have been nice to be free today to take a turn around the peaceful tree-lined paths in the Boboli Gardens here, pausing to look at the goldfish swimming around below the fountain in the green lake, or to sit for a while on a warm stone bench in one of the sunny arbours guarded by white statues of Roman soldiers. He would even have enjoyed a walk in the centre with his wife to look at the elegant shops they would never be able to afford to go into.

  'Well,' he muttered to himself, 'have to wait till you're on your pension. Let's hope at least that th
e weather stays like this even out there . . .'

  If anything, there seemed to be rather more ground mist about once he was on the open road and following the railway line, and he wound up the window which he had left open until then. It seemed a few degrees cooler, though that might have been his imagination. However, the sky remained empty and bright. When he pulled over and parked outside Berti's place the cottage with the pile of junk and plastic bags beside it looked even more dilapidated and dirty in the sunlight than it had in the grey November rain that had softened and camouflaged it.

  There was no other car there and the metal shutter was rolled down covering the door and window of the studio. Before he had even switched off his engine Tina's pale round face appeared behind the small barred window, smiling vacantly, as though she had been expecting him. When he got out and tapped at the door he could hear her shuffling footsteps already approaching and she opened the door to him readily, one eye smiling at him with childish pleasure, the other drifting.

  'Good morning,' began the Marshal, 1 won't come in'

  But she was shuffling away from him, pretending not to hear, and he had no choice but to take off his dark glasses and follow her, holding his breath against the stench in the narrow corridor.

  'You can sit on the chair where you sat before.'

  He could imagine her saying the same thing to the Swiss girl, pathetic in her pleasure at receiving somebody. The house was exactly as it had been, everything severely tidy but nothing looking fresh and clean, though that might have been a psychological effect of the smell.

  'I wanted to ask you about your brother - your brother is Moretti, is that right?'

  'That's right.' Her eyes lit up at the mention of him.

  'Why don't you sit down, too?'

  She pulled another hard chair away from the table and sat down facing him with her hands in her lap like an obedient child.

  'When you go to see him, do you go to his house?'

  She shook her head. 'He hasn't got a house.'

  'I see.' Did he tell her that to keep her off his back? At any rate this wasn't the moment to disillusion her since he seemed to be the only light in her life. 'You go to the factory, then?'