The Marshal and the Murderer

by Magdalen Nabb

  'All I can say is, thank God you're here.' But it was Niccolini who had spoken.

  'Me . . .?'

  'If you hadn't thought about putting a guard on Moretti'splace . . .'

  The Marshal didn't answer. The truth was he'd forgotten all about it.

  'I'm worried, I don't mind telling you - come on, come on, put your foot down or move over! We just had to pick the moment when everybody and his dog's going home to lunch! I don't like it. I don't like it. You realize that everybody in this town knows what we've just found out? There could be mischief. You're not saying anything. You think I'm exaggerating?"

  'No, no . . .'

  'Well, you're keeping very quiet. What's the matter with you?' He glanced sideways. 'You look like a broody hen.'

  'What?'

  'You look like my wife used to look when she was nine months pregnant. Well, all I can hope is that you're brooding over some blinding idea that will solve this little lot for us.'

  'I never have ideas.'

  'Well, something's up by the look of you. I suppose you're upset by this war business. He can certainly ramble on, can Frasinelli. I must say, though, he made an impression. Funny how often you hear that sort of thing in a general way and think nothing of it. You know what I mean - somebody lets drop some remark, "So-and-so was killed by the Germans during the war, so-and-so came back from the war and found his wife pregnant by an enemy soldier," and it doesn't mean a thing, just washes over you. I suppose we were too young. But this business . . . well, it's different when you know the people. All I can say is, I'm glad Moretti has the alibi he has ... Now, this bridge, for instance.' (They were crossing the bridge that led to the town square, with its bright yellow metal railings.) 'Somebody must have told me once that it had been bombed and this new one built after the war, since I know that's the case, and I never gave it a thought at the time, but maybe it was the bad-tempered sergeant and his men who blew it up as they left - Oh! Will you look at that imbecile! That's right, throw your hands up in despair because you can't back up now that all the imbeciles behind have followed you. Bravo! You've blocked the entire square and we can't turn left! The trouble with this country is that it's a mass of anarchists and improvisors governed by bandits. They're moving, thank goodness. But then, when you think of the Germans, maybe we're better off as we are. I like to think I'm not prejudiced but when you start thinking . . . Frasinelli's right. I'm thankful Moretti has an alibi. I wouldn't like to test myself on this prejudice business . . .'

  After a moment the Marshal said, "We know he has an alibi.'

  And Niccolini accelerated even more.

  'You think like I do, then, that there could be mischief. That stuff painted on his wall, that was nasty. Even so, you can understand it, knowing what his father was, whichever one of them was his father. You know what they say, blood will tell . . . Well, he has his alibi and that's that.'

  They were out of the town centre and speeding past rows of pots and stacks of tiles and drains when the Marshal made his next remark almost absentmindedly since his head was still full of those jostling images.

  'Whose car were they in?'

  'Eh?'

  'Whose car were they in? Moretti and his clients. They were driving around together looking at other factories you said. I wouldn't have thought they'd have taken both his car and theirs . . .'

  'I didn't ask. Why?'

  'Because if they took only one . . . when they'd eaten they must have had to go back to the factory before parting company. That's where they set out from . . . Either the clients or Moretti himself had a car to pick up.'

  'Good God! And I never even thought to ask. We're here. Of all the damnfool things, not to think of that. If he came back here right after his lunch -well, that's the first thing to do, ask him. He can't lie to me because I can check up with the clients. Come on!'

  He had swung the driver's door open but the Marshal's hand was on his arm.

  'Wait.'

  'What is it? What's the matter?'

  'Wait. Something's wrong.'

  'All we have to do is ask him. If they took both cars he's in the clear.'

  But the Marshal was staring up at the terrace of the factory, not listening.

  'Wait there.'

  He got out and looked around. The truck was still parked below the terrace wall, filled with pots with straw packed around them. One big red jar was standing on the wall itself as though there hadn't been room for it. Except for the absence of the men who had been loading the truck and the presence of the carabinieri van parked in front of it everything was as it had been when he'd driven past early that morning. He walked forward and said a word to the two boys in the van, who shrugged and shook their heads. He returned to the car where Niccolini was peering forward, frowning.

  'Are you going to tell me? What's up?'

  'I don't know. Turn round a minute and stop in front of Robiglio's house.'

  Niccolini was too surprised and bemused to protest. They drew up at the gates of Robiglio's house.

  'Well?'

  There was no one in sight, no face at the window this time, but a white Mercedes was parked in front of the house.

  'Is that his car, his only car?'

  'No, he has a little runabout mostly used by the maid to do the shopping.'

  The Marshal got out and rang the bell beside the gates, stooping a little to put his ear to the speaker below it.

  'Yes?'

  'Is Signor Robiglio at home?'

  'Yes. Who shall I say?'

  'Never mind.'

  He straightened up and got back in the car. At the end of the drive they saw the maid open the front door and look in the direction of the gate.

  'He's still here,' the Marshal said. 'He made such a point of saying he was leaving for Switzerland this morning and he hasn't gone.'

  'Changed his mind,' suggested Niccolini, 'or been delayed.'

  'That truck outside Moretti's was as good as packed when I came past this morning, three and a half hours ago. That hasn't gone either.'

  'And what does that all mean?'

  'I don't know. Go back to Moretti's.'

  The Marshal offered no explanations and his face was expressionless behind the sunglasses. A few seconds later they were again parked behind the truck.

  'Are we going in?' Niccolini had lost his ebullience in the face of this new version of Guarnaccia. He didn't even protest when he got no answer. They sat where they were with the traffic roaring past.

  After a while the Marshal sighed and murmured to himself, T don't know . . .'

  'What are we going to do?' Niccolini was tapping the steering-wheel again.

  'Wait, I suppose . . .'

  'Wait for what? We can't sit here

  'Wait for what? We can't sit here for the rest of the day!'

  But they hadn't been waiting long when Moretti showed himself on the terrace above them. He remained there staring down for only a few seconds but the Marshal was glad of the chance to take a fresh look at him, seeking to reconcile his idea of the undersized but over-mature orphan of the past with the harassed and defensive man of the present. It wasn't difficult, even in the short time before he vanished again and the terrace was once more deserted except for the tall, big-bellied pot that seemed to be standing guard on the wall.

  The Marshal looked about him. On his left the high black wall of the railway line. To his right the factory and behind it an open field with the sherd ruck. He frowned.

  'Is there some place at a short distance from where we can keep a watch on this place?'

  Niccolini, too, looked about him but came to the same conclusion as the Marshal had done. If you mean a place where we can watch without being seen, no.'

  'Hmm. And Robiglio's place?'

  'Robiglio's. But what . . .'

  'Can we keep a watch on that without being seen?'

  'Maybe we could from Via del Fosso-'

  'Signal to your lads to follow us.'

  Niccolini turned the
car, seeking an opening in the traffic, and sounded his horn as soon as he could see the van parked beyond the truck. The opening came and both vehicles moved out, turned, and drove past the big gates.

  Via del Fosso was a narrow lane leading off to the right, quite a distance beyond Robiglio's house, but it soon began to curve back and climb. They had to stop two or three times before finding a vantage-point which allowed them to see both the back of the house and the front gates.

  'That do you?' inquired Niccolini.

  'Yes, but take the cars further on and walk back. He's no fool and might spot something even at this distance.'

  The Marshal stayed where he was while they concealed the cars, leaning forward a little, his big hands planted wide apart on a low stone wall. Robiglio's house, seen from above, looked rather bigger than he had judged from the facade. He looked at the busy road that passed in front of it and at the electric railway line curving away behind it towards the town. Between the two there was room for a biggish garden and a narrow field.

  'Even so,' murmured the Marshal to himself, 'it's not much of a situation for a house of that sort.' It was true that both the road and the railway had obviously been built long after the house.

  'And then maybe he'd have trouble selling it just because of that. Still, it's not where I'd choose to live if I had his money, with or without seven lavatories. What a thing to be known for . . . that and fascism.'

  'Have a piece of chocolate.' Niccolini had returned and had joined him by the wall.

  'Chocolate?'

  'Engine can't run without petrol. We haven't eaten all day and though I don't pretend to know what you've got in mind, it doesn't look to me like we're ever going to eat. Here. I always keep a supply in the car. You never know when famine will set in. I've given my lads a block each, they're waiting in the van. Now: what about letting me in on the secret. What's going on?'

  'I don't know. I've just got a feeling that something should be going on and that we put a stopper on it by having your lads guard Moretti's place all day. I suppose there's nothing to stop anyone loading a truck and leaving it hanging about . . . but Robiglio's hanging about too. They're waiting for something and I just thought maybe they could be waiting for us to be off the scene.'

  'And now we are.'

  'Yes, now we are. There's something going on between those two, as Dr Frasinelli rightly judged. Something that doesn't suit Moretti or he wouldn't have wanted to make use of that letter . . . There he is.

  The Marshal took off his dark glasses and peered down, blinking.

  'Maybe your eyesight's better than mine . . .'

  'It's him, all right. Even at this distance I can recognize the way he moves. See him pause at the gates? He's having a good look to make sure we've really gone. What now?'

  'We'll go down there, taking our time.'

  The Marshal had to repeat the last part of this remark more than once as they made their way down to the main road because Niccolini kept speeding up from fear of what they might miss, and in the end the Marshal ceased exhorting him to slow down, infected by his anxiety and afraid that after all he might have judged the timing badly.

  He wasn't sure what exactly he was hoping for, except that perhaps if the two men were closeted in Moretti's office they might overhear something useful. In that he was disappointed. The two men were outside on the terrace above the loaded truck, but they were so deep in a furious argument that they didn't immediately distinguish the noise of the cars drawing up from that of the heavy traffic on the road. The Marshal was out of the car even before Niccolini and in time to hear Moretti's hysterical voice scream out:

  'I can't go through with it! I'm in enough trouble already and you can't make me go on. You can't touch me without incriminating yourself!'

  'I'll do more than touch you, I'll wipe you out, you and your dirty little factory both!'

  The four uniformed men ran up the steps on to the terrace and Niccolini was shouting something, but the two adversaries, whether they noticed or not, were too far gone in their anger to stop themselves, despite the obvious danger, of so public a quarrel.

  'Try it!' shrieked little Moretti, his face as red as the stains on his ragged clothes and his thin chest heaving. 'Try it and you'll be sorry!'

  'Don't delude yourself! A man in my position has nothing to fear from a nobody like you!'

  They faced each other squarely as if ready for a fist fight. Between them, on their right, the big-bellied pot stood on the low wall. It had a splash of white glaze on its rim and the Marshal noticed it, thinking of Berti and his white-glazed plates.

  'If he sees as much as one spot of glaze on any of his stuff. . .'

  He thought maybe that was why it hadn't been packed with the others, but there was no time to think any further because his view of the pot was blocked by Niccolini who had insinuated himself between the two quarrelling men.

  'That'll be enough of that!'

  His two lads were flanking Moretti, though without touching his body which was quivering like a live wire. All their eyes were fixed on the slight, red-stained figure and it was a brutal shock when it was Robiglio who burst the group apart, flinging his arms wide in fury.

  'Out of my way, blast you! What the devil is this?'

  Niccolini, despite his bulk, was thrown sideways while Robiglio's right arm caught the rim of the huge pot and sent it crashing down on to the stack in the truck below. Red sherds flew in all directions and one sharp piece bounced upwards gashing Moretti's cheek. Niccolini recovered his balance quickly and laid a heavy hand on Robiglio's shoulder, but it was brusquely shaken off.

  'How dare you lay a hand on me! You'll be hearing from my lawyers!'

  'Oh yes? You've got the right idea there, you'll be needing your lawyers before this day's out. In the car, both of you. We're going to talk this over in my office.'

  'We're going to do nothing of the sort!'

  'No? Well, please yourself. Either you come with me quietly or you come with me under arrest for unlawful assault, wilful damage to the property of Moretti here and outrage to a public official. Suit yourself, but make your mind up. Well?'

  The Marshal, observing in silence a few paces away, decided he wouldn't like to be the one to cross Niccolini. His colleague's eyes were glittering dangerously and the veins of his temples were swollen with anger. Perhaps Robiglio came to the same conclusion, because after a few more protests, designed to preserve his dignity rather than to be taken seriously, the group began to move off Moretti was holding a stained handkerchief to his cheek which was bleeding heavily. The Marshal stood back to let them pass, but at the top of the steps Moretti hesitated and turned to look back at the factory.

  'I can't ... I can't just go off like that. . . I'll have to tell my brother. Someone has to see to things here . . .'

  'Go with him,' Niccolini ordered one of his lads, 'and don't let him out of your sight.'

  The rest of them went on down.

  As a matter of course, Robiglio and the boy escorting him approached Niccolini's car. But Niccolini jerked a thumb towards the van.

  'Put him in the back and stay with him.'

  'He won't like that,' murmured the Marshal as he got into the car.

  'So he can lump it.' Niccolini had calmed down as suddenly as he had flared up. Now he winked. 'Had too comfortable a life, our friend. He can rough it for once. We'll take Moretti with us.'

  Moretti came down the steps with the young carabiniere at his heels. Once they were in the car and moving off with the van turning in their wake, the Marshal sensed so strongly the silent tension of Moretti behind him that he couldn't help remembering Dr Frasinelli's account of the child's first outing from the villa, of how he had sat mute and trembling, staring straight ahead.

  Was that what made the Marshal turn in his seat. It was true that he glanced at Moretti but he looked back at the factory too, at where the solitary pot had stood on the wall, at the ramshackle building beyond, and then at the tall chimney whose top
came into view as the distance increased.

  'Firing again . . .'he murmured, seeing a rising curl of smoke and he gazed again at Moretti whose eyes seemed in that moment to become glassy and sightless. Then they were thrown forward as Niccolini slammed his foot on the brake. The van almost rammed them from behind. A series of angry horns sounded in response to the blocked road but Niccolini jumped out and held up his hand.

  'Guarnaccia! Come with me!' He paused a moment to yank open the rear door and thrust his face in at the young carabiniere who stared up at him in amazement.

  'I told you not to let him out of your sight!'

  'But I didn't. He just spoke to his brother like he said' 'And told him to light the kiln?'

  'Yes . . .'

  'Guarnaccia!'

  They had to stop the traffic coming the other way too, so they could make a dash for the other side of the road. It would have taken longer to turn the car. They ran back, thudding heavily along in silence, the Marshal panting in Niccolini's wake, only catching him up on the steps of the terrace.

  There was no one in the kiln room and no time to waste finding any one. Niccolini turned off all the gas taps he could see and began dismantling the bricked-up door with his gloved hands. The bricks hadn't been cemented up with clay and they were barely warm.

  'Firing again! He hasn't a damn thing ready to fire except what he wants to hide. Get some water!'

  There was no tap in the room and the Marshal hurried next door in the hope of finding a sink. There sat the silent man who worked alone turning at his wheel, feet buried in the dark red parings. He might never have moved since the Marshal had last passed through. He didn't move now but followed the Marshal with his eyes without pausing in his work.

  'Hurry up!' Niccolini's big voice echoed in the high rooms.

  The only bucket the Marshal could find had red slurry in the bottom of it, but he dashed water into it anyway and hauled it back to the kiln room. Niccolini grasped it and tossed the water through the hole he'd made, coughing at the smoke and steam that issued from it.