The Marshal and the Murderer Read online

  'I should lie down for a bit, if I were you.' But the hunched figure didn't move.

  Outside in the piazza everything was quiet. The only remaining sign of the disturbance was the placard which still hung around the neck of the partisan's statue, saying: COME DOWN PIETRO MORO WE STILL NEED YOU HERE. No doubt there would be a photograph of it in next morning's paper. The Marshal got into his car and drove off. Niccolini was right, prejudice was a frightening business. Nobody had had anything against Moretti all these years but as soon as he was in trouble everybody remembered his German blood.

  In the darkness he almost missed the factory, only pulling over just in time. He got out of the car. It was a deserted spot even in the daytime, apart from the continuous passing of trucks, and now there was no sound except the keen November wind that howled around the tall chimney silhouetted against a starry sky. He had to feel his way up the steps in the darkness. The door was closed but only with a wooden bar which lifted easily. Once inside, he stumbled against some bags of clay and it took him some time feeling about on the inside wall to locate a light switch. It occurred to him then that there was very likely another entrance, but he didn't fancy groping about outside in the freezing cold looking for it. It was cold enough in here. He went from room to room as quietly as he could, switching on lights and looking about him. He found his way to the kiln and saw that the opening in the front of the kiln had been filled up with loose bricks again and seals put on it. In the next room he was almost surprised not to find the silent little man working at his turning wheel. His overall lay there, draped over his stool, and the imprint of his boots was clearly visible in the leathery red ribbons piled around the wheel's base. The Marshal's footsteps were loud on the bare brick floor. He didn't switch off the lights behind him as he proceeded, uncomfortable at the idea of leaving all that empty darkness in his wake. It even occurred to him that perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea to come here alone. Nevertheless, he kept on walking steadily.

  In the room where the throwers worked more stained overalls hung over the seats of the wheels which had been washed clean at the end of the day's work. A dozen or so newly thrown pots were lined up on a wooden table, identical, their sides still smooth and wet. This time, when he came to the wooden staircase, he didn't turn and go up. He was pretty sure that he would find what he was looking for on the ground floor. Unfortunately, once beyond the stairs he was in a part of the factory which was new to him and pretty soon he lost his bearings. Once, when he opened a door and found the light already on he stopped short, his nerves tingling, only to find it was a room he'd already been through, which meant the corridor he'd followed had brought him back almost to the stairs from where he'd set out. There was no mistaking it; he'd already seen those big baths of water with the dark clay settled well beneath the surface, and the long table in the centre with some sort of tubular machine with a polythene bag tied over the end of it. He turned back. He was doing his best to walk quietly but in such dead silence it was impossible. He wandered about for some time before finding a door he was sure he hadn't tried before. It was a makeshift door of planks that had rotted away near the bottom, no doubt because of the dampness that oozed from all the clay in this area. There was no lock or handle and only a bit of string looped round a nail in the doorpost held it more or less shut. He opened it slowly to avoid its creaking too much and then gazed beyond into total darkness. No amount of feeling about the rough walls on either side of what must have been a passageway produced a light switch. It would be at the other end. There was nothing for it but to make do with such light as came from the room behind him. By the time his eyes were accustomed to the gloom he found himself halfway along a dusty tiled passage which made his footfall even louder than before, despite all his efforts.

  'Who's here?'

  He stopped dead. The voice had come from behind a door at the far end. Without answering, he walked right up to it and knocked.

  'Who is it? Tina?'

  The voice sounded thick and slow as though the speaker had been woken from a deep sleep.

  'Open up, Moretti.' Was it the mention of Tina that made him add, I've come to talk to you.'

  There was no answer, but a creaking noise suggested that someone was sitting up in bed.

  'Don't be afraid, I'm coming in to talk to you.'

  As he had expected, the door wasn't locked. He opened it quietly.

  It seemed only natural that it should be the kitchen. There must have been other rooms to this corner where the family had once lived, but this was the room that Dr Frasinelli's story had prepared him for, and in essence it was just as he'd thought it would be. A rusted black stove stood against the back wall, a heavy, scuffed sideboard was piled high with junk of every description, and the wooden table in the centre held a flask of wine and a dirty glass, and at one end a big lump of clay with a roughly modelled head beside it. The face was grotesque and open-mouthed, like the ones he had seen that first day on the window ledge by the kiln. The Marshal's big eyes travelled over it all quickly. In its present state of chaos the room spoke too much of the violence it had seen, of Maria sprawled on the disordered table. There were no bloodstains splashed on the wall now, only the yellow stains of damp and neglect. In the corner stood an old iron bedstead and a bulky figure huddled there, half covered by a worn and colourless blanket.

  'Moretti . . .' murmured the Marshal, meeting the small frightened eyes embedded in heavy flesh. He hadn't known what face to put to the name until seeing it, but now he recognized the woollen cap on the floor by the bed, lying next to a pair of clay-spattered boots with one of the laces missing. The man's head was completely bald. He had aged as prematurely as his sister.

  The little eyes watched him warily like those of a wild animal undecided whether to attack or flee.

  'My brother said you wouldn't come for me. He said he wouldn't tell.'

  'He didn't tell. Is this where you live all the time, not with your brother?'

  'I like it here. I go to my brother's to eat and watch television but I like it better here. I have to look after the factory.'

  Little wonder that Moretti felt no need to lock the place up with this creature on guard. The man seemed sunk in a sort of torpor and showed no open resentment at this intrusion. Nevertheless, the Marshal remained standing near the door and didn't venture any closer to the rumpled bed.

  'What are you going to do to me?'

  'Nothing. Nobody's going to hurt you. Perhaps you should get dressed.'

  The hulk in the bed moved slowly and the blanket fell aside. He was wearing long woollen underwear, yellowish with age and stained at the wrists and neck with red clay. He sat himself on the edge of the narrow bed, which creaked under his weight, and bent forward, but he didn't reach for his clothes that lay in a heap against the wall, only fished out some cigarettes and matches from underneath. The Marshal observed him with some trepidation. The man was built like an ox and it was evident that such a mass of muscle would have no difficulty in shifting great bags of sodden clay as the Marshal had seen him do, or in crushing the life out of a young girl . . . At school they had called him Big Beppe . . .

  Big Beppe lit a cigarette. His hands were perfectly steady but still he looked about him as though dazed.

  'You'd better get dressed,' the Marshal repeated gently.

  'What for? You said you wouldn't do anything to me. It wasn't my fault. Ask my brother.'

  'We will ask him. I want you to come with me now and talk to him. He needs your help.'

  The other only stared at him dully, not understanding.

  'You helped him once before, do you remember? A long time ago when you were both at school and the others were teasing him. You helped him and now you have to help him again.'

  Perhaps he didn't remember the incident. At any rate, he sat where he was, smoking and scratching his broad chest. After a moment he repeated with sullen intensity, 'It wasn't my fault.'

  The Marshal risked coming closer and laid a hand
on Big Beppe's solid shoulder. It will all get sorted out. But first we'll go and see your brother.'

  A sick odour of sweat and clay rose from the big body. He saw the corner ofa magazine sticking out from under the blanket. There was no need to see more of it to know what it was.

  'Your sister comes to see you here, doesn't she?'

  'She comes to talk to me.'

  'And brings you those magazines?'

  'She gets them from Berti. He . . .'

  'What about him?'

  'He said the girl would ... He said she'd do it with anybody but that she liked me.'

  'Did you go there often, to Berti's studio to see the girl?'

  'She always smiled at me. She liked talking to me, and Berti said ... he told me things he'd done to her, right there in the studio.'

  'He was lying, Moretti. Do you understand? He was only teasing you.'

  'No, it's not true. She was there and she heard him.'

  'But she didn't understand him.'

  'The things he said'

  'She didn't understand. She was a foreigner and wouldn't understand a lot of what was said.'

  The Marshal noticed thankfully that he had started, as if absent-mindedly, to fumble with the pile of clothes.

  'She liked me, so why did she . . . Berti said she'd come to see me and she did.'

  'She came to work, Moretti, that's all. Berti was having you on.'

  'You don't understand. She liked me. I told her she could come in here and eat her sandwiches. I made her some coffee. If she did it with everybody else, why not with me? I didn't mean to hurt her, only to keep her still. It wasn't my fault, you can ask my brother. I wasn't going to tell anybody. Nobody would have known, but then my brother came back and saw . . . He was angry. He said what's done is done and he took me home with him. He knows I didn't want to hurt her, you can ask him.'

  'We will, we'll talk to your brother.'

  'He always said he'd find somebody for me. He found somebody for Tina. I wanted somebody of my own.'

  'Put your boots on, and your hat - it's cold.'

  Why should his lack of a bootlace be the thing that banished the Marshal's fear and aroused his compassion? All the more so because he knew that in any case they would shortly take the other one from him.

  'Take your cigarettes.'

  A brief flash of animal cunning crossed Big Beppe's face.

  'But you'll be bringing me back soon!'

  'Of course. But you might want a smoke while we're talking.'

  The face became docile and stupid again. The Marshal's heart was heavy with the misery of it all, for this dumb beast of a man, for the body of a pretty girl soiled and broken under a pile of sherds, for frail, fierce little Moretti, dumped by a war of which he knew nothing into a situation like this,

  'Let's go.'

  Seeing him pull back a bit of torn curtain that concealed the kitchen's own entrance, the Marshal stopped him.

  'We have to go out through the factory. I left all the lights on.' He led the way himself back along the tiled corridor. They were at the foot of the stairs and he had just turned out the light when he heard the footsteps behind him stop. He paused, feeling his scalp prickling under his hat.

  'What is it?'

  'You're not going to lock me up in the villa?'

  'We're just going to talk to your brother.'

  'Because once when I hit Sestini - my brother told me, he said it wasn't my fault and that they wouldn't torment me any more, he'd see to that, but that if I hurt anybody they'd lock me up in the villa!'

  'Don't worry, nobody's going to hurt you.' He walked forward slowly and heard the footsteps follow him. They had passed through the throwing room and were momentarily in darkness when the sound of a siren in the not too far distance caused the Marshal to scent danger. He turned, thinking to get the man in front of him and keep a wary hand on the Beretta in its holster, but before he could complete the turn he felt a vicious blow on his left temple which almost swung him off his feet. Instinctively he lifted his forearm to ward oif further blows, only to take a kick in the stomach that made him double up, winded and retching. He could see nothing but buzzing rings of light in a nauseating blackness, but doubled up as he was he began to run, one hand clutching his stomach, the other outstretched to avoid obstacles. Heavy feet were thudding behind him but he knew he was running faster than his pursuer and despite his stunned condition he remembered with gratitude that heavy unlaced boot which might well save his life. Then his right hip crashed into something sharp and solid, stopping him in his tracks and doubling him up further. The pain was so sharp as to make him groan aloud but he silenced himself in an instant as he became aware that the blackness around him was no longer the result of concussion but real darkness, and that the thudding footsteps behind him had stopped. He had run the wrong way in his pain and blindness, away from the light and the exit and into the darkness of a maze he couldn't fathom even in broad daylight. He stood still, trying to quieten the sound of his broken breath. He could hear and see nothing. Gingerly he stretched out a hand. It touched a piece of polythene, the heavy tubular machine, a table.

  'You want to lock me in the villa.' The voice was quiet and close. The Marshal didn't answer. A cold sweat broke on his forehead. Would he switch on the light? He was moving about now, the unlaced boot shuffling after the other. What need had he to switch on the light when he spent his every waking moment in the place and probably wandered about it often enough in the dark. Or was it craftiness? He must know the Marshal was armed. And it was true that there was no other way. If there was no light he would have to wait for the voice again and shoot at it. Very slowly he let his right hand drop until it touched the leather of his holster. He slid the Beret-ta put without even the faintest noise.

  'What are you doing?'

  The Marshal raised his arm, sprung the first bullet and fired. A scream of rage and pain told him the shot had gone home but had only wounded. Then he was flung backwards and big hands closed over his throat. He tried to use his own weight to push his attacker off but he was off balance right from the start and was driven backwards until his legs hit something sharp which he knew must be one of the big baths of clay. He was still holding the Beretta and now he hit out with it, fired it again and heard the bullet rebound from something metallic. The grip on his throat was inexorable and he knew that he must soon lose consciousness. With a last desperate effort he managed to draw up one knee and push. Even as he did it he realized it was a mistake and probably his last, for it only overbalanced him more, levering him backwards over the edge of the bath so that the water closed over his ears making them sing. His eyes were still open but he was losing his sense of reality and couldn't be sure if he saw or imagined the tiny eyes gleaming close to his face. Then his head plunged backwards under the water and into the slimy clay below. Through the singing and bubbling in his ears he heard a spent scream and in his last conscious moment was lucid enough to wonder whether it was his own.

  Ten

  'Imbecile!' roared Niccolini, raising his fist, 'imbecile! Is this what you wanted? To finish up in this place? You must have gone out of your mind - I still can't believe you did it! You should be under restraint, by God, you should be - Here's a bit of chocolate for you — not to mention giving me the trouble of driving all this way just to tell you what a jackass you are!'

  'How did you get in?'

  'I have my methods. How are you feeling?'

  'Well'

  'Good. It's more than you deserve.'

  The Marshal smiled. He'd been about to say that he was feeling worse than he'd ever felt in his life, but if he couldn't combat Niccolini's steam-roller conversation at the best of times he wasn't going to try it from a hospital bed.

  'Now then.' Niccolini sat down on the bed, making it bounce and the Marshal wince. 'The best thing you can do is to get yourself out of this place as fast as you can. Go about tackling ten-ton maniacs on your own if you must, but at least keep away from quacks who'll
finish you off in no time once you let them start.'

  'They're keeping me here another week under observation.'

  'Rubbish! You really must learn to defend yourself - and in more ways than one.'

  'I'm afraid you're right. How did I . . . how was it that he didn't manage . . .?'

  'You don't know? You mean nobody's told you anything?'

  'Nobody. They won't let anybody in except my wife and she's under orders not to mention work to me. They say complete rest . . .'

  'And how are you supposed to rest if you don't know what's going on! No sense in it at all. Well, it's true you were in a bad way and it's not a pleasant business to talk about, but the long and the short of it is Big Beppe's dead. We got there just in time, but we had a devil of a job finding you in that place. It's lucky for you that you fired, otherwise . . . But surely you heard our sirens?'

  'It was you? I knew I'd hit him but I didn't think -I killed him, then. That's what they didn't want to tell me.'

  'Nothing of the sort.' Niccolini's face darkened a little. 'I shot him. Had no choice. Nobody could have got him off you any other way and it was a matter of seconds ... To tell you the truth, I thought you were a goner as it was. It's not a thing I've ever had to do before and I hope I never have to do it again, but there it is.'

  'Then you saved my life.'

  'Nothing of the kind. Little Moretti saved your life. He asked for me after you'd gone. Nobody else knew what you were up to but apparently he did -did you tell him?'

  'I told him I knew . . .'

  'Well, he must have got scared and what he wanted to tell me was not to go for Beppe unless he went with us because nobody else could control him if he got violent. It seems Moretti wouldn't let him in his own house unless he was there himself- that's why he stayed at the factory that lunch-time when Moretti ate with his clients. Anyway, at that point it didn't take much working out where you'd slipped off to, so I went after you with a couple of my lads. I'll tell you something else you don't know: a few years back there was an incident at the factory - the men had been teasing Big Beppe as they often did and he reacted and went for Sestini, nearly did for him. It was lucky Moretti was there, otherwise . . . Anyway, the matter was settled between themselves and no report made to us. They never teased him again after that.'