The Marshal and the Murderer Page 4

  'No, no . . .'He backed up as carefully as he could and was glad to see Berti emerging with his slow, spidery steps from the kiln.

  'Well, did you find out whether she was here?'

  'No.'

  Berti picked up a bit of rag from a dusty windowsill and wiped his hands. There was a strip of wood lying on the sill with four or five little figures on it modelled in red clay. One of them was a crudely worked head with spiky hair and big ears, the mouth no more than a gaping hole. Berti picked it up and sniggered. 'Looks like Moretti.' He set it down again with as much care as if it had been one of his own pieces.

  Perhaps the apprentice had made the things. The Marshal was no judge but he reckoned the boy was about fifteen and a bit old for such childish work, unless it was a joke. It was true that the comical head bore a strong resemblance to the factory boss.

  'Shall we go?' The Marshal had no intention of trying to find his way out of the maze without Berti. He was annoyed to find that after only two turnings they were out in the rain again.

  Moretti nodded to them without a word as they passed the open door of his office shack and went down the steps, ducking their heads against the rain. The man with the woollen hat and the sacking round his shoulders was still heaving the big plastic bags, some of which had burst and were oozing smooth red clay. His huge wet hands were red with cold.

  They got into the car. Almost opposite, a white Mercedes was nosing slowly out at the gates of the big house and the driver was peering fixedly over the steering-wheel at them.

  'There he is,' sniggered Berti, 'and you can bet your life he needs those seven lavatories, he's so full of'

  'I'd be grateful if you could give me a lift into the town.' The Marshal found Berti more than a little repellent but he didn't fancy a walk along that busy road in such filthy weather. 'Though I shouldn't be keeping you from your work.'

  'There's always time for work. It's only five minutes of a drive.'

  He started the engine and without looking at the Marshal added: 'You mustn't mind Moretti. He's a bit of a rough diamond but he's a worker. And in any case he's had a hard life . . .'

  The Marshal made no comment. As they drove away he looked back, through the raindrops dribbling down the car windows. Up on the terrace the man with the sack round his shoulders had stopped work and was staring after them, grinning.

  On their short journey to the town centre they passed a number of factories as small as Moretti's, though many of them were built of new red brick, and the landscape seemed to the Marshal to consist of nothing but row upon row of wet orange pots that appeared luminous against a livid sky.

  "Morning, everybody! 'Morning . . . 'morning. How are things? 'Morning . . . Tozzi! Good morning to you! I've brought a visitor, colleague of mine from Florence, so I hope you're going to feed us well . . . Signora Tozzi, how are you? I'm fine myself, never better, never better! This is Marshal Guarnaccia from Florence - ah! Now, that's what I call a roast, look at that! We're frozen. Never been so glad to see a roaring fire.'

  A big open log fire was set in the middle of the restaurant's kitchen which was the centre of frenetic activity at this busy lunch-hour. Despite the coming and going of waiters and the harassed cooks with red shining faces, Niccolini, the Marshal of the little pottery town, insinuated his big athletic figure, conspicuous in its black uniform, into the fray and took off his leather gloves to warm himself at the fire where beefsteaks and pork chops were sizzling and spitting. Marshal Guarnaccia remained on the other side of one of the two counters that gave on to the dining-rooms.

  'Come on in, Guarnaccia! Come in here and warm up - is that minestrone in that steaming cauldron? It is. We'll have a bowlful of that for a start, get the blood circulating . . .'

  But the Marshal remained where he was, looking about him, until he was rescued by the proprietor, Tozzi, who came towards him wiping his hands on a clean cloth. A tall, severe-looking man with iron grey moustaches and a decidedly military bearing.

  'Giuseppe Tozzi. Pleased to meet you, Marshal.'

  'Guarnaccia.' The Marshal shook his hand.

  'Now then . . .' Tozzi looked briskly round the restaurant like a general about to give battle orders. 'Our Marshal eats in the main dining-room as a rule but I'm wondering-' He turned to address Niccolini who was pottering about the kitchen and looking into all the bubbling pans without pausing in his cheery monologue. The Marshal noticed that the people bustling around him looked cheered by his presence. It evidently didn't bother anybody, least of all Niccolini himself, that nobody had time to answer him.

  "Where would you like to eat?' Tozzi called to him. 'Your usual table?'

  'Fine, fine!'

  1 thought you might want a bit of peace, that is if you want to talk.'

  'Why not, why not? Good idea. Anything you like.'

  'I'll put you in the back room, then.'

  'Fine. Perfect. Anything will suit me.'

  'This way, please,' said Tozzi to Guarnaccia.

  The Marshal was rather sorry not to eat in the big room which had looked so bright and welcoming when they had come in from the cold and the wet, with its blue checked tablecloths each with a local pottery vase full of painted daisies,in the centre and the chattering workmen tackling huge bowls of spaghetti. He followed Tozzi into a smaller and more sedate dining-room where the furniture was heavy and antique in style and the walls were covered with large majolica plates. Here well-dressed clients were talking in polite undertones as they ate.

  'Let me take your coat. I put the factory owners and their buyers in here,' explained Tozzi, holding a chair for the Marshal. 'You'll be quieter. Take a look at my collection. The antique pieces are genuine.'

  Left alone, the Marshal gazed about him at the big decorated plates on the walls, wondering which were the antique pieces and wishing he were in the big noisy room where he could look at the people instead. Niccolini appeared at the counter behind the bowls of freshly cooked vegetables lined up there.

  'All settled in? Good. I'll be right with you!'

  By the time they were halfway through their bowls of minestrone the Marshal's face was as red and shining as those of the cooks working around the blazing fire. The sudden warmth of the restaurant and the thick steaming soup were all too effective after a morning spent in the cold rain. Most of the time he ate in silence, his big eyes fixed on Niccolini who managed to continue his hearty monologue while making short work of the minestrone.

  'And now you've talked to Berti you see what I mean. A right character but no real harm in him, as I said. Even so, it wouldn't suit me to have a daughter of mine work there alone with him - not that I've got a daughter, two sons, one of them doing his military service with us now. What do you think of our restaurant? Tozzi does a good job, always feeds us well and it's a godsend for me because my wife works, teaches full time in Empoli, so she's never home before three. But you eat well here, very well. Ah, it's a good life if you know how to enjoy it, I always say. What about you, Guarnaccia; eh? I can see you like your food too. I've told Tozzi to bring us a few good slices off that roast - let me give you another drop of wine.'

  'I don't think . . .' The Marshal's face was getting redder than ever. He was sure that if he drank any more of this good red wine he would fall asleep on the bus back to Florence. A fine figure to cut, and in uniform, too. But Niccolini had filled his glass up to the brim for him and Tozzi had rolled his trolley to the table and was carving thick juicy slices off the roast. Well, he wouldn't have any sweet, he decided, as the big plate was set before him.

  'Mmm . . .!' Niccolini sat back a little later, dabbing with his napkin. 'Well, what do you think?'

  'It's very good.'

  'Eh? Oh, the roast? Splendid stuff. I meant what do you think about this business of the girl. Anything in it, would you say?'

  'There might be, there might not. To tell you the truth, I'm more interested in what you think. After all, you know her. I've never seen her.'

  'I suppose you're rig
ht. Well, she seems a sensible enough lass to me.'

  'Not the sort to just drift off without telling anybody?'

  'I'd say she wasn't. You never can tell, of course, I've known some strange things happen in my time, but she certainly seems very serious about what she's doing, you know what I mean? And then the Swiss, very precise people, very precise.'

  'They can't all be alike,' said the Marshal reasonably.

  'No, no . . . But she is precise, you see, in her ways. Careful about what she eats, too. Not enough to keep a bird alive, in my opinion, and never more than one glass of wine, though I always offer her some of mine. One glass and then mineral water. Tac! Won't be persuaded to another drop at any price.'

  The Marshal, having experienced something of Niccolini's steam-roller methods of persuasion, thought this Swiss girl must be a very strong character indeed.

  'She's not involved with any man around here that you know of?'

  'Not that I know of, no. You can bet your life that Berti's tried, the old goat, but I can't see a pretty young girl as bright as she is having anything to do with him. My young brigadier's got a bit of a soft spot for her, too, between ourselves. He generally eats with me here and his eyes always light up when she comes in - can't blame him either. Oh, I'm not saying she encourages him, not in any serious way, but she flirts with him a bit, you know. Always looks pleased to see him, interested in everything he has to say, teases him a bit. But nothing out of place and of course I'm always here . . . Lovely girl - though it wouldn't do to be that open and friendly with the men hereabouts, in my opinion. I suppose these young foreign girls have different ways from ours . . . Even so, they're a likely bunch of lads in there.' He indicated the big room next door from where sounds of noisy talk and laughter filtered through to their sedate dining-room. 'That's why Tozzi always has her eat with us.'

  'I would have thought,' said the Marshal, looking about him, 'that he'd have put her in here.'

  'He would do but she won't hear of it. She reckons it's more cheerful next door with the potters, more lively. True, of course.'

  'Yes.' The Marshal wished he'dhad this girl's presence of mind. He'd have learnt a lot more about the town if he, too, had insisted on being next door with the potters. Well, he would have to content himself with what Niccolini could tell him. No doubt he knew everything about everybody.

  'How long have you been here?'

  'Just over a year. Seems like less but it was a year last month. Settled down into the woodwork right away, never miss Rome at all. Mind you, anywhere suits me, I take life as it comes. The wife had a bit of trouble settling in, changing schools and what have you, but with a bit of effort ... an odd lot, the people round here, until you get used to them but they're good enough at heart. We get on pretty well, all in all.'

  'Odd in what way?'

  'Well, they are what they are, you know, they have their own ways, and you get one or two real oddities. Between you and me-' he lowered his voice - 'in a place as small as this and with so many family businesses you get no fresh blood. It's all a bit too enclosed. Good in some ways, of course, because there's plenty of work here and plenty of money to be made, too. There's no need for young ones to leave home looking for work like in the South, you understand.'

  'I understand.' The Marshal, who came from Sicily, knew that problem only too well.

  'But on the other hand there's the fact that they marry among themselves, sometimes, not to put too fine a point on it, for business reasons as much as anything else. More than half the people in this town are related in one way or another.'

  'And that leads to a lot of family quarrels?'

  'No, I wouldn't say that. No. It's a very close-knit community, very close-knit.'

  The Marshal remembered Moretti's factory and the feeling of being an outsider. 'That's what I felt,' he said, frowning. 'That if they felt threatened by anything from outside they'd stick together.'

  'And you're quite right. You've understood exactly!'

  'I felt it when I was at Moretti's place. Did you know the Swiss girl sometimes goes there?'

  'Does she? No, I hadn't heard that and I wouldn't have believed it.'

  'Why not?'

  'Well, Berti's one thing, a sly old beggar if ever there was one, and it's not the first time he's had somebody working for him illegally - of course there's nobody to carry on his business after what happened to his son and there'd be no point in taking on an apprentice now.'

  'He had a son, then?'

  'Oh yes. Tragic business, tragic. Killed outright in a road accident practically under his father's eyes just outside the workshop. Must have been just before I arrived here, I remember everybody was still talking about it. Hit by a lorry coming round the curve. He was on a moped, hadn't a chance.'

  Was that the reason why Berti drove the way he did and not because of the plates, as the Marshal had thought?

  'Well, fancy, Moretti ... I wouldn't have thought it of him. They say he's always been absolutely straight, one of the few. I can't see him running the risk of taking on an uninsured worker, though I don't know him well enough to be categorical. He's one who keeps himself to himself. . . never eats here, for instance, unless he brings a buyer. You're sure you're not mistaken?'

  'Quite sure. Moretti himself told me. But I've given you the wrong impression, even so. She's only been there a couple of times, she certainly isn't working for him. Apparently she goes to work on the wheel when his throwers are off", which seems to be when they have enough stuff ready for firing their kiln.'

  'I see. That's right, these small places generally take a long weekend . . . Well, that's different. So she goes there, does she? And is that where you think she was Monday? You were telling me back at the Station that Berti said she wasn't with him.'

  'That's what he says, but it might be true and it might not.'

  'Mm.'

  'You wouldn't believe him?'

  Niccolini roared with laughter. 'That one could hide behind a spiral staircase! Oh, I'm not saying he's necessarily lying but he would if he needed to. There's no real harm in the man, as I said before, only he may have smelled trouble and be wanting to keep out of it. If he thinks something's happened to the girl

  'If something has happened to her he's going the wrong way about keeping out of trouble by lying to us.'

  'People haven't much sense - let me fill your glass and no protests, this is good honest wine and can only do you good - and people who think they're crafty often have less sense than the rest. Berti thinks he's crafty and no doubt he is in his own little way and with his own kind. You probably gathered that for yourself.'

  'I don't know what to think of him, to be honest.'

  "Well, if she had to be in one place or the other, since you say she got off the bus as usual, my money'd be on Moretti as far as who's telling the truth goes, knowing Berti as I do.'

  'And mine. But he couldn't tell me anything for sure. He says he was only there for half an hour himself and that then he went out with some clients, ending up here for lunch - we might check that while we're here. The rest of the men had the day off, so . . .'

  'Mm . . . difficult.'

  'It seems she could have gone in there since he never locks the place up.'

  'No . . . ? Ah, Signora Tozzi, you've arrived at just the right moment. You don't happen to remember if Moretti was in here Monday, do you? I didn't see him myself but then he'd have eaten in here because he'd clients with him.'

  That's right. He always eats at home otherwise. They were sitting where you're sitting now. Why?'

  'No reason, no reason. You're sure it was Monday?'

  'Certain. He telephoned me to book a table - there aren't that many in here so there isn't always one free. Now, I'm not going to ask you what you want for sweet- she smiled at them, hands on her broad hips over which her clean white overall was stretched tightly- 'because I've made a torta della nonna.'

  'Oh! Signora Tozzi, you're a marvel.'

  'I don't think . .
.' began the Marshal.

  'Oho, Guarnaccia! You're going to enjoy this. You haven't lived until you've tried Signora Tozzi's torta della nonna - give him plenty, now, don't stint! Engine can't run without petrol!'

  She served them two large helpings and stood over them smiling as they ate. The Marshal had to admit, in all honesty and with his mouth full, that it was exceptionally good.

  'Now what about a liqueur with your coffee,' suggested the proprietress, beaming with pleasure at their appreciation. 'It's on the house.'

  'No, no,' said the Marshal quickly. 'Thank you, no.'

  'No,' agreed Niccolini with sudden solemnity, 'it doesn't do to exaggerate. No, that's it, that's enough.'

  The Marshal sighed with inward relief.

  'Or a grappa? A drop of that special grappa you tried the other day? There's still a bit left in the bottle.'

  'Ah, now that's another story.' Niccolini's face brightened. 'A drop of grappa never did anybody any harm.'

  'Well said!' declared a forceful voice at the Marshal's shoulder. 'Bring these gentlemen the bottle. They're my guests.'

  'Oh, Signor Robiglio . . .'The proprietress pushed the sweet trolley aside hastily. 'Now where am I going to put you - there isn't a single table free.'

  'Don't worry, Signora, don't worry. All in good time. No doubt there'll soon be a place, and with Marshal Niccolini's permission I shall sit here for a moment.'

  'Help yourself, help yourself!'

  Niccolini's voice was as loud and hearty as ever but there was ah emptiness in his apparent enthusiasm that caused the Marshal to fix his big eyes on him rather than on the newcomer until the latter commanded his attention by introducing himself.

  'Ernesto Robiglio. My pleasure.'

  'Guarnaccia.'

  Robiglio was a heavy, big-featured man, casually dressed in some sort of dark, rather nautical-looking sweater, but the Marshal who was no expert in sartorial elegance noticed that the designer's label was prominently displayed on the outside and the shirt and cravat beneath looked like silk.