The Marshal and the Murderer Page 5

  'This doesn't mean a changing of the guard, I trust?'

  Robiglio looked from the Marshal to Niccolini, 'You're not leaving us?'

  'No, not at all - Marshall Guarnaccia here is just visiting.'

  'Really? Any special reason?'

  The Marshal sensed Niccolini's hesitation before he said, as the Marshal himself had said: 'There might be and there might not. . .' Niccolini, he decided, didn't like this man.

  Signora Tozzi returned with coffee, an unlabelled bottle and three glasses.

  'I won't, since I haven't eaten.' Robiglio himself filled their glasses for them. 'I was hoping I'd run into you. When I didn't see you next door I was going to call in at the Station after lunch. I've been thinking it over and I've decided we can take Sestini's boy on.'

  'Well, that is good news! Fine. I'll let Sestini know right away. You won't regret it, he's a good lad.'

  'I never had any doubts about that. Anyone recommended by you I know I can take without qualms.'

  'So you do need another apprentice after all.'

  'To be absolutely frank I don't. But I'll fit him in somewhere, have no fear.'

  'That's very generous of you.'

  'Let's say I can afford to be generous once in a while. In a small town like this a concern as big as mine . . . it's a question of responsibilities . . . Let me fill your glasses. This grappa is something special in my experience. Of course, one can't be generous all the time, it wouldn't be in anyone's interest. If I went out of business it would be a disaster for this area.' He said this with an ingratiating smile aimed at Guarnaccia.

  The Marshal watched the two of them in silence, taking in not so much their words, positive and amicable, as the tone of their voices, Robiglio's aggressive charm, Niccolini's closed expression. He continued to stare at them as the conversation drifted to names, families and businesses the Marshal had never heard of. Was Robiglio really a millionare as Berti had said when he turned his car at the gates of the big house with the seven lavatories? Or was it just an exaggeration? He saw that Niccolini was becoming restless, as if he wanted to jump up and walk out. He kept up a stream of cheerful remarks but they became more and more brief and irrelevant until suddenly he got to his feet when Robiglio was in the middle of a sentence.

  'Right. Fine. Guarnaccia, we must be off and then Signor Robiglio can settle in where he is and have his lunch.'

  'The bill ..." suggested the Marshal.

  'Another time, another time. Nice to have seen you. Thanks again for fixing up the lad. All the best.' And he strode from the room without even waiting to see whether the Marshal was following him.

  His farewell to the Tozzis was almost as brusque, and only when they were out of the restaurant did he change to a lower gear and say: 'Sorry about that, Guarnaccia. Maybe you wanted another coffee.'

  'No matter.'

  'I can't do with that man. Can't do with him at all.'

  'So I noticed.'

  'You did?' Niccolini looked astonished. 'I'm not one to quarrel with anybody, why should I bother? In a town as small as this one . . . and he's a big noise around here.'

  'So he said.'

  'I like to keep my opinions to myself. I have to. You don't think he noticed anything, do you?'

  'Perhaps not . . .' The Marshal thought Robiglio would have had to be blind and deaf not to have noticed Niccolini's antipathy but he didn't like to say so. Niccolini seemed convinced of his own subtlety.

  'Well, it's no skin off my nose.'

  'No.'

  'Thing is to be on friendly terms with everybody, but what the hell - you're sure he noticed nothing?'

  'Well

  'No, no! Thing is to be polite. You're probably one of those people who notices things.'

  'Yes.'

  They crossed a bridge with its low railings painted bright yellow and were back in the town square flanked by the Carabinieri Station, a church, a couple of bars and some shops with their metal shutters rolled down. In the centre of the square stood the dripping bronze figure of a partisan baring his chest in defiance at the enemy. It was true that the rain had stopped but the pavements were still wet and dirty and the puddles full. The air was as cold and damp as ever, the square more or less deserted at this hour. Above the bars and shops the soaked yellow stucco was peeling and broken around the brown shutters of the apartments. Wet weather seemed to be the town's natural element. It was impossible to imagine the place in full sunlight.

  'I suppose the town used to consist of just this area here,' the Marshal said as they strolled across the square, avoiding the bigger puddles. He said it more to distract Niccolini from his worries than out of any genuine interest. The place depressed him.

  'That's right, before they built the factories, the post-war ones, that is. There was just the old centre here and the Medici Villa - that's up there on the hill but in this weather you can barely see it.'

  A milky mist filled the valley and covered the lower part of the hill. Where it stopped the black shapes of a row of cypresses and umbrella pines apparently suspended in mid-air were silhouetted against the grey sky, indicating the hill's summit. Of the villa the Marshal could make out nothing.

  'If it were a fine day, now . . .' Niccolini dismissed the villa with a wave of his hand. 'Let's have a coffee in the bar! What time do you want to get back?'

  'I'll take the first bus that comes along.'

  'We'll ask inside. Never use the bus myself so I don't know the timetable. Ah! Two coffees, if you please, and a bus to Florence for the Marshal here if you can lay that on, too!'

  'There's one in about a quarter of an hour. We've got tickets if you need one.'

  The poorly lit bar was empty except for a boy playing a pinball machine at the back.

  'He's intending to get himself elected, that's what it is,' said Niccolini, banging his cup down on the saucer.

  'Robiglio? At the municipal elections?'

  'And I can tell you that I've taken advantage of the fact to help a few people out.'

  'Why not?'

  'But I'll tell you something else. He refused to take the Sestini lad on last week- well, he wouldn't get their vote if he were the only one standing, they're staunch communists, so I didn't have high hopes but I thought I'd try anyway . . . Sestini's a good worker, mould-maker at Moretti's place, but of course Moretti already has an apprentice so in a place that small he couldn't take the son on even to oblige a good worker. And now our friend Robiglio's changed his mind, you notice?'

  'About taking the lad on? Yes.'

  'I wonder why.'

  'Well, you know him better than I do. I couldn't say.'

  'I know him all right. There's a lot in his past, as I've heard it, that wouldn't bear much scrutiny.'

  'How long ago in the past?'

  'During the war. I don't know the full story but I've heard things. A blackshirt who managed to survive the aftermath, you know the sort I mean. His father was mayor here under Mussolini. Of course with the money and influential friends they had it wasn't long before they came to the top of the pile again once the fuss died down.'

  'I see. You think he's frightened of something?'

  'It's a long time ago but people don't forget.'

  'You're sure it's not likely to be something more recent? After all, last week he wouldn't help you - and I got the impression, to tell you the truth, that he wasn't too pleased about my being here.'

  'D'you think so? I said you were one of those people who notice things! Well, I don't like it.'

  1 can see that. If it's of any interest, he saw me leaving Moretti's place.'

  'He did? Well, I can't see him having anything to do with small fry like Moretti . . . Anyway, I shall keep an eye on him.'

  'It might be an idea. I think I'd better be on my way.'

  In fact, the bus was already pulling into the square and the Marshal only just had time to jump on followed by Niccolini's 'All the best, all the best! We'll be in touch . . .'

  He almost, but not qu
ite, fell asleep on the bus, and when his wife greeted him by saying, 'Since you've been out all day and probably haven't eaten properly I've cooked something a bit special for supper . . .' she looked so put out at his groan of dismay that he told her all about his day at the potteries and about Niccolini.

  'He sounds quite a character.'

  'He is.'

  'Will you be going back there? Was it something important?"

  For he hadn't told her the reason.

  'I don't know yet. Maybe not.'

  But he wasn't convinced. And so he wasn't surprised when first thing next morning he received a telephone call. Niccolini was as noisy and bursting with life as ever but there was that same note of strain in his voice as there had been in the presence of Robiglio.

  'It's about that lass!'

  'The Swiss girl?'

  'That's right. She's been found.'

  'Then she was out there.'

  'She was here all right. Under a sherd ruck.'

  'What's that? I don't follow you . . .'

  'Local man found her. He was crossing a field behind Moretti's place to go pruning and when he passed the sherd ruck he saw some hair . . . Like as not she'd been buried completely but the ruck shifts every so often, you know what I mean.'

  'I don't'

  'I've got to get back there right away. Magistrate's waiting. I'll have to leave you.'

  And he rang off

  Three

  No sooner had the Marshal replaced the receiver than the phone rang again)

  'Guarnaccia? Maestrangelo.'

  'Good morning, Captain.

  'I have something for you about that missing Swiss girl.'

  The Marshal listened without interrupting to say he already knew; he let the Captain finish and then only asked him:

  'Are you going out there?'

  I'm about to leave now with the Substitute Prosecutor, after which I can leave things in Niccolini's hands since I'm snowed under here. I take it you can handle the case from this end, get me some information on the girl, home address, friends and contacts in Florence and so on? Given that she lives in your quarter.'

  'Of course.'

  'Good. Then, if you haven't got too heavy a day, you might want to come with us, given that you're going to collaborate. Did you go out and see Niccolini yesterday?'

  'Yes. Yes, I did.'

  'He seems competent enough, though it bothers me somewhat that he's only been here for a year or so . . .'

  So what did he expect from someone who's only been there once? There were times, when his captain's faith in him troubled the Marshal. It was true that once or twice in the past he'd made himself useful, but only when all that had been required was simple observation. He hadn't the brains or the training for anything beyond that. Besides which, Niccolini might welcome cooperation but not interference. Captain Maestrangelo was always scrupulously polite and correct but the Marshal guessed from his tone of voice that he was about to start putting pressure on him and when that happened the Marshal became as immovable as solid rock.

  'To tell you the truth,' he began slowly, I've got an appointment in half an hour with Dr Biondini here at the Palatine Gallery . . . Some security headaches over this new exhibition. In fact, I wanted to have a word with you about it. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you for an extra man '

  I'll send you somebody. No problem.'

  'Unless we're hit by the first wave of 'flu in the meantime.'

  'You'll have the men you need.'

  'Even so, I can hardly break this appointment, time being so short.'

  The last thing he wanted was to spend the morning in the company of a Substitute Prosecutor who would resent the presence of an NCO and address himself exclusively to the Captain, who would in turn insist on including his Marshal as he had done in the past. It was embarrassing. It made a man feel ridiculous. And now the Captain was annoyed. His tone became a shade more brusque.

  'In that case perhaps you could find time to see Niccolini later this morning and organize things between you.'

  This time it was an order.

  'Yes, sir.'

  Well, he was annoyed himself. It was one thing asking him to collaborate from this end, all very proper, but he knew from past experience that the Captain expected more of him than that. Where was the sense of it? Those people out there didn't like outsiders. If they wouldn't talk to Niccolini they surely wouldn't talk to him.

  He was still annoyed when he came back from his appointment with Biondini and went through to his quarters to get a cup of coffee before leaving.

  'Go and sit in the other room and I'll bring it to you.' His wife was washing the kitchen floor and the chairs were stacked upside down on the table so that there was no place for him.

  He went into the living-room but instead of sitting down he walked about unhappily as if he were in somebody else's house and had no business . . . well, he wasn't going to interfere. Collaborate from this end was what he would do and no more.

  'Here you are. Why don't you sit down for a minute?'

  'I haven't time.' He took the cup and drank off the coffee in one go.

  The truth was he would willingly have sat down for five minutes now he thought about it, time to recover his temper, but at that moment his wife produced a vacuum-cleaner and started pushing the furniture about.

  'Couldn't you do that later?'

  'But you said you were going out . . .'

  The telephone rang.

  'Is it for me?'

  'No.' And his wife began an incomprehensible conversation, evidently something or other to do with the school their two boys attended, probably another parent. He would have liked to talk to her for a minute, not that she could help, just to get it off his chest. But the conversation went on and on.

  'No, no . . . you're right, absolutely right, and if we wait until the next parent-teachers meeting . . . She did? And what did he say? No . . . No, it isn't. Well the distance wouldn't be a problem if - exactly. Exactly!'

  In the end the Marshal stepped over the vacuum-cleaner and stumped out of the room, leaving the door open.

  The hill of broken pottery looked as though it were steaming in the watery sunlight that was breaking through the mist. From where he stood at a distance the Marshal could see men climbing over it, moving slowly and with difficulty, sometimes going down on all fours. They must have been trying their best not to disturb anything but every now and then the sherd ruck would cave in under them, upsetting their balance and sending a flurry of potsherds rattling down the side of the heap. A man in civilian clothing, no doubt a magistrate, was talking vehemently to Niccolini, sometimes pointing across the glistening wet field beyond the sherd ruck to where the town was shrouded in thick mist below the line of dark cypress and the faint outline of the villa, sometimes at the ramshackle factory where the chimney was smoking fiercely and radiating waves of heat that were visible in the cold air. The Marshal stood very still, watching it all from behind his dark glasses, his hands buried deeply in the pockets of his black greatcoat. He was too far away to hear anything the magistrate was saying but after a moment he heard a shout and one of the men scrambling on the ruck held something up. Niccolini and the magistrate dropped their conversation and went over to examine the find. Where they had been standing a shrouded white form became visible on the ground. After a moment, Niccolini returned and stood looking down at it, rubbing a big hand over his face. Then he looked up and spotted the Marshal and raised his hand in salute. He came tramping across the wet field, his cheeks red and his eyes bright in the cold sunshine.

  'Good morning, good morning! A bad business, this. A bad business altogether. Well, we've found your missing girl for you. It remains to be seen whether we find whoever did away with her. That might not be so easy. Well, some saint or other will help us out.'

  'Let's hope so.' What had the Captain said to him? Was Niccolini, though as hearty in his greeting as ever, a little embarrassed? The Marshal had no intention of interfering unnecessari
ly, but he couldn't help being intrigued. His glance shifted to the right and the shimmering heat around the black chimney.

  Is it his, all this?'

  'Moretti's? No, no. All the land around here belongs to Robiglio's estate. Moretti rents this field off him including where the factory stands. The orchards over there belong to the chap who found the body. He was going over there to do some pruning. The sherd ruck's Moretti's, of course, although any number of people make use of it to dump anything they want to get rid of.'

  Including our friend Berti?'

  'No, Berti no. Though he fires here so anything of his that's spoilt or broken gets dumped here.'

  They were silent for a while, watching the men who continued to search the sherd ruck.

  'No sightseers,' the Marshal observed.

  'I cleared them off first thing. I must say I wasn't expecting this. Wherever that lass might have finished up I wouldn't have thought . . . I've never had anything serious since I've been here bar one or two burglaries, never anything like this. Well, there it is. 'I'm sorry, very sorry. Well!' He clapped his big hands together. 'We'd better make a start. I gather you're going to be helping us.'

  He was smiling broadly but wasn't there that same note of strained enthusiasm which the Marshal had noted in his dealings with Robiglio? Guarnaccia's troubled eyes avoided those of his colleague.

  'I'll do what I can from my end. At least I can get some information on the girl for you from her flatmate, the school she used to attend and so on'

  'What? Nol The way I understood it, you were to give me a hand here. On the spot! Don't tell me you can't spare me a bit of time. Come on now, nobody's as indispensable as all that. I'm counting on you.' His irritation was unmistakable but he was determined to be cheerful and make the best of a bad job. He even went so far as to slap the Marshal heartily on the back.

  'Let's be going. You'd better take a look at the lass, though it's not a pretty sight.'

  And the Marshal suffered himself to be taken off in the direction of the sherd ruck, forcing himself to keep up with Niccolini's great plunging strides but too busy with his own preoccupations to bother following the inevitable monologue until he realized it was touching on himself.