The Marshal at the Villa Torrini Page 6

  He peered about but could see no drunk.

  'Do you want me to stop?'

  No answer. Perhaps it was because he was on a diet. Fara knew all about the diet. Everybody at the Pitti Station knew all about the diet. And he'd heard it could do strange things to your brain, not eating.

  'We're here, Marshal.'

  'Eh? Ah.' He got out and stumped inside the large white building, removing his hat as he went. Fara shrugged and drove on to turn the car.

  'There we are. Haven't quite finished sewing her up yet. You're not squeamish? We can wait if you'd prefer it.'

  The Marshal shook his head and the pathologist sent his assistant away. The thorax was still open but the scalp had been sewn back in place. Until now, the Marshal had only seen her soaked from the bath water. Her hair had dried to a lightish brown and was wavy. It was spread in the dissecting trough now, but probably it had just touched her shoulders. There were grey hairs above her ears.

  She was brilliant, Signorina Müller had said, but by now they had taken away her brain. She had been an intelligent, mature woman and she had drowned like a baby . . .

  'Why is it,' he asked the pathologist who had parked himself on one corner of the table, arms folded, rubber gloves held in one hand, 'that babies drown like that?'

  'Like I said, it's more choking than drowning, maybe in a few inches of water, maybe on their own vomit, sometimes in ways that remain undefined. You must have heard of so-called cot deaths. A baby's helpless, can't lift its head or move or signal for help.' He shrugged. 'What can I say? I can tell you what she died of—asphyxiation—but the how and the why . . . I'm afraid you'll have to sort that one out.'

  'I'd like to know how with no evidence.' The Marshal's face was dark with displeasure. Then, remembering he wasn't addressing one of his carabinieri, he added, 'I beg your pardon. It's just such a funny business. Not clear cut.'

  'Well—' the pathologist slid down from the table and got hold of Celia Carter's blue-white hand, turning it in his own and looking at her wedding ring—'the usual theory is the husband did it unless there's proof to the contrary.'

  'If anybody did it at all. If it wasn't really an accident.'

  The pathologist looked up at him. 'You don't believe that.' It was a statement, not a question.

  'No. No . . .'

  'I must say, I don't either. I wish I could offer you something that would help.'

  But he couldn't. The Marshal had himself driven back to Pitti without saying a word. He'd been too complacent, sure that the autopsy would show up a murder which would have cleared his path for a thorough investigation of Forbes. Well, he'd been wrong, and having been wrong he'd wasted time. He should have been looking for the other woman, finding out what the man inherited, establishing a motive. He should have been doing all this in any case, so that, if the autopsy results had been useful, he'd have been ready . . .

  They were stuck in a traffic jam near the banks of the Arno, contributing their share to the build-up of pollution that would lead to another alarm, another quiet day, another rapid build-up.

  A beggar, walking among the waiting cars with his cap, saw the two uniformed men in the dark car and slid away. Windscreens were being washed at high speed. The Marshal stared out at the blue-grey world from behind his dark glasses and continued to castigate himself for being too slow, just as, all his life, he had been castigated by everyone, at home, at school, at work, for being too slow. Teresa, too . . . 'It's like talking to a wall! I asked you half an hour ago . . .'

  The lights changed, but they didn't get through.

  'Have they found out how she died?' Fara's timid voice floated on the edge of the Marshal's consciousness as he condemned himself out of hand for being a non-listener, asleep on his feet, too dozy altogether to tackle a type like Forbes even in his present reduced state—and Fusarri would have the preliminary notes on the autopsy, too. What about that? He'd cottoned on right away to the fact that the Marshal suspected Forbes, so now, either the Marshal looked a fool or the Prosecutor looked a fool for believing him. He hoped the former, because otherwise . . . He'd never seen the man angry, but he'd heard stories: that he was an anarchist, that he overrode anyone who stood in his way. Anyone. He'd even defied the chief public prosecutor once, if such stories were to be believed. They weren't always, of course, but the Marshal, being only a noncommissioned officer, didn't fancy his chances. And the worst of it was that he was quite sure in this case that what had sent everything haywire was his having been hungry all the time. Diets were all right on holiday, but when you had a job to do . . . That Mercedes with a Calabrian number plate had been parked there every day for a week; he'd better take a closer look at it next time he passed on foot. Incongruous . . . And a house just further down where there was some heavy gambling going on which meant recycling money. He'd check . . .

  They were in Via Santo Spirito and another queue. The best thing would be to go over to Headquarters at Borgo Ognissanti and have a word with his captain. Captain Maestrangelo was a good man, a serious man, and he'd had to deal with Fusarri. True, the Marshal had been there himself at the time but very much in the background. Maestrangelo had taken the brunt, and it hadn't been easy. Even so, things had seemed to work out, more or less, in the end, so a word of advice wouldn't come amiss. Borgo Ognissanti, then—No, after lunch. A good meal would . . .

  If only he didn't keep forgetting! If only every day his stomach didn't react joyfully to the peal of bells, the lunchtime news signature tune, the waft of tomato and garlic from the lads' kitchen upstairs, the clatter of cutlery behind every shutter in every flat in every street. And then the tightening with dismay. Might as well go straight over to Borgo Ognissanti for all the difference a chilly salad would make. Borgo Ognissanti it was, then.

  It was with some surprise that he found himself delivered to the gravel patch outside the entrance to his own station at the Palazzo Pitti. He kept his patience, though. His patience with the young and inexperienced was inexhaustible.

  'No, no . . . Borgo Ognissanti. I want to see the company commander. Didn't you hear what I said? Don't look like that, it's not the end of the world. Just keep your eyes and ears open more . . .'

  They crossed back over the river.

  'Don't go in, I'll get out here. You go and eat and I'll walk back. Do me good.'

  Fara's face was pink. He was perplexed and embarrassed. He drove back to Pitti thinking that before things got any worse he should try and find someone who could give him a word of advice.

  Captain Maestrangelo was, indeed, a serious man. Journalists on the local paper, La Nazione, referred to him—though not to his face—as The Tomb. A nickname indicative both of his solemnity and the amount of chat and information to be extracted from him.

  Nevertheless, it would be an even more serious man who could resist just a flicker of amusement at the sight of Guarnaccia, hands planted squarely on his big knees, a deep furrow between his brows, come to confess that he'd failed to solve a most intractable case in one and a half days. The flicker was an internal one. The Captain had no intention of offending the Marshal for whom he had a respect which Guarnaccia would not have believed had he known about it. Besides, he'd already guessed where the real problem lay, and that Guarnaccia would get to the point. Eventually. Over the years he'd become accustomed to the Sicilian baroque as expressed by the Marshal. The longest, most complicated line between points A and B. It was a slow business, but experience told him it got slower if you tried to block a curlicue and nudge him towards the horizontal. The result was invariably a flourish of minor curlicues to cover the embarrassing glimpse of the horizontal pointing straight at point B. Sometimes, the Marshal lost his way in the minor curlicues. So the Captain held his peace apart from suitable murmurs on request.

  'After all, if he does have another woman, he must have friends who know . . .'

  'Surely.'

  The Marshal gazed down at his hands for some time and then emitted a brief sigh that was almo
st a snort.

  'And money . . . I don't know what a writer would earn . . .'

  'No.'

  'But there could be money, family money. The daughter hasn't turned up yet and, of course, I can't even be sure there wasn't someone else there. Though you'd think if there had been, Forbes wouldn't have lost an opportunity to shift the blame. He was drunk, though. It's a funny business . . . man lying drunk next door to his wife's body.'

  He consulted his hands again. The Captain, very discreetly, consulted his watch. But still he held his peace.

  'Not a mark on her. Not a scratch or the tiniest bruise. And nothing at all in her stomach, clean as a whistle. So why should a perfectly healthy young woman faint or something . . .'

  'Perhaps because of the empty stomach. Women go on excessive diets sometimes, I believe.'

  The remark had the effect of an electric shock on the Marshal. He sat bolt upright, his face red. 'I never thought . . .'

  'Well, I wouldn't get too hopeful about it, just check it out.'

  The Marshal sat there looking stunned.

  'I know it must be difficult for you,' prompted the Captain against his better judgement. 'It's a bit much for you to take on when your only really experienced man is Lorenzini and he has to be in the office when you're out. I'd send you someone if I could—I know what it's like when you're feeling under pressure from a prosecutor who forgets you've also got a whole Quarter to police—'

  'No, no,' protested the embarrassed Marshal to his shoe. He then fixed his gaze on a seventeenth-century landscape in oils on the wall to his left and discoursed doggedly on staffing problems for seven minutes.

  The Captain felt he was losing his grip. He'd done precisely what he knew he shouldn't have done and, after all, it was perfectly comprehensible that the Marshal couldn't bring himself to come here openly protesting about the Substitute Prosecutor he'd been given, like a schoolboy unhappy with his new teacher.

  With tact and patience the Captain picked up the responses and they wound their way in the correct form with all due curls and ornaments, through-past staffing arrangements, acquaintances now transferred, cases this or that one worked on, until they came upon, after a decent interval, a certain kidnapping case and a certain substitute Prosecutor Virgilio Fusarri, then newly arrived in Florence.

  'And does he still smoke those dreadful little cigars?' asked the Captain after feigning surprise that he was on this case.

  'Chain-smokes. And . . . the owner of the Villa Torrini where it happened, smokes as much as he does. Cigarettes, though. They're old friends . . .'

  'Is that going to be a problem?'

  'I don't know. I don't think so, but you never can tell.'

  'Well, if it isn't, I wouldn't worry about him too much. I know his manner's very strange . . . That way he has of being only half with you, taking an amused interest, like a privileged spectator whose real business is elsewhere. The only time I've seen him really concentrate is on food.'

  'Yes, well.' That didn't strike the Marshal as altogether unreasonable. 'It's more the way he pretends to flatter me that's disturbing. All this "leaving it to me".'

  'Perhaps he means it.'

  'Hmph. And if it all goes badly?'

  'I really don't think you should worry. I confess I felt the same way about him in that respect, but I have to admit that when things got difficult he stood by me.'

  The Marshal stood up. He still looked unhappy.

  'I shouldn't be taking up so much of your time.'

  'I'll walk down with you. I have to go out anyway.' He rang for his adjutant and ordered a car.

  They walked the polished monastic corridor in silence. Below them in the cloister a squad car was revving up. In the old refectory, which ran the length of the opposite wing, off-duty lads were playing table tennis.

  On the stone staircase the Captain said, 'If it makes you feel any better, I remember him telling me that you were a good man, reliable.'

  It didn't make the Marshal feel any better.

  'The only thing that needs watching,' added the Captain, 'is the business of his being so friendly with the Torrini woman. No point in treading on anyone's toes if you can avoid it. There's a reception tomorrow night—the Mayor, the Prefect and so on. My colonel's going. He's the right sort and I'm sure he'll check which way the wind's blowing for me—where's your car?'

  ' I sent it back. Need a breath of fresh air.'

  Walking back up Borgo Ognissanti, the Marshal realized that he did feel better—not about Fusarri, he couldn't do with Fusarri at any price—but about getting this investigation sorted out in normal terms. He was grateful for the advice the Captain had given him. He'd be even more grateful if the Captain had taken the whole business off his hands. You needed an officer, an educated man, to deal with someone like Forbes. Mind you, that was hardly an excuse for him, of all people, not to have thought of the woman being on a diet. Blast this tepid, sickly weather!

  He had reached the Piazza Goldoni which opened on to the river bank and his eyes were streaming. He'd forgotten to put his dark glasses on. Damn! He paused under the statue to fish for them in his greatcoat pockets. He'd never gone and left them . . . No. They were there. The plump playwright looked politely the other way with a little smile on his face as the Marshal gave the glasses a polish with a clean white handkerchief and dabbed his eyes dry before putting them on.

  He set out across the bridge. The Arno was brown and swollen from the recent rains. It wasn't that much of a pleasure, walking with so much traffic streaming past, and as for breathing fresh air—it was ninety per cent exhaust fumes. And the noise . . . someone was shouting above it.

  'Glad to see you taking my advice! Hallo! Hallo!'

  A Tyrolean hat had popped up at the level of his breast pocket, forcing him to back up against the parapet. At once he was surrounded by bobbing, smiling faces.

  Signorina Müller's chipmunk teeth were in full festive view: 'Out for a stroll! Good! We haven't much time, ourselves. Got a minibus waiting over at the Excelsior car park to take us up to the Certosa. I suppose you've seen the Pontormo frescoes a hundred times or I'd invite you. This is Marshal Guarnaccia. Can't get him interested in silver, but he's very fond of paintings. He's at the Palazzo Pitti. Now: this is Professore Tomimoto of Kyoto University.'

  In stunned silence the Marshal held out his hand.

  Professore Tomimoto, ignoring it, bowed.

  'And Professoressa Kametsu.'

  The Marshal's hand wavered and withdrew.

  Professoressa Kametsu bowed.

  'And their students.' The students bowed and smiled.

  'Delighted to see you getting some air, Marshal. How did you like the book?'

  'Ah . . .'

  'A brilliant writer. We shall miss her. Spoken to the girl?'

  He had to think a moment before he got there. 'The daughter? No, not yet.'

  'She should be here. Have to come to the funeral. You come back and see me. There are things I'd like to talk to you about. Must get on.'

  She got on, stumping along on her heavily-shod feet. The professors and their students all bowed courteously and got on, too.

  The Marshal, watching them go, thought that sometimes she must fall asleep during these outings, perhaps in front of a painting, perhaps even at the traffic lights, but that those polite people would never mention it.

  He hadn't, he recalled, asked for any advice about Signorina Müller from the Captain who was always more dismayed by bullying old ladies than he was. Besides, he fancied he was beginning to like her. Before leaving the bridge, he gave a hopeful glance upriver in search of the purplish blue stripe that formed across the horizon when the mountain wind was on its way. Nothing. The ochres and reds of the Ponte Vecchio were muted, the hills beyond screened by mist. Well, as long as it arrived before he caught the 'flu. He'd been lucky up to now, he'd escaped with only a heavy cold at the end of November. Unconsciously, he quickened his pace as though to prevent the virus from catching up with h
im.

  *

  'Just don't imagine he's angry with you, even when that's the way it looks.'

  The Marshal had left his young brigadier, Lorenzini, in charge of his office, and at five o'clock he was in there talking. The Marshal hesitated at the door, not sure whether he was on the phone or had somebody with him, not wanting to interrupt if he could help it. There was definitely somebody in there, but so quietly spoken he could only hear a faint murmur of distress without distinguishing the words.

  Lorenzini sounded sympathetic. 'I know, I know, but it's nothing personal. He gets like that and there's no point in telling him because he doesn't hear, let alone answer.'

  More murmurs of distress. The Marshal took his glasses out and gave them a rub before slipping them back into his pocket. A coffee wouldn't come amiss when Lorenzini had got rid of whoever was in there.

  'I'm sure you have—and the other thing is, that when it passes off there's still no point in talking to him about it because he can't remember and wouldn't believe you. You just go about your business—and keep your eyes open because, however much he seems to be bumbling about . . . I was going to say he knows what he's doing, but of course he doesn't. Only he'll do it. And you might learn something even without the aid of the spoken word. And cheer up! It's better than being stuck inside all day, isn't it?'

  A great talker, Lorenzini. Good at dealing with people, especially foreigners . . . knew a fair bit of English, too . . .

  The Marshal showed his face at the duty room door.

  'Everything all right?'

  'Fine.' Di Nuccio was alone at the radio switchboard.

  'Where's young Fara?'

  'In with Lorenzini, won't be long.'

  'Oh . . . ? Ah, here he is.'