The Marshal and the Murderer Read online

  'Quite within your rights, of course, none of my business.' And he turned to call out: 'Tozzi! I shan't want a table tomorrow, I shall be leaving in the morning.' He gave them only a brief nod by way of salute and left them.

  "Afternoon!' said Niccolini politely. 'And good riddance to you.' He added the last bit when Robiglio was out of earshot. 'Well, there goes another one who's not wanting to chat to me all of a sudden, not that it's any great loss in his case. I don't suppose he could tell us anything.'

  'He seemed anxious enough to tell us one thing . . .' The Marshal's big eyes were still fixed on the door where Robiglio had gone out. 'He seemed to me to be letting us know he was leaving. I wonder why that should be.'

  'You think so? Well, there's no reason why we should try and stop him.'

  'None that we know of. I'd say that yesterday that was a worried man. He didn't like my being here. Now he knows why ... I wonder where he's going.'

  I'll soon find out.' Niccolini jumped to his feet. 'I'll go and settle up and get Tozzi to tell me.'

  'Let me . . .'

  'You stay where you are. I'd better do a bit of public relations work. I shouldn't have been so sharp with him, you're right.'

  'Even so, you must be my guest today.'

  'I'll be your guest when I come to Florence.'

  'But when'

  'In the year two thousand.' And he was gone.

  The Marshal struggled into his overcoat, feeling as usual, rather heavy after his lunch, especially in comparison with Niccolini who always seemed to be bursting with pent-up energy. He came bounding back now, rubbing his hands together.

  'That's done! And I can tell you where our friend's going. Switzerland!'

  'Signorina StaufFer?' The door had opened only a crack and he could barely see who was behind it. 'Marshal Guarnaccia. May I come in?'

  The door opened slowly. She kept her head down, but despite that and her glasses he could see that she had already been crying and he didn't look forward to telling her what he had to tell her. She led the way into a small sitting-room without speaking. The furniture was mostly worm-eaten antique and obviously came with the rented flat, but there were plenty of signs of the female occupants: some potted plants on a small table by the window, a row of postcards along the mantelpiece, a neatly folded pink sweater on the back of the chair. A young man was sitting on a battered velvet sofa in the centre of the room and there was a haze of cigarette smoke in the air. The Marshal had the feeling that he'd interrupted an intimate talk, no doubt on the subject of the missing friend. The young man got to his feet.

  'Is it about Monica?'

  The Marshal looked from him to the girl, waiting to learn who he was.

  'My name's Corsari,' offered the young man, since the girl still didn't speak but stood nervously pulling at her fingers. 'I teach at the school ..."

  'I see.' And since nobody moved or offered him a seat it was the Marshal himself who suggested, 'Shall we sit down?' He took the chair where the sweater lay, balanced his hat on his knees and tried to avoid the anxious gazes fixed on him. 'I'm afraid it's bad news.'

  Without looking at them directly, he was aware that the girl stiffened and drew in a sharp breath and that the young man moved closer to her on the sofa and put an arm round her shoulder.

  'I knew something had happened to her, I knew . . .'

  'Try to keep calm, Signorina.' The Marshal was more than a little grateful for the presence of the young man. 'Your friend's dead, I'm very sorry to tell you, and we need your help'

  'I warned her! I warned her to be careful!'

  'To be careful of what? You thought she was in danger out there?'

  'What am I going to do? What am I going to do?'

  She sat rigidly upright on the sofa, trembling violently as if she would soon explode, but no explosion came. She suddenly crumpled and let out a low howl that sounded more animal than human.

  'What am I going to do? Help me . . .' She fell back against the sofa with her eyes closed and heaved in a deep noisy breath that became a dry sob and was followed by others coming faster and faster.

  The Marshal got to his feet. 'Stay close to her. I'll get her a glass of water - where's the kitchen?'

  'Through there . . .'

  He brought the water and handed the glass to the young man who was trying to hold her still. But her body was still heaving and her eyes, magnified by the heavy glasses, stared up at the Marshal as if she were still saying 'Help me'.

  'I think she should lie down,' was all the help he could offer. 'Cover her up well, she should keep warm . . .'

  The young man managed to get her to her feet, but he almost had to carry her as her legs were trembling too much to support her.

  'Try talking to her for a while,' murmured the Marshal as they went through the door. 'It will be better for her if she can cry properly . . .'

  Then he went and stood by the plants at the window, staring across at the house opposite which in this narrow street was only a few yards away. A woman was hanging washing on a wire strung on a pulley against the crumbling wall. After pegging out each piece she pulled on the wire which squeaked loudly. There were no other noises in the street and he could hear the murmur of the young man's voice punctuated by the girl's sobs. What had Robiglio called it? 'An unfortunate business.' Well, it was that all right. Two women passed below him walking in the narrow road since the pavements were blocked by parked cars. They were gossiping intently and a youngster on a moped coming in the opposite direction almost ran into them. One of the women turned to call after him: 'Look where you're going, thoughtless young idiot!' The boy made a rude gesture and carried on, wavering a little.

  The noise from the bedroom had changed. The girl was speaking now, disjointedly but through what sounded like real tears which was a good thing. The Marshal wandered away from the window and stood observing the postcards on the mantelpiece. Most of them looked as if they came from Switzerland. What would Robiglio have gone to Switzerland for? According to what Tozzi had said, he went fairly often and Niccolini had immediately jumped to the conclusion that there was some connection there with the dead girl. Even so, it didn't do to lose sight of the obvious . . .

  The young man reappeared.

  'She's quieter now.'

  'She might need a sedative tonight, nevertheless.

  Does she have a doctor here?'

  I'm not sure but I doubt it. I could call mine.'

  'You've know them a long time, these girls?'

  'Ever since they came here, more or less, since I teach at the school.'

  'Then perhaps you could help me. I doubt if the Signorina can until she's calmer.' They could still hear her sobs which were muffled, probably by the bedclothes.

  If you think I can tell you anything useful - but perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me exactly what's happened to Monica . . .'

  'She was strangled. To be more technically correct I should say throttled. There may well have been an attempt at rape beforehand but we won't know for sure until after the autopsy.'

  'Do you mind if we sit down?' Young Corsari's face was white and he seemed dazed though he kept himself well under control. 'Where . . . ?'

  "Where did it happen? She was found near a terracotta factory where she was thought to have gone to work on Monday.'

  'A factory . . .'? But she worked for an artisan.'

  'Yes, but it seems that every so often she went to this factory to keep her hand in at throwing.'

  'I didn't know . . .'

  'It had little enough importance until now. As you know her quite well perhaps you could tell me what Signorina Stauffer meant by saying "I warned her"?'

  'It's difficult to explain.'

  'Take your time.'

  Corsari studied his hands for a moment and then the Marshal's face, as if trying to gauge his capacity for understanding. The Marshal's face told him nothing.

  'I suppose it's a question of personality really . . .'

  "Whose?"

&nb
sp; 'Monica's, of course. Elisabeth - well, you've seen her for yourself.'

  'She's not very forthcoming.'

  'You have to know her. People tend to think she's sullen or unfriendly but that's not the case. She's desperately shy, but once you've got her to trust you -anyway, it's Monica you want to know about. She's just the opposite, completely open and friendly. She's so lively and affectionate - I should be talking about her in the past tense, shouldn't I? But it's difficult . . . I expect her to burst in at the door any minute. She had a way of filling the house with life . . .'He looked around the room. 'It's so silent without her it seems like half a dozen people were missing instead of one. Do you understand what I mean?'

  'I understand.'

  'Then you can imagine that she attracted people.'

  'Especially men?'

  'I'm trying to come to that in a way that won't create any misunderstanding . . .'

  'Go on.'

  'I can't even say for sure whether I understood her completely myself, even though I've known her so long and have been in a position - she was friendly and affectionate with everyone, you see, and what Elisabeth felt was that she shouldn't be. There's a question of different cultures, too, of course. I've travelled a lot in northern Europe myself, so I know that it's possible, normal, for there to be affectionate friendships between men and women where no other sort of rapport ever enters into things. Here it's rather different. If a girl offers affectionate friendship to a man he's likely to take it for quite another sort of offer. Elisabeth felt, and I agree with her, that Monica should have adapted her behaviour to the country she was living in.'

  'That seems reasonable.'

  'Monica wouldn't accept it. She said her personality was what it was, that she enjoyed herself, and had no intention of being repressed. They quarrelled about it often, sometimes violently.'

  'You don't think Signorina Stauffer might have simply been a little bit jealous, given that she doesn't have much of a gift for making friends herself?'

  'Of course she was jealous. She was bound to be.'

  A question of personality. A question of cultural differences. When was this young man going to come to the point? The Marshal observed him. He was perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six years old and good-looking. He seemed intelligent and cultured. The Marshal decided to bring him to the point, having already understood what it was.

  'Were you a victim yourself of this sort of misunderstanding caused by the young lady's personality and these cultural differences?'

  Corsari flushed. 'Yes, I suppose I was, though I think victim's too strong a word for it.'

  "As you like. In any case you remained friends?'

  'Certainly. There was no reason why I should give them up as friends because of that.'

  'And then you got to know Signorina Stauffer better and transferred your affections to her, is that it?"

  I'm very fond of Elisabeth,' he said simply. 'But even so, you mustn't think I had anything against Monica for the way things went, I said before I wasn't sure whether I completely understood her and it's true. Even afterwards, when I wasn't what you call the victim, I watched the same thing happen to other men without ever knowing for sure whether she did it in all innocence or whether there was a touch of . . . what shall I say . . . ?'

  'Malice?'

  'That's too strong ..."

  Most plain speaking seemed to be too strong for him. The Marshal was revising his first good opinion of this man on the grounds that though he was very charming he really didn't seem to be much of a man at all. There was nothing in him you could get to grips with.

  'Maybe she didn't know herself,' was his only comment.

  Cbrsari's charming eyes lit up. 'Do you know, I think you're right. In any case, you couldn't call it malice. The most you could say is that she enjoyed teasing a little.'

  'Somebody didn't take kindly to being teased a little, then.'

  'You think that's . . .'

  "What else do you expect me to think? Somebody killed her!'

  'But nobody would go so far because of that, nobody normal!'

  'So somebody happened along who wasn't normal. You said yourself she behaved that way with everybody. Things may have been precipitated by something further, like jealousy of another man - I presume that out of all these men she liked to tease a little there were one or two who succeeded with her?'

  'No, no, it never went that far. At the most she would invite someone here for dinner and it would soon become clear that there was nothing further on offer, so they either disappeared or changed their expectations.'

  'As you did?'

  'Yes. I'm afraid that in spite of my efforts at explaining you've got the wrong picture. It was all very light. Monica was a lovely girl and highly intelligent.'

  'Would you mind giving me your name and address?'

  'Certainly. I'll write it down for you.'

  He got up and went to a small desk in the corner where there were writing materials in a drawer. It was evident that he was at home here. The Marshal stood up and waited. No further sound came from the bedroom and he wondered if the girl had exhausted herself with crying and fallen asleep.

  'Here you are. I've given you my phone number at school as well, since I'm there most of the day.'

  'You could also give me Monica Heer's home address and phone number if you know where to find them . . .'

  'Of course. You'll have to inform her parents . . .'

  'Yes.'

  'It should be here somewhere.' He opened one or two more drawers, found what he was looking for and copied a second address on to the same piece of paper.

  'Thank you. I'll be on my way.'

  They passed the bedroom door which was ajar. The Marshal could see only a corner of the bed but a rustle and a faint sniff suggested that the girl was not asleep. The room was full of cigarette smoke.

  'Remember what I said about a tranquillizer - and I •don't think she should be left alone for some time.'

  'I'll call my doctor now, and I can always sleep here on the sofa, I've done it before.'

  The Marshal stared at him with bulging eyes but made no comment. Once the door had closed he stumped down the stairs since there was no lift, muttering to himself as he opened the street door: 'Well, I'm not convinced ..."

  But if anybody had asked him what it was he wasn't convinced about he would have had a hard time answering.

  Five

  The Marshal was descending the great staircase with difficulty. There was such a crush that he had already lost sight of his wife and the crowd was pressing him against the broad marble banister which was loaded for all its length with branches of bay and heaps of citrus fruit. The air was filled with the scent of lemons and the music of an opera by Verdi, though the Marshal couldn't remember which one. The staircase seemed to go on for ever and he had no hope of finding his wife until he reached the bottom of it. He was too hot in his uniform, and to make matters worse there was a rather elderly woman beside him with a brown velvet hat and protruding lips who was suffocating him with her perfume and kept prodding him in the ribs with her elbow as she gesticulated and shrilled her dissatisfaction with the way things had been organized.

  'My dear, if they would just be more selective!'

  The selection would presumably include herself but not overweight NCOs, to judge by the vicious little glance she gave the Marshal's uniform.

  When at last he reached the bottom he spotted Dr Biondini shaking hands with people on the left, but the Marshal who was too far to the right had no hope of reaching him and didn't intend to try. All he wanted to do was to extricate himself somehow from the crowd that was carrying him along and turn round to see if his wife had got down. When he managed it he was surprised to find that she was tapping him on the shoulder, having reached the bottom before him.

  'Did you speak to Dr Biondini?'

  'How could I?' he grumbled, 'It's impossible. Where are we supposed to go now?'

  'To the Sala Bianca. I asked someon
e. You really should have made the effort, Salva. He'll think it so rude ..."

  The Marshal only grunted and tried to fish for a handkerchief to mop his brow.

  'We should have got here earlier,' whispered his wife.

  'I don't see how if I was working . . .'

  When they reached the Sala Bianca they were unable to get in and had to stand outside the room, hemmed in by the crowd, while an interminable speech was made by the politician who had been invited to open the exhibition and who was making the most of the opportunity to speak about anything other than the paintings, mostly, as far as the Marshal could make out, about himself and his early life in Florence. As if the exhibition hadn't provided enough of a security problem without this . . .

  The Marshal glanced about him. He might be no expert but a crowd this size was a security risk, no matter how many men with metal detectors you had on the doors . . .

  The thought was driven from his mind by a sharp poke in the back and a familiar voice.

  'I can't hear a thing, let alone see. There really should be some provision for people who can't stand for any length of time. Can you get a glimpse? They say he's aged - I was a great friend of his mother's before the quarrel . . . you know what I mean ... It was quite shocking, of course, and since the Princess considered herself to have been insulted in that woman's drawing-room I had no choice ..."

  'Let's get out of here,' muttered the Marshal.

  'Salva! Shh . . .'

  'Who, me? But if everybody else'

  'Shh!'

  That was the woman behind. It was true that there was no hope of escape in reality since they were blocked in on all sides. There was nothing for it but to stick it out. It had been too long a day, that was the trouble. It was only four hours or so since he had left Niccolini to come back and visit Signorina Stauffer, but it seemed more like four days. And at this rate they'd be lucky to get home to their supper before eight-thirty or nine . . .

  '. . . the questions and problems inherent in the cultural, environmental and artistic heritage of the city known — not without reason — in the last century, as the Athens of Italy. In the words ofCarducci . . .'