The Marshal and the Murderer (12 page)

The Marshal was standing at the window in Niccolini's office looking down at the square. The rainwashed bronze statue of the partisan shone in the winter sunlight, but for the rest the town had the air of someone facing the day unwashed and uncombed after getting reluctantly out of bed. The sunshine only served to accentuate the crumbling facade and peeling shutters whose brown paint had faded almost to grey under the frequent rains. In Niccolini's office, at least, everything was spick and span. The walls were newly whitened, the desk polished, and a tall rubber plant of military bearing stood sentry in one corner of the floor.

'That's done!' announced Niccolini, bursting into the room rubbing his hands together. 'And I think we've done right. I'm sure we have. Always best to be on the safe side.'

The Marshal's anxiety subsided a little. He suggested to Niccolini that they put a guard on Moretti's factory, and Niccolini, when he heard about the accusation sprayed on the wall, had agreed that it might well be necessary, saying, T don't like the sound of that, I don't like the sound of it at all . . .'

By this time a. squad car was on its way to the factory and the Marshal felt able to recount something of what he had discovered since the two of them had parted company the previous day. His recent chat with Berti outside the factory had produced nothing concrete. Berti had not denied that he had picked up the girl from Moretti's on previous occasions to drop her at the restaurant, since it was on his way home, but swore he hadn't gone there the day she died.

'Why didn't you, if you usually did?'

1 didn't feel like it. No reason in particular. She could look after herself for once, I thought.'

'Did you? Well, you were wrong.'

'Be reasonable, Marshal, be reasonable. I couldn't have known.'

Which was no doubt true, and there was little the Marshal could say.

'Do you reckon he was lying?' asked Niccolini, after listening without comment.

'Yes and no.' The Marshal hesitated. 'For some reason I believe him when he said he didn't go there that day. He didn't hesitate for a second in denying it, almost as if. . . as if he were on absolutely safe ground, but . . .'

'But?'

'With Berti I never get the feeling that he's telling me lies, more a feeling that he's not telling me anything. Somehow or other he manages to skate round the truth . . . After all, he did say in the first place that the girl probably went to Moretti's that day. What he didn't tell us was that he knew she'd gone there, that it had been agreed beforehand. And that makes me wonder if his not picking her up there had also been agreed beforehand.'

'Well, you could be right, but why?'

'So as not to be in somebody's way, maybe, somebody who had plans for her that day ... It seems Moretti used to go round to Berti's place when she was there, ogling her.'

'I wouldn't have thought it of him. But in any case, Moretti was at the restaurant that day, not at the factory.'

1 know. Nobody was at the factory if we're to believe all we're told, but somebody killed the girl, even so.'

'Hm. You've seen to the business of informing the parents?'

I've left it in the Captain's hands. I went to the flat

It wasn't easy now to explain that business of the girl's odd behaviour if only because it was seen through the eyes of that good-looking young man, Corsari, whom the Marshal hadn't liked at all - he couldn't explain why that was, either. He did his best but he didn't make much of a job of it, and he couldn't have been more amazed when at the end of his jumbled and hesitant account Niccolini sat back and slapped a hand down on the desk.

'Well I'll be damned! Trust you to get at the truth. I said you were one for noticing things and I was right! I wouldn't have thought I could be taken in in the same way twice, but it looks like I'm a bigger fool than I thought, and at my time in life, too, when I've had more women than hot dinners!'

That must be a lot, the Marshal thought, amazed at this new aspect of his energetic colleague. But what did Niccolini imagine he had noticed?

I'm not sure I'

But Niccolini rolled over him happily.

'The first time it happened to me was in Rome - I'm talking about a good few years ago, and in those days this uniform - and even more so full dress uniform -drew the women like flies round a honey-pot. Don't get me wrong, I'm fond of my wife and my boys are everything to me, but I've never turned down a pretty woman yet, I love them all. Well, this one was an officer's wife and a risky proposition, but she was a beauty though a few years older than me, a real charmer. It began on a "bring me - fetch me - carry me" basis and I thought to myself, "All right, I'll go along with you, the moment will come." Well, the moment came all right, when she asked me to drive her home one day and invited me in for a drink. We even got as far as the bedroom before she sprang it on me. There I was all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed ready to uphold the honour of the army when she turns around and says, "I'm afraid you're wasting your time if that's what you have in mind. Not that I have anything against men as friends, but they do nothing for me in erotic terms. As far as that's concerned, I prefer women." You could have knocked me down with a feather. I laugh about it now, young fool that I was, but I can tell you I was livid, livid! She had to find somebody else to do her fetching and carrying after that!'

'But the husband . . .' ventured the Marshal, his solemn eyes almost popping out of his head.

'Preferred little boys. Marriage of convenience. And if that young man you told me about hangs around with two lesbians, then he's probably neither flesh nor fowl himself, whether he knows it or not.'

'So that's what they found out when they were invited to dinner . . .'

'And I can just see their faces.'

'Good God ... I think, if you don't mind, I'd better give that young man a ring. I wouldn't like to be mistaken on something like this.'

'There's no mistake, you mark my words, but ring him by all means if you want to.'

The Marshal fished out the slip of paper from the note-book in his top pocket and tried the school number, since it was morning. Corsari wasn't there, having rung in to say he was taking the day off. He tried Signorina Stauffer's number and Corsari himself answered the phone.

'I thought I should stay with Elisabeth,' he explained. 'She's in rather a bad way.'

'Did you call a doctor?'

'Yes, and he gave her something so at least she got some sleep during the night. I'm wondering whether to suggest she goes home once she's fit to travel, if that's all right with you.'

'I'd rather she didn't leave for the moment, especially as I need to take a written statement from her as soon as she's feeling well enough ... I wanted 124 to ask you about Signorina Stauffer's relationship with Monica Heer . . .'

'Yes? What about it?'

'I . . .' The Marshal glanced over at Niccolini, wishing that he'd asked him to deal with this. 'Were they . . . Was it an intimate relationship - I mean, were they . . .'

'Lesbians? Of course. I thought you'd realized that from the beginning.'

'I don't see why,' the Marshal defended himself.

'Perhaps not, although from our conversation I must say you gave me the impression — you even asked me if the quarrels caused by Monica's bringing men home were caused by jealousy, so . . .'

'I see. And that's what Signorina Stauffer meant by her warning. She considered her friend's behaviour risky?'

'Yes.'

'Thank you.'

The Marshal put the phone down and rubbed a hand over his face, embarrassed and very annoyed with himself.

Niccolini was busy searching through a file.

'You're not the only one who's been busy - here we are. I rang the Medico-Legal Institute first thing this morning - too early of course for anything more than the on-the-spot findings of yesterday, since it'll be a few days before they've done any analyses. At any rate, we know she died at lunch-time. The doctor reckons towards one o'clock but to cover himself he's saying officially between twelve and two. She ate something almost immediately before death, certainly bread, probably a sandwich of some sort, we'll have to wait for an analysis to know exactly - but that does tie in with Berti's having planned in advance not to take her to the restaurant. I doubt she'd have eaten a sandwich at that time otherwise. There's no question that she didn't die where we found her and that she wasn't wearing the jeans we found her in - or at least they certainly weren't fastened. She wasn't a virgin, so she must have given it a try at some point before going the other way - and that brings us to the rape business: there are scratches on the breasts and thighs which suggest that it was attempted but there's no trace of its having been successful. Nothing to analyse under the nails which were scrubbed clean, so if she put up a fight it wasn't much ofone, didn't have a chance.'

'Funny. . .'murmured the Marshal. 'Usually '

'Wait, there's a good reason. She took quite a severe blow on the back of the head before she died, so it's possible that she was knocked down and lost consciousness right at the start of the attack. What
is
funny is that after that, whoever attacked her didn't succeed in raping her but, maybe infuriated by her lack of response - this is only guesswork - not only strangled her but beat her head against something hard, probably the floor as there were no sharp corners involved, after she was dead. Now I don't know if that suggests to you what it suggests to me . . . What do you think?'

'That he didn't have rape in mind, that he was expecting cooperation and was baffled and enraged not to get it. I suppose that's what you mean and it ties in with her behaviour. Even so . . .'

'Yes. Even so, I'd say he wasn't right in the head to have reacted that strongly. Like a wild beast. Of course, people like that sometimes have the appearance of being quite normal until something provokes them. I've known cases before. Anyway, that's the lot for the moment.'

Like a wild beast . . .

'1 ought to tell you,' the Marshal said, 'that on my way here I also went to see Tina . . .'

Six

'I'll tell you what.' Niccolini was marching up and down behind his desk between the rubber plant and a filing cabinet in the opposite corner. "We need more facts and less gossip, that's what we need. I'm not just referring to Tina, either. I was thinking the same thing yesterday but with Robiglio in mind — and if it turns out there's a connection there, then all the more reason . . .'

The Marshal's big eyes followed him back and forth, wishing he would sit down but realizing that he had already required him to be silent and listen, and that to ask him to be still as well was asking too much. So he said nothing.

'I want to know exactly what Moretti's deal with that peasant farmer was over his sister. I want to know what Sestini meant by saying you can't get away with it twice, and I want to know what our friend Robiglio was up to during the war because it just might stop him getting elected if it's raked up now, and who knows whether that young girl found out something -what do you think?'

'I think,' said the Marshal slowly, 'as I've already said . . . that there's something more recent . . . Still, I agree with you, we do need facts, only I'm afraid nobody's going to give us any.'

Niccolini stopped marching and smiled broadly.

'Now there you're wrong. I made my mind up on this yesterday, and when I make my mind up I get busy. There had to be somebody in this town who wasn't involved in any of its feuds and scandals and I've found him. It was my brigadier's mother who put me on to him. She's lived here all her life and though she's too young to remember much about the war she was able to tell me where to look. Dr Arnolfo Frasinelli's our man!' He sat down at last, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. 'Eighty-six years old but they say he's as quick as a twenty-year-old, knows the history of everybody in this place, especially as for years he was a GP, and takes no nonsense from any of them. We're going along to meet him shortly, and with any luck he'll be able to explain at least some of this lot.'

With the flourish of a conjuror Niccolini whipped open his desk drawer and spread a bunch of papers under the Marshal's nose. 'You told me to expect them and here they are, for what they're worth.'

'Anonymous letters . . .'

'Exactly. And not one of them any help unless Frasinelli can enlighten us. Take a look through.' And he carried on marching up and down behind the Marshal's chair.

The first letter the Marshal took from the pile was written with a ballpoint pen in capitals on a sheet of lined paper torn from a child's exercise book. Only two lines were written at the top: ASK MORETTI WHERE HE GOT THE MONEY TO BUY LAND WHEN HE WAS IN DEBT. He turned the paper over but there was nothing else. The next one he picked up caused him to frown. It was not a letter at all but a sheet of tracing paper on which someone had used a thick paintbrush and brownish-black paint to draw a large swastika.

'Man of few words,' commented Niccolini, seeing the Marshal's puzzled frown.

'It's not that so much ... I imagine it refers to Robiglio, but the tracing paper . . .'

"That's no mystery. Most of the potters who do majolica use it. They trace designs, then prick through all the lines of the drawing with a pin and dust charcoal through it on to a pot. I've seen it done many a time -and that's not paint but a metal oxide for painting over glaze.'

'Could be Berti, then . . .'

'Or a dozen other people.'

The Marshal went on reading and Niccolini got up and began striding about again.

ASK MORETTI WHAT GOES ON AT ROBIGLIO'S ON FRIDAY NIGHTS.

The Marshal looked up, inquiring.

'That one's no mystery.' Niccolini was looking over his shoulder. 'Gambling. Heard all about that from my predecessor when I arrived here. A select group of Robiglio's friends, industrialists from Prato and Florence, get together at his house each Friday night. Some pretty large sums change hands. They say Robiglio's the banker.'

'You've never done anything about it?'

'There's nothing I can do. Oh, my predecessor tried. Called on him one Friday night on some pretext or other and there they all were, large as life. Whisky and cigars, green baize cloth, the whole works. They were playing baccarat. But there was no sign of any money, not so much as a scrap of paper to indicate that any money changed hands there. Robiglio, cool as a fish on ice, offered the Marshal a drink and even invited him to join them as it was a friendly game, no money involved, just a group of pals passing a pleasant evening. There wasn't a thing he could do.'

'Hm.' The Marshal laid the letter aside and read on.

ERNEST ROBIGLIO SPY SS HANGMAN MURDERER DON'T LET HIM GET AWAY TWICE.

And the next one:

IF YOU LOCK UP THE WHOLE FAMILY IN THE VILLA YOU'LL BE DOING THIS TOWN A FAVOUR.

This last one was signed '10 Respectable Citizens.'

'The ten respectable citizens forgot to tell us which family they were talking about,' remarked Niccolini, still looking over the Marshal's shoulder.

'What do they mean by the villa?'

'The asylum, of course.'

'Of course, Listen, Niccolini . . . you couldn't sit down a minute, could you?'

'That's what my wife always says! "Can't you just sit still for one minute?" She's right, of course. Here I am, sitting still for as long as it lasts. What's the problem?'

'The problem is that these letters are written by people who seem to think we know as much about the goings-on in this town as they do - those of them that aren't pure nastiness, that is'

'You're right, you're right - nod's as good as a wink'

'But you're doing it, too,' protested the Marshal, leaning forward a little with his big hands planted on his knees and staring hard at Niccolini with a vague hope of quietening him down. No doubt Niccolini's wife had been trying to do the same thing for years. 'Tell me about the asylum. All about it.'

'I showed you the place only yesterday!' roared Niccolini'- eh no, no, it was raining so you couldn't see it, you're right.'

But the Marshal remembered now.

'You mean the Medici villa up on the hill . . . When I first came here on the bus it was full of people who were going to an asylum. So that's the place.'

'That's the place, though who our respectable citizens want us to shut up in there I don't know.'

'Most of these letters, as far as I can see,' pointed out the Marshal, 'are directed against Robiglio and Moretti.'

'Yes, but why? If you ask me, everybody in this town knows by now who did for the girl,
so
by rights the letters should all be aimed at the same person.'

'Not necessarily.' The Marshal looked down at the letters spread on the desk. He didn't like anonymous letters but experience had taught him their logic, such as it was. 'There are plenty of people only too ready to make use of a situation like this to do the dirty on somebody they don't like.'

'Or on some political opponent who looks like winning the elections?'

'That, too. There might well be no truth in the accusations against Robiglio but even a short-lived scandal would probably put paid to his chances. Look at this one: NO MORE FASCIST MAYORS. ROBIGLIO IS A MURDERER. That's surely someone hoping we'll rake up Robiglio's past during our investigation rather than a reference to the murdered girl. The ones directed at Moretti are probably more to the point.'

'Except he's the one person who couldn't have been at the factory when it happened.'

'You've checked his alibi?'

'Double-checked it - Listen, we .ought to be on our way to visit our oldest inhabitant. We'll take these letters with us and I'll tell you the rest of my news on the way.'

There was no doubt that Niccolini had been busy the day before. The Marshal was amazed as ever by his energy and slightly ashamed that he himself seemed to have achieved so little. Sitting in the passenger seat, gazing at the darkened landscape through his sunglasses, he listened in silence as Niccolini rattled on, emphasizing his remarks with one hand and steering with the other.

'So I telephoned these clients of Moretti's. They weren't from abroad, which was one good thing, they were buying agents from Milan whose clients are mostly from Scandinavia and England. According to them, they drove down here and arrived at about eleven to meet Moretti at his factory and fix the price of a consignment. After that they wanted to find someone to supply them with majolica, but not artisan work because they wanted a lot of it and they wanted it cheap. Moretti, of course, doesn't deal in glazed ware at all, but since he has a good deal with this agent, and since it was a free day for him, he offered to take them to one or two smallish factories producing low quality stuff in the majolica style, though not the real thing. In fact they went to two places and the agents found what they wanted and placed orders. A little before one o'clock they were at the restaurant. They left towards two and parted company. Moretti, according to his wife, got home before half past two. The family were still sitting round the table, including his brother. They'd finished eating but were drinking coffee and watching the quiz on TV. For what it's worth, the time he came in is confirmed by a neighbour who was there drinking coffee and watching the quiz with them.

"At any rate, while there's no saying that Moretti couldn't have whipped round to the factory between leaving the clients and going home, the girl was dead by then anyway. Look to your left - that's Robiglio's place.'

An impressive pile of concrete and glass with Robiglio's name written large down one side of it and a big car park in front.

'It's big enough . . .'

'He doesn't only supply the industry here,' explained Niccolini, 'he supplies other regions as well, including the tableware factories on the other side of Florence.'

'They don't make tableware here?'

'No, only decorative stuff in terracotta and majolica, and roof and floor tiles too. Nothing in the kitchenware line.'

'Berti told me he was a millionaire . . . Robiglio, I mean.'

'Maybe he was exaggerating, but maybe not.' Niccolini laughed: 'I suppose he told you what they call his house?'

'He did. Is he married?'

'Separated. I don't know much about his wife -before my time - only that as soon as their one daughter was married she moved out. Went back to where she came from - Milan, I think.'

'Then he lives alone in that mansion?'

'Apart from the servants - the joke about the seven lavatories was that there was one for each person in the house, including the servants. Now he's got most of them all to himself. We're almost there so let me finish up on these alibis, such as they are. All Moretti's men got together in the bar at the communist club towards eleven-thirty and hung about there playing cards and chatting until half past twelve when they went to eat at the restaurant. Sestini was the only one who didn't eat there but his house is on the way between the two places and his mates walked with him and saw him go in.'

'If they're telling the truth.'

If they're telling the truth. Well, that's about it because after that they went back to the club where Sestini joined them again and they played billiards for most of the afternoon.'

When the Marshal made no comment he went on: 'Of course there's nothing to say that somebody else apart from them couldn't have just walked in there . . .'

'No ..." Again the Marshal had the familiar feeling that something obvious was eluding him, but he could make nothing of it so he remained silent.

'We turn off here. This is the borderline of the pottery area. Further down that road the glass factories start. The old boy lives in splendid isolation down by those orchards there.'

The house, when they reached it at the end of a bumpy lane, was indeed isolated but not at all splendid. It was an austere little bungalow in faded yellow stucco and red clay roof tiles and dark brown shutters. It had been built on the site of a peasant's cottage and the grassy courtyard still had its well in the centre and a dilapidated stone barn which looked as though it had been badly damaged during the war. No doubt it was a very pleasant spot in spring and summer when the surrounding orchards were full of blossom or fruit, but the wintry fields and bare branches along with the overgrown courtyard accentuated the neglected, sad air typical of the house of an old man living alone.

Niccolini rang the bell. As they waited for an answer the Marshal stared at a trailing piece of broken washing line lying in a puddle of yesterday's rain and then at the shutters which no one had opened to let in a little sunshine and air, remembering the years he had passed alone before his wife and children had come up from Sicily. It occurred to him to hope that he didn't live long enough to finish his days alone. A selfish hope which made him feel guilty. Then the door opened and his sadness was dispelled in an instant.

'Come in, come in, you boys! Delighted to see you!' Dr Frasinelli whipped a pipe from his mouth and waved them in, beaming up at them with bright blue eyes in a pixie-like face. He turned and pottered happily along a small corridor to show them into a room on the left, a room as neat and bright as the dapper little man himself, who chatted on as he offered them seats and settled himself in what was evidently his habitual place in front of a booklined wall. 'This used to be my waiting-room when I was in practice - the old surgery's next door, through here . . .'

Here the window and shutters were open and the winter sunshine poured in from the courtyard. The roof of the well was visible and the sweet smell of the doctor's tobacco smoke was pleasant on the clean rainwashed air.

'I gather there's trouble in town - I hope my pipe doesn't bother you? Young people sometimes find it a bit strong.' He slipped a tobacco pouch from his pocket and kneaded it affectionately. Since neither of them answered his query, bemused at being considered young people, he began to refill his pipe with an air of happy concentration. 'I'm not so well up as I used to be with local gossip since my daughter doesn't come as often as she did. At one time she came every day, insisted on doing a bit of cleaning and cooking for me, though 1 manage perfectly well by myself, you know what women are. Nowadays she can't manage it, says she's not as young as she was. I have a woman who comes once a week, which is all I need, but she tells me nothing in the way of news, confines herself to recounting the ailments of her whole family, and more especially her own - if I'm to believe half of what she tells me I wonder how she can be on her feet at all but she obviously considers free medical advice to be a perk of the job and intends to make the most of it by cultivating as many illnesses as she can think up. So you'll gather that you'll have to tell me your story from scratch,' He looked from one to the other and sat back in his chair.