The Marshal and the Murderer (17 page)

'At any rate, what I felt as we drove back to the villa that day was that I would only get somewhere if something happened to unblock the situation. I needed a piece of luck. I suppose you could say that I got it, though it wasn't what I'd expected and certainly not what I was hoping for. Just over two weeks later, Signora Moretti died of a stroke.

1 had to move quickly because time was running out. As soon after the funeral as could be considered decent I went to see Moretti. He knew why, of course. What he didn't know was that I'd been doing some quiet investigating in the meantime and had an ace up my sleeve.

"Is it about that child?"

"It's about all three of the children, and about yourself. How long do you think you can go on running your business single-handed?"

"I'm not of retiring age yet."

"'But you soon will be. Who's going to take over? Your brother had no other children besides Maria so I suppose there's nobody on that side?"

"'I have my grandson."

'I didn't say anything, just looked at him. I hadn't been far wrong in my estimate of his grandson's capabilities and in the uncomfortable silence that followed he scratched his head and looked about him at the ramshackle factory, frowning.

'"He'll learn. He'll have to learn. He's a willing lad and I have some good reliable workmen he'll be able to depend on."

"'If they're willing to work for him."

'"They'll have to. He's my heir when all's said and done."

'"He's one of your heirs."

'"Oh, Tina ..."

"1 wasn't thinking of Tina."

'"You mean that child at the villa? He's not my son's child, you know that."

'"I know it. But you might have difficulty proving it in court. He's registered as a Moretti."

'"My boy was already dead when those bastards . . . what do you mean - in court?"

'"I mean when he claims a third of your property on your death."

'"He can't do that!"

'"He can. But then he hardly needs to. He already owns half of this factory, the half you calmly took over when your brother, Maria's father, died.'

'Moretti's face was green. I don't know to this day whether he was pretending ignorance and knew what the situation was and thought he'd get away with it, or whether he'd acted in good faith. I'm inclined to think the latter, judging by his bewilderment.

'"But Maria was crazy, I never thought ..."

'"Well, start thinking now. That child owns half your business and when you die he'll own more than half. He's also the only person likely to be capable of running it and so providing for your. other two grandchildren who are not. Think it over, Moretti, and give me your answer by the end of this week."

'"My answer . . . ?"

'"That's right. At the moment the child needs a home. I advise you to give him a home with you and let him grow up with his half-brother and sister. That way, when the time comes . . . you understand me?"

'I left him stunned. Nevertheless, by the end of the week he'd set things in motion and in a very short time little Moretti was received into his family with no ceremony. I drove him down there from the villa. It reminded me of the first time I'd taken him out; he was white and rigid and I knew he was trembling. That weak little heart must have been beating fit to burst but he didn't say a word or shed a tear. I left him standing in the kitchen, that same kitchen where, in a welter of blood and wine, fear and chaos, his frail life had been conceived. There was no one there to receive him. It was twelve o'clock and the two children were still at school. The wife of one of Moretti's workmen who lived nearby came in each day to get lunch for them and then do a bit of housework but she hadn't arrived yet. Moretti himself was busy in the factory. I had my rounds to finish, so I had no choice but to leave him there. The last I saw of him he was sitting waiting on the kitchen chair with his short thin legs dangling, his face chalk white and expressionless, clutching a small brown paper parcel containing his few spare clothes.

I didn't sleep much that night, I can promise you. I couldn't help imagining my own little girl in his place . . .

'Only now that I had succeeded did I wonder if I'd been right to interfere. It was my wife who calmed me down, pointing out that the alternative would have been an orphanage. She was right, of course, but even so I didn't sleep. I kept seeing him sitting there alone, and wondering what was going through that strange, half adult mind of his.

'I didn't see him again for some time. The next news I had of him was from the woman who went in to help. I was relieved to find that she was beginning to take to him.

'"An odd creature and no mistake," she said, "but he's a worker, I'll say that for him. I call him my little helper. He's taken to looking after the other two -who, between you and rhe, aren't as they should be -like a mixture of guard dog and nanny. It's a comical sight, I can tell you, him so small and the other two such big lolloping creatures as helpless as the day they were born. Just like their mother, crazy Maria - she died, did you hear? Only a few days after they moved her from the villa. Shock, if you ask me, after all those years."

'Well, I might have expected that that's the way things would go, knowing little Moretti as I did. Unfortunately, things went very differently at school. I saw him one day in the playground as I was passing by. He was standing back against the school wall, alone, watching the others run about, just as he'd watched them that day at the park. He looked a forlorn figure but it may be that he wasn't unhappy. He didn't know how to play, and perhaps it was too late for him to learn. I decided that next time I passed I would try and find time to make inquiries of his teacher.

'When I did the news wasn't good. It seemed he was considered a disruptive influence. This came as a surprise, I must say. I had expected her to say he was withdrawn, that he didn't mix with the others and so on, but not this. However, the child was so completely detached from the group that often, when she was teaching, he would get up and wander off to stare out of the window or to try to leave the classroom altogether. It was obvious that he meant no harm, but he was completely uncontrollable and naturally the other children used him as a welcome distraction. He was learning nothing and evidently the teacher considered him subnormal and would have been glad to be rid of him. I asked her if he was bullied by the other children, given that he was so small for his age. The question seemed to embarrass her. There had been a number of incidents in the playground.

'"They'd found out who he was, you see ..."

"'What do you mean, who he was?"

'"That he was a German. At first they just stood around him chanting at him, then they took to hitting him. He didn't react or defend himself and he didn't tell anyone."

"'He didn't tell anyone? But there must have been an attendant on duty."

'That seemed to be at the root of her embarrassment. All she said was: "There are a lot of people around here who have no use for Germans."

"'So it was allowed to go on? When did you find out?"

'"When an attendant came to complain about Moretti's older brother - half-brother, I should say. He'd beaten up two boys. It turned out that they'd been attacking his brother. The attendant couldn't stop him and had to call for help. Big Beppe, as everybody calls him, is enormous for his age and as strong as an ox but he's slow and usually docile and never causes trouble. Nevertheless, he was half crazy with anger and the attendant was terrified."

'"Well, at least that probably put a stop to their tormenting little Moretti."

"'I imagine so. But in one way or another the child is always causing trouble and he learns nothing here."

'I confess that in a way I was pleased at the idea of Moretti's being defended by his great brute of a half-brother. At least it meant he'd become part of the family. But there's no doubt that over the years it's always been Moretti who's defended him. He's a poor slow-witted creature and people have always teased him. They can make him believe anything and are always ready to get a cheap laugh at his expense.

'It was disappointing, though, to hear that little Moretti was learning nothing at school because I was convinced that he was bright, brighter than average.

'It wasn't long before he learned one thing, that he could stay off school fairly often and get away with it. The old man took little notice and would sign his absence book without making much fuss.

'The following year things improved slightly. His new teacher took a bit more interest in little Moretti's case and discovered that the child was something of a genius at mathematics. He whipped through the year's textbook in a couple of months and after that it was a job to give him enough to do. There was little improvement in other respects, though, and when obligatory school came to an end for little Moretti, he left only just literate and without a diploma, to start work in the factory.

'There's no doubt that theoretically at least he's wasted there, but he doesn't know it and he's never been dissatisfied with his lot, which counts for much in this life. That brief moment of glory when his intelligence suddenly manifested itself through his brilliance in mathematics is probably just a dim memory for him, if he remembers it at all. His character has never changed from the first day I saw him working busily at a geranium plant with a frown of concentration on his face. Once in the factory he threw all his considerable energy into becoming a skilled potter and when the old man retired he was ready not just to take over the business but to expand it. He began producing garden pots as. well as tiles and drains, and it wasn't long before that side had developed to such an extent that it took over completely. He exports all over Europe from that tumbledown place of his. I often wonder what he might have become in different circumstances . . .

'All his remaining energies went into looking after his cumbersome brother and sister - not that the brother's ever been a trouble to him; he's not capable of helping to run the business, as I'd known he wouldn't be, but he works night and day, doing all the heaviest jobs. Poor Tina was more of a problem. She's given him a lot of worry over the years, but he'd defend both of them to the death, like a ferocious guard dog, as that teacher once said. He married -1 suppose you know that - but in typical fashion he married a girl from an orphanage who hadn't a soul in the world or a penny to her name. Someone else for him to look after, to help. That's little Moretti all over. It seems to have turned out all right, though, and they have a little girl. As soon as he could afford it, he took a flat in town and ceased living in the factory. It's not a big flat, I believe, but he told me there'd always be a room in it for his brother - Tina was with the nuns then - and I wondered how his young wife would take that because Big Beppe's not everyone's idea of what you want about the home, but I gather he spends ninety per cent of his time holed up in the factory, not bothering anybody. It's been something of a standing joke in the town, ever since he got Tina off, whether he'd find a willing bride for his poor half-witted brother but it hasn't happened yet.

'Here I am rambling on and I've completely forgotten to tell you about Robiglio, who is of more interest to you, I suppose, than all this family gossip. Needless to say he vanished after that night when Pietro Moro was killed. I assume he went north and I found out later that he'd been called up to serve in the GNR shortly afterwards. As the Allies got threateningly close to us his father went north, too, and at the end of the war succeeded in crossing the border to Switzerland, which is more than Mussolini managed to do - but then, he was a slippery character, old Robiglio, much more so than his son ever managed to be. As I say, young Ernesto vanished after that night and the Robiglio factory and house, both damaged by bombings, remained deserted for years. Then, in the early 'sixties, I had a letter from him. It didn't come as a great surprise to me, I might say, though I was surprised at its promptitude which could only mean that he was well informed on everything that was happening here. The letter, you. see, arrived within a month of old Moretti's death. The only two eyewitnesses of his treachery were out of the way and he wanted to come back and set up in business again. The only obstacle, as he saw it, was me. He knew well enough that I'd followed his activities during the war. I'd seen him so often slinking about after curfew up to no good and he was afraid of me. I didn't come to a decision without long thought, and when I did I made what you might think a strange request of him. I asked him for what was to all intents and purposes a confession, that is, I asked him to write to me giving a full account of the events of that night, including his own part in them, at the same time giving him my assurance that I had no intention of openly denouncing him. Don't misunderstand me, I had no intention of blackmailing him and I told him so. My feeling was that there'd been enough bloodshed and anger in the past, enough bitter reprisals following the war. Nevertheless, if Ernesto came back I knew that in a short time, with the means at his disposal, he'd be in a position of power in the town and at that point he'd only to wait for my death and he could proclaim himself a saint with nobody in a position to oppose him. That idea stuck in my gullet. Maybe I'd no right to do what I did but I'm glad I did it, and if he gets himself elected mayor, even more so. I may not live as long as he does but that letter will, and he has no means of knowing whose hands it will be put into when I'm gone. I don't say it keeps him on the straight and narrow path altogether but it will make him careful of doing any more damage in this town.

'Well, there it is. He came back, rebuilt his factory and house and married. His old father's long dead, of course.

'For years I've observed them, Ernesto Robiglio and little Moretti, as they worked and planned and gained acceptance in the town. Moretti gained it unconsciously, keeping himself to himself, doing a good job and paying a fair wage, looking after his family and doing no harm to anyone. Robiglio did it consciously, with his money. I wondered more than once if their paths would ever cross. Nobody, by the way, has ever set eyes on that letter other than myself. Moretti knows about it. When the old man died and he took over the factory I had him up here and told him the truth about his birth. I also told him about the letter when it arrived. I felt he had a right to that.