The Marshal and the Murderer (18 page)

'And now I suppose I must tell you the truth about this business of the land that he bought from Robiglio as Tina's dowry. I'm trying to be fair. Young Moretti means a lot to me, you'll have understood that, I'm sure, but I'm not making him out to be a saint and I'd rather you knew the truth of it than imagined worse.

'In the first place, whatever people say, the idea for that deal over the land and Tina didn't originate with Moretti but with the crafty old so-and-so who married her. Moretti was in a tight spot all right; he didn't want his sister put in an asylum and he could hardly take her in at home. Even apart from her behaviour, there was the fact that they were expecting their child by then and there wasn't room. It was ironic that he should find himself in the situation I'd once been in when looking for a home for him. At any rate, he came to see me and told me the whole story, the suggestion of this land-hungry peasant that he should buy a piece of land on the cheap from Robiglio as a dowry on the grounds that, according to the peasant, Robiglio "owed him a favour" - Moretti, that is. At the centre of all this was the letter. The peasant didn't know about it, he only knew the story and that from hearsay, but Moretti knew and he came and asked me for it.

'I refused. I felt for him and I told him so but I refused. I said that if he felt it was the right solution he could try and convince Robiglio to sell, anyway, without being devious about it.

'"I can't afford to buy. I'm in debt over the apartment and I've just taken on a new thrower. Then there's a child on the way."

'"1 can't help you, not that way. It would be blackmail."

'"In a good cause."

"'But still blackmail."

'"From what you told me it's no more than he deserves!"

'"1 won't do it, Moretti."

'"Then why did you ever want that letter if you won't use it?"

'"To keep Robiglio from doing more harm, not to harm him."

'"You know what will happen to Tina?"

"'I won't do it. Go to Robiglio. Tell him you want that land and why. Ask him to let you pay in small instalments. He can only say no. Always try the simplest way first. I'm not saying it will work. If he's anything like his father he has no conscience, which is why I invented one for him and keep it locked in a drawer. Even so, try it. As to his owing you a favour, it's true that you probably owe your very existence in this world to him. Whether you look on that as a debt he owes you or one you owe him is for you to decide. If it doesn't work, send that old rascal who wants Tina to me and we'll see if we can't appease him with a promise of something later on when you can afford it. But I warn you of one thing: don't try putting pressure on Robiglio by pretending you can get your hands on that letter because he'll immediately check with me and I'll deny it."

'Well, whatever he told Robiglio it seems to have worked. He got the piece of land on deferred payment. Although I'd suggested it myself, nobody was more surprised than I was that it worked, and to be absolutely honest with you I had a moment of doubt about how Moretti had managed it. So much so that I made a telephone call to Robiglio. I wanted to be sure that there had been no false menaces concerning that letter. Robiglio assured me that it hadn't been mentioned.

"h1"We came to an amicable agreement."

'It was none of my business to insist on knowing the terms of their amicable agreement if it didn't concern me or the letter, so I had to let it go at that. What other people may think their terms were I don't know. Probably they don't know either. The point about these anonymous letters, as I've already said, is that they're all aimed at the same thing, Nazi-fascism. For those people Robiglio is the son of his father and Moretti the son of his. Racial hatred is like a volcano. The flames of the great eruption of the last war may have died down but the volcano goes on smouldering. Nothing has changed. It only needs an excuse, economic depression, threatened vested interest, whatever you will, and it's ready to erupt all over again. Now you've seen it for yourselves in microcosm in this small town. As long as things are peaceful we're hospitable and polite to the German buyers who come tq buy our pottery and the German tourists who rent our country cottages. But now a girl has been murdered and the old flames have been fanned.

'I don't envy you your job, I can tell you. I hope I've made it easier for you by telling you the truth of what's behind these anonymous letters, if only so that you can eliminate the irrelevant. I can't do more than that. I don't know who this Swiss girl was and I don't know what's going on between Moretti and Robiglio now. I can only promise you that just as I refused to give Moretti that letter years ago to help him settle Tina, I refused just as firmly to give it to him yesterday in this very room. I don't know why he wants it now, he wouldn't tell me, though I did my best to find out. Perhaps you have some idea yourselves. Isn't that what brought you here?'

Eight

The car was crashing over potholes in the lane which hadn't seemed to be there when they came down it. Niccolini was driving too fast.

'I'm driving too fast . . . damn! Sorry.'

A tractor tried to pull out from an orchard to their right.

'Eh, no!' He leaned on his horn, 'Back you go, laddie, we're in a hurry!'

Perhaps he couldn't have said why they were in a hurry if anyone had asked him. Nobody asked him, certainly not the Marshal who sat silent and uneasy behind his dark glasses, but he didn't complain even when he was bounced out of his seat, and for once he was glad of Niccolini's ebullient activity which tended to relieve his feelings. Not a word had passed between them yet about what they had heard but he knew by unspoken agreement they were heading for Moretti's place and that there was no time to lose. They might have been trying to prevent a murder rather than investigating one.

'Blast these lights . . . they're going to be red - I knew it!'

The car didn't quite stop but braked and continued edging forward inch by inch. The Marshal, who was feeling slow and heavy, incapable of logical action, observed the big boot toying with the accelerator and the gloved hand that tapped the steering-wheel impatiently and thought to himself: Thank God he's in charge, somebody wide awake and efficient who can take some sort of decision, put some facts together. As for himself, his head was full of moving images, some of them first-hand, some of them inspired by the doctor's story, and all of them slowing down and slowing down until they became silent tableaux. An ugly little boy reaching for a dead geranium head in a lemon-scented garden. Maria spreadeagled on the kitchen table. A pale, watching face at the window of the house with the seven lavatories. Berti creeping out from the dark cavern of a kiln, thin and grey, crawling out over the crumbled brickwork at the kiln's mouth. Berti's thin fingers spinning his hair-fine brush that made patterns appear like magic. Why Berti? What was the point of thinking about him, if you could call it thinking? It was Moretti who mattered, Moretti towards whom they were racing as the lights changed and the car leapt forward, throwing him back in his seat. Moretti who . . . Were they going to arrest him, or to protect him? Perhaps it was time they called the Captain. It was all very well to collect a lot of miscellaneous information, but you needed someone with brains to make some sense of it all. In the meantime, at least there was Niccolini who would act instead of sitting dumbly with a head full ofjumbled pictures . . .

'All I can say is, thank God you're here.' But it was Niccolini who had spoken.

'Me . . .?'

'If you hadn't thought about putting a guard on Moretti'splace . . .'

The Marshal didn't answer. The truth was he'd forgotten all about it.

'I'm worried, I don't mind telling you - come on, come on, put your foot down or move over! We just had to pick the moment when everybody and his dog's going home to lunch! I don't like it. I don't like it. You realize that everybody in this town knows what we've just found out? There could be mischief. You're not saying anything. You think I'm exaggerating?"

'No, no . . .'

'Well, you're keeping very quiet. What's the matter with you?' He glanced sideways. 'You look like a broody hen.'

'What?'

'You look like my wife used to look when she was nine months pregnant. Well, all I can hope is that you're brooding over some blinding idea that will solve this little lot for us.'

'I never have ideas.'

'Well, something's up by the look of you. I suppose you're upset by this war business. He can certainly ramble on, can Frasinelli. I must say, though, he made an impression. Funny how often you hear that sort of thing in a general way and think nothing of it. You know what I mean - somebody lets drop some remark, "So-and-so was killed by the Germans during the war, so-and-so came back from the war and found his wife pregnant by an enemy soldier," and it doesn't mean a thing, just washes over you. I suppose we were too young. But this business . . . well, it's different when you know the people. All I can say is, I'm glad Moretti has the alibi he has ... Now, this bridge, for instance.' (They were crossing the bridge that led to the town square, with its bright yellow metal railings.) 'Somebody must have told me once that it had been bombed and this new one built after the war, since I know that's the case, and I never gave it a thought at the time, but maybe it was the bad-tempered sergeant and his men who blew it up as they left - Oh! Will you look at that imbecile! That's right, throw your hands up in despair because you can't back up now that all the imbeciles behind have followed you. Bravo! You've blocked the entire square and we can't turn left! The trouble with this country is that it's a mass of anarchists and improvisors governed by bandits. They're moving, thank goodness. But then, when you think of the Germans, maybe we're better off as we are. I like to think I'm not prejudiced but when you start thinking . . . Frasinelli's right. I'm thankful Moretti has an alibi. I wouldn't like to test myself on this prejudice business . . .'

After a moment the Marshal said,
"We
know he has an alibi.'

And Niccolini accelerated even more.

'You think like I do, then, that there could be mischief. That stuff painted on his wall, that was nasty. Even so, you can understand it, knowing what his father was, whichever one of them was his father. You know what they say, blood will tell . . . Well, he has his alibi and that's that.'

They were out of the town centre and speeding past rows of pots and stacks of tiles and drains when the Marshal made his next remark almost absentmindedly since his head was still full of those jostling images.

'Whose car were they in?'

'Eh?'

'Whose car were they in? Moretti and his clients. They were driving around together looking at other factories you said. I wouldn't have thought they'd have taken both his car and theirs . . .'

'I didn't ask. Why?'

'Because if they took only one . . . when they'd eaten they must have had to go back to the factory before parting company. That's where they set out from . . . Either the clients or Moretti himself had a car to pick up.'

'Good God! And I never even thought to ask. We're here. Of all the damnfool things, not to think of that. If he came back here right after his lunch -well, that's the first thing to do, ask him. He can't lie to me because I can check up with the clients. Come on!'

He had swung the driver's door open but the Marshal's hand was on his arm.

'Wait.'

'What is it? What's the matter?'

'Wait. Something's wrong.'

'All we have to do is ask him. If they took both cars he's in the clear.'

But the Marshal was staring up at the terrace of the factory, not listening.

'Wait there.'

He got out and looked around. The truck was still parked below the terrace wall, filled with pots with straw packed around them. One big red jar was standing on the wall itself as though there hadn't been room for it. Except for the absence of the men who had been loading the truck and the presence of the carabinieri van parked in front of it everything was as it had been when he'd driven past early that morning. He walked forward and said a word to the two boys in the van, who shrugged and shook their heads. He returned to the car where Niccolini was peering forward, frowning.

'Are you going to tell me? What's up?'

'I don't know. Turn round a minute and stop in front of Robiglio's house.'

Niccolini was too surprised and bemused to protest. They drew up at the gates of Robiglio's house.

'Well?'

There was no one in sight, no face at the window this time, but a white Mercedes was parked in front of the house.

'Is that his car, his only car?'

'No, he has a little runabout mostly used by the maid to do the shopping.'

The Marshal got out and rang the bell beside the gates, stooping a little to put his ear to the speaker below it.

'Yes?'

'Is Signor Robiglio at home?'

'Yes. Who shall I say?'

'Never mind.'

He straightened up and got back in the car. At the end of the drive they saw the maid open the front door and look in the direction of the gate.

'He's still here,' the Marshal said. 'He made such a point of saying he was leaving for Switzerland this morning and he hasn't gone.'

'Changed his mind,' suggested Niccolini, 'or been delayed.'

'That truck outside Moretti's was as good as packed when I came past this morning, three and a half hours ago. That hasn't gone either.'

'And what does that all mean?'

'I don't know. Go back to Moretti's.'

The Marshal offered no explanations and his face was expressionless behind the sunglasses. A few seconds later they were again parked behind the truck.

'Are we going in?' Niccolini had lost his ebullience in the face of this new version of Guarnaccia. He didn't even protest when he got no answer. They sat where they were with the traffic roaring past.

After a while the Marshal sighed and murmured to himself, T don't know . . .'

'What are we going to do?' Niccolini was tapping the steering-wheel again.

'Wait, I suppose . . .'

'Wait for what? We can't sit here

'Wait for what? We can't sit here for the rest of the day!'

But they hadn't been waiting long when Moretti showed himself on the terrace above them. He remained there staring down for only a few seconds but the Marshal was glad of the chance to take a fresh look at him, seeking to reconcile his idea of the undersized but over-mature orphan of the past with the harassed and defensive man of the present. It wasn't difficult, even in the short time before he vanished again and the terrace was once more deserted except for the tall, big-bellied pot that seemed to be standing guard on the wall.

The Marshal looked about him. On his left the high black wall of the railway line. To his right the factory and behind it an open field with the sherd ruck. He frowned.

'Is there some place at a short distance from where we can keep a watch on this place?'

Niccolini, too, looked about him but came to the same conclusion as the Marshal had done. If you mean a place where we can watch without being seen, no.'

'Hmm. And Robiglio's place?'

'Robiglio's. But what . . .'

'Can we keep a watch on that without being seen?'

'Maybe we could from Via del Fosso-'

'Signal to your lads to follow us.'

Niccolini turned the car, seeking an opening in the traffic, and sounded his horn as soon as he could see the van parked beyond the truck. The opening came and both vehicles moved out, turned, and drove past the big gates.

Via del Fosso was a narrow lane leading off to the right, quite a distance beyond Robiglio's house, but it soon began to curve back and climb. They had to stop two or three times before finding a vantage-point which allowed them to see both the back of the house and the front gates.

'That do you?' inquired Niccolini.

'Yes, but take the cars further on and walk back. He's no fool and might spot something even at this distance.'

The Marshal stayed where he was while they concealed the cars, leaning forward a little, his big hands planted wide apart on a low stone wall. Robiglio's house, seen from above, looked rather bigger than he had judged from the facade. He looked at the busy road that passed in front of it and at the electric railway line curving away behind it towards the town. Between the two there was room for a biggish garden and a narrow field.

'Even so,' murmured the Marshal to himself, 'it's not much of a situation for a house of that sort.' It was true that both the road and the railway had obviously been built long after the house.

'And then maybe he'd have trouble selling it just because of that. Still, it's not where I'd choose to live if I had his money, with or without seven lavatories. What a thing to be known for . . . that and fascism.'

'Have a piece of chocolate.' Niccolini had returned and had joined him by the wall.

'Chocolate?'

'Engine can't run without petrol. We haven't eaten all day and though I don't pretend to know what you've got in mind, it doesn't look to me like we're ever going to eat. Here. I always keep a supply in the car. You never know when famine will set in. I've given my lads a block each, they're waiting in the van. Now: what about letting me in on the secret. What's going on?'

'I don't know. I've just got a feeling that something
should
be going on and that we put a stopper on it by having your lads guard Moretti's place all day. I suppose there's nothing to stop anyone loading a truck and leaving it hanging about . . . but Robiglio's hanging about too. They're waiting for something and I just thought maybe they could be waiting for us to be off the scene.'

'And now we are.'

'Yes, now we are. There's something going on between those two, as Dr Frasinelli rightly judged. Something that doesn't suit Moretti or he wouldn't have wanted to make use of that letter . . . There he
is.

The Marshal took off his dark glasses and peered down, blinking.

'Maybe your eyesight's better than mine . . .'

'It's him, all right. Even at this distance I can recognize the way he moves. See him pause at the gates? He's having a good look to make sure we've really gone. What now?'

'We'll go down there, taking our time.'

The Marshal had to repeat the last part of this remark more than once as they made their way down to the main road because Niccolini kept speeding up from fear of what they might miss, and in the end the Marshal ceased exhorting him to slow down, infected by his anxiety and afraid that after all he might have judged the timing badly.

He wasn't sure what exactly he was hoping for, except that perhaps if the two men were closeted in Moretti's office they might overhear something useful. In that he was disappointed. The two men were outside on the terrace above the loaded truck, but they were so deep in a furious argument that they didn't immediately distinguish the noise of the cars drawing up from that of the heavy traffic on the road. The Marshal was out of the car even before Niccolini and in time to hear Moretti's hysterical voice scream out: