The Marshal and the Murderer (20 page)

He had begun walking up and down again and now he stopped and opened the door of Niccolini's office. He felt he needed to take another look at Moretti, as if to reassure himself. He slipped in quietly and sat himself down in a corner near the rubber plant. The Captain was plodding patiently and systematically through a series of questions based on the notes he had taken during the earlier briefing session. It didn't sound as though he was getting anywhere. The atmosphere was just as the Marshal had left it some time before, cold and tense. Niccolini was sitting beside the Captain and one of his boys was typing rapidly with two fingers at a small table in the far corner.

'How did the girl find out? Did she see something? Overhear something?'

'The girl has nothing to do with it. How could she have? Robiglio only asked me yesterday to take that money up'

'And the other times?'

'There were no other times.'

The Captain showed signs of impatience.

'What was your relationship with Monica Heer?'

'There was no relationship. I let her come in to throw now and again, nothing else.'

'Isn't it true that you frequently went round to Berti's studio when she was there, that you told your sister you found the girl attractive?'

'No.'

'Your sister told Marshal Guarnaccia here that that was the case.'

'My sister isn't normal. Besides, I never see her. I used to, but I don't like the way her husband treats her and my visits always caused trouble.'

'According to her, she often comes to see you, on Thursdays when her husband is out playing billiards.'

'It's not true. I see her twice a year, at Christmas and Easter. It wouldn't be fair to my wife to have her around more often, or to my little girl.'

'Her words were, I quote: "I go to see my brother, he lets me talk to him.'"

'I've told you, my sister's not normal.'

"A great many other things she told us turned out to be true.'

'I can't help that. She never sets foot in my house except twice a year. You can ask my wife.'

'So she never sets foot in your house. Does she come round to the factory to see you?'

'On Thursday nights when her husband's out playing billiards? I finish work and go home at six, six-thirty at the latest. Any of my men can confirm that.'

'Then what about something your men can't confirm. On the day the girl was murdered you came back to the factory after lunching with your clients.'

'I went home!'

'You went home, but you first went back to the factory either to collect your car or to deliver your clients to theirs. We don't yet know which, but we'll know tomorrow when we telephone the clients themselves.'

'It doesn't mean I went in.'

'Whose car did you go back to collect?'

'Mine.'

'The girl was in there alone, working. She too had just had lunch, according to the autopsy, her last lunch, a sandwich. Did you know she was in there?'

'No!'

'I think you did. I think you were round at Berti's on the Friday before and that's how she knew you were firing. She knew in advance because she got off the bus and walked straight to your place without waiting for Berti to turn up. She must have known.'

'If she knew before Berti must have told her!'

'Somebody must have told him, then. I understand you fire his pots.'

'Yes.'

'So who told him you were ready to fire?'

'Anybody could have told him! And anybody could have got into my place and done for that girl. Anybody! The place is never locked!'

There was a faint rustle in the vicinity of the rubber plant as the Marshal got to his feet, but no one noticed it. It was almost half an hour later, when the Substitute Prosecutor had been called and asked to make out a warrant and Moretti was holding out his wrists for the handcuffs to be put on them, that the Captain looked about him and then flung open the door to shout down the corridor.

'Where the devil's Guarnaccia!'

Nine

'Report's ready, Captain.' The boy in the doorway was breathless, as though he'd been running rather than typing in a rush.

'Thank you - no, no, take this to Marshal Niccolini for his signature.

'He's downstairs, sir, trying to do something about the crowd outside.'

'Then wait till he comes up.' Captain Maestrangelo turned back to the Substitute Prosecutor. 'What do you think?'

'His lawyer's no fool. I'd say we could hold him under house arrest for the moment. I wouldn't try to go further until you have more evidence. Now, this other man - what's his name?'

'Moretti.'

'Hm. You're sure of your ground?'

'The evidence is largely circumstantial but he's virtually confessed on both counts, a partial confession. Given time . . .'

'Then hold him for forty-eight hours and make your decision on what charge you want to arrest him on. I've had seals put on the kiln and the technicians will collect the remains of the money tomorrow, though I imagine it won't be traceable' 'Excuse me, sir!' This time the boy really had been running.

'What is it?'

'Marshal Niccolini needs us downstairs. He's trying to clear the piazza but he's having difficulty.'

'Then all of you go down except the radio operator and he can call in the patrol bikes.' He followed the boy out into the corridor, 'And tell Marshal Niccolini the Substitute wants a word with him before he leaves.'

Then he saw Guarnaccia. He had just come in, bringing a blast of cold air with him, and was standing there holding his hat which had fine icy particles on it, as had the shoulders of his black greatcoat.

'Where the devil have you been?' the Captain asked irritably but under his breath so as not to let the Substitute hear.

'I had to speak to Moretti's wife ..." The Marshal made no move to unbutton his coat but went on standing there, his face wooden.

'That could have waited. We have enough on our hands here. Niccolini could have done with your help down here.'

'They're moving on now. Have you arrested Moretti?'

'We're holding him for forty-eight hours. You'd better join us in Niccolini's office if you think you're not needed downstairs.'

'Where is he now?'

'Moretti? In the cells.'

'I think I'd better speak to him . . .'

The Captain was about to lose his temper but checked himself in time. He'd seen that expression, or rather lack of it, on Guarnaccia's face before.

'Is something the matter?'

'No ... no . . . Everything's all right now. I didn't do a very good job on this business, though. I'm not competent . . . should have thought on . . . If you don't mind, I'd better go out again when I've seen Moretti.' He was putting on his hat and the Captain realized that he wasn't asking for permission to go, he was going, as oblivious of his superior officer's presence as if he hadn't seen him. Indeed, he really seemed to be talking to himself as he turned and pushed open the door to the stairs.

'It struck me right away the first time he said that about the place never being locked but then I forgot about it . . . made a bit of a fool of myself.'

And he was gone.

Niccolini was thundering up the stairs, taking them two at a time and shouting to the young carabiniere behind who was keeping up with difficulty: 'By God, I'd have put a few of them inside if I'd had the space - and I'd give a lot to know who informed the newspapers - ah! Guarnaccia! So there you are! What's going on? Where are you off to this time?'

And he turned to stare after the Marshal who was stumping off past them down the stairs muttering something incomprehensible under his breath.

There were only two cells in the dimly lit basement. Moretti was in the one on the left, seated on the end of the narrow bed facing the bars, his head in his hands. He looked up when he heard the Marshal's footsteps, his face a deathly colour and his heart beating visibly in the thin chest.

'I've been to see your wife.'

'How is she?'

'Fairly calm, all things considered.'

'Did she . . did she say anything?'

'Not much. She didn't need to. It'll all come out in time. I didn't insist. She did admit when I asked her that she'd called in your next-door neighbour on your advice
so
that you'd all be seen having coffee together. I didn't ask her much apart from that.'

Moretti stared into the Marshal's impassive face.

'You know, don't you?'

'I know. Who else does?'

'For sure, only Sestini . . .'

'You'd have done well to listen to his advice instead of fighting with him.'

'He doesn't understand, nobody understands.'

'I think you're wrong there; nevertheless, there's an innocent girl dead. Sestini was right to attack you, but after all, he didn't give you away so you're doing him an injustice in saying he doesn't understand.'

'You try to help people, you do what you can . . .'

'But some people are beyond help. Now the best thing you can do is to help us.'.

'I can't. . .' Moretti's head dropped into his hands again and he began rocking himself to and fro like a distressed child.

The Marshal regarded him for a moment, noting for the first time that the red hair was greying at the temples. Then he said quietly, 'No, no . . . you're right. For once, somebody has to help you.'

He saw that Moretti seemed to be breathing with difficulty and wondered about his heart.

'I should lie down for a bit, if I were you.' But the hunched figure didn't move.

Outside in the piazza everything was quiet. The only remaining sign of the disturbance was the placard which still hung around the neck of the partisan's statue, saying: COME DOWN PIETRO MORO WE STILL NEED YOU HERE. No doubt there would be a photograph of it in next morning's paper. The Marshal got into his car and drove off. Niccolini was right, prejudice was a frightening business. Nobody had had anything against Moretti all these years but as soon as he was in trouble everybody remembered his German blood.

In the darkness he almost missed the factory, only pulling over just in time. He got out of the car. It was a deserted spot even in the daytime, apart from the continuous passing of trucks, and now there was no sound except the keen November wind that howled around the tall chimney silhouetted against a starry sky. He had to feel his way up the steps in the darkness. The door was closed but only with a wooden bar which lifted easily. Once inside, he stumbled against some bags of clay and it took him some time feeling about on the inside wall to locate a light switch. It occurred to him then that there was very likely another entrance, but he didn't fancy groping about outside in the freezing cold looking for it. It was cold enough in here. He went from room to room as quietly as he could, switching on lights and looking about him. He found his way to the kiln and saw that the opening in the front of the kiln had been filled up with loose bricks again and seals put on it. In the next room he was almost surprised not to find the silent little man working at his turning wheel. His overall lay there, draped over his stool, and the imprint of his boots was clearly visible in the leathery red ribbons piled around the wheel's base. The Marshal's footsteps were loud on the bare brick floor. He didn't switch off the lights behind him as he proceeded, uncomfortable at the idea of leaving all that empty darkness in his wake. It even occurred to him that perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea to come here alone. Nevertheless, he kept on walking steadily.

In the room where the throwers worked more stained overalls hung over the seats of the wheels which had been washed clean at the end of the day's work. A dozen or so newly thrown pots were lined up on a wooden table, identical, their sides still smooth and wet. This time, when he came to the wooden staircase, he didn't turn and go up. He was pretty sure that he would find what he was looking for on the ground floor. Unfortunately, once beyond the stairs he was in a part of the factory which was new to him and pretty soon he lost his bearings. Once, when he opened a door and found the light already on he stopped short, his nerves tingling, only to find it was a room he'd already been through, which meant the corridor he'd followed had brought him back almost to the stairs from where he'd set out. There was no mistaking it; he'd already seen those big baths of water with the dark clay settled well beneath the surface, and the long table in the centre with some sort of tubular machine with a polythene bag tied over the end of it. He turned back. He was doing his best to walk quietly but in such dead silence it was impossible. He wandered about for some time before finding a door he was sure he hadn't tried before. It was a makeshift door of planks that had rotted away near the bottom, no doubt because of the dampness that oozed from all the clay in this area. There was no lock or handle and only a bit of string looped round a nail in the doorpost held it more or less shut. He opened it slowly to avoid its creaking too much and then gazed beyond into total darkness. No amount of feeling about the rough walls on either side of what must have been a passageway produced a light switch. It would be at the other end. There was nothing for it but to make do with such light as came from the room behind him. By the time his eyes were accustomed to the gloom he found himself halfway along a dusty tiled passage which made his footfall even louder than before, despite all his efforts.

'Who's here?'

He stopped dead. The voice had come from behind a door at the far end. Without answering, he walked right up to it and knocked.

'Who is it? Tina?'

The voice sounded thick and slow as though the speaker had been woken from a deep sleep.

'Open up, Moretti.' Was it the mention of Tina that made him add, I've come to talk to you.'

There was no answer, but a creaking noise suggested that someone was sitting up in bed.

'Don't be afraid, I'm coming in to talk to you.'

As he had expected, the door wasn't locked. He opened it quietly.

It seemed only natural that it should be the kitchen. There must have been other rooms to this corner where the family had once lived, but this was the room that Dr Frasinelli's story had prepared him for, and in essence it was just as he'd thought it would be. A rusted black stove stood against the back wall, a heavy, scuffed sideboard was piled high with junk of every description, and the wooden table in the centre held a flask of wine and a dirty glass, and at one end a big lump of clay with a roughly modelled head beside it. The face was grotesque and open-mouthed, like the ones he had seen that first day on the window ledge by the kiln. The Marshal's big eyes travelled over it all quickly. In its present state of chaos the room spoke too much of the violence it had seen, of Maria sprawled on the disordered table. There were no bloodstains splashed on the wall now, only the yellow stains of damp and neglect. In the corner stood an old iron bedstead and a bulky figure huddled there, half covered by a worn and colourless blanket.

'Moretti . . .' murmured the Marshal, meeting the small frightened eyes embedded in heavy flesh. He hadn't known what face to put to the name until seeing it, but now he recognized the woollen cap on the floor by the bed, lying next to a pair of clay-spattered boots with one of the laces missing. The man's head was completely bald. He had aged as prematurely as his sister.

The little eyes watched him warily like those of a wild animal undecided whether to attack or flee.

'My brother said you wouldn't come for me. He said he wouldn't tell.'

'He didn't tell. Is this where you live all the time, not with your brother?'

'I like it here. I go to my brother's to eat and watch television but I like it better here. I have to look after the factory.'

Little wonder that Moretti felt no need to lock the place up with this creature on guard. The man seemed sunk in a sort of torpor and showed no open resentment at this intrusion. Nevertheless, the Marshal remained standing near the door and didn't venture any closer to the rumpled bed.

'What are you going to do to me?'

'Nothing. Nobody's going to hurt you. Perhaps you should get dressed.'

The hulk in the bed moved slowly and the blanket fell aside. He was wearing long woollen underwear, yellowish with age and stained at the wrists and neck with red clay. He sat himself on the edge of the narrow bed, which creaked under his weight, and bent forward, but he didn't reach for his clothes that lay in a heap against the wall, only fished out some cigarettes and matches from underneath. The Marshal observed him with some trepidation. The man was built like an ox and it was evident that such a mass of muscle would have no difficulty in shifting great bags of sodden clay as the Marshal had seen him do, or in crushing the life out of a young girl . . . At school they had called him Big Beppe . . .

Big Beppe lit a cigarette. His hands were perfectly steady but still he looked about him as though dazed.

'You'd better get dressed,' the Marshal repeated gently.

'What for? You said you wouldn't do anything to me. It wasn't my fault. Ask my brother.'

'We will ask him. I want you to come with me now and talk to him. He needs your help.'

The other only stared at him dully, not understanding.

'You helped him once before, do you remember? A long time ago when you were both at school and the others were teasing him. You helped him and now you have to help him again.'

Perhaps he didn't remember the incident. At any rate, he sat where he was, smoking and scratching his broad chest. After a moment he repeated with sullen intensity, 'It wasn't my fault.'

The Marshal risked coming closer and laid a hand on Big Beppe's solid shoulder. It will all get sorted out. But first we'll go and see your brother.'

A sick odour of sweat and clay rose from the big body. He saw the corner ofa magazine sticking out from under the blanket. There was no need to see more of it to know what it was.

'Your sister comes to see you here, doesn't she?'

'She comes to talk to me.'

'And brings you those magazines?'

'She gets them from Berti. He . . .'