The Marshal and the Murderer (8 page)

'Shut it, shut it,' Berti said, calling out to the invisible intruder: 'Go away, I'm busy.'

'Who's that?' Niccolini whipped round and the Marshal opened the door in time to see a small woman turn away and scuffle back towards the house next door in her slippers.

'It's only Tina,' Berti said, picking up his brush again, 'the woman from next door.'

'The one whose husband found the body? What does she want with you?' Niccolini pushed past the Marshal and strode outside. The woman had vanished. 'Well,' he said, coming back in and towering over the wizened little artisan as though he intended to eat him alive, 'what's she doing coming round here?'

'She's my neighbour, isn't she? Comes round for a chat now and then.' He chuckled quietly to himself and added: If you really want to know what she comes for . . .'He put down his brush carefully and turned to a shelf behind him where there was a stack of dusty books on Majolica and some loose pages cut out of magazines of art history from which he no doubt copied motifs. Underneath these were some glossy magazines, one of which he pulled out and waved in their faces. 'She likes to borrow these. Here, take a look.'

The thin grey fingers clutching the large pornographic image made its garish colours look all the more shocking.

'Cut it out, Berti,' barked Niccolini.

'You wanted to know . . .' Berti evidently took great delight in anything he thought might shock them, and the Marshal was convinced that this was particularly directed at him. It was at him that Berti winked now, saying, 'It's a dull enough life round here, so we have to get a bit of excitement where we can find it.'

'I think,' said the Marshal slowly, 'that I might as well have a word with this woman next door . . .'

He had no real reason for doing it except that he was only too glad to escape from Berti and the jumbled studio with its smells of dust and paraffin and from the leering face and the pornographic magazines. Niccolini made no objection. He was probably glad enough to see the back of his colleague, whatever the excuse. Once outside, he paused a moment, feeling the need to breathe clean air. The mist that had veiled the thin sunshine earlier had thickened, and the sky was a uniform pale grey above the high black wall and the wires of the electric railway line. The traffic streamed past him as he stood there on the patch of beaten dirt in front of Berti's door. A dull life . . . And before the day was out it would almost certainly rain again.

Behind him Niccolini's voice was getting louder and he wondered, too, whether his own presence wasn't the real cause of the trouble rather than the uncommunicative townsfolk. In any case there was little he could do about either problem. With a sigh, he turned and knocked on the small door by the barred window. The cat wasn't there today but the smell was as pungent as ever and he wrinkled his nose as he waited. It was a long wait. He had to knock three times before he heard the woman's shuffling steps, and even then they didn't come as far as the door. He wasn't surprised when after a moment he heard a flutter among the scratching hens and found himself peered at from behind the bars. He stared back at the pale face and waited. When it vanished he knocked hard on the door again, just in case she was thinking he might give up and go away, but the shuffling steps came right up to the door which opened just enough for the face to peer out. To his surprise the face wasn't hostile; it showed a childlike curiosity.

'Who are you?'

'Guarnaccia. Marshal

'Guarnaccia. Marshal of Carabinieri. I'd like to come in and talk to you for a moment.'

'He
won't like it.'

Despite this remark, the door opened wider and the Marshal removed his hat and stooped slightly to enter. He found himself in a short dark corridor where the smell from the livestock in the room on the left was quite overpowering and he was glad enough to follow the woman through a door on the right and shut it behind him quickly.

'I usually leave it open,' said the woman, who had stopped in the middle of the room and was watching him. 'I like a bit of air. But perhaps you're cold . . .'

'I am,' the Marshal assured her, Very cold.' It was true enough in any case and he looked hopefully through a whitewashed archway to the kitchen where a stove was roaring comfortably in the gloom with a pan of water steaming on top of it. But the woman stayed where she was in what must have been the sitting-room, though it was very small and windowless and there was little enough to sit on. It was badly lit by an unshaded light bulb. She offered him a hard and very uncomfortable chair and stood over him, watching while he sat down and planted his hat on his knees, looking about him. The only sound was the ticking of a heavy old-fashioned clock. The focal point of the room was a new white washing-machine with a bunch of plastic flowers in a vase on a bit of coloured cloth standing on it and a dismal-looking wedding photograph on the wall above it. The washing-machine was the only acknowledgement of the busy road that had swept through this rural corner to the new industrial zone further on. In every other way the cottage was a poverty-stricken reminder of the Marshal's own childhood. He was aware of the woman's rather foolish gaze fixed on him, waiting for him to speak.

'Your husband's out working?' he asked her at last, glancing at the dismal wedding photograph.

'He's over at the orchard, pruning.'

'Why don't you sit down yourself?' he suggested, a bit disconcerted by her hovering over him, staring like that.

She sat down obediently and pulled a shapeless woollen cardigan around the bib of her flowered apron. 'Cold . . .' She got up again and the Marshal followed suit, assuming that they were going to remove to the kitchen, but she said: 'I'll be back in a minute . . .' and he sat down again. He watched her hook up the plate of the stove and drop a log of wood into it. Then she took a small earthenware pot and filled it with hot ash and cinders from below. This offering she placed on the concrete floor between their two chairs and sat down again, smiling. The little black cat which had peered through the bars at the Marshal the day before appeared from nowhere and settled itself beside the pot, purring loudly.

'It was your husband, wasn't it, who found the body?'

'That's right.'

'He was on his way to work?'

'He was going pruning,' explained the woman patiently, and she began staring at him with such fascinated intensity that he began to think he had a smut on his face, perhaps a streak of clay.

'Is something the matter?' he said at last. Her look became a sly one. She was younger than the Marshal had first thought, and while not exactly cross-eyed there was something slightly out of true about her eyes.

'I only wanted to ask you,' she said, 'if it's true you come from Florence.'

'I wasn't born there, if that's what you mean.' The Marshal was taken aback by this question. 'But I live there.'

'You came all that way today?'

'I . . . yes . . . '

'And did it take a long time?'

'Only half an hour or so, it's not far - you mean you've never been to Florence?'

'No, but I've heard there are big churches there and statues.' She giggled and stared at him again.

'Do you never go out, then?'

'Oh yes. There's a shop down the road that I go to, and I've been to the town, as well.
He
took me.'

'Your husband?'

'That's right. Him.'

The Marshal looked around the room uneasily. Not only was there no window here, there didn't seem to be one in the kitchen either, as far as he could make out. At one time Berti's place must have been part of the cottage and this half had been for beasts and storage. He remembered her face peering through the barred window, then he remembered something else.

'You go next door sometimes, don't you? To see Berti.'

'When he's not busy he lets me go in and talk to him. And he lets me'

'But it wasn't him, was it,' interrupted the Marshal, hoping to avoid the subject of the magazines which disturbed him more than ever in the face of this poor childlike creature, 'who told you about the churches and statues in Florence?'

'No, no. The signorina told me.'

'Well, that's one mystery solved,' said the Marshal half to himself.

'Is it a mystery? Puss, puss, come here . . .' She picked up the thin black cat and warmed her hands on its hot fur, sliding her slippered feet nearer to the pot of cinders.

'Just a manner of speaking. Berti told me he often turned up late in the mornings and that the young girl who used to come and work for him had no key. I couldn't imagine her just standing out-there in the pouring rain.'

'She did stand in the rain one day and I saw her.'

'And invited her in?'

'She used to talk to me. She had pretty hair and now she's dead. She gave me a present, though. Do you want me to show you?'

'If you like.'

She shuffled into the kitchen and got a cardboard box down from a shelf. She didn't bring the box with her but opened it on the kitchen table and took out something flat.

'Here it is.' She shuffled back, holding out the treasure to him. 'I keep it in the bag she brought it in.'

A stationer's paper bag with a postcard inside it showing a view of the Palazzo della Signoria.

'You can see the clock on the front of the church, and the statues, and the people going in.'

The Marshal decided against trying to explain to her that it wasn't a church. What was the point? He only said:

'Perhaps you'll go there one day.'

She shook her head. 'He won't let me.'

'And do you always do what he tells you?'

She chuckled, driving the cat from her chair and sitting down again. She leaned closer towards him and confided:

'I have to, you see, when he's there, or else . . . But once a week when he goes and plays billiards-' she broke offand glanced at the door as though afraid that
he
might come in and pounce on her - 1 go and see my brother.'

'You do?'

'He lets me talk to him.'

The same phrase she had used of Berti. She may have been a bit simple but there was no getting away from the fact that her loneliness in that bare house with nothing but the ticking of the big clock and the scratching of hens for company was as real and soul-destroying as it would have been for anyone else.

'You won't tell
him?'

'No, no . . .'

'Because if he finds out he'll lock me up. When he gets really mad he says I should be locked up in the villa.'

'The villa?'

'Up there.' She indicated vaguely with a plump hand. 'So you mustn't say anything.'

'I won't say anything. Which day does he go and play billiards?'

'Thursdays. That's today.'

It was difficult to imagine that she managed to keep track of the passing days which must have been all alike to her, but if Thursdays were so important, then perhaps she did keep track after all. It was worth trying.

'When did you last see the signorina who gave you the postcard?'

'Last week. It rained on Friday and I watched out for her because I hadn't heard Berti's car.'

'And on Monday?'

'On Monday, no.'

'No, what?'

'Berti came early, I heard the car.'

'I see. So you didn't look out for her?'

'I heard his car before the bus so I knew she wouldn't be coming to see me.'

'I see . . .' Well, it had been worth a try.

'She didn't go and see Berti either. I don't know where she went. I saw her go off down the road.'

'You did? Which way?'

'That way, towards the town. Maybe she went to see my brother. He lets people talk to him and she likes to talk to people. So do I. So maybe she went to see him.'

'Maybe she did.'

'He's going to get married one day and then if he has a baby I can play with it.'

'That would be nice . . .' The Marshal began to think he might as well be going. He was willing to believe that she really did remember seeing the girl get off the bus and go down the road on Monday, but hers wasn't evidence that would stand up in court, that was certain. He got to his feet stiffly for the close little room was really very cold.

'You're not going away? I like talking to you.'

'Thank you.' She must be about the only person round these parts who did!

'If I had a baby I'd play with it and dress it. I used to have one but it died and now I can't have any more.'

'I'm sorry.'

'They took everything away.'

'I'm sorry. I really have to go now . . .' The Marshal had edged towards the door.

'I'll show you a picture of him if you like. It was a little boy - I've got it in my box . . .' She shuffled quickly back to the kitchen and there was nothing he could do but wait there by the door twirling his hat between his big hands.

' 'Here. . .'She hurried back to him.'Look, isn't he lovely?'

It was indeed a beautiful baby with smooth shining cheeks and soft blond hair. One chubby fist was reaching upwards towards a spoonful of the yellowish baby food which the picture, cut very carefully from a magazine, was advertising.

Four

He decided to wait for Niccolini in the car, switching on the engine to warm himself up. He was aware without looking that Tina occasionally appeared behind the bars to see if he was still there. Perhaps she was resentful that he should have parked himself there instead of staying with her, but that couldn't be helped'. He kept his eyes fixed on the high black wall. A train thundered past behind it, making the car vibrate, then there was nothing except lorries and a few private cars. Nobody stopped here, none of the drivers even looked up as they went by. He wondered how much business Berti did and with whom, and before having sat here for long he found himself hoping that somebody would stop, or even that he could see the trains that went by, instead of just hearing them. If he felt like that after ten minutes or so of dull waiting what must it be like to be stuck here for a lifetime? It was true that he was used to the bustle of the city. People got used to anything in time. Even so, he was glad enough when Niccolini burst out of the studio, slamming the door behind him and erupting into the Marshal's tiny Fiat 500 which could hardly contain him.

'Enough's enough,' was all'he said. 'Let's get something to eat.'

Well, if he didn't feel like volunteering information the Marshal wasn't one to insist on it, though there was little point in their working together, however unwillingly, if this was the way it was going to be. He pulled out and joined the traffic going towards town, keeping his own counsel. If he judged his man right, Niccolini would be incapable of remaining silent for more than a few minutes.

It turned out to be a matter of seconds.

'You never know where you are with that chap!'

'No.'

'I'm a simple character myself and I like things to be clear, blast it.'

The Marshal, who felt Niccolini to be a good deal less simple than he appeared or thought himself, made no comment.

'Starts off with "Have you arrested Moretti?" and then defends the fellow's character like he was his greatest friend! Cool as a cucumber, too, though he's not out of the wood himself by any means. No proof that she didn't go to him on Monday, no proof at all.'

'The woman next door'

'The woman next door - what's she called? Tina -isn't right in the head according to our friend Berti, and that's not all . .

He didn't go on.

'You were able to find out something, then?'

'Enough to be going on with.' And he began drumming on the dashboard with a huge gloved hand.

The Marshal could hardly blame him, after all, since he would have strongly resented a total stranger being foisted on him on his own ground. The only thing was to be patient and perhaps to have a word with the Captain and get himself out of all this.

'I thought you might like to know,' he said cautiously, 'that the girl used to take shelter in Tina's house in the mornings when she arrived before Berti and found herself locked out. It's true the woman's not as she should be, of course . . . but though I'm no expert I'd say she had a child's mentality rather than an adult's, which doesn't prevent her from noticing things . . .'

'Noticing things! Noticing what? Probably romancing.'

'She may be . . .' There was no getting away from the baby in the advert. 'But leading the life she does, shut in that house all day ..."

'She needs to be shut in, by all accounts!'

'By Berti's account,' persisted the Marshal gently. 'And he might have been exaggerating, knowing as he did that I'd gone next door. According to her, she saw the girl on Monday morning get off the bus and go off down the road, and she says Berti was already in his studio by then.'

'Then Berti would have seen for himself. The bus stop's right opposite. What had he to gain by being ambiguous if he saw her go off to Moretti's place? No, no . . .'

'You said yourself,' pointed out the Marshal, 'that he's ambiguous about Moretti, almost accusing him and then defending him.'

'Even so, damn it, if he saw her . . .'

'I don't think it makes all that much difference if he saw her or not.'

'Eh? What does that mean?'

'Well, she went to Berti every day, so if one day she gets off the bus and goes to Moretti's without bothering to cross the road and tell him so, even though his car's there . . .'

'He'd have known already, of course. Obviously, Moretti was getting ready to fire and Berti was going to take his stuff there so he'd be the one . . .'

'To tell her she could go there.'

'He'd have told her Friday. It's obvious.'

'I expect you're right.'

'Of course I'm right. But he should have told us! I can't do with people who waste my time.'

'Can I park here?'

'Fine, fine. Man must think I was born yesterday.'

The Marshal parked the car.

The wave of heat and good smells of roasting meat which greeted them as they pushed open the glass door was as welcome and comforting as it had been the day before, but the Marshal had a feeling that the noise of conversation in the big dining-room was louder and more agitated than he remembered it. Whether that was true or not, there was no doubt that on Niccolini's first loud "How do you do?" it dropped suddenly and petered away into nothing within seconds, leaving his greeting hanging in the air. A colour television set at the end of the room was giving out the lunch-time news. The Marshal hadn't noticed it on his first visit though it was probably on every day, but now the newscaster's voice was clearly audible above the sound of cutlery and the crackle of the kitchen fire.

Tozzi came hurrying towards them between the rows of tables with their chequered cloths, an anxious smile fixed on his face.

'There's a table coming free in a minute or so next door if you . . .'

'Don't bother,' Niccolini interrupted, 'we'll be fine here at my usual place.' And he sat himself down facing the television.

The Marshal sat down opposite him, aware that every pair of eyes in the big room was fixed on them. Tozzi went off and didn't come back. A small boy in a white apron which was much too big for him came to take their order, and little by little the conversation around them was resumed, but in subdued tones. The newscaster could still be heard and the Marshal turned and stared at the scenes from some foreign war without following what was going on. When they were served Niccolini ate a dish of spaghetti with a show of appetite and enthusiasm, but the Marshal knew he was upset. It must have been the first time he had walked into that room without almost everyone in it greeting him cheerily. And the Marshal was willing to bet it was also the first time that he hadn't gone straight to the kitchen to lift the lids of the big pans to see what good things were cooking and then warm himself at the fire, chattering to everyone around him. His own feelings of annoyance gave way to one of distress on behalf of this once-cheerful giant of a man who found himself all of a sudden in a situation he couldn't cope with. Coming as he did from a very small town in Sicily, the Marshal was familiar enough with these sullen silences which often had little or no personal ill-will in them and which, once past, were forgotten as if they'd never happened. But Niccolini was a city man, a Roman, who had probably never encountered such united hostility in his life, and his character being so exuberant and sociable, he was bound to take it all the harder. On top of which he was probably wishing that at least he had one of his own men with him, perhaps the young brigadier he had mentioned with whom he usually ate, instead of a stranger who had been planted on him against his will.

The Marshal watched him sympathetically but Niccolini avoided his eyes. He was affecting to hum a tune to himself and studying the menu intensely as though he had never eaten here before and didn't know the dishes of each day by heart. The best thing would be to say something, start up a conversation which would at least fill the silence at their table, but try as he might the Marshal couldn't think of anything to say. The arrival of their second course was a welcome distraction, but it would have been so much better if Tozzi had served them himself and passed a word or two with them. There wasn't much hope of starting up a conversation with this fourteen-year-old boy with thin red hands and the enormous apron, and all the Marshal got out was a mumbled 'Thank you'.

Then a group of Moretti's workmen came in and once again the noise level dropped perceptibly. They took the only free table which was just inside the door, so that they never came into Niccolini's line of vision. Nevertheless, he noticed the change of atmosphere and followed the Marshal's glance.

'Who is it?'

'Moretti's men.'

'Anybody speak to them?'

'Not at first, but one of them's just turned round to talk to somebody at the next table. They look to be arguing, though . . .'

'Hear anything of what they're saying?'

'Nothing.' The general conversation had resumed, and with that, the television and the noise from the kitchen it was impossible to pick up a word from so far away.

'Moretti's not with them,' the Marshal added.

'Never is. He and his brother eat at home, except when Moretti brings a customer here. Are they still arguing?'

'Yes. It's one of the throwers, I don't know his name ..."

By this time the thrower was well aware of the Marshal's watching him and he deliberately raised his voice to make himself heard, though still talking to the same man at the next table.

The Marshal couldn't make the remark out, even so; all he heard clearly was the word 'foreigner' spoken in a tone of loud disgust. He could guess the import well enough, that everybody's life was being disturbed by some foreigner having got herself killed, someone who had nothing to do with them and so didn't count. It fitted in well enough with their general attitude to outsiders.

'Have some of this spinach,' said Niccolini suddenly, reaching over with a loaded spoon.

The Marshal opened his mouth to protest that he wasn't at all fond of spinach, but realized in time that if Niccolini had begun feeding him again the spoonful of bitter greens was worth more than its face value.

'Thanks.'

A trolley with a huge bowlful of
tagliatelli
on it rolled past the Marshal and stopped. Tozzi stood looking down at them.

'Everything to your satisfaction, gentlemen?'

'Fine, fine,' Niccolini answered.

'A bad business, this, about the girl.'

'That's right,' said Niccolini, 'a bad business.'

'Bad for everybody. In a small place like this . . . You mustn't mind the lads being a bit restrictive . . .'

'I must n't?'

'What I mean is, there's no cause to take it personally. People round here have a tendency to stick together and bury their differences when there's trouble from . . .'

'From outsiders?'

'You know how it is.'

I'm beginning to.'

'It was the same during the war.'

'This isn't a war. An innocent girl got herself brutally murdered and nobody in this town gives a damn as far as lean make out!'

'That's not necessarily true. Nobody wants trouble, that's all.'

'Well, they've got it. And what's more they'll go on having it until I put that murderer away. If you like, you can tell them that from me because I reckon that every one of Moretti's men knows who killed that girl as sure as they know they're going to eat that pasta- and maybe you'd better serve it to them before it goes cold.'

'Look, if I've spoken out of turn I beg your pardon. It's just that I know these men and you haven't been here long enough to understand ... In short, I was trying to be helpful.'

'If you want to be helpful you just give them that message from me . . . and maybe bring us a sweet since we've finished here.'

'I'll send the boy.'

As Tozzi pushed his trolley towards Moretti's men Niccolini met the Marshal's big expressionless eyes.

'You don't need to tell me. I shouldn't have been so sharp with him.'

The Marshal said nothing.

'It's true, we seem to have made enough enemies as it is without creating more ill-feeling. I can see you disapprove.'

The Marshal said nothing.

'I just can't do with the way these people think they can make a fool of me.'

'As far as that's concerned,' said the Marshal slowly, I'm inclined to agree with Tozzi. I don't think you should take it so personally.'

'Oh, all right, I know it's not me as a person. If you like it's my uniform they're ignoring. Let's say I'm taking it personally on behalf of the army.'

'Well, I wouldn't bother.' The Marshal remained placid. 'I think the army will survive it.'

Niccolini's face broke into a grin. 'You're right! Why should I bother?' He laughed, 'What a fool I am! Every time I lose my temper I look at myself in the mirror and say, "Niccolini, you're a damn fool! Why should you bother?" I should be more like you and take things calmly. I bet it takes a lot to make you lose your temper. No, no, you're right. We'll take things calmly. Sooner or later we're bound to find out who's responsible for this business.'

'If it comes to that,' the Marshal said, 'I'd be happier if we found out sooner rather than later.' He was looking past Niccolini to where Moretti's men were eating.

'You don't think ..."

'That they'd take the law into their own hands? Yes, I do. I think it's just a question of time and that they're working themselves up to it. It's been at the back of my mind since this morning when we interrupted that fight between Moretti and Sestini, but it struck me even more just now when Tozzi mentioned the war. I imagine there were a good few scores settled on the quiet here once the fascists were out.'

'No doubt, no doubt. But then that happened everywhere.'

'Yes. But in the cities it was often a case of lining anybody in a black shirt up against a wall, regardless. In the villages it was a bit different, more personal and a lot less hysterical. You see what I mean?'

'Well, I do . . . but no! The climate was different then. In all that chaos people could get away with anything and they did. No, no. I see what you mean - that may be the way feeling runs, but let's not exaggerate. They can't imagine they'd get away with anything like that now.'