As it should be.
'A madman,' Maestrangelo said aloud, and then shrugged his shoulders as though to rid himself of Becker's influence. He thought of ringing Guarnaccia to let him know, but on second thoughts he found he had no desire to talk about this business and probably the Marshal hadn't either.
In any case he would see it all tomorrow in the paper.
The Marshal didn't see it in the paper. At least he said he hadn't when Lorenzini cautiously referred to it. Cautiously because he remembered how the Marshal had been like a bear with a sore head about that body they'd found in the ditch up by the fort and then almost as bad about that suicide last summer. Still, it was all long enough ago for Lorenzini to risk remarking:
'Did you see Galli's article?'
'What article?'
'I thought I saw you reading it, the one about—'
'I'm not likely to get time to read the newspaper until next October. What's happening about that lost child that's been brought in?'
'We're still trying to trace the parents. She's obviously foreign but she's so tiny and we can't work out what language she speaks, so—'
'Where's the report about that car?'
'You've got it in your hand, Marshal, I just gave it to you . . .'
'Right. I'll be in my office. See to those people in the waiting-room, the woman's had her bag snatched, passport, traveller's cheques, the lot—and give her a glass of water, she's upset.'
And Lorenzini watched him stump off, papers in hand, to his office, grumbling under his breath as he did from Easter to September every year:
'I don't know what they come here for, they'd do better to stay at home . . .'
Death in Autumn Page 16
