The Marshal and the Murderer

by Magdalen Nabb

  The dusty chair was still drawn up where the Marshal had sat.

  'We don't want chairs, we want information,' said Niccolini brusquely, 'about the girl.'

  'We went through all that with your chief earlier, didn't we?'

  'And you had as little to say for yourself as everyone else round here, though you were the one who had most contact with her.'

  Berti traced the outline of a flower delicately on to the plate in front of him and put the brush down. He rubbed his spidery fingers together, looking from one to the other of the two men above him, his tiny eyes glinting.

  'If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, Niccolini, you're barking up the wrong tree.'

  'Oh, am I? I've seen the way you looked at her.'

  'The way I look at women never did them any harm. On the contrary, they like it. There was a time - and not that long ago either - when I could take on three in one day.' This last remark he chose for some reason to direct at the Marshal.

  "Three in one day . . .' and he made a sudden gesture with his fingers so vulgar that the Marshal involuntarily took a step backwards and all but collided with the door which somebody was trying to open.

  '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 t
ake 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.'