The Marshal and the Murderer

by Magdalen Nabb

  With the flourish of a conjuror Niccolini whipped open his desk drawer and spread a bunch of papers under the Marshal's nose. 'You told me to expect them and here they are, for what they're worth.'

  'Anonymous letters . . .'

  'Exactly. And not one of them any help unless Frasinelli can enlighten us. Take a look through.' And he carried on marching up and down behind the Marshal's chair.

  The first letter the Marshal took from the pile was written with a ballpoint pen in capitals on a sheet of lined paper torn from a child's exercise book. Only two lines were written at the top: ASK MORETTI WHERE HE GOT THE MONEY TO BUY LAND WHEN HE WAS IN DEBT. He turned the paper over but there was nothing else. The next one he picked up caused him to frown. It was not a letter at all but a sheet of tracing paper on which someone had used a thick paintbrush and brownish-black paint to draw a large swastika.

  'Man of few words,' commented Niccolini, seeing the Marshal's puzzled frown.

  'It's not that so much ... I imagine it refers to Robiglio, but the tracing paper . . .'

  "That's no mystery. Most of the potters who do majolica use it. They trace designs, then prick through all the lines of the drawing with a pin and dust charcoal through it on to a pot. I've seen it done many a time -and that's not paint but a metal oxide for painting over glaze.'

  'Could be Berti, then . . .'

  'Or a dozen other people.'

  The Marshal went on reading and Niccolini got up and began striding about again.

  ASK MORETTI WHAT GOES ON AT ROBIGLIO'S ON FRIDAY NIGHTS.

  The Marshal looked up, inquiring.

  'That one's no mystery.' Niccolini was looking over his shoulder. 'Gambling. Heard all about that from my predecessor when I arrived here. A select group of Robiglio's friends, industrialists from Prato and Florence, get together at his house each Friday night. Some pretty large sums change hands. They say Robiglio's the banker.'

  'You've never done anything about it?'

  'There's nothing I can do. Oh, my predecessor tried. Called on him one Friday night on some pretext or other and there they all were, large as life. Whisky and cigars, green baize cloth, the whole works. They were playing baccarat. But there was no sign of any money, not so much as a scrap of paper to indicate that any money changed hands there. Robiglio, cool as a fish on ice, offered the Marshal a drink and even invited him to join them as it was a friendly game, no money involved, just a group of pals passing a pleasant evening. There wasn't a thing he could do.'

  'Hm.' The Marshal laid the letter aside and read on.

  ERNEST ROBIGLIO SPY SS HANGMAN MURDERER DON'T LET HIM GET AWAY TWICE.

  And the next one:

  IF YOU LOCK UP THE WHOLE FAMILY IN THE VILLA YOU'LL BE DOING THIS TOWN A FAVOUR.

  This last one was signed '10 Respectable Citizens.'

  'The ten respectable citizens forgot to tell us which family they were talking about,' remarked Niccolini, still looking over the Marshal's shoulder.

  'What do they mean by the villa?'

  'The asylum, of course.'

  'Of course, Listen, Niccolini . . . you couldn't sit down a minute, could you?'

  'That's what my wife always says! "Can't you just sit still for one minute?" She's right, of course. Here I am, sitting still for as long as it lasts. What's the problem?'

  'The problem is that these letters are written by people who seem to think we know as much about the goings-on in this town as they do - those of them that aren't pure nastiness, that is'

  'You're right, you're right - nod's as good as a wink'

  'But you're doing it, too,' protested the Marshal, leaning forward a little with his big hands planted on his knees and staring hard at Niccolini with a vague hope of quietening him down. No doubt Niccolini's wife had been trying to do the same thing for years. 'Tell me about the asylum. All about it.'

  'I showed you the place only yesterday!' roared Niccolini'- eh no, no, it was raining so you couldn't see it, you're right.'

  But the Marshal remembered now.

  'You mean the Medici villa up on the hill . . . When I first came here on the bus it was full of people who were going to an asylum. So that's the place.'

  'That's the place, though who our respectable citizens want us to shut up in there I don't know.'

  'Most of these letters, as far as I can see,' pointed out the Marshal, 'are directed against Robiglio and Moretti.'

  'Yes, but why? If you ask me, everybody in this town knows by now who did for the girl, so by rights the letters should all be aimed at the same person.'

  'Not necessarily.' The Marshal looked down at the letters spread on the desk. He didn't like anonymous letters but experience had taught him their logic, such as it was. 'There are plenty of people only too ready to make use of a situation like this to do the dirty on somebody they don't like.'

  'Or on some political opponent who looks like winning the elections?'

  'That, too. There might well be no truth in the accusations against Robiglio but even a short-lived scandal would probably put paid to his chances. Look at this one: NO MORE FASCIST MAYORS. ROBIGLIO IS A MURDERER. That's surely someone hoping we'll rake up Robiglio's past during our investigation rather than a reference to the murdered girl. The ones directed at Moretti are probably more to the point.'

  'Except he's the one person who couldn't have been at the factory when it happened.'

  'You've checked his alibi?'

  'Double-checked it - Listen, we .ought to be on our way to visit our oldest inhabitant. We'll take these letters with us and I'll tell you the rest of my news on the way.'

  There was no doubt that Niccolini had been busy the day before. The Marshal was amazed as ever by his energy and slightly ashamed that he himself seemed to have achieved so little. Sitting in the passenger seat, gazing at the darkened landscape through his sunglasses, he listened in silence as Niccolini rattled on, emphasizing his remarks with one hand and steering with the other.

  'So I telephoned these clients of Moretti's. They weren't from abroad, which was one good thing, they were buying agents from Milan whose clients are mostly from Scandinavia and England. According to them, they drove down here and arrived at about eleven to meet Moretti at his factory and fix the price of a consignment. After that they wanted to find someone to supply them with majolica, but not artisan work because they wanted a lot of it and they wanted it cheap. Moretti, of course, doesn't deal in glazed ware at all, but since he has a good deal with this agent, and since it was a free day for him, he offered to take them to one or two smallish factories producing low quality stuff in the majolica style, though not the real thing. In fact they went to two places and the agents found what they wanted and placed orders. A little before one o'clock they were at the restaurant. They left towards two and parted company. Moretti, according to his wife, got home before half past two. The family were still sitting round the table, including his brother. They'd finished eating but were drinking coffee and watching the quiz on TV. For what it's worth, the time he came in is confirmed by a neighbour who was there drinking coffee and watching the quiz with them.

  "At any rate, while there's no saying that Moretti couldn't have whipped round to the factory between leaving the clients and going home, the girl was dead by then anyway. Look to your left - that's Robiglio's place.'

  An impressive pile of concrete and glass with Robiglio's name written large down one side of it and a big car park in front.

  'It's big enough . . .'

  'He doesn't only supply the industry here,' explained Niccolini, 'he supplies other regions as well, including the tableware factories on the other side of Florence.'

  'They don't make tableware here?'

  'No, only decorative stuff in terracotta and majolica, and roof and floor tiles too. Nothing in the kitchenware line.'

  'Berti told me he was a millionaire . . . Robiglio, I mean.'

  'Maybe he was exaggerating, but maybe not.' Niccolini laughed: 'I suppose he told you what they call hi
s house?'

  'He did. Is he married?'

  'Separated. I don't know much about his wife -before my time - only that as soon as their one daughter was married she moved out. Went back to where she came from - Milan, I think.'

  'Then he lives alone in that mansion?'

  'Apart from the servants - the joke about the seven lavatories was that there was one for each person in the house, including the servants. Now he's got most of them all to himself. We're almost there so let me finish up on these alibis, such as they are. All Moretti's men got together in the bar at the communist club towards eleven-thirty and hung about there playing cards and chatting until half past twelve when they went to eat at the restaurant. Sestini was the only one who didn't eat there but his house is on the way between the two places and his mates walked with him and saw him go in.'

  'If they're telling the truth.'

  If they're telling the truth. Well, that's about it because after that they went back to the club where Sestini joined them again and they played billiards for most of the afternoon.'

  When the Marshal made no comment he went on: 'Of course there's nothing to say that somebody else apart from them couldn't have just walked in there . . .'

  'No ..." Again the Marshal had the familiar feeling that something obvious was eluding him, but he could make nothing of it so he remained silent.

  'We turn off here. This is the borderline of the pottery area. Further down that road the glass factories start. The old boy lives in splendid isolation down by those orchards there.'

  The house, when they reached it at the end of a bumpy lane, was indeed isolated but not at all splendid. It was an austere little bungalow in faded yellow stucco and red clay roof tiles and dark brown shutters. It had been built on the site of a peasant's cottage and the grassy courtyard still had its well in the centre and a dilapidated stone barn which looked as though it had been badly damaged during the war. No doubt it was a very pleasant spot in spring and summer when the surrounding orchards were full of blossom or fruit, but the wintry fields and bare branches along with the overgrown courtyard accentuated the neglected, sad air typical of the house of an old man living alone.

  Niccolini rang the bell. As they waited for an answer the Marshal stared at a trailing piece of broken washing line lying in a puddle of yesterday's rain and then at the shutters which no one had opened to let in a little sunshine and air, remembering the years he had passed alone before his wife and children had come up from Sicily. It occurred to him to hope that he didn't live long enough to finish his days alone. A selfish hope which made him feel guilty. Then the door opened and his sadness was dispelled in an instant.

  'Come in, come in, you boys! Delighted to see you!' Dr Frasinelli whipped a pipe from his mouth and waved them in, beaming up at them with bright blue eyes in a pixie-like face. He turned and pottered happily along a small corridor to show them into a room on the left, a room as neat and bright as the dapper little man himself, who chatted on as he offered them seats and settled himself in what was evidently his habitual place in front of a booklined wall. 'This used to be my waiting-room when I was in practice - the old surgery's next door, through here . . .'

  Here the window and shutters were open and the winter sunshine poured in from the courtyard. The roof of the well was visible and the sweet smell of the doctor's tobacco smoke was pleasant on the clean rainwashed air.

  'I gather there's trouble in town - I hope my pipe doesn't bother you? Young people sometimes find it a bit strong.' He slipped a tobacco pouch from his pocket and kneaded it affectionately. Since neither of them answered his query, bemused at being considered young people, he began to refill his pipe with an air of happy concentration. 'I'm not so well up as I used to be with local gossip since my daughter doesn't come as often as she did. At one time she came every day, insisted on doing a bit of cleaning and cooking for me, though 1 manage perfectly well by myself, you know what women are. Nowadays she can't manage it, says she's not as young as she was. I have a woman who comes once a week, which is all I need, but she tells me nothing in the way of news, confines herself to recounting the ailments of her whole family, and more especially her own - if I'm to believe half of what she tells me I wonder how she can be on her feet at all but she obviously considers free medical advice to be a perk of the job and intends to make the most of it by cultivating as many illnesses as she can think up. So you'll gather that you'll have to tell me your story from scratch,' He looked from one to the other and sat back in his chair.

  The Marshal remained motionless, letting Niccolini take the floor.

  'Well, you'll probably think we're as bad as your cleaning woman because we're here looking for advice and information as well. But, to keep it brief, there's been a young Swiss girl found strangled on the sherd ruck outside Moretti's place.'

  'That much I heard but I don't know what she was doing there. Did she work for young Moretti?'

  'She was working for Berti, learning Majolica, but now and again, when his men were off, she went round to Moretti's place to do a bit of throwing, just to keep her hand in. She wasn't working for him.'

  'So you think it's one of Moretti's men?'

  'Not necessarily. They weren't working that day and theoretically anyone could have gone in there and, finding her alone . . . The trouble is we're working in the dark and what we need is some background information.'

  'On what?'

  'Well, I suppose on Moretti, for a start . . .' Niccolini looked a bit embarrassed. 'They say he's a friend of yours.'

  The doctor smiled, to himself rather than at Niccolini. 'You could put it that way.'

  'It's not that he's a suspect particularly, you understand, less so than anyone since he has a solid alibi, but he's hiding something, even so. Something serious enough to cause a fight with one of his men.'

  'Who?'

  'Sestini.'

  'You mean a quarrel or a real fist fight?'

  'I mean a fight. They were going for each other like dogs. And then there are these stories going around about Robiglio, and I'm not happy about his behaviour towards us either. Then when Marshal Guarnaccia here had a word with Moretti's sister'

  'Tina? How is the poor child?' The description seemed apt enough despite Tina's age.

  'Half crazy, according to Guarnaccia, and it sounds as though that husband of hers doesn't treat her any too well.'

  'Poor creature. So like her mother. And it was she who put you on to Robiglio?'

  'Not exactly. I'd heard stories already. In any case, Tina's story was too garbled to mean much, but it did sound as though the Moretti family was connected with Robiglio's dark past and since you were here then . . .'

  'I was here.' He took the pipe from his mouth and considered it in silence for a moment. Then he stood up and went over to the open window. With his back to them he said, 'Those were terrible years. I don't say we should forget them, but even so, I don't believe in keeping old hatreds alive. We have to look forward, not back. Are you sure this has something to do with the girl who was murdered?'

  'No. We're not sure of anything.'

  'What could she have to do with something that happened before she was born?'

  'I don't know. I'm being honest with you, I don't know. But I do know that Robiglio's trying to get himself elected. They say he'll try for mayor.'

  'I'veheard that.'

  'And you approve?'

  'No. But it's a long time since I mixed myself up in politics. As mayor he might be no worse than another.'

  'Perhaps not. But one thing's certain, he won't want his wartime activities advertised just now.'

  'No, and I'm the last man to advertise them for a number of reasons, not the least of them being that he was hardly more than a boy then.'

  'I understand. But we're not conducting a witch hunt, we're investigating a murder. Whatever you tell us can remain between us unless it turns out that Robiglio's our killer, in which case the elections will hardly be his most immediate problem, and
I very much doubt if it will come to that.'

  The doctor remained at the window, staring out at the well. At last he turned and said, I'm not saying you're wrong in thinking that the Morettis are involved with Robiglio, but surely, to cause a young girl to be murdered - is it that you think she found out something?'

  'She might have.'

  'But what would a foreigner have made of information like that?'

  'I couldn't say since we don't know the story.'

  "Then take it from me that if this girl became such a danger it could hardly have been because of what happened during the war. It would have had to be something more recent, something more immediately threatening.'

  'That's what Guarnaccia here says, but as far as I know, Moretti has nothing to do with Robiglio these days. He doesn't even do business with him.'

  'He has done business with him. He once bought a piece of land from him.'

  The Marshal who had listened in silence until now spoke quietly.

  'Perhaps you could show him the letters.'

  'What letters?' The doctor came forward and Niccolini took the package from his pocket and handed it to him. He fished out a pair of reading glasses which he held on the end of his nose like a lorgnette and walked back to the window.

  'My eyesight isn't what it should be . . .'

  He read through all the letters without comment except for an occasional sigh or grunt of disgust. Then he slapped them back together and handed them over.

  'You're right. If things are stirred up to this extent it's better you should know everything.' He settled in his chair and slipped the glasses back into his top pocket with one hand. The Marshal, watching him, noted a slight tremor there. The thin, translucent skin was spotted with brown and the fingers moved with a slow hesitancy as though fumbling in the dark. Only there did the doctor's age show; for the rest, he might have been under seventy. The hands folded slowly over each other and then opened to indicate the window.