Read Online The Marshal and the Madwoman by Magdalen Nabb - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Magdalen Nabb
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while longer, Pina stubbed out her cigarette and heaved herself up from the small chair.
'I know who'll remember. Maria Pia! Pippo's wife,' she explained to the Marshal. 'You've met Pippo.'
'Yes, I've met Pippo.'
'Well, if anybody remembers it'll be her. She never forgets a name or a face. I'll give her a shout.'
'Now?'
'She won't be in bed. She never goes to bed before midnight.'
And Pina waddled slowly to the open doorway. The Marshal saw her pause there on the pavement. One of the men at the tables must have said something to her in an undertone. Whoever it was couldn't be seen from inside. Pina shrugged and murmured something of which the Marshal only caught the word 'Franco'. He looked across at the barman, who smiled and said, 'She won't be long. Do you mind if I leave you a minute and wash a few glasses? We can still talk.'
'Of course.'
They heard Pina outside calling up in the darkness.
'Maria Pia! Maria Pia!'
Shutters creaked and banged open.
'What's up?'
'Can you remember what the place was called where Clementina worked? That office?'
'Why?'
'The Marshal's here and he wants to know.'
'But she stopped going there a while ago.'
'It doesn't matter, he still wants to know.'
'Wait . . . it's on the tip of my tongue . . .'
Why did Franco, behind the bar, remind the Marshal of some sort of mechanical toy? He was so big and his bald head was so shiny . . . and now he wrapped a huge apron round his paunch—but it wasn't his shape that did it. . . That was it. It was because whether he was talking or silent, working or doing nothing at all, his large head bobbed slightly as if it were on a spring. It was that, along with his constant gentle smile, which made him look like a giant toy.
'There! I knew she'd be the one to ask.' Pina waddled back in, triumphant, and smiled at the Marshal. 'It's called "Italmoda". Something to do with the clothes trade but I don't know exactly what.'
'Did she work there long?'
'As long as I can remember. She always worked there, didn't she, Franco?'
'Ever since she moved here. Only three mornings a week, though.' Franco lifted a steaming wire basket of glasses out of the sink.
'Make me a camomile tea, love, while you're there. And then we might as well close, what d'you think?'
Franco only nodded and smiled. He dropped a camomile teabag into a white cup and held it under the boiling water spout.
'Don't close early on account of my being here,' said the Marshal placidly. How could he make them understand that he didn't want to disturb their normal habits without admitting that he had guessed what they amounted to? On the contrary, it was essential that things went on as usual, but there was no way he could openly say so. All he risked saying was, 'I'm not here to keep an eye on you, you know . . .'
If they started closing early, he would lose his best watchdogs. The best thing he could do might be to gain their confidence by taking them into his. He was pretty sure he could trust them not to gossip, and in any case, Franco had already said he knew it wasn't suicide. Their amiable solidity and their position of trust in the neighbourhood convinced him. Even afterwards, when the story got out with tragic consequences, it never crossed his mind to blame them. He remained convinced that he had done right in saying as he did: 'There's something I'd like to say to you in confidence, to both of you.'
He waited as Franco dried his hands and came back to the table with the teacup for his wife.
'Sit down a minute.' He glanced around him, but the television was flickering in front of empty chairs and no one was playing the computer game that was beeping somewhere out of sight. Everyone was outside, hoping for a whisper of cooler air that never came.
'Whose deal is it?'—'Mine. One more hand and I'm off to bed . . .'
The Marshal leaned forward a little towards the couple facing him across the round table but his gaze was averted, fixing the doorway to be sure no one appeared
'I know who'll remember. Maria Pia! Pippo's wife,' she explained to the Marshal. 'You've met Pippo.'
'Yes, I've met Pippo.'
'Well, if anybody remembers it'll be her. She never forgets a name or a face. I'll give her a shout.'
'Now?'
'She won't be in bed. She never goes to bed before midnight.'
And Pina waddled slowly to the open doorway. The Marshal saw her pause there on the pavement. One of the men at the tables must have said something to her in an undertone. Whoever it was couldn't be seen from inside. Pina shrugged and murmured something of which the Marshal only caught the word 'Franco'. He looked across at the barman, who smiled and said, 'She won't be long. Do you mind if I leave you a minute and wash a few glasses? We can still talk.'
'Of course.'
They heard Pina outside calling up in the darkness.
'Maria Pia! Maria Pia!'
Shutters creaked and banged open.
'What's up?'
'Can you remember what the place was called where Clementina worked? That office?'
'Why?'
'The Marshal's here and he wants to know.'
'But she stopped going there a while ago.'
'It doesn't matter, he still wants to know.'
'Wait . . . it's on the tip of my tongue . . .'
Why did Franco, behind the bar, remind the Marshal of some sort of mechanical toy? He was so big and his bald head was so shiny . . . and now he wrapped a huge apron round his paunch—but it wasn't his shape that did it. . . That was it. It was because whether he was talking or silent, working or doing nothing at all, his large head bobbed slightly as if it were on a spring. It was that, along with his constant gentle smile, which made him look like a giant toy.
'There! I knew she'd be the one to ask.' Pina waddled back in, triumphant, and smiled at the Marshal. 'It's called "Italmoda". Something to do with the clothes trade but I don't know exactly what.'
'Did she work there long?'
'As long as I can remember. She always worked there, didn't she, Franco?'
'Ever since she moved here. Only three mornings a week, though.' Franco lifted a steaming wire basket of glasses out of the sink.
'Make me a camomile tea, love, while you're there. And then we might as well close, what d'you think?'
Franco only nodded and smiled. He dropped a camomile teabag into a white cup and held it under the boiling water spout.
'Don't close early on account of my being here,' said the Marshal placidly. How could he make them understand that he didn't want to disturb their normal habits without admitting that he had guessed what they amounted to? On the contrary, it was essential that things went on as usual, but there was no way he could openly say so. All he risked saying was, 'I'm not here to keep an eye on you, you know . . .'
If they started closing early, he would lose his best watchdogs. The best thing he could do might be to gain their confidence by taking them into his. He was pretty sure he could trust them not to gossip, and in any case, Franco had already said he knew it wasn't suicide. Their amiable solidity and their position of trust in the neighbourhood convinced him. Even afterwards, when the story got out with tragic consequences, it never crossed his mind to blame them. He remained convinced that he had done right in saying as he did: 'There's something I'd like to say to you in confidence, to both of you.'
He waited as Franco dried his hands and came back to the table with the teacup for his wife.
'Sit down a minute.' He glanced around him, but the television was flickering in front of empty chairs and no one was playing the computer game that was beeping somewhere out of sight. Everyone was outside, hoping for a whisper of cooler air that never came.
'Whose deal is it?'—'Mine. One more hand and I'm off to bed . . .'
The Marshal leaned forward a little towards the couple facing him across the round table but his gaze was averted, fixing the doorway to be sure no one appeared
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