Read Online The Marshal and the Murderer by Magdalen Nabb - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Magdalen Nabb
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to do with anyone in this town who has a daughter! It's bad enough that crazy bitch of a nymphomaniac – '
Niccolini and the Marshal were almost running, stumbling over unexpected steps, brushing against protruding shelves and tables that marked their black greatcoats with red dust, but over the noise of their own heavy footsteps they heard the choked cry and the short scuffle that preceded a crash so violent it made the floor beneath them shake. Then they came into the long bare room above the kiln and saw Moretti and one of his men struggling with each other in silence. Moretti's hands were at the other's throat but it was his own face that was red, as though he were the one being choked.
'That's enough!' bellowed Niccolini.
Moretti's hands dropped slowly to his sides and hung there.
Neither he nor the man looked at the intruders; they continued to stare at each other, breathing heavily.
'What's it all about?' said Niccolini, approaching them. 'Well? Moretti? Sestini?'
The Marshal stayed away from them, watching. Moretti, with his red-stained clothes, disordered red hair and flushed and angry face, looked like a devil popped out of his own kiln. The other man, Sestini, was white all over. He must have been in charge of the strange plaster shells which had so puzzled the Marshal on his first visit. One of these huge shapes lay smashed into three pieces on the floor, and one of the pieces was rocking with a gentle bumping noise.
In the end it was Sestini who spoke, though with his eyes still fixed on Moretti.
'Nothing,' he mumbled, 'just a personal disagreement . . .'
'Disagreement?' thundered Niccolini. 'Good God! Listen, Moretti, I came back to warn you to change your attitude if you don't want to find yourself in trouble with us, and I find you trying to choke one of your best workers '
'Like I said,' interrupted Sestini, 'a personal matter.' And he turned away, bending to examine the broken plaster shell. 'Blast! I can't do anything with this
Moretti's colour was returning to normal but his eyes were still fixed on Sestini, following every move he made. The Marshal, from his position near the door, was pretty sure that the expression in them was one of gratitude. The expression on his colleague's face was of someone about to lose his temper. He was almost as red as Moretti had been.
'Listen!' he began again.
'No, you listen to me,' shouted Moretti, suddenly turning on him. 'I've had enough for one day! People nosing around the place, interrupting the work, asking stupid questions - whatever happened to that girl is no responsibility of mine. What happens to people is more often than not their own fault!'
"Their own fault!' roared Niccolini, towering over the smaller man as though he would have liked to pick him up and shake him. 'Did you see the state of that girl's body? Well? Did you?'
It's no responsibility of mine!' insisted Moretti, running a hand roughly through his hair and glancing about him as if in search of some concrete proof to offer for his statement.
The Marshal came forward and asked quietly:
'Nymphomaniac, was she? Isn't that what somebody was saying?'
Moretti looked taken aback, either by this remark or because he had been unaware of the Marshal's presence until then.
'Nobody said that ..."
'Oh no?' Niccolino looked from Moretti to the Marshal and back again. 'Well then, Marshal Guarnaccia and I must be getting hard of hearing. Both of us.'
'Or you've got it in for me, like everybody else around here.'
'Nobody's got it in for you to my knowledge, have they to your knowledge, Guarnaccia?'
The Marshal remained silent. Heat was coming up through the floorboards in suffocating waves and he would have liked to take off his greatcoat. He tucked his hat under his arm and fished for a handkerchief to wipe his brow.
'Well, let's hear it?' Moretti was almost bowed over backwards by Niccolini's aggressiveness.
'I . . .'
'Well? For instance?'
'I didn't mean anything by it,' mumbled
Niccolini and the Marshal were almost running, stumbling over unexpected steps, brushing against protruding shelves and tables that marked their black greatcoats with red dust, but over the noise of their own heavy footsteps they heard the choked cry and the short scuffle that preceded a crash so violent it made the floor beneath them shake. Then they came into the long bare room above the kiln and saw Moretti and one of his men struggling with each other in silence. Moretti's hands were at the other's throat but it was his own face that was red, as though he were the one being choked.
'That's enough!' bellowed Niccolini.
Moretti's hands dropped slowly to his sides and hung there.
Neither he nor the man looked at the intruders; they continued to stare at each other, breathing heavily.
'What's it all about?' said Niccolini, approaching them. 'Well? Moretti? Sestini?'
The Marshal stayed away from them, watching. Moretti, with his red-stained clothes, disordered red hair and flushed and angry face, looked like a devil popped out of his own kiln. The other man, Sestini, was white all over. He must have been in charge of the strange plaster shells which had so puzzled the Marshal on his first visit. One of these huge shapes lay smashed into three pieces on the floor, and one of the pieces was rocking with a gentle bumping noise.
In the end it was Sestini who spoke, though with his eyes still fixed on Moretti.
'Nothing,' he mumbled, 'just a personal disagreement . . .'
'Disagreement?' thundered Niccolini. 'Good God! Listen, Moretti, I came back to warn you to change your attitude if you don't want to find yourself in trouble with us, and I find you trying to choke one of your best workers '
'Like I said,' interrupted Sestini, 'a personal matter.' And he turned away, bending to examine the broken plaster shell. 'Blast! I can't do anything with this
Moretti's colour was returning to normal but his eyes were still fixed on Sestini, following every move he made. The Marshal, from his position near the door, was pretty sure that the expression in them was one of gratitude. The expression on his colleague's face was of someone about to lose his temper. He was almost as red as Moretti had been.
'Listen!' he began again.
'No, you listen to me,' shouted Moretti, suddenly turning on him. 'I've had enough for one day! People nosing around the place, interrupting the work, asking stupid questions - whatever happened to that girl is no responsibility of mine. What happens to people is more often than not their own fault!'
"Their own fault!' roared Niccolini, towering over the smaller man as though he would have liked to pick him up and shake him. 'Did you see the state of that girl's body? Well? Did you?'
It's no responsibility of mine!' insisted Moretti, running a hand roughly through his hair and glancing about him as if in search of some concrete proof to offer for his statement.
The Marshal came forward and asked quietly:
'Nymphomaniac, was she? Isn't that what somebody was saying?'
Moretti looked taken aback, either by this remark or because he had been unaware of the Marshal's presence until then.
'Nobody said that ..."
'Oh no?' Niccolino looked from Moretti to the Marshal and back again. 'Well then, Marshal Guarnaccia and I must be getting hard of hearing. Both of us.'
'Or you've got it in for me, like everybody else around here.'
'Nobody's got it in for you to my knowledge, have they to your knowledge, Guarnaccia?'
The Marshal remained silent. Heat was coming up through the floorboards in suffocating waves and he would have liked to take off his greatcoat. He tucked his hat under his arm and fished for a handkerchief to wipe his brow.
'Well, let's hear it?' Moretti was almost bowed over backwards by Niccolini's aggressiveness.
'I . . .'
'Well? For instance?'
'I didn't mean anything by it,' mumbled
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