Read Online The Marshal at the Villa Torrini by Magdalen Nabb - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Magdalen Nabb
Tags: Suspense
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wish I could offer you something that would help.'
But he couldn't. The Marshal had himself driven back to Pitti without saying a word. He'd been too complacent, sure that the autopsy would show up a murder which would have cleared his path for a thorough investigation of Forbes. Well, he'd been wrong, and having been wrong he'd wasted time. He should have been looking for the other woman, finding out what the man inherited, establishing a motive. He should have been doing all this in any case, so that, if the autopsy results had been useful, he'd have been ready . . .
They were stuck in a traffic jam near the banks of the Arno, contributing their share to the build-up of pollution that would lead to another alarm, another quiet day, another rapid build-up.
A beggar, walking among the waiting cars with his cap, saw the two uniformed men in the dark car and slid away. Windscreens were being washed at high speed. The Marshal stared out at the blue-grey world from behind his dark glasses and continued to castigate himself for being too slow, just as, all his life, he had been castigated by everyone, at home, at school, at work, for being too slow. Teresa, too . . . 'It's like talking to a wall! I asked you half an hour ago . . .'
The lights changed, but they didn't get through.
'Have they found out how she died?' Fara's timid voice floated on the edge of the Marshal's consciousness as he condemned himself out of hand for being a non-listener, asleep on his feet, too dozy altogether to tackle a type like Forbes even in his present reduced state—and Fusarri would have the preliminary notes on the autopsy, too. What about that? He'd cottoned on right away to the fact that the Marshal suspected Forbes, so now, either the Marshal looked a fool or the Prosecutor looked a fool for believing him. He hoped the former, because otherwise . . . He'd never seen the man angry, but he'd heard stories: that he was an anarchist, that he overrode anyone who stood in his way. Anyone. He'd even defied the chief public prosecutor once, if such stories were to be believed. They weren't always, of course, but the Marshal, being only a noncommissioned officer, didn't fancy his chances. And the worst of it was that he was quite sure in this case that what had sent everything haywire was his having been hungry all the time. Diets were all right on holiday, but when you had a job to do . . . That Mercedes with a Calabrian number plate had been parked there every day for a week; he'd better take a closer look at it next time he passed on foot. Incongruous . . . And a house just further down where there was some heavy gambling going on which meant recycling money. He'd check . . .
They were in Via Santo Spirito and another queue. The best thing would be to go over to Headquarters at Borgo Ognissanti and have a word with his captain. Captain Maestrangelo was a good man, a serious man, and he'd had to deal with Fusarri. True, the Marshal had been there himself at the time but very much in the background. Maestrangelo had taken the brunt, and it hadn't been easy. Even so, things had seemed to work out, more or less, in the end, so a word of advice wouldn't come amiss. Borgo Ognissanti, then—No, after lunch. A good meal would . . .
If only he didn't keep forgetting! If only every day his stomach didn't react joyfully to the peal of bells, the lunchtime news signature tune, the waft of tomato and garlic from the lads' kitchen upstairs, the clatter of cutlery behind every shutter in every flat in every street. And then the tightening with dismay. Might as well go straight over to Borgo Ognissanti for all the difference a chilly salad would make. Borgo Ognissanti it was, then.
It was with some surprise that he found himself delivered to the gravel patch outside the entrance to his own station at the Palazzo Pitti. He kept his patience, though. His patience with the young and inexperienced was inexhaustible.
'No, no . . . Borgo Ognissanti. I want to see
But he couldn't. The Marshal had himself driven back to Pitti without saying a word. He'd been too complacent, sure that the autopsy would show up a murder which would have cleared his path for a thorough investigation of Forbes. Well, he'd been wrong, and having been wrong he'd wasted time. He should have been looking for the other woman, finding out what the man inherited, establishing a motive. He should have been doing all this in any case, so that, if the autopsy results had been useful, he'd have been ready . . .
They were stuck in a traffic jam near the banks of the Arno, contributing their share to the build-up of pollution that would lead to another alarm, another quiet day, another rapid build-up.
A beggar, walking among the waiting cars with his cap, saw the two uniformed men in the dark car and slid away. Windscreens were being washed at high speed. The Marshal stared out at the blue-grey world from behind his dark glasses and continued to castigate himself for being too slow, just as, all his life, he had been castigated by everyone, at home, at school, at work, for being too slow. Teresa, too . . . 'It's like talking to a wall! I asked you half an hour ago . . .'
The lights changed, but they didn't get through.
'Have they found out how she died?' Fara's timid voice floated on the edge of the Marshal's consciousness as he condemned himself out of hand for being a non-listener, asleep on his feet, too dozy altogether to tackle a type like Forbes even in his present reduced state—and Fusarri would have the preliminary notes on the autopsy, too. What about that? He'd cottoned on right away to the fact that the Marshal suspected Forbes, so now, either the Marshal looked a fool or the Prosecutor looked a fool for believing him. He hoped the former, because otherwise . . . He'd never seen the man angry, but he'd heard stories: that he was an anarchist, that he overrode anyone who stood in his way. Anyone. He'd even defied the chief public prosecutor once, if such stories were to be believed. They weren't always, of course, but the Marshal, being only a noncommissioned officer, didn't fancy his chances. And the worst of it was that he was quite sure in this case that what had sent everything haywire was his having been hungry all the time. Diets were all right on holiday, but when you had a job to do . . . That Mercedes with a Calabrian number plate had been parked there every day for a week; he'd better take a closer look at it next time he passed on foot. Incongruous . . . And a house just further down where there was some heavy gambling going on which meant recycling money. He'd check . . .
They were in Via Santo Spirito and another queue. The best thing would be to go over to Headquarters at Borgo Ognissanti and have a word with his captain. Captain Maestrangelo was a good man, a serious man, and he'd had to deal with Fusarri. True, the Marshal had been there himself at the time but very much in the background. Maestrangelo had taken the brunt, and it hadn't been easy. Even so, things had seemed to work out, more or less, in the end, so a word of advice wouldn't come amiss. Borgo Ognissanti, then—No, after lunch. A good meal would . . .
If only he didn't keep forgetting! If only every day his stomach didn't react joyfully to the peal of bells, the lunchtime news signature tune, the waft of tomato and garlic from the lads' kitchen upstairs, the clatter of cutlery behind every shutter in every flat in every street. And then the tightening with dismay. Might as well go straight over to Borgo Ognissanti for all the difference a chilly salad would make. Borgo Ognissanti it was, then.
It was with some surprise that he found himself delivered to the gravel patch outside the entrance to his own station at the Palazzo Pitti. He kept his patience, though. His patience with the young and inexperienced was inexhaustible.
'No, no . . . Borgo Ognissanti. I want to see
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