The Monster of Florence (30 page)

“Damn!” The expletive was only partly in response to the red light that would lose him time, though there wasn’t a soul on the road, it was because he’d just remembered: he’d meant to ask Bacci about that red comment in the margin of the book last night. It would hardly be fair to ask him to waste his time writing out the list for him, now he was no longer on the case, but he was curious to know about that “Is this us?” Too late now. Might as well turn his mind to the business in hand.

The village of Pontino at this hour was still pretty much asleep, but there was some subdued activity. The Bar Italia was open and lit up and an encouraging aroma of fresh coffee floated around on that side of the square. A number of workmen were having breakfast there, and at the bus stop outside the first big country buses of the day were pulling up with squealing brakes and musical horns, summoning schoolteachers and civil servants for the hour-long, winding journey down to the city. The rest of the square showed closed shutters, except for the baker’s and the florist.

The Marshal would have given anything for a coffee in the bar, not to mention a nice oven-hot brioche with melting jam in it, but he didn’t want to be seen here. The Suspect himself might be about. So he drove around the dark square and parked beyond the glow of a streetlamp near the church on the other side. He saw three old women come out of the church door and go their separate ways. Then, as he was locking his car, a small boy shot out of the presbytery door clutching a brioche wrapped in a paper napkin. His timing had been right.

A tiny nervous spinster opened the door to him.

“Father Damiani’s having his breakfast. I never disturb Father when he’s having his breakfast. If you could come back in half an hour or so.”

“Perhaps you’d ask him. I’ve come up from Florence and it’s rather an urgent matter …”

“Well …” But she was sufficiently intimidated by the Marshal’s bulk and authority as to scuttle away and then return to show him into a small overfurnished dining room. The priest was seated at the table, a large white napkin tucked into his dog collar. Jugs of coffee and hot milk were set beside his large cup and in a basket two hot, sweet-smelling brioches were peeping out of a fresh white cloth. The priest was biting into a third, showering soft flakes down his front as he observed the Marshal’s entrance and nodded towards a chair.

“I suppose there’s little point in offering you breakfast if you were up so early as to get here from Florence at such an hour.” His eyes slid to the remaining brioches and away again.

The scents of fresh coffee, vanilla and hot jam floated towards the Marshal. He made the required negative noises faintly.

“Marshal of the police or carabinieri?”

“Carabinieri.”

“I don’t understand. I was told I wouldn’t have to testify. It’s not just a question of the secrets of the confessional, you know, it’s the embarrassment it could cause for me here in the village.”

“Oh, I’m sure if that’s what you were told then it’s certainly the case.” How was he to find out what this man clearly thought he already knew? He looked like somebody and the Marshal couldn’t get a hold on who it was. Somebody unpleasant, he was sure of that.

“It’s all been very difficult for me. These things are not as unusual as we might wish but, even so, this was a particularly bad case because of the girl’s being so subnormal. She talked, you see, she talked a great deal around the village. It’s a scandal that people in that condition should be at large, but since they closed the lunatic asylums it’s left to people like me to try and deal with problems well beyond the real scope of my duties as a priest.”

“It must be very difficult …”

“Father Damiani for one. He’s had it up to here.”

Had the barman said anything more explicit? Not that the Marshal could remember.

“I understand,” he began carefully, “that she was taken in for psychiatric treatment at some point—I’ve not been on this case right from the beginning, but I did hear that.”

“Oh, yes, indeed. I did everything I could to see that she was taken away before things got any worse. She was never away from my door! As you’ve seen, her flat is practically on my doorstep—and, believe me, her advances were anything but subtle. Pardon me if I don’t go into detail, suffice it to say that her manner of offering herself was terrifying, and deeply distressing. Deeply distressing.”

The deeply distressed man sucked in the last piece of the third brioche and refilled his coffee cup.

“What’s more, I understand that she told quite a number of people that her ‘love’ for me, as she termed it, was reciprocated. It’s my belief that the child was possessed by the devil. I wrote to the bishop about it.”

“Very wise. You don’t think it might have been her father rather than the devil?”

“Her father,” returned the priest firmly, “is an agent of the devil.” A sudden thought struck him. “She won’t be allowed to testify at her father’s trial?”

“I think she will testify, yes.”

“But that shouldn’t be! The girl is not fit to testify.”

“I’m afraid she will, though. The purpose of my visit, in fact”—no one in their senses would believe it, but he was on safe ground since the priest wanted nothing more than to hear his next words “is to reassure you that she will be asked no questions by the prosecution which could in any way involve you.”

“And the defence?”

“It wouldn’t be in their interest to dwell any more than is absolutely necessary on the sexual activities of their client and his family.”

“I suppose not. Well, it was thoughtful of you to keep me informed. I must confess that if I had seen in the paper that she was to testify I’d have been very worried indeed. There are a great many communists in this village, priest haters who’d do their best to make something out of nothing.”

“I suppose so.”

“It was a black day for all of us when that family came to live here. They’re all tarred with the same brush, Marshal, believe me. There’s little point in being sentimental about it. God must be their judge, but however much they fight between themselves and condemn each other, they always close ranks in the end. You’ll never separate the guilty from the innocent in that family. We are all sinners and we are all responsible for our own souls, no matter what modern psychiatry tries to tell us to the contrary.”

The Marshal was of the same opinion but he didn’t say so. He didn’t care much for the man, on top of which he’d just realized who it was he looked like. Younger, of course. His wavy hair was still black. But the build was the same, thickset and short limbed. The hooked nose and bull neck too, though not yet so coarsened. The object of the abused girl’s sick passion was just a physically younger version of her father.

“Do you want to deal with your post?” Lorenzini waylaid the Marshal the moment he walked in.

“Not now. I’m late. Is there anything urgent?”

“No, just something odd.”

“Show me.”

Lorenzini handed him a small off-white envelope.

“Oh, no …” The address was made up of letters cut from a magazine. “I’d better take it with me. It can only be–” But he was opening it as he spoke and the name FRANCHI caught his eye at once.

Lot no. 79 was not painted
by Antonio Franchi

He went into his office and called the Captain’s number.

“Maestrangelo.”

“Guarnaccia, here. I’ve had an anonymous communication that I’m sending over to you. I’ll have Lorenzini write a report—”

“Not something concerning a painting, by any chance?”

“I … yes. Yes, it is.”

“A painting by, let me see …”

“Antonio Franchi, sir—yes. You know about it?”

“I’ve got the same thing on my desk and a gentleman from the auctioneer’s has just left. ‘Lot number seventy-nine is not by Antonio Franchi.’ ”

“Yes, that’s the same message. Letters are from some sort of glossy magazine.”

“And do you know something about it? I take it we’re talking about somebody in your quarter, or at any rate, somebody who knows you. Otherwise—”

“It might be. The thing is, I know the—the young man who’s selling.” He had almost said “boy.”

“And is there some doubt about its authenticity?”

“He seems to think it’s genuine. I wouldn’t know. I’d have thought that was the responsibility of the auctioneer.”

“Yes, well … I got the impression they’re not in the least worried on that score.”

“But they came to you?”

“They came to me because they’re afraid somebody ‘probably unbalanced,’ and I quote, might create a scene during the auction. That would be bad for their image, bad for business. What they would like would be to have somebody present—in plain clothes, of course, in case of a disturbance.”

“I see.”

The Captain wasn’t one to expose himself by expressing any annoyance openly, but his tone was sufficient. The Marshal took it as read, replying to the unspoken.

“Well, they must surely have realized themselves that you can’t employ your men on their private business. There’s no crime involved.”

“No. But they have some big names on their board of directors.”

And they both knew what that meant. Somebody would know a magistrate who would bring pressure to bear. They would get their way and the Captain would suffer for his correctness. He would suffer because as well as being very correct he was also very ambitious. This was just the sort of episode which must damage him whatever course he took.

“I’m sorry.” The Marshal couldn’t explain just how sorry he really was. In part, at least, he felt responsible because he had no doubt at all about where the letters came from.

“I suppose I could send this thing to the lab, go through the motions of trying to find the author of it. That might help if I start getting flack. I’ll wait for yours to arrive here, of course. And if you know anything useful put it in your report.”

“I think I’d better come and see you. It won’t be today—you know how I’m fixed with this other business. I’m late now.”

“Of course. I can hardly tell you it’s urgent. Come over when you can.”

When he’d hung up, the Marshal wondered whether he shouldn’t have told him not to bother sending the letters to the lab. Not, he supposed, since it was only the gesture that counted. He stared down at the letter. Anonymous my foot. What was he trying to do? Manipulate the Marshal? The carabinieri in general? Drum up a worthy audience and really make a scene at the auction? Whatever the motive for the letters, whatever the game, anonymity wasn’t at the centre of it. The paper, for a start, was thick and fluffy edged. Hand made, you didn’t need an expert to see that. As traceable as paper could be. Not that the paper was what the Marshal had noticed first. He’d known the minute he’d opened it and that whiff of unmistakable perfume reached his nose.

The Marshal waited patiently outside Pizzeria Dante but there was no sign of Ferrini. The pizzeria was on the corner near the bridge, halfway between their respective barracks, on the Marshal’s side of the river. It was cold standing outside in the night wind but the Marshal didn’t fancy going in alone so he stood there just the same, peering across the lamplit bridge, watching for Ferrini’s unmistakable bouncing step. Nothing.

“Guarnaccia! Oh!”

“Good Lord. What have you brought your car for? We’re not going anywhere, are we?”

“Your place after. All right for you, but I can’t be bothered walking home. If I know anything it’ll be three in the morning.”

“But you’ll never find anywhere to park.”

“I will. Go in and get a table.”

The Marshal did as he was told.

“For two? Is this all right?”

“I expect so.”

It wasn’t, of course. Ferrini arrived, grinning, the only person, surely, who could find a parking space in Florence at this time of night.

“Dante!” he roared immediately, and the owner of the place, a man in his fifties, appeared from nowhere. His paunch was encompassed by ostentatiously labelled designer leatherwear, his thick fingers heavy with rings.

“Well, look who’s here!” He slapped Ferrini on the back. “No, no, they’re not sitting there. Put them at my table.”

“We have to talk,” Ferrini warned.

“So you’ll talk. I never eat before ten. I’ll join you for a glass of something good before you leave. Sandro! Look after them—and serve them fast, they’ve got work to do.” There followed an urgent sotto voce conversation with the waiter and then Dante waved a hand at them and disappeared. Sandro came with a bottle and corkscrew. The bottle was dusty and he set it down carefully and polished it. The Marshal raised a questioning eyebrow but Ferrini frowned and waved his hand.

“We’ll work just as well on good wine as on poor. Besides—” as Sandro went off for a menu—“can’t offend a friend. Now, let’s concentrate on eating, then we can get on.”

The Marshal resigned himself. They’d had a number of these get-togethers over the case and somehow or other they all seemed to him to consist of ninety percent eating and stories of Ferrini’s past cases. They never got down to work before eleven, and often it was midnight. This time, the Marshal had only himself to blame. He’d refused an invitation to eat at Ferrini’s house with the family since the entire evening would have slid by happily in chatter, only to remember that Teresa was coming home tomorrow and he couldn’t possibly clean the kitchen again. He had suggested a quick bowl of pasta somewhere near, but needless to say, Ferrini knew a chap …

“Good, eh?”

“It’s very good—listen, this is a quiet corner …” His big eyes scanned the room. There was nobody near enough to listen in. “We could make a start while we’re waiting, try not to be up till three.”

“If you say so.” He didn’t look enthusiastic. Ferrini liked to concentrate on his food.

The Marshal persisted. “It’s just … this sixty-eight murder. I’m not used to tackling a case second hand. It’s one thing to read the transcript of what so-and-so said but if you’re there, if you’re looking a man in the eyes, it might mean something different …”

“Well, I know what you mean, but even so, with or without proof I think Romola cleared that one up. Fabio Muscas must have been in on it or he’d have talked—if not at the time then when he was arrested as the Monster. The only reason not to defend yourself from a charge like that is that if you tell what you know, you’re in for another charge. At his age, one life sentence or sixteen, it’s all the same. No, he wanted Belinda out of the way because of the family money she was going through. He was after that insurance money. He had no gun, though. The Muscas family were respectable in their way. Workers. No car, either. What about Silvano?”