Hollywood detective, probably have shot himself accidentally by this time . . . whole thing had been a mess from start to finish . . . fifteen years . . . would have been ten if it hadn't been a gun . . . poor creature . . .
He backed his van up and drove out of the courtyard to join the heavy lunch-time traffic moving towards the Cathedral. There were clear blue gaps in the cloud here and there but light rain continued to spatter the windscreen. The usual long line of buses stopping and starting blocked the road all the way from Piazza San Marco to the Cathedral. Each time he tried to overtake, one of them would signal and pull out. Patience ... his lunch would be cold, though . . . fifteen years.
His lunch was cold. He wasn't all that sorry to find an urgent message from Headquarters that meant leaving the glutinous pasta. He could snatch a coffee and sandwich in the bar over there at some point.
The Captain wasn't in his office. The adjutant directed him to the hospital next door, giving him written instructions on how to find the ward. The Marshal slipped them into his top pocket. He knew the hospital well enough to find the side ward without difficulty. He couldn't see the patient when he first entered because of the people standing around her. One of them, doubtless the Substitute Prosecutor, was on his feet, playing with an unlit pipe. The Captain was seated with his back to the door. The third man was the one who held the Marshal's attention. It was that young fool of a student Bacci, who stood up stiffly at the sight of the Marshal who had witnessed his first embarrassingly unsuccessful attempt at being a policeman. The Marshal stared expressionlessly at the blushing face and then at the star on the young man's epaulette. With the briefest salute at what was now his superior officer he said gravely, 'Lieutenant . . .' and turned his attention to the Captain who greeted him briefly and then continued his interrogation with the younger officer interpreting.
'You didn't see his face?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'It was covered.'
'With what?'
'I don't know. Something black . . . perhaps it was a skiing mask.'
'You saw his eyes?'
'No. I don't know. He made us turn away. We were both in front, so . . .'
'Who drove?'
'Debbie did. He held a gun at my neck.'
'You didn't say before that he was armed.'
'He couldn't have made us do what he wanted otherwise since he was on his own.'
'He held a gun at your neck driving through the busy streets at rush hour?'
'It was hidden behind a map which he held open right behind our heads.'
The Marshal, whose thoughts were still with the prisoner on his way back to serve fifteen years in the Murate, and who was further distracted by half the talk being in English, was hardly able to follow a word of this interrogation. He had no idea what it was all about, anyway.
The Captain was saying to the Sub-lieutenant, 'I want to know everything she can tell us about the Maxwell girl, family, friends, habits, etcetera—everything. You needn't translate, I can follow you.'
Sub-lieutenant Bacci, very much aware of the Marshal's enormous eyes fixed upon him, began his questioning rather hesitantly. Nevertheless the girl answered him more readily than she had the Captain, her gaze fixed on his face.
'She has a father and a stepmother.'
'Does she get on with them?'
'She talks a lot about her father. I think she's very attached to him.'
'And the stepmother?'
'I don't know. She's never said anything against her. I got the impression that they didn't know each other all that well, that the marriage was fairly recent.'
'Do they live in this country?'
'No, in the States.'
'Do they have property here? A holiday villa, for instance?'
'No. They've only been here once, just after Christmas.'
'What about Christmas? They didn't spend it together?'
'She went to them, for about a week, I think. I left before her to spend Christmas at home in Norway.'
'How long did her parents stay here?'
'About
He backed his van up and drove out of the courtyard to join the heavy lunch-time traffic moving towards the Cathedral. There were clear blue gaps in the cloud here and there but light rain continued to spatter the windscreen. The usual long line of buses stopping and starting blocked the road all the way from Piazza San Marco to the Cathedral. Each time he tried to overtake, one of them would signal and pull out. Patience ... his lunch would be cold, though . . . fifteen years.
His lunch was cold. He wasn't all that sorry to find an urgent message from Headquarters that meant leaving the glutinous pasta. He could snatch a coffee and sandwich in the bar over there at some point.
The Captain wasn't in his office. The adjutant directed him to the hospital next door, giving him written instructions on how to find the ward. The Marshal slipped them into his top pocket. He knew the hospital well enough to find the side ward without difficulty. He couldn't see the patient when he first entered because of the people standing around her. One of them, doubtless the Substitute Prosecutor, was on his feet, playing with an unlit pipe. The Captain was seated with his back to the door. The third man was the one who held the Marshal's attention. It was that young fool of a student Bacci, who stood up stiffly at the sight of the Marshal who had witnessed his first embarrassingly unsuccessful attempt at being a policeman. The Marshal stared expressionlessly at the blushing face and then at the star on the young man's epaulette. With the briefest salute at what was now his superior officer he said gravely, 'Lieutenant . . .' and turned his attention to the Captain who greeted him briefly and then continued his interrogation with the younger officer interpreting.
'You didn't see his face?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'It was covered.'
'With what?'
'I don't know. Something black . . . perhaps it was a skiing mask.'
'You saw his eyes?'
'No. I don't know. He made us turn away. We were both in front, so . . .'
'Who drove?'
'Debbie did. He held a gun at my neck.'
'You didn't say before that he was armed.'
'He couldn't have made us do what he wanted otherwise since he was on his own.'
'He held a gun at your neck driving through the busy streets at rush hour?'
'It was hidden behind a map which he held open right behind our heads.'
The Marshal, whose thoughts were still with the prisoner on his way back to serve fifteen years in the Murate, and who was further distracted by half the talk being in English, was hardly able to follow a word of this interrogation. He had no idea what it was all about, anyway.
The Captain was saying to the Sub-lieutenant, 'I want to know everything she can tell us about the Maxwell girl, family, friends, habits, etcetera—everything. You needn't translate, I can follow you.'
Sub-lieutenant Bacci, very much aware of the Marshal's enormous eyes fixed upon him, began his questioning rather hesitantly. Nevertheless the girl answered him more readily than she had the Captain, her gaze fixed on his face.
'She has a father and a stepmother.'
'Does she get on with them?'
'She talks a lot about her father. I think she's very attached to him.'
'And the stepmother?'
'I don't know. She's never said anything against her. I got the impression that they didn't know each other all that well, that the marriage was fairly recent.'
'Do they live in this country?'
'No, in the States.'
'Do they have property here? A holiday villa, for instance?'
'No. They've only been here once, just after Christmas.'
'What about Christmas? They didn't spend it together?'
'She went to them, for about a week, I think. I left before her to spend Christmas at home in Norway.'
'How long did her parents stay here?'
'About
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