to her to be hiding something, but experience told him that it would be useless to try and force her. It was a situation chat required patience and a certain amount of cunning.
'We'll leave you to get some rest,' he said gently, in slow, clear Italian. 'And as soon as you feel well enough I want you to write a list of everybody that the Signorina Maxwell knows in Florence. Everybody, including shopkeepers, bar owners and all the members of your class at the University—they don't have to have been special friends, just acquaintances—teachers, too. Write them down. Do you understand?' She nodded. 'Sub-lieutenant Bacci here will stay and help you in case you leave any gaps.'
The three others rose to leave and it was only at the very last moment that he added, almost casually: 'What message were you supposed to phone to the American Consulate?'
She hesitated, looking from one to the other of their expectant faces, and there was quite a distinct change in her voice as she repeated in Italian:
'Mr Maxwell, we have Deborah. The price is one and a half milliardi.'
'They gave it to you in Italian?'
'Yes. I had to repeat it a number of times so that there could be no misunderstanding. I was to speak to the Consul General.'
'You won't need that token now.'
The outline of her clenched fist was visible under the white counterpane. She looked down at it as though it belonged to somebody else, then drew it slowly out. The young officer took the token from her sweating palm. For the first time since properly regaining consciousness she asked: 'What will happen to her if nobody knows, if nobody pays, what will they do to . . .?' Her face had slackened and she was crying but without any sound.
'Let us worry about that,' said the Captain, who knew exactly what would happen if nobody paid and that they would in all likelihood never find the body. 'You have a rest and then make that list which will help us to find her. I've already telephoned the Consulate,' he added, in the hope of soothing her with a half-truth.
'What do you think?' the Captain asked Marshal Guarnaccia once they were outside and walking the two or three yards back to Headquarters.
'I didn't understand more than three words,' said the Marshal placidly. 'And she's lying.'
Beside him, the Substitute burst into delighted laughter and said, 'Maestrangelo, introduce me to this man!'
'I beg your pardon. Substitute Prosecutor Fusarri, Virgilio; Marshal Guarnaccia, Salvatore.'
They shook hands outside the sentry room, where the Substitute had a taxi called and got into it still smiling at the Marshal's deadly serious remark. 'You'll need a warrant,' was his parting observation, 'to search that flat. I'll send it over immediately. Let me know what you find.'
'New man?' asked the Marshal, staring after the taxi with bulging expressionless eyes.
'Yes.'
'Funny. He looks . . .'
'As if he only happens to be with us by accident and could just easily be amusing himself at some other job elsewhere.'
'Something like that. I wouldn't know how to put it into words.'
'We'd better go up to my office.' They went along the old cloister and up the stone stairs.
'An interesting man, the Substitute,' said the Captain as they settled into deep leather chairs, 'and intelligent. But he's eccentric. I shall be glad to have you working with me for a while.'
The Marshal raised questioning eyebrows.
'The girl who's missing—you'll have had my circular— is Deborah Jean Maxwell and she lives in Piazza Pitti, number three.'
'I see.'
'I need to know all about her.'
'I don't know the name.'
'We'll get you a photograph.'
'I'll see what I can do. When did it happen?'
'Just after eight in the morning on the first of March.'
The Marshal frowned. After a moment he said: 'That was the day it was snowing.'
'It was. That should help since a lot of people will remember that morning because of the snow.'
'I'm not so sure . . .'
'You'd better come to the flat with me for a start, as soon
'We'll leave you to get some rest,' he said gently, in slow, clear Italian. 'And as soon as you feel well enough I want you to write a list of everybody that the Signorina Maxwell knows in Florence. Everybody, including shopkeepers, bar owners and all the members of your class at the University—they don't have to have been special friends, just acquaintances—teachers, too. Write them down. Do you understand?' She nodded. 'Sub-lieutenant Bacci here will stay and help you in case you leave any gaps.'
The three others rose to leave and it was only at the very last moment that he added, almost casually: 'What message were you supposed to phone to the American Consulate?'
She hesitated, looking from one to the other of their expectant faces, and there was quite a distinct change in her voice as she repeated in Italian:
'Mr Maxwell, we have Deborah. The price is one and a half milliardi.'
'They gave it to you in Italian?'
'Yes. I had to repeat it a number of times so that there could be no misunderstanding. I was to speak to the Consul General.'
'You won't need that token now.'
The outline of her clenched fist was visible under the white counterpane. She looked down at it as though it belonged to somebody else, then drew it slowly out. The young officer took the token from her sweating palm. For the first time since properly regaining consciousness she asked: 'What will happen to her if nobody knows, if nobody pays, what will they do to . . .?' Her face had slackened and she was crying but without any sound.
'Let us worry about that,' said the Captain, who knew exactly what would happen if nobody paid and that they would in all likelihood never find the body. 'You have a rest and then make that list which will help us to find her. I've already telephoned the Consulate,' he added, in the hope of soothing her with a half-truth.
'What do you think?' the Captain asked Marshal Guarnaccia once they were outside and walking the two or three yards back to Headquarters.
'I didn't understand more than three words,' said the Marshal placidly. 'And she's lying.'
Beside him, the Substitute burst into delighted laughter and said, 'Maestrangelo, introduce me to this man!'
'I beg your pardon. Substitute Prosecutor Fusarri, Virgilio; Marshal Guarnaccia, Salvatore.'
They shook hands outside the sentry room, where the Substitute had a taxi called and got into it still smiling at the Marshal's deadly serious remark. 'You'll need a warrant,' was his parting observation, 'to search that flat. I'll send it over immediately. Let me know what you find.'
'New man?' asked the Marshal, staring after the taxi with bulging expressionless eyes.
'Yes.'
'Funny. He looks . . .'
'As if he only happens to be with us by accident and could just easily be amusing himself at some other job elsewhere.'
'Something like that. I wouldn't know how to put it into words.'
'We'd better go up to my office.' They went along the old cloister and up the stone stairs.
'An interesting man, the Substitute,' said the Captain as they settled into deep leather chairs, 'and intelligent. But he's eccentric. I shall be glad to have you working with me for a while.'
The Marshal raised questioning eyebrows.
'The girl who's missing—you'll have had my circular— is Deborah Jean Maxwell and she lives in Piazza Pitti, number three.'
'I see.'
'I need to know all about her.'
'I don't know the name.'
'We'll get you a photograph.'
'I'll see what I can do. When did it happen?'
'Just after eight in the morning on the first of March.'
The Marshal frowned. After a moment he said: 'That was the day it was snowing.'
'It was. That should help since a lot of people will remember that morning because of the snow.'
'I'm not so sure . . .'
'You'd better come to the flat with me for a start, as soon
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