Free Some Bitter Taste by Magdalen Nabb Page B

never get her on that truck. Next time it’s got to be three men … Jesus…’
    ‘There isn’t a third man I can trust like you.’ Rinaldi seemed barely able to breathe himself. ‘You must get her through to the back for the restorers.’
    They did it, too, though the marshal feared they might have heart attacks in the attempt. The crate was broken open and he caught a glimpse of sculpted draperies. These disappeared under sheeting and the men reappeared, shutting the rear door behind them.
    They left without being paid, an almost invisible signal passing between them and Rinaldi. The marshal was used to this sort of thing. He was investigating a murder and they were trying to hide a cash payment without receipt from him. Half the trouble in any investigation was caused by people hiding things from you that were self-evident and that you didn’t care about anyway. The two most common were tax dodges and adultery.
    The marshal decided to distract Rinaldi at once.
    ‘If you don’t mind my asking, do you always call the crates of stuff you get delivered “she"?’
    ‘What…? Oh, I see.’ Distracted and relieved. ‘Inside that crate was a statue of the goddess Athena. Very much a ‘she’. And very much damaged by pollution, I’m sorry to say. I imagine you’re looking for information about what happened upstairs but I’m afraid I barely knew the woman.’
    ‘Yes, well, I’ve heard she was very reserved, didn’t chat much with her neighbours.’
    ‘Not at all, as far as I’m concerned.’
    “You never visited her?’
    ‘Never. “Good morning, good evening” in the street or on the stairs, nothing more.’
    ‘Really? Probably just gossip, I suppose, but somebody mentioned a bit of a disagreement…’
    ‘As you say, people gossip.’
    ‘No disagreement then?’
    ‘No.’
    The marshal fell silent and stayed that way. He stood there, immovable, solid, staring, taking his time in examining Rinaldi. White hair, wavy, rather long, resting on his sweatshirt collar. Red face, crinkly eyes that gave him ajovial look. Bit of a tummy on him. You could see from his hands as much as anything that he was nearer seventy than sixty but he was wearing blue jeans. A vain man whose vanity wasn’t confined to camouflaging his age. He probably enjoyed risky and lucrative deals, executed with panache. Maybe had a couple of such deals on hand right now, but even if one of them concerned the ‘she’ in the crate, he would laugh at the idea of the marshal’s posing any threat to him. He’d be right, too. But then the marshal didn’t want to pose any threat. He just wanted to embarrass the man into saying something, anything, about his neighbour so as to put an end to the marshal’s discomforting silence. The length of time this took was always in inverse ratio to the victim’s intelligence and education. There were men who would hold out through interrogations, trial, appeal, prison, death. Rinaldi didn’t make half a minute. A very cultured man.
    ‘Look, I’m sure you know the saying ‘no smoke without fire’. In your job you must be used to hearing gossip and interpreting it.’
    ‘Oh, yes, yes.’
    ‘So there was—not a row—but, shall we say, a coolness, arising from the fact that she tried to sell me something and the offer I made she found insulting. I’m sure if you look around you, you’ll understand that the sort of thing she had would hardly …’
    ‘Oh, yes, yes. Very high-class stuff this, very.’
    ‘Quite. You must have been in her flat. Need I say more? Perfectly understandable, of course. Sentimental value probably and if she was hard up and needed to sell she may well have felt slighted, which would cause her to speak ill of me.’
    ‘I see. I don’t think I’ve heard anybody say she actually spoke ill of you. You did buy the candlesticks though, in the end?’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘I’m perhaps mistaken. I heard she had these candlesticks and they’re not there now so I was