The Marshal at the Villa Torrini Read Online Free PDF

stood staring down at him. He must still be drunk, of course, but even so . . .
    'Marshal!'
    'Yes, sir.'
    It was no easy business for the porters to get their burden down the spiral staircase. They had to keep it vertical and they were afraid of slipping and breaking their necks. They complained bitterly.
    'Go more slowly, for God's sake, or there'll be three stiffs to shift instead of one.'
    'Keep, your voice down. I think the husband's up there . . .'
    'Doing what? Powdering his nose?'
    'They might well ask,' the Marshal said as the porters reached the floor below and he and the Prosecutor followed.
    Fusarri began wandering about the living-room, his little cigar held aloft.
    'Find a suicide note?'
    'No, sir.'
    'Didn't expect to, either, did you?' Fusarri paused in his wanderings and fixed the Marshal with a bright glance.
    'No, sir.'
    'Ah. Well, of course, I'm no expert . . . ' He wandered on.
    He always made some remark like that, but what the devil did he mean by it? That he really was an expert—he was supposed to be an expert, damn it, that was his job . . . or did he really mean, 'Don't imagine you're an expert'? Now he was flipping open their passports as the Marshal had done earlier, the cigar parked at the side of his mouth and his eyes half closed against the smoke.
    'So what did you find?'
    'Her date of birth on the passport . . .'
    'Which tells you.'
    'It's her birthday today.'
    'Ha!'
    'And he's a lot younger. I also found these.'
    'Sleeping pills, d'you think?'
    'Possibly.'
    'Find out. Then send them over to me. And I think we'll hang on to that young man's passport for the moment. See to the receipts. Notice her shoulders?'
    'Yes, sir.'
    'Of course. That's the thing about you, isn't it? You notice everything . . . Well . . . ' He pursed his lips and raised his eyes towards the floor above where Forbes could still be heard whining. 'Not a prepossessing character, but we can't make a move at this stage. Not a mark on her, damn it. Still, there are the sleeping pills. No bottle, no prescription?'
    'Not that I've found.'
    'May have slipped her something. Well, a warning that he's to remain at our disposal etc. then I must pay my respects to Eugenia.'
    They forgave her, individually and jointly. Not, this time, for the wait while she searched for the keys to admit them, though that was considerable, but for having a little weep.
    'I'll miss her.' She dried her eyes and tried to smile. 'In a lonely place like this and what with my leg . . . You count on your neighbours no matter what they're like, but I was so fond of Celia.'
    'Someone to share your passion for books with.' Fusarri lit her cigarette for her. It turned out he was an old friend of the signora's late husband who had been a lawyer. It was all very cosy. The Marshal was choking on all the smoke and doing his best not to give way to a fit of noisy coughing and offend them. He was also so hungry he was in pain.
    'What about him?' Fusarri asked, after finding a glass and pouring himself a drop of whisky which the Marshal once again refused.
    'Oh, Julian. Well, he was very nice, of course . . .'
    'He's not dead, Eugenia, only his wife is.'
    'Even so, it won't be the same, you see . . . She didn't have a heart attack, that wasn't it?'
    'No, we're pretty sure not. Why? Was her heart a problem?'
    'Oh, I don't know. She never said so . . . I just remembered a friend of mine who had a heart attack in the bathroom and they didn't find her until the next day. Of course, she lived alone. Giorgio's always saying I should have someone living in and, of course he's right but I won't—Anyway, whatever he says I was right to call you, wasn't I, Marshal? But why . . . Oh dear, you must forgive me for being a curious old woman. I was going to ask you why her husband didn't call you and why he didn't answer the phone . . . I suppose I shouldn't ask these things but—'
    'He was asleep, my dear Eugenia. Out cold on the bed, dead drunk. What do you think of that?'
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