The Monster of Florence by Magdalen Nabb Read Free Book Online

about that jeweller who died years ago? You can’t deny you found out who was responsible for that. I remember the whole story.”
    “I didn’t catch her. She was arrested somewhere up near the Swiss border. She confessed. I never so much as signed my name to a report on that. And the same goes for that case in the potteries. I did sort that out, it’s true, but the case was in the hands of the local force—it was out of my area.”
    “Well, what about that foreigner in the fur coat? That was your case.”
    “Yes, and I didn’t solve it. The chap died in America and we never so much as got a glimpse of him—and what’s more the Prosecutor on that job was the one who’s in charge of this one so that rules out any danger of him thinking I’m some sort of Sherlock Holmes.”
    “I still think you’re running yourself down and that the Captain thinks very highly of you. He told me so when we first met, I remember it well.”
    The time she’d said he was good-looking.
    “He was just being polite.”
    “No, he wasn’t. I can tell the difference—and what about that poor crazy old woman near the butcher’s. Now, I was here then—that’s when I started to go to that butcher—you can’t deny you found that dreadful man.”
    “There was no arrest. I was too late. That’s me all over, too slow.”
    “He committed suicide! For goodness sake, Salva, you still found him!”
    “Well … I suppose that’s true enough, though if it hadn’t been for that neighbour telling me … anyway, all right. I found him. So that’s two. Him and Cipolla. Add that to a lot of stolen handbags, never recovered, and dozens of tourists with lost cameras and passports and it still doesn’t make me Sherlock Holmes.”
    But Teresa insisted and in the end she almost convinced him. Then she lectured him. People—apart from the Captain, who knew him well—would think more of him if he thought more of himself and if he spoke up now and again and showed a bit of interest instead of just standing there staring into space. The Marshal was at once more comfortable. This was a line of reasoning more acceptable because more familiar. He’d been hearing it for years, from his mother and histeachers when he was small, and from his wife for the whole time they’d been married. As always, at the end of it he agreed with everything she’d said and resolved to make an effort to look alert and to speak up more, starting at eight tomorrow morning.
    After all was said and done, this was an important case and, whatever the reason behind the choice might be, there was no getting away from the fact that he’d been chosen. He owed it to his Captain to keep his wits about him and he was going to do just that. Instead of sitting down with the paper after lunch he went straight to his office and plodded through all his outstanding paperwork. At five he called his young brigadier, Lorenzini, who was married and lived out of barracks, and together they prepared the daily orders for Monday.
    By bedtime that night he felt that he had his world under control and his last thought as he dozed off was that, after all, it might prove a very interesting experience and he ought to consider himself both flattered and privileged.
    At one-thirty in the morning his eyes opened and he was wide awake on the instant. He’d forgotten to telephone young Marco as he’d promised to do. Damn! He did hate to let someone down when he’d promised. Not only that, he’d forgotten that he’d reminded himself this morning, as he left that bar, to consult the Captain about the problem of the painting, but the new case had—and in that bar he’d bought a cake, an expensive cake, and left it there. So much for keeping his wits about him. A fine start. He’d have to do a lot better than that tomorrow morning. Whether it was his apprehension about tomorrow morning or his annoyance with himself for his forgetfulness, or just all those extra coffees he’d drunk, something kept