The Monster of Florence by Magdalen Nabb Read Free Book Online Page A

him wakeful until the small hours. The next morning at eight o’clock he was rather more fuzzy headed and silent than usual.
    It was nowhere near as bad as he’d expected. In the first place, he wasn’t faced with a group of complete strangers. He knew both of the other carabinieri, that was the first thing he noted with relief. One of them, Ferrini, was a man of his own age with whom he’donce worked on a case, and though they were very different they got on well. The other, Bacci, he knew almost as well as his own children, having had him under his feet at Pitti whilst he waited for a place at the Officer School. Bacci must be about due for a promotion to captain by now, but his face was as boyish and ingenuous as ever and surely he was a bit young to be on a case like this? And that young policeman sitting opposite him didn’t seem much more than a boy, either. That probably meant that the Marshal was getting old. Then, you had to remember that youngsters these days had special skills, computers and so on. The thought that they might be there because the job involved anything dynamic and dangerous crossed his mind briefly and vanished, and he returned comfortably to the idea of “computers and so on,” a phrase which covered and dismissed a whole area of investigative activity regarded by him with exaggerated respect and complete detachment.
    Running his gaze over the other two policemen opposite he noticed, right facing himself, a face he knew but couldn’t put a name to. The man was about his own age, and when he caught the Marshal’s eye he gave a faint nod of recognition before returning his gaze to the Prosecutor, Simonetti, who had launched into one of his speeches of the sort meant to sound friendly and improvised but which was carefully conceived and rehearsed. What
was
that chap’s name? Di Maira, that was it. They’d come across each other years ago. The other he recognized as a tough and experienced detective. No need to wonder why he was there. Couldn’t remember his name, though.
    The room was overheated and quite a few of the men had lit cigarettes. The Marshal fished for his big white handkerchief and dabbed it unobtrusively at his sensitive eyes, which were suffering from both the increasing smoke and lack of sleep. Even so, he didn’t feel as uncomfortable as he’d expected and he relaxed a little as he watched Simonetti hold forth. One thing was sure, he wasn’t there against his will. His face, as he expounded, was pink with enthusiasm and it was clear that there were no doubts assailing his mind as to the future success of their efforts. Much as the Marshal disliked this sleek andarrogant man, he also envied him. Envied his talent for believing himself in the right—because the Marshal had no doubt at all that he did believe it. It wasn’t a pose and that was why he was able to convince others. How does a man get that way? How does he account to himself for his mistakes, his wickedness, worst of all, his gaffes? Well, perhaps you had to be born that way and that was all there was to it. Not much fun for the people around you, of course. The way the man waved his arms about as if he were directing traffic—that must be a habit he’d developed in court, getting the full effect with the wide arms of his black silk gown which, the Marshal remembered, he always seemed to wear off the shoulder with a very fancy suit showing beneath. His plastron always used to be out of place as well—not crooked but carefully placed to look careless. Dislike for the man welled stronger in the Marshal’s breast as he remembered Mario Querci, innocent witness to murder, who fell victim to this man’s predatory instincts, was swooped on and borne away, then dropped when a meatier prey was offered. For Querci it had been too late because by then he’d been in prison, lost his job and his wife and child. Having no other resources, shocked and frightened beyond recovery, he killed himself. And Simonetti,