now, that Carabiniere Bacci thought he must have fallen asleep again, but he waited. After a while the big eyes opened:
'The Captain is a serious man, a thorough man; he'll do his job. He's also, in many ways, an ambitious man, but his ambitions lie in other directions than yours—they don't include any desire to be a famous detective. You needn't blush for yourself, Carabiniere Bacci, I'm not laughing at you this time. I'm just trying to warn you that, while he will do his job conscientiously, he will want to do it so as not to upset anybody unnecessarily, not his superiors and not these Scotland Yard men. He especially won't want to cut a bad figure in front of them because that would upset both his superiors and himself, understand?'
'I think so, sir.'
'Bear it in mind, then. You have a tendency to get excited, curb it. If you rushed out and found your murderer in the next ten minutes but did it in such a way as to cause a scandal and upset those Englishmen, the Captain would not thank you. He will move carefully and you had better follow him quietly and don't get any fancy ideas.'
'No, sir.'
'I'm only trying to save you from yourself, to tell you not to stick your neck out. The Captain will wait and see which way the wind blows and you will wait and see which way he blows. These things are beyond you, Carabiniere Bacci.'
'Yes, sir.'
'That's because you're a Florentine. These are things that any Sicilian over the age of five knows by experience. The Captain will do the best job he can, he's an honest man, a good man. But you would do well not to annoy him. As far as this business with the Englishwoman is concerned, I don't think you need worry too much. He'll get over that, since no one else was there to see it—and, if I know him, he'll turn it to his advantage by offering the job of questioning her to the Scotland Yard men as a gesture of friendly co-operation.'
Carabiniere Bacci's tense face relaxed a little.
'Now get out. I might as well get some rest while the fever's off me, if you won't go up to bed.'
'Right, sir. Is there anything you want?'
'No —but, Carabiniere Bacci?'
'Yes, sir?' He was opening the door.
The Marshal's eyes were closed, or seemed to be.
'If, by any chance, you should be inundated with corpses during the night, you will let me know?'
'Yes, sir.' He closed the door quietly.
The Marshal heaved a long and weary sigh, his gaze fixed on the photograph. I'll be on that train tomorrow, he thought to himself, corpses or no corpses. And he fell asleep.
It was a feverish sleep, restless, enervating, full of dreams in which he was always trying to get home, but each time having to turn back for something; he had no train ticket, he had left his station unlocked and unguarded, he had forgotten the children's presents, the bottles of water, his clothes—once he reached the platform where the train was waiting only to find that he was in his pyjamas. And each time he turned back he had to struggle against such devastating heat that it left him exhausted and nauseous. Towards two in the morning he awoke, or half awoke, shivering and damp with sweat, and rolled weakly out of bed to wash and change himself. He wasn't going to be fit to travel … maybe Friday …
There were no corpses that night. Florence slept its respectable bourgeois sleep behind its tightly closed brown shutters, beneath its wet and foggy blanket, closed in the deep valley of the Arno, with a nightguard of cypress-topped hills. The cathedral bell sounded the hours from its white marble tower, echoed tinnily by out-of-tune little church bells in every quarter. But no angry telephone bell broke the exhausted sleep of Carabiniere Bacci on his camp bed. His white gloves lay undisturbed in their circle of pink light.
Part Two
CHAPTER 1
'Well, this is very nice indeed. We didn't expect this, did we, Jeffreys?'
'No, sir.'
The vicar beamed upon them: 'Felicity and I always like to have an English breakfast—it's a
'The Captain is a serious man, a thorough man; he'll do his job. He's also, in many ways, an ambitious man, but his ambitions lie in other directions than yours—they don't include any desire to be a famous detective. You needn't blush for yourself, Carabiniere Bacci, I'm not laughing at you this time. I'm just trying to warn you that, while he will do his job conscientiously, he will want to do it so as not to upset anybody unnecessarily, not his superiors and not these Scotland Yard men. He especially won't want to cut a bad figure in front of them because that would upset both his superiors and himself, understand?'
'I think so, sir.'
'Bear it in mind, then. You have a tendency to get excited, curb it. If you rushed out and found your murderer in the next ten minutes but did it in such a way as to cause a scandal and upset those Englishmen, the Captain would not thank you. He will move carefully and you had better follow him quietly and don't get any fancy ideas.'
'No, sir.'
'I'm only trying to save you from yourself, to tell you not to stick your neck out. The Captain will wait and see which way the wind blows and you will wait and see which way he blows. These things are beyond you, Carabiniere Bacci.'
'Yes, sir.'
'That's because you're a Florentine. These are things that any Sicilian over the age of five knows by experience. The Captain will do the best job he can, he's an honest man, a good man. But you would do well not to annoy him. As far as this business with the Englishwoman is concerned, I don't think you need worry too much. He'll get over that, since no one else was there to see it—and, if I know him, he'll turn it to his advantage by offering the job of questioning her to the Scotland Yard men as a gesture of friendly co-operation.'
Carabiniere Bacci's tense face relaxed a little.
'Now get out. I might as well get some rest while the fever's off me, if you won't go up to bed.'
'Right, sir. Is there anything you want?'
'No —but, Carabiniere Bacci?'
'Yes, sir?' He was opening the door.
The Marshal's eyes were closed, or seemed to be.
'If, by any chance, you should be inundated with corpses during the night, you will let me know?'
'Yes, sir.' He closed the door quietly.
The Marshal heaved a long and weary sigh, his gaze fixed on the photograph. I'll be on that train tomorrow, he thought to himself, corpses or no corpses. And he fell asleep.
It was a feverish sleep, restless, enervating, full of dreams in which he was always trying to get home, but each time having to turn back for something; he had no train ticket, he had left his station unlocked and unguarded, he had forgotten the children's presents, the bottles of water, his clothes—once he reached the platform where the train was waiting only to find that he was in his pyjamas. And each time he turned back he had to struggle against such devastating heat that it left him exhausted and nauseous. Towards two in the morning he awoke, or half awoke, shivering and damp with sweat, and rolled weakly out of bed to wash and change himself. He wasn't going to be fit to travel … maybe Friday …
There were no corpses that night. Florence slept its respectable bourgeois sleep behind its tightly closed brown shutters, beneath its wet and foggy blanket, closed in the deep valley of the Arno, with a nightguard of cypress-topped hills. The cathedral bell sounded the hours from its white marble tower, echoed tinnily by out-of-tune little church bells in every quarter. But no angry telephone bell broke the exhausted sleep of Carabiniere Bacci on his camp bed. His white gloves lay undisturbed in their circle of pink light.
Part Two
CHAPTER 1
'Well, this is very nice indeed. We didn't expect this, did we, Jeffreys?'
'No, sir.'
The vicar beamed upon them: 'Felicity and I always like to have an English breakfast—it's a
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