'Yes, sir. I remember the sound now.'
'Go and find the gun, Carabiniere Bacci.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And try not to shoot yourself.'
'Yes, sir.' He got up quickly and went out.
The Marshal didn't want to start again. He closed his eyes. Then he got up and refilled the wine glasses.
He looks so calm, the Marshal thought. But then he remembered Cipolla before the murder, happy and hard working, full of life... This calmness wasn't real. In some ways he reminded the Marshal of Miss White-people on the edge of life, never really in it. Life was hard for people like them. The Marshal felt tired. He wanted to send the little cleaner away and go to bed. But tomorrow was Christmas. He had a twenty-hour train journey in front of him and the little cleaner's eyes were watching him patiently, waiting for the Marshal to do something. Cipolla knew no one else would do anything. He'd waited patiently, holding the gun for them - and no one had done anything.
'What were you going to do, Cipolla? Tonight. When your sister and her husband had gone back to their home.'
Cipolla didn't answer. He looked down.
'What were you going to do, Cipolla? Were you going to jump in the river?'
No answer. So that was it. The river.
'And you're what? Forty-two years old?
'Yes, Marshal.' He was sitting very straight. He reminded the Marshal of a schoolboy. Langley-Smythe