Death of an Englishman (18 page)

The small, grey-haired man in the corner had that meek, patient expression … and his hair stood on end, too … his wife probably cut it for him. The sleeves of his suit were too short …

The expression on Cipolla's face when he had left him …

'Thank you, Marshal
…'

Why couldn't the two in the corner at least speak to each other? It was their dumb resignation that … and it was a threadbare suit too …

'Is something the matter? Marshal? I haven't said anything that … ?'

'No, no,' said the Marshal automatically, taking the proffered photograph in one hand and fishing out his dark glasses with the other. 'Nothing at all. It's just a complaint I have, an allergy. It's the sunshine starts it off …'

And he bent over the photograph without noticing the other's amazed expression as he gaped from the Marshal's face to the window where the floodlit domes and towers of Florence were receding into the night.