Some Bitter Taste by Magdalen Nabb

unscrupulous lawyer who wants a quick eviction.’
    The prosecutor looked at the papers removed from the Hirsch flat and stacked on his desk. ‘I’m not going to find house documents in that pile.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘And probably no rent contract either.’
    ‘Probably not,’ agreed the marshal.
    ‘Then we must find the owner through the city Land Registry—always hoping it’s not too many years out of date.’
    ‘What you might find among her documents,’ the marshal suggested, ‘is the name of her lawyer, a letter or something. She mentioned that she had one and that she was going to consult him when I told her I thought somebody was trying to push her out of the flat.’
    ‘That would be useful,’ the prosecutor agreed, ‘but I’m not counting on it, by any means. These folders came out of a filing cabinet. They were in perfect order. Anyone wishing to remove compromising documents would have had no trouble finding them.’
    ‘That’s…’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘I’m trying to remember something she said to me in my office. When I suggested the idea of someone trying to frighten her into moving … something like she had a card—or maybe cards—up her sleeve.’
    The prosecutor leaned back in his chair, frowning. ‘If she showed those cards she presumably signed her death warrant. What impresses me is that whoever she showed them to reacted so quickly and efficiendy. Aren’t you impressed by that yourself?’
    ‘I … no, no …’
    ‘But surely, Marshal, between her visit to you and her death—and she saw this lawyer, we assume before showing her hand.’
    ‘She might have just phoned him.’
    ‘But the speed of it! She must have been dead within two days and more likely one. I doubt if even the autopsy report when it comes in is going to be much more precise than that. Have you ever come across a homicide planned and executed that quickly—outside of organised crime, of course?’
    ‘No, I can’t say I have.’
    ‘Well then? You surely don’t think there’s any connection with organised crime?’
    ‘No, no …’
    The prosecutor looked on the point of losing his much-vaunted patience. He stopped. The marshal was worried, not only because he had nothing helpful to offer but because he ought to find time to check in at his station before making another visit where he had even less to offer, the Villa L’ Uliveto. The prosecutor was kind enough to release him when he explained. He didn’t seem annoyed as they shook hands but you never knew with prosecutors. They were cleverer men than the marshal, educated men. They could conceal their annoyance and it would make itself felt later. He seemed like a nice man but it didn’t do to jump to conclusions, the way the prosecutor himself had done, going on like that about the speed and efficiency. They didn’t know for sure what the motive was and, even if they were right about it, the speed wasn’t nearly as odd as was the murder itself. If the motive was the contents of that safe and whoever took it had really been in the house before, surely there was no need to kill when a simple robbery would have caused less fuss. An unnecessary killing … speed and efficiency? No, no …
    It was dark and it was sultry. Inside the small, unmarked car the marshal and Lorenzini felt suffocated. They didn’t open the car windows. The air in the narrow street was worse, equally hot and heavy with exhaust fumes. The young carabiniere in the backseat, on night rounds for the first time, was too eager for the marshal’s tranquillity. He’d seen too many youngsters fail through overenthusiasm and it was a constant source of worry to him. He looked at the dashboard clock. Almost midnight. They were parked in Via dei Serragli. To achieve that, they’d had to drive round the block four times and grab a place as the Goldoni cinema emptied towards eleven. The car was unmarked but they were in uniform. There had been some movement as the cinema filled for the last