The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [27]
“If you mean what I think you mean, you are jumping to conclusions,” Ted said. He was sitting beside Ann, who looked terrible. Her freckles stood out like dots made with the blunted end of a lipstick. Ted went on, “You don’t know how he was killed. It might have been an accident.”
“His throat was cut,” Jean said. The sound of her own voice made her jump.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” muttered Michael. “Did you—” He looked at Jean, who was sitting between Jacqueline and an elderly American lady.
“Yes, I found him. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather not describe it. I’ll have to tell the police when they arrive….”
“Yes, and where are your precious fuzz?” Dana demanded. “I’ve been sitting on this damned stone slab so long…”
She completed the sentence with a picturesque if unoriginal metaphor that made the gray-haired lady gasp. One of the other strangers, a bearded youth with bare feet and a knapsack on his back, beamed admiringly. Two other women looked like schoolteachers. One of them said drily,
“I agree with the sentiment, if not the exact words. Have the police been summoned? There were two of them lounging about outside when we came in—the ones who wear those gaudy uniforms, with the cocked hats and the swords.”
“Caribinieri,” Andy said. He was looking sick and strained, but he could never resist explaining things. “A case of—a case like this wouldn’t come under their jurisdiction. There are three different kinds of cops here. The caribinieri are a military force, though they can pursue and apprehend civilian-type crooks. The city police—the polizia municipale—are the ones you see directing traffic and giving tickets. I think we’ll be questioned by the third group, the agenti of the Commissario di Pubblico Sicurezza. Each district of Rome has its own local subdivision—”
“I do not see why we should be questioned.” The speaker was a stout, balding man who was accompanied by his stout wife. Jean couldn’t place his accent; he wasn’t American or British. “I intend to complain. I fail to see why we have been detained.”
“I agree,” snapped one of the teachers. “I don’t even know what has happened.”
“A man is dead,” Jacqueline said. It was the first time she had spoken, and all of them turned to look at her. “He died violently. We must expect to be detained. That is normal procedure in any civilized country.”
She had reverted to her prim librarian role, with her glasses firmly in place and her gloved hands folded over the pregnant bulge of the purse. For Jean, the purse had assumed a magical aura; from its depths, only today, had come the smelling salts, the whistle, a huge man’s (man’s?) handkerchief with which to mop her wet face, and a mysterious little white pill. Jean suspected the pill was only aspirin. Jacqueline was not the type to carry tranquilizers. But its psychological effect had been excellent. She felt numb, but calm.
“But I don’t know the man!” one of the other tourists protested. “Why drag us into this?”
“That’s up to the police, not us,” Jacqueline said. “If you don’t know the victim you probably won’t be detained for long. So what are you worrying about?”
“Very true.”
Occupied with their bickering, they had not observed the unobtrusive approach of the newcomer. As they saw him, a silence of awesome proportions fell on the group. It was broken by Dana.
“Well,” she said softly. “I have to admit it was worth waiting for.”
The man standing in the doorway was obviously the police official they had been expecting. He was, just as obviously, the kind of Roman gentleman female visitors dream of meeting but seldom do.
His dark hair shone, thick and soft, in the dim light. The two wings of silver lifting from his temples were almost too perfect; they looked as if they had been sprayed on. Jean, who was sitting near the door, saw his face in profile, and the sharp, delicate features reminded her of an antique portrait head from ancient Rome. The modeling of nose and chin and cheekbone was so precise they might have been cut from marble; except for his superbly tailored