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this one it matters more than ever. You can be sure that these tenants hardly speak to each other and that none of them even know what's happened in the building despite the fact that one of my men has been standing guard on the ground floor all day.'
    They had brought another guard to relieve the first. 'I'll send someone else towards eleven o'clock …'
    They walked up to the first floor where R. Cesarini, Antiquario, was the only tenant, and Carabiniere Bacci rang the bell. They waited in silence beside a thick fragment of Roman pillar with a huge potted plant standing on it next to the lift. The fluted wooden doors of the flat had two heavy iron knockers cast in the shape of heads. They heard rapid, shuffling footsteps and bolts being quietly drawn. A young Eritrean woman opened one door cautiously and peered round it. She wore a blue nylon overall but her head was shrouded in a traditional white muslin veil.
    'Polizia … ?' she asked wonderingly.
    'Carabinieri. We'd like to speak to Signor Cesarini.'
    'In shop.' She pointed vaguely. Behind her a glossy pale marble floor stretched deep into the background. A warm light was shining behind double stained-glass doors on the left, making coloured patterns on a carved oak chest that stood in the hall.
    'He has two shops further up Via Maggio, sir,' murmured Carabiniere Bacci.
    The Captain looked at his watch: six … the shop would hardly close before eight. They could go round there after questioning the other tenants. 'We'd like a word with you, in the meantime,' he told the maid.
    She let them into the hall reluctantly, but she could tell them nothing. She had heard no strange or sudden noises in the night. She had seen no one unusual in the building. She didn't know the Englishman. She seemed astonished that they should expect her to know what went on in the building, as if her limited Italian prevented her from seeing or hearing anything outside her own door. She continually clutched with thin fingers at her veil as if she would have liked to hide behind it; the gesture, coupled with her small stature, gave the impression of an old woman, though she must have been in her early twenties. Her big dark eyes kept straying worriedly to the end of the passage behind her. Probably she should have been preparing the supper.
    'Is your employer married?'
    'Yes. Married.'
    'And his wife? Where is she?'
    'Go to Calabria … and the children. Christmas. There is family …'
    'And Signor Cesarini?'
    'He will go in two days.'
    "And you?'
    'Me?'
    'Where will you go for Christmas, Signorina?'
    'Here …'
    'Alone?' The Captain glanced involuntarily beyond her at the vast apartment in which she, no doubt, had one tiny bedroom. 'Do you have any friends in Florence?'
    'Friends, yes. Eritrean friends. Girls like me.'
    'I see. Thank you. We'll speak to Signor Cesarini in his shop.'
    'Something is wrong?'
    'No.' He realized at once she was thinking of her job, her papers. 'Nothing wrong as far as you're concerned. A man on the ground floor was killed last night and we need to know if anyone heard anything or saw any strangers in the building, that's all. We needn't disturb you any longer.'
    She showed no reaction to the news. After closing the door behind them they heard her rapid steps shuffle away on the marble floor towards the kitchen.
    The second floor was divided into two flats. From behind the door on the left came the halting notes of Schubert's 'Serenade' played on the piano. From the right, someone practising an aria from Rigoletto. Carabiniere Bacci looked at the Captain.
    'Schubert first, I think.' As they waited, after ringing the bell, he said, 'You're a Florentine?' remembering the information about Cesarini's shop.
    'Yes, sir.' Carabiniere Bacci blushed with pleasure at being noticed.
    'Back in school after Christmas?'
    'Yes, sir.' He would have liked to say more but the Captain's seriousness, his gravity, was like a barrier around him. It was impossible even to imagine him