The Wooden Leg of Inspector Anders

by Marshall Browne

Extract

‘Ah, Inspector! Welcome.’

Anders approached, shook hands across the desk, and took the chair which the commissioner, who hadn’t left his own, indicated.

The commissioner was compact, well made, with a sharply-clipped black moustache, an olive complexion, and slashed and burned patches of skin under brooding, brown eyes which appeared sore. Below his left eye

in this rough, a tic pulsed. His black hair was expertly cut — very short, and plastered down with an intrusively aromatic hair oil. His movements were abrupt, as though each thought was a surge of electricity, jolting from him a specific reaction. In short, he shone with grooming, had about him an atmosphere of ulcers.

Anders was not surprised at the evidence of stress. He watched the tic, and was reminded of a frog’s heartbeat. He had quite a precise knowledge of the commissioner, though he was confident there was much more to know. Here, ostensibly, was the pillar of law and order in the city. What a lie, what a pity.

The commissioner lit a cigarette. His eyes darted suspiciously at Anders, at his suitcase, lingered on that battered, leather article which had been the length and breadth of Italy. Anders wondered: does he equate me with a travelling salesman about to make his pitch?

The commissioner swiftly disclosed the origin of his suspicion. ‘My dear colleague, with respect, why does the Ministry of the Interior, send an officer of … of …’ He came to a halt, pursing his lips, the cigarette waving in his fingers.

‘A mere inspector?’ Anders suggested, equably.

The commissioner shook his head impatiently, ‘Of your rank, to look into the matter before us. We’ve seen several high-ranking officers here, and most recently as you know, an investigating magistrate …’

After another pause, Anders said mildly, ‘Who’s dead.’

‘Regrettably.’

Anders’ left hand rested lightly on his suitcase.

This visit was protocol — merely a courtesy call to be completed expeditiously. He understood that the commissioner would not have welcomed a more senior officer, but was puzzled and suspicious, perhaps affronted in the queer process of the ego, to have only an inspector on his hands. To allay the man’s unease, he supposed he should say something about it.

‘And, an officer who … who … has …’

‘An artificial leg?’ Anders ventured.

The commissioner grimaced, ‘who’s not, totally, physically fit.’

Deep in his heart Anders sighed. He looked steadily at the chief of police. ‘Sir, I don’t know the answer. But I surmise my superiors, perhaps even the minister, calculate an officer of my rank is less likely to attract attention — more likely to survive the … hazards of your city. To carry out this routine task, and depart, intact so to speak, thus not raising the further unwelcome scrutiny of the media, and, of certain troublesome sectors of public opinion. This is merely a guess, of course.’

The commissioner stared at the detective, then shrugged, as though such a notion was ridiculous.

‘Naturally, you have my full cooperation. I must

presume you know your business. I won’t detain you. Here’s the card of one of my officers. He’s at your service. Where can you be reached?’

Anders was on his feet, the suitcase in hand. ‘I’ll let your man know,’ he said politely.

The commissioner frowned. He remained seated, puffing at his cigarette, his bloodshot eyes blinking rapidly on Anders’ back as he walked to the door. The Rome policeman closed it carefully behind him. The commissioner sensed that the man didn’t intend coming back, and it increased his annoyance. He flicked a switch on his console.

‘Tell Matucci to get himself up here, fast.’