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presence had no effect at all. He wasn't one of them and so didn't matter. In the end all he asked of the two men lining up the big jars by the kiln was: 'How many of you work here?'
    'Counting the boss?'
    'If you like.'
    'Eight, then. There's a hairline crack in the rim of that one.' Already he had turned away to concentrate on the job in hand. 'No- the one beyond . . . that's it. Give it a rub down, will you, and let's hope it doesn't open up in the fire.' Then he did turn back to the Marshal but only to say, 'I'll have to ask you to move, do you mind?'
    'No, no . . .'He backed up as carefully as he could and was glad to see Berti emerging with his slow, spidery steps from the kiln.
    'Well, did you find out whether she was here?'
    'No.'
    Berti picked up a bit of rag from a dusty windowsill and wiped his hands. There was a strip of wood lying on the sill with four or five little figures on it modelled in red clay. One of them was a crudely worked head with spiky hair and big ears, the mouth no more than a gaping hole. Berti picked it up and sniggered. 'Looks like Moretti.' He set it down again with as much care as if it had been one of his own pieces.
    Perhaps the apprentice had made the things. The Marshal was no judge but he reckoned the boy was about fifteen and a bit old for such childish work, unless it was a joke. It was true that the comical head bore a strong resemblance to the factory boss.
    'Shall we go?' The Marshal had no intention of trying to find his way out of the maze without Berti. He was annoyed to find that after only two turnings they were out in the rain again.
    Moretti nodded to them without a word as they passed the open door of his office shack and went down the steps, ducking their heads against the rain. The man with the woollen hat and the sacking round his shoulders was still heaving the big plastic bags, some of which had burst and were oozing smooth red clay. His huge wet hands were red with cold.
    They got into the car. Almost opposite, a white Mercedes was nosing slowly out at the gates of the big house and the driver was peering fixedly over the steering-wheel at them.
    'There he is,' sniggered Berti, 'and you can bet your life he needs those seven lavatories, he's so full of'
    'I'd be grateful if you could give me a lift into the town.' The Marshal found Berti more than a little repellent but he didn't fancy a walk along that busy road in such filthy weather. 'Though I shouldn't be keeping you from your work.'
    'There's always time for work. It's only five minutes of a drive.'
    He started the engine and without looking at the Marshal added: 'You mustn't mind Moretti. He's a bit of a rough diamond but he's a worker. And in any case he's had a hard life . . .'
    The Marshal made no comment. As they drove away he looked back, through the raindrops dribbling down the car windows. Up on the terrace the man with the sack round his shoulders had stopped work and was staring after them, grinning.
    On their short journey to the town centre they passed a number of factories as small as Moretti's, though many of them were built of new red brick, and the landscape seemed to the Marshal to consist of nothing but row upon row of wet orange pots that appeared luminous against a livid sky.
    "Morning, everybody! 'Morning . . . 'morning. How are things? 'Morning . . . Tozzi! Good morning to you! I've brought a visitor, colleague of mine from Florence, so I hope you're going to feed us well . . . Signora Tozzi, how are you? I'm fine myself, never better, never better! This is Marshal Guarnaccia from Florence - ah! Now, that's what I call a roast, look at that! We're frozen. Never been so glad to see a roaring fire.'
    A big open log fire was set in the middle of the restaurant's kitchen which was the centre of frenetic activity at this busy lunch-hour. Despite the coming and going of waiters and the harassed cooks with red shining faces, Niccolini, the Marshal of the little pottery town, insinuated his big