The express from Rome pushed its blunt nose into the southern city's central station at one minute past four o'clock. It eased to a halt in the deep shadow of the cavernous, begrimed structure, built as a fascist national project in 1931. Inspector Anders took his suitcase, and quite easily stepped down to the platform. Despite his artificial leg his movements were efficient, with only the slightest dislocation to their rhythm. The disembarking passengers streamed through the barrier gate, and in his unobtrusive way Anders went with them. Casually, he glanced at the faces of those who waited, arrayed in a crescent around the gate. Expectant faces, faces drugged with waiting. He wasn't expecting to be met, but for many years he'd been careful with his expectations.
- From The Wooden Leg of Inspector Anders by Marshall Browne
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