Authors: Timothy Williams
“The house in Hamburg was destroyed by the American bombers.”
“You loved Italo perhaps in your cold and twisted way. I don’t doubt that you loved him. But you couldn’t accept that Italo would be going to live his life without you. You couldn’t accept that. You were carrying his child. And you knew there was no future for you. Not together.”
“Absurd.”
“And so you killed him.”
There was a long silence. Just the noise of the river and the wind outside the house.
“Just like your mother, Piero. You cannot understand—because you don’t know what love is. Real, disinterested love.”
“Italo never loved you—he never even mentioned you.”
A bright flame in her eyes. “It was a secret. Just me and Italo. And the Carabiniere.”
“Saltieri?”
“Saltieri helped us. Italo was very sick and his mind wasn’t
what it had once been. Not even your mother knew about us. I didn’t want that interfering woman knowing about us. She knew I was getting food to Italo—food from the Germans. But she didn’t know that we …”
“You visited Italo?”
“It wasn’t easy. The partisans didn’t trust me, they never did. For them, I was the wife of a hated German officer. Although, God knows, Pauli never did the evil things they did to their own compatriots. They were monsters, Communists and monsters. Murderers. And your Primula Rosa, he was no better. He was …”
“You stayed with Italo in the hills?”
“How do you think I got pregnant?”
“And the partisans didn’t know?”
“I would go up into the hills with Saltieri. I wanted to be with him all the time—to be with Italo, to look after him. When we were together, it was just as it had been before he had gone off to be a soldier and fight in all those wretched wars. He was in Abyssinia—and Spain. And in the end he had to walk home from Russia. But he had always loved me.” Her shoulders dropped. “And I had gotten married.” She looked at Trotti. “It was the least I could do, wasn’t it? I would dress up as a man, put on a cloak and the Carabiniere would take me. It was my duty—after all the years. My duty to look after Italo after what he had been through.” A pause. “They killed him.”
“They?”
“The same wretched people who murdered Saltieri.”
“The partisans?”
“Piero Trotti, you never listen to a word I say.”
“Such a lot is lies.”
“They murdered Italo because he was with Saltieri.”
“Then there’s no connection between my brother and the SS gold?”
“Italo was witness to the murder of the Carabiniere.”
“Why did they kill Saltieri?”
“Because of me—indirectly because of me.” She shrugged. “He was fond of me.”
“Fra Gianni says my brother knew about the gold.”
“Italo was murdered long before the partisans ever took the Nazi gold.”
“Then why did they murder him?”
“Because they thought Italo was spying for Saltieri. And perhaps Saltieri really did hope to get Italo to tell him about the partisans.” She shrugged. “Or perhaps it was just for my sake that he went up into the hills and took the food and the cigarettes. Saltieri was our go-between—and, in the end, the partisans killed him.”
Silence.
“They killed Italo because they thought he had collaborated with the Carabiniere.” Again she shrugged. “They were his friends—the partisans and Primula Rosa were his friends.”
Trotti could hear the whine of the wind.
“They killed Italo.” Suddenly the bright smile. “It was only normal, wasn’t it?”
“What?”
“Only normal that I should avenge Italo’s murder. They deserved to die, all of them. Dandanin, Draghin, la Nini. And the two others—there were five of them and they were responsible for his death. The only man that I ever really loved—and they killed him in cold blood. I was right, wasn’t I, Piero? It was only right that I should kill them. They deserved to die, didn’t they?”
T
ROTTI SAID
, “S
HE
must have phoned the Questura and somebody put her on to Centrale—or AV7. She was expecting us. Somebody must have told her that Ciuffi had phoned in that we were going down to the river—looking for a man who was fishing.” Trotti smiled at Spadano. “The old woman took her rifle and drove down to Borgo Genovese in the 600. It couldn’t have been very difficult to find Vardin—he was the only person fishing at that time of day. The Baronessa was waiting for me.”
“Why did she want to kill you?”
“She was afraid.”
“What of?”
“She was afraid of me in a way that she’d never been afraid of the priest. She had him round her little finger—but with me it was different. She felt that I’d soon guess she was behind the five murders.”
“According to your priest, there were six.”
“Tomaso died long before the Baronessa returned from Germany. He fell into the river bed and smashed the back of his head.” Trotti shrugged. “Probably his death that gave the old woman her idea. Not the idea of revenge—but made her realize that a woman could kill them all and get away with it.”
“And now?”
“Now what?”
“What are you going to do?”
Trotti laughed and put a hand on the door handle. “I’m going to go home and sleep.”
“What are you going to do about the old woman?”
Trotti climbed out of the car. “Buona sera, Capitano Spadano.”
“You didn’t want me to arrest her.”
“She’s the mother of my nephew.”
“She murdered Brigadiere Ciuffi—and there’s enough evidence to arrest her for the murders in the hills.”
“It can wait. A few days.”
“Why?”
“Buona sera, Spadano.”
Spadano looked at Trotti in silence for a few moments. Then he nodded. “Buona sera, Signor Commissario.”
“And thanks for everything.”
The car did a sharp U-turn and disappeared along via Milano, heading back towards the city.
Trotti pushed open the garden gate and went up the steps. He glanced absentmindedly at the potted plants that needed watering. He turned the key in the lock and let himself into the house. Trotti immediately recognized the reassuring, familiar smell. A smell of floor polish and emptiness. He shut the door behind him. His rib hurt. Pioppi’s bear was gone from the top of the wardrobe.
He went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He was not hungry. He poured himself half a glass of chilled mineral water and turned on the television. Cold bubbles jumped from the glass on to his hand.
When he closed his eyes, he saw again the old woman’s face.
“Only normal that I should avenge Italo’s murder. They deserved to die, all of them. Dandanin, Draghin, la Nini. And the two others—there were five of them and they were responsible for his death. The only man that I ever really loved—and they killed him in cold blood. I was right, wasn’t I, Piero? It was only right that I should kill them. They deserved to die, didn’t they?”
Half an hour later the telephone rang.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Who’s speaking?” Trotti asked.
“Where’ve you been, Papa?”
“In Verona.”
“I was worried about you.”
“There’s no need to worry. Where are you phoning from?”
“They said that you’d been hurt.”
“Give me your number, Pioppi, and I’ll ring back.”
“Nando’s here with me. We’ve been worried about you. They said that you were kidnapped.”
Trotti laughed. “A slight exaggeration.”
“The man said you’d been kidnapped and that you’d been drugged.”
“Who told you that?”
“That nice man who works with you.”
“Pisanelli?”
“A policeman came round looking for me and I went to the Questura here. And I spoke over the phone to your colleague. He is very sympathetic.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about, Pioppi.”
“A commissario like you—with a strange name. Minestra or Pasticcio or something.”
“Merenda?”
“That’s right.” A nervous laugh. “Commissario Merenda said that you’d been drugged and kidnapped and he wanted me to come and fetch you.”
“Stay where you are, Pioppi.”
“Who drugged you?”
“Stay with Nando.”
“Papa, you must tell me. Commissario Merenda seemed very concerned about you. He said the whole Questura was upset by what had happened to you—and that’s why he had me sent for.”
“It’s all a mistake.”
“What’s a mistake?”
Trotti did not reply. He looked unthinkingly at the flickering television screen.
“If you don’t tell me, Papa, I’ll have to phone Mother.”
“Leave Agnese alone.”
“Why were you kidnapped?”
He repressed a sigh. “I was looking for a man. And in the course of the enquiries, I met up with an old friend of his. They’d been in jail together.”
“Well?”
“According to the Carabinieri, the two men—the man I was looking for and the man I spoke to in Verona—they were about to do a series of hold-ups—banks in the Verona/Mantua area. And so when I turned up asking questions, they wanted me out of the way. They thought …”
“Well?”
“They thought that I’d got wind of their projects. They wanted me out of the way for a couple of days. That’s all.”
“They drugged you?”
“Pioppi, I’m all right and they’ve been arrested. Two men and a woman so far.”
“You always take risks.”
“An old man like me?”
“You’re not old.”
“All I want to do is pick up my pension and retire.”
“Go back to the hills?”
“That’s right. I will keep bees and I will make my own wine. And perhaps have a few chickens and some cattle. You will be married and you’ll come with Nando, bringing the grandchildren.”
“You’re laughing at me, Papa!” She paused. “And anyway, you don’t like Nando.”
“Nando’s a good boy.”
“Papa, do you want us to come up?”
“No.”
“We can catch the Milan train on Saturday. Commissario Merenda said …”
“I’ll come to Bologna next week.”
“You promise, Papa?”
“I promise.”
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
“Have you found the man who murdered the policewoman?”
“Perhaps,” Trotti said. “I’ll be in touch. Ciao, Pioppi.”
He put down the receiver.
S
UNDAY MORNING
.
Trotti stepped into the elevator. He pressed the button for the third floor. The elevator smelled of chlorine. His fingers ran reassuringly across the hammer and sickle engraved in the metallic paint.
When the elevator stopped, Trotti was looking in the mirror. He felt less tired, and with a good night’s sleep the drugs seemed to have worked themselves out of his system. Still the ache in his ribs.
“Buongiorno.”
A man in uniform.
“Where’s Gino?” Trotti asked, surprised. “Who are you?”
The man pushed aside the copy of
Epoca
that lay open on the desk.
“Where’s Gino?”
“Gino?” A slow Neapolitan accent.
“Who are you?”
“You work here?”
Trotti raised his voice. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”
“Your name is here?” A typed list of names had been attached to the desk top with adhesive tape.
“I’m Trotti.”
A slight gesture of the hand. “Trotti?” The man wore
pink-tinted glasses that made his eyes appear large, like the eyes of a fish.
“Commissario Piero Trotti.”
“Commissario Trotti?” The man shook his head—long hair that had been carefully cut and dyed black—as he ran his finger down the printed list of names. “No Trotti here, Commissario or otherwise.”
“Of course my name’s there.”
“Look for yourself.”
“Commissario Trotti. My name is Commissario Trotti and I work here.”
“I can’t help you. Your name isn’t on the list.”
“Where is Gino, for God’s sake?”
“Trotti?” An accent that was both ingratiating and arrogant. “It must have been you the man wanted to speak to.”
“What man?”
“Orsi.”
“I don’t know any Signor Orsi.”
“The blind man—the man I have had to replace.”
“Gino? Why’s he not here?”
A bland smile. “You’ll have to ask the Questore.”
Trotti clicked his tongue. “Give me a line, will you? I’ll take it in my office.” Without hiding his irritation, he turned away and walked down the corridor.
Gino had gone—and with him Principessa. The third floor no longer smelled of the cancerous dog. Like a disease, Trotti thought, that you almost miss once you are cured.
He stepped into the office, thinking about Gino and his dog. Fourteen, fifteen years that the blind man had been on the desk. And now he had left without a word.
The office was empty.
Everything—the filing cabinets, the greasy canvas armchairs, the piles of folders and the old desk—everything had gone. Just the photograph of Pertini on the wall and on the floor, the bulbous green telephone. Between the telephone and the wall, there lay the coils of the dusty, green flex.
For an instant, he thought he had entered the wrong room.
Trotti stood still, his mouth open in surprise. His eyes searched for something familiar. There was no mistake, he identified the wooden partition in the wall. And a couple of sweet paper wrappings lay on the dusty floor; rust marks where the cabinets used to stand.
“My God.”
A feeling of pain, of loss, of bewilderment in the pit of his belly. “What’s going on in this damn place?” He turned on his heel. “Hey,” he shouted.
The man at the desk looked up from the pages of
Epoca
.
“What’s happening?” It was hard to speak, the words swelled in his throat. “My office—it’s been cleared out.”
The man shrugged.
It was as if his hand were autonomous—it wanted to strike the round, complacent face, send the tinted glasses flying. With difficulty, Trotti controlled his anger. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t help you.”
“This is where I work—this is where I’ve always worked. What’s going on?”
“I’m new here.”
“Who’s given permission?” Trotti choked on his words.
The man looked at him.
“Why’s my office been cleared out like that?”
“I think it’s something to do with the policewoman.”