The Partisan Heart

by Gordon Kerr

  ‘I think it must have been chloroform or something,’ said Michael, his nostrils filling once again with the acrid, chemical smell.

  ‘Whatever it was, it stank. It made my eyes water even that far along the corridor. Anyway, when the door was opened – I presumed it was you – I couldn’t see – there was a kind of scuffle. One of them looked back down the corridor to check if anyone was coming, I guess, and they went into the room. I waited a minute or two and was just about to head back downstairs and scream blue murder, thinking they were mugging you or something, when the door opened again and they came out. One, the big one, was carrying you over his shoulder like a sack of coal. And the other had a large envelope in his hand. They didn’t come past me, but headed towards the fire escape at the other end of the corridor. I followed …’

  ‘Bloody hell, you were brave!’

  ‘Stupid, more like! But thank heavens I did. I don’t think they had your best interests at heart in that house. Anyway, they took you down the stairs and out through a door that opened onto an alley at the back of the hotel. I watched them from a window on the first floor. They put you into the boot of the car and drove off. Now, luckily, my car was round the side of the hotel, not far from where I was and they had to go right round the front and past the road my car was on to get anywhere. Also, there was a set of traffic lights on the corner they had to take to turn into the promenade and I knew from my brief time in town that those lights only seem to turn green on Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, if you get my drift. I took the stairs three at a time – you should have seen the look on the face of the guy at the desk! – and tore round the corner to my car. Just as I got to the bottom of the side street I was parked in, their car went past, heading out of town along the lake. I caught up with them at another set of lights and followed at a discreet distance until they pulled into the drive of the house I found you in. They closed the gates and I decided to wait just down the road where I could get a good view of the way in. I managed to keep myself awake through the night and through the next day, but as nothing was happening, I decided to explore once it got dark. So I jumped the wall, and made my way down onto that little beach. I hadn’t been there very long when one of them came and opened the back door – they must have been cooking because the smell of the food was driving me wild.’ She dug deep into the shiny crisp bag and started to talk again through a mouthful of potato chips. ‘I had to get you out of there, so I climbed the stairs and found that there was no one in the kitchen. They were in another room eating by that time, I presumed, so I tried a few rooms, staying away from the one where I heard the television. Eventually, hey presto, there you were, all tucked up in dreamland. And here we are.’

  ‘My God Helen, you took a hell of a chance. But I don’t understand why you didn’t just call the police.’

  ‘Well, this is where it gets really interesting, Michael. That was exactly what I planned to do as soon as it got light. I didn’t want to let the house out of my sight in case they moved you in the night. But there was a petrol station within view of the house and I went over as soon as it opened to buy some water. I was going to ask to use the phone there. But, as I was passing the newspaper stand there, something caught my eye. The front page was all about the kidnapping as far as I could see, pictures of the girl and her father – a right evil looking old bastard he is, too. What got my attention was a picture of you, too. It’s a rotten one – you look like an international terrorist in it. Here, have a read. My Italian isn’t quite as good as it was in third year at school.

  She handed him the paper. Sure enough, it was all about the kidnapping, but in a box at the bottom, there he was. He read the small headline out loud.

  English Journalist Missing

  The police are concerned about the whereabouts of a missing English journalist, Michael Keats, aged 33, who is known to have spoken to Ignazio Mazzini before his death.’

  The piece went on to talk about the tragic death of Rosa.

  Michael shook his head and then began to translate the main part of the story out loud.

  ‘The picturesque tourist town of Beldoro, nestling at the confluence of the Lago di Lecco and the Lago di Como, recently traumatised by the kidnapping, in broad daylight, of Teresa Ronconi, 35 year-old daughter of multi-millionaire, Luigi Ronconi, was further shocked today by the brutal murder of one of the participants in the events of the 10th of October. Police in Lecco have announced that the death on Wednesday of Ignazio Mazzini – the Beldoro farmer who confessed that he had, in fact, perpetrated the attack on disgraced shopkeeper, Bonfadini and not the kidnappers of signorina Ronconi – was now being treated as murder. It had initially been suggested that Mazzini had committed suicide by jumping from a cliff, but a post-mortem now reveals the cause of death to be what is described as a severe blow to the head and that the deceased was, in fact, already dead before plummeting one hundred metres. Police are interested in the whereabouts of signor Keats.’

  ‘Christ!’ Michael let the newspaper fall to the bed.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Helen grabbed his arm. ‘You’ve turned white as a sheet!’

  His head fell dejectedly to his chest and then he began to laugh.

  ‘Well, can you blame me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They’ve missed one out.’

  ‘Michael what are you talking about, missed what out?’

  Two murders. There … have … actually … been … two … murders.’ He spoke the words slowly and clearly, not looking up.

  ‘Two?’ she repeated. ‘Who’s the second …?’

  ‘Claudio Scatti …’

  ‘Who the hell’s Claudio Scatti?’

  ‘Claudio Scatti worked in the bar where Teresa Ronconi was kidnapped and I suspect that he was part of the gang that did it.’ His voice went quiet as the acrid smell of Claudio’s death flooded his senses once more. ‘I went to talk to Claudio – I found out he was holed up in a summer chalet in the mountains, ostensibly so that he could avoid the press – and, I’m afraid, by the time I got to him, he was well and truly dead. His throat had been cut.’

  ‘God, Michael, that’s awful!’

  ‘You’re telling me. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘But, by whom? Who’s doing this?’

  ‘At the moment I’m not sure, but the guys who grabbed me can’t be a million miles away from it. I just don’t know who is giving them orders, or why.’

  ‘But, look, why is this other murder … the barman … not in the paper?’

  ‘Because, Helen, they don’t yet know. Claudio went up into the mountains to get away from it all; the chalet’s pretty isolated and there isn’t a phone. And, consequently, I presume no one has stumbled upon his body yet. But they will and I’ll be in the frame again.’

  ‘But why didn’t you go to the police as soon as you got down from the mountain?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head, helplessly. ‘I don’t know. I had a feeling, you know. And I guess I was also very scared. I kind of thought, ‘no one knows I came up here; there was an old guy who gave me directions, but I could easily deny that I followed them. I didn’t pass anyone on the way up or down; no one uses the chalets at this time of year. Why get involved? But, in all honesty, I just wasn’t thinking straight.’ He stared at the wall, seeing once again the stony stare in Claudio’s eyes and the gaping slit in his neck. ‘Later, of course, I realised I should have gone straight to the police, but by then it was just too late. It would have looked suspicious. Especially as shortly after I found out that Ignazzio Mazzini was also dead.’

  ‘So you left the poor bastard up there?’

  ‘I left him up there wearing a halo of flies and a stench that will stay with me forever.’

  ‘Michael! Where the hell are you? What’s going on?’

  Michael had had trouble getting through to Bruno – he was ‘unavailable’ – and, of course, Michael was unable to tell them who he was. However, when he had told them
to tell Bruno that it was ‘Homer’ on the phone, Bruno had come at once. Homer and Buck were the names they had given each other when they were touring the States together and Michael knew Bruno would instantly realise who was calling.

  ‘Bruno, none of this has anything to do with me.’

  Michael! What do you take me for? Of course I know it’s nothing to do with you, but according to my sources up there they’re building up evidence on you. Your fingerprints are on the ashtray that was used to beat the farmer to death – they’ve compared the prints on the ashtray with the prints in your hotel room.’

  ‘Well, of course there are prints in the kitchen; I interviewed him there.’ He recalled the faintly rotting smell of the kitchen and saw, in his memory, his hand reaching out to push a large, heavy green ashtray to one side to make space for his tape machine. ‘But, he was alive and kicking when I left him, Bruno.’

  Bruno recognised the desperation in his voice.

  ‘I know, Michael, I know. Look, they’re also struggling with it because, of course, they haven’t got a motive. So, I don’t think they really believe you did it.’ He broke off and said something in Italian to someone. ‘But look, I’m sorry, I have to go. You dragged me out of an editorial meeting. What are you going to do? You going to give yourself up?’

  ‘What can I do? I don’t want to give myself up just yet. I want to find out what’s going on. My best chance is to stay on the run and try to find out who is behind all of this.’

  ‘Okay, but please promise you’ll stay in touch – I’ll keep my ear to the ground. And, Michael, be careful. These guys obviously mean business.’

  The line went dead. They mean business, indeed, thought Michael. He stood by the window, far enough back so that he could not be seen from outside. Helen had gone out to get supplies of food and drink for lunch and they were going to work out what they were going to do next.

  Outside, the car ferry from Menaggio was slowly arriving at the jetty, almost empty apart from a couple of cars. A man stood at the rail, smoking a cigarette and staring towards the town. Something about him seemed familiar. Michael looked around for the opera glasses that were left in the rooms of this hotel to allow guests to enjoy the view across the lake in even more detail. He picked them up and put them to his eyes, allowing a moment for them to adjust to the different perspective of the glasses.

  ‘Pedrini!’ he gasped.

  Vito Pedrini leaned on the rail looking almost directly at Michael. Michael instinctively ducked behind the curtain, but realised immediately that he was, of course, too far away to be seen. Pedrini wore a dark coat and a cigarette hung limply from his lips. He stood up straight, pulled his coat tightly around him and smoothed his hair, evidently feeling the cold breeze that was rippling the fronds of the palm trees along the promenade in front of the hotel. He turned and quickly descended the stairs to the only car on board – a sleek, silver, five series BMW. He opened the door and climbed in, disappearing behind windows opaque with steam.

  As the ferry began to pull out towards the centre of the lake Michael grabbed the pen that lay on the table beside him and scribbled the car number on the back of his hand, raising the glasses to his eyes to check that he had it absolutely right.

  The ferry swung ponderously to the right and disappeared behind the rooftops of the neighbouring hotels.

  15

  June 1944

  Sondrio

  North Italy

  The streets of Sondrio were slick with summer rain. They shone darkly in the late afternoon. The rain was keeping people indoors, not that there was much reason to be on the streets. Such shops as were open, whose owners had not been killed in the war or who had not migrated to places of greater safety, did not offer very much at all. Desultory displays sat moodily in shop windows and an atmosphere of pointlessness hung over the entrances to such establishments. On the whole, though, businesses were mostly closed down, their markets and suppliers having dried up or their services having been rendered redundant by the hostilities.

  Sandro leaned close in against a wall, which offered scant shelter from the rain. Taking a deep draw from a damp cigarette, he smiled to himself, emphasising the deep lines that were now etched incongruously on his young face. He felt close to some kind of resolution.

  This satisfying thought was confirmed by the sight of a figure emerging from the gate of the building opposite where he was standing. It was an old school building which the Germans had turned into their headquarters. The figure, clad in the grey uniform of an Obersturmführer, stopped outside the gate, as he did every evening, and removed a silver cigarette case from his inside pocket. He opened it, took out a cigarette and tapped it several times on the lid of the case, looking up and down the street, as if expecting to see someone he knew. The cigarette lit, he took it from his lips and turned left, his shoulders hunched, walking into the teeth of the rain, which was now driving quite hard down onto the town from the peaks of the surrounding alpine massifs – the Bernina, the Disgrazia, the Adamello and the Redorta.

  As he had done for the past week, Sandro turned in the same direction and began to follow at a distance that was unlikely to cause concern to the grey-clad figure ahead of him. This was made all the easier because he knew exactly where the German was going.

  Sandro’s partial recuperation had taken almost two months. His arm and leg were still not fully healed and, in fact, he was unsure if they ever would be. He walked with a limp in his left leg, unable to straighten it fully when he took a step. As for his arm, he could not raise it more than a few inches from his side. Both still caused him pain, especially at night and he slept only fitfully. His face, too, bore the scars of the beating he had taken that day in the hills. It had left a pronounced depression in his left cheek and he was no longer the handsome young man with whom Angela had fallen in love. Angela, who had long since disappeared from his life, but whose memory remained clear in his mind.

  His mother had nearly fainted when she opened the door to her son’s almost lifeless body that night. She had tended to him without a break for four days as he hovered deliriously in some distant place, mouthing obscenities and telling her the story of the preceding few days, but telling it with the wrong words in the wrong order, so that she understood nothing. Finally, some strength seemed to return to him. Then he would not talk. He had disappeared to a place somewhere deep within himself. It was a place peopled by ghosts. Visions of that moment of the explosion in the hills that had ripped apart his comrades’ bodies troubled both his waking as well as his sleeping moments, until he could no longer tell the difference between being awake and being asleep. The faces of his dead colleagues floated across his eyes; the abject horror of those hellish moments never left him.

  He had been visited after a few weeks by a partisan commandant who stared stonily at him as he retold his story, calmer now, accepting that it had actually happened. As he ended it, an uneasy silence hung between the two men.

  ‘As you say, it would seem someone has been informing. Those good men have been lost because someone has gone over to the side of the Black Brigades.’ The Black Brigades were a Fascist paramilitary group.

  ‘But who?’ answered Sandro, not voicing his own suspicions that it had been Luigi who had informed on them.

  ‘We are investigating,’ the commandant said abruptly, but there was something about his way of saying it. Just for a moment the commandant’s gaze flickered away from Sandro’s and he knew then that he was the one under most suspicion, simply because he had survived. ‘You will receive further visits from us as we attempt to ascertain what exactly happened.’

  The commandant had left, but Sandro had an uneasy feeling. They obviously had doubts, or else they would already have taken action against him. However, he was resigned to the fact that finally they would not believe him and that they would probably also link him with the San Giorgio catastrophe.

  But had it been Luigi? Why would he have done it; why would he have given the Germans det
ails of the partisans’ operations? The only reason was that he had obviously become deranged by the loss of his wife and son. Luigi blamed himself for it, blamed the life he had chosen to lead in the last six months. Perhaps he blamed the bloodlust that he had discovered within himself. Perhaps Luigi had wanted to revenge himself on the person he believed had informed on him and if that meant that the whole battalion of partisans was to be wiped out in order to eliminate that one person, then so be it.

  There were no further visits for the next few weeks. One evening, however, Sandro was walking in the woods not far from the house. He was watching a deer grazing amongst the trees. She nuzzled the ground, stirring the damp leaves with her snout, her large, dark eyes gleaming.

  Suddenly she had looked up, her body frozen to attention, her ears twitching and her nostrils flaring as she searched for the direction of a scent or perhaps a sound. Then, all of a sudden, she was gone, kicking up dirt and dust, which spun lazily back to earth through motes of fading sunlight. Something had spooked the deer and Sandro’s chest immediately tightened. He slid behind a bush and scrutinised the spaces between the trees in the opposite direction from the one which the deer had taken. It could be hunters, he thought. But hunters of what? Deer or men?