The Etruscan Net

by Michael Gilbert

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  Mercurio said, leaning forwards, and speaking very softly. ‘I tell it to you because you will never dare to repeat it. The Police may believe that the killing was an accident. The organization from which those two men came will not be so credulous.’

  There was a long silence. Danilo Ferri noticed, to his annoyance, that his right hand was shaking very slightly. He put it away in his pocket. He said, in a carefully controlled voice, ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘You understand me very well,’ said Mercurio contemptuously. ‘Those men were of the Mafia. You hired their services. You know the code. It is rigorous. You were responsible to their capo for their safe return. Responsible with your own life. You are a marked man. If you get out of Italy quickly, you may live for a little time longer. Where will you go? You cannot go to Switzerland. You have disappointed clients there. Perhaps you have even sold to them, for money in advance, objects which you can no longer produce?’

  Mercurio saw that this shot had gone home.

  He said, ‘I think you had better leave tonight. Arturo, who, I have no doubt, is waiting outside the door, will help you to pack, and will drive you to the station.’

  4

  The Uses of a Press-cutting Service

  It was ten days, one hot spell, and one thunderstorm later, when two significant legal figures, the Procuratore della Republica, and Avvocato Riccasoli met in the office of the former.

  ‘I was distressed to learn that your promising assistant, Sostituto-Procuratore Risso, had been taken ill,’ said Riccasoli.

  ‘He is not really ill. But he is suffering from fatigue.’

  ‘His efforts in the municipal election?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I was so sorry that he failed. By such a narrow margin, too. The loss to local politics is a gain to the law, however.’

  ‘That is true,’ said the Procuratore. ‘Now, about the matter of your client, Signor Broke.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Riccasoli. He felt that, in forcing the Procuratore to open the suit he was already a trick in hand.

  ‘These developments at the Villa Rasenna have put a different complexion on the matter.’

  ‘They have indeed.’

  ‘The Police have established a certain sequence of events, to their own satisfaction. There are still some points which are obscure, but the main outline is clear. Three people were involved in a trade in imitation Etruscan objects. Professor Bronzini, his steward, Danilo Ferri, and one of his workmen, Milo Zecchi. Two of these are dead, and the third, and possibly the principal criminal, Ferri, has disappeared. It seems that he left for Rome on the night of the Professor’s death and travelled by air to Paris. Interpol has been informed, but–’ The Procuratore spread his hands.

  ‘I agree,’ said Riccasoli. ‘On the occasions on which I met him, he struck me as a very slippery sort of customer. Probably we shall not hear of him again.’

  (Though he did not know it, he was making a prediction which was shortly to be falsified. Less than a month later one of the bateaux mouches, plying in the River Seine, made a sharp turn below the Pont D’Iena and brought to the surface the body of Danilo Ferri, inflated with the gases of corruption. He was identified by his finger-prints, and the news of his end was transmitted to Florence in due course.)

  ‘But it is not primarily with the affairs of the Villa Rasenna that we must concern ourselves,’ said the Procuratore. ‘They are of interest to us at this moment only in so far as they touch the affairs of Signor Broke. It would now seem possible – I go no further – that the involvement occurred in this way. Milo was troubled with his conscience. He had admitted as much. To his employers he thus became a source of danger. The more so since a very large coup, possibly, indeed, a final and climactic operation, was pending. To guard against this danger Ferri secured the co-operation of two of his countrymen. We have their records. You can see them if you wish. They do not make agreeable reading.’

  ‘Such animals have no interest for me.’

  ‘I agree. What is clear is that a plot was constructed to kill two birds, if I may so express it, with one motor car. What is not yet clear is exactly how the operation was planned. It seemed to me that this was a matter in which you might be able to help us.’

  Riccasoli pondered. It was a subtle olive branch that was being held out. He said, ‘I am in some difficulty. It is true that my researches have placed me in possession of certain information which makes it clear how this matter was contrived. It would, of course, be my duty to produce these witnesses, and to lay these facts before the Corte di Assise in due course. What would not be very sensible–’ he smiled disarmingly ‘–would be to present you with them in advance of the hearing.’

  ‘I appreciate fully the delicate position in which you find yourself,’ said the Procuratore. ‘May I assure you of this. If you can clear up these few outstanding matters, it will be my duty to invoke Article 391 of the Codice di Procedura Penale, and to ask that the proceedings should be quashed by the Giudice Istruttore. In which case, of course, they will not come to Court at all.’

  ‘You set my mind at rest,’ said Riccasoli. ‘On that understanding then I will explain to you the events of that night as they now appear to me. You will have been told of the part played by Dindoni. He was induced, either by cupidity or fear, to ally himself with these two professional criminals. He acted as their spy. With his connivance, a microphone was installed in the Zecchi living-room, and he was thus able to inform his colleagues exactly what plans Milo had made with Signor Broke. Where he was to meet him, and when. It is my impression, although here I have to admit that I am guessing, that immediately after Milo left his house – that would be at about nine o’clock – he was lured into the café on the corner, probably by Dindoni. The woman Calzaletta had been sent away – she had a later part to play – and the café was empty. The two men would see to that. You can picture the scene?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Procuratore with a slight shudder. ‘I can picture it quite clearly. Pray proceed.’

  ‘They did not kill him. Not then. They knocked him unconscious, and placed his body carefully in the back room. One of the men remained to watch over him. The other stole a motor car. Not, I am afraid, a very difficult feat in this town at this time of year. In this car, he went, first to the agreed meeting-place. It was most necessary to see that Signor Broke had actually gone there. If, for any reason, he had not done so, the whole plan would have had to have been abandoned. Or at least remodelled.’

  ‘But Broke was there?’

  ‘Yes, and he recollects hearing a car drive up, slow down, and then drive on. Naturally, he thought nothing of it. He thought it might be a courting couple. But, when he left, the car followed him discreetly, to be sure that he took the expected route home, down the Via Canina. As soon as he was safely in bed, the next, and final, stage of the operation was put in train.’

  Riccasoli felt in his pocket for his wallet, and took out of it a faded newspaper cutting which he smoothed out on the desk. He said, ‘I must most particularly ask you not to inquire how this came into my possession.’

  The Procuratore studied it curiously. It was from the Sicilian newspaper, and it was nearly ten years old. It was headed ‘Mafia Technique’ and it said:

  A confession extracted from Mafia gangster Toni Perrugino has solved a mystery which has led to the death of one man and the imprisonment of another. Some three years ago in the little township of Adolfi, truck driver Arnolfo Terricini was accused of running down and killing the Mayor of the village, Enrico Caponi. The evidence against him was strong. He was known to be a reckless driver, and his truck had been observed driving fast from the place where Caponi’s body was found. The clinching evidence stemmed from the Police examination of the forward bumper bar on Terricini’s truck, which revealed dried blood, hairs and fragments of skin which were scientifically proved to belong to the victim, Caponi.

  The Procuratore said, ‘I
nteresting.’

  ‘You will find the last paragraph more interesting,’ said Riccasoli, drily.

  It now appears that Caponi and Terricini were both victims of the subtle and fiendish vengeance of the Mafia whom they had offended. Perrugino when confessing to, nay boasting of, a number of crimes admitted that he and two friends, skilled mechanics, had actually unbolted the bumper bar from the truck and used it as a weapon to beat in Caponi’s brains, subsequently replacing it on the truck –

  When the Procuratore had finished, he turned back to the beginning and read the cutting all over again. Then he said, ‘I have promised not to ask how you obtained this. But perhaps you would allow me to guess where you obtained it. Did it come from the body of one of those two men?’

  ‘The wallet–’ Riccasoli appeared to be picking his words with great care, ‘–came from the room in the Villa Rasenna which had been occupied by these two men, and it could well be assumed that it belonged to one of them.’

  ‘You are not suggesting that one of these men was Perrugino. The details we have make that difficult to believe.’

  ‘There is something which makes it more difficult to believe,’ said Riccasoli, ‘and that is that Perrugino was murdered ten years ago. What the cutting suggests to me is that one of the men was, shall I say, an admirer of Perrugino. For a bumper bar, which on Broke’s car would be welded on, he substituted the fog-lamp, which could easily be detached.’

  ‘Do you mean to say–?’

  ‘I mean exactly what you are thinking. That Milo Zecchi, still unconscious, was brought to the scene of the accident in the stolen car, and was then, cold-bloodedly, beaten to death with the metal fog-lamp, the blows being carefully delivered, not only to kill him, but also to cover up the marks of the original blow which had rendered him unconscious.’

  ‘Which accounts for the two-hour interval which the doctors told us had elapsed between unconsciousness and death.’

  ‘Exactly. The car was then used to create the skid marks, a fact, incidentally, which fits in with evidence of the cemetery keeper that he heard the accident happening at half past eleven. The stolen car was then abandoned. The witness Maria gave false evidence of the car number to the Police. That was all. It was not even a difficult crime. Provided they could abstract Signor Broke’s fog-lamp for the necessary period without attracting the attention of any witness. Which, with one exception, they did.’

  ‘A witness?’

  ‘Unfortunately he will not be able to give evidence for us. He was a dog.’

  The Procuratore was silent for a whole minute. Then he rose to his feet. He said, ‘Signor Avvocato, I am infinitely obliged to you for your public-spirited assistance to the authorities in this matter. If I am permitted by you to repeat to the Giudice Istruttore what you have just told me, I think you may rest assured that the case against your client will never come to Court.’

  Riccasoli also rose to his feet. He said, ‘That would be a very satisfactory outcome for my client. And for myself.’

  The two men of the law bowed to each other in mutual esteem.

  5

  Finale in A Major

  ‘“Let no man stop to plunder,”’ roared Commander Comber. ‘“But slay, and slay, and slay. The gods who live forever are on our side today.” By heaven, Sindaco, I think you’ve worked a miracle.’

  ‘I have done nothing,’ said the Sindaco. ‘Except, perhaps, to lend a little weight to the opposition. The credit must go where it belongs. To you three, first. And then, of course, to Avvocato Riccasoli.’

  He had come in person to bring the good news, and had found the committee in full and excited session, following on a cryptic message conveyed to them by Riccasoli’s wife, Francesca.

  ‘Well, I think it’s a miracle too,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘What you have to appreciate,’ said the Sindaco, ‘is one simple fact. Where a crime has been committed Italian justice requires a criminal. In this case you have given them good measure. In place of Broke, they have the Professor and Danilo Ferri. Moreover, you have saved justice the trouble of convicting them. The suicide of one and the flight of the other are indisputable proof of guilt.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll let Broke out now?’ said the Commander.

  ‘The papers went to the Giudice Istruttore yesterday. The Order should be signed quite soon.’

  ‘In England,’ said the Commander, ‘he’d be able to sue the Police and get heavy damages. No chance of that here, I suppose?’

  ‘Certainly not. The Police have behaved with complete correctness throughout.’

  The Commander considered the events of the past month. ‘I suppose they couldn’t have done anything else,’ he said grudgingly, ‘in the circumstances. What’s their theory about those two thugs?’

  ‘Accidentally killed whilst trying to escape with the loot. Though they may not have been genuine relics they were quite genuine gold.’

  ‘And they were the pair who killed Dindoni?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. It is thought that they may have had, if not the active assistance, at least the connivance of one of their compatriots in the Carabinieri. Under a new jurisdiction – our jurisdiction – the matter will not go uninvestigated. Colonel Doria will see to that, I can assure you.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll do what’s necessary,’ said the Commander. ‘But the main thing is to get Broke out, and quick.’

  ‘We must go and see father,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He’ll know what strings to pull. We’ll all go up in my car. What about you, Tina?’

  But Tina shook her head. She said, ‘I will go and tell my mother. I am so happy for Signor Roberto. I desire only to cry.’ The tears were already streaming down her face. She added, ‘My mother will feel the same. She will cry, too.’

  ‘Curious reaction,’ said the Commander, as they whirled up the Viale in Elizabeth’s open coupé, with the Sindaco wedged between them. ‘When I feel happy, I feel like reciting. Macaulay meets my mood today.

  And nearer fast and nearer

  Doth the red whirlwind come

  And louder still, and still more loud

  From underneath that rolling cloud

  Is heard the trumpet’s war-note proud

  The trampling and the hum–’

  ‘Attaboy,’ said Elizabeth. With her hair streaming out behind her she looked like a Valkyrie.

  ‘–And plainly and more plainly

  Now through the gloom appears

  Far to left and far to right

  In broken gleams of dark blue light

  The long array of helmets bright

  The long array of spears.’

  ‘That was Miss Plant we just missed,’ said Elizabeth. ‘She’ll think we’re mad.’

  The authorities were moving faster than the Sindaco had supposed possible. It was at six o’clock that same day, on an evening of hot sun and sudden fierce thunder, that the gates of the Murate prison opened and Broke came out.

  He waved away the offer of the green-uniformed agente di custodia to fetch him a taxi. His worldly possessions (including the copy of Paradise Lost which did not belong to him, but which he could not bring himself to leave behind), went easily in a small haversack slung from his shoulder. He set out to walk home.

  Knowing that his photograph had been in all the papers he half expected passers-by to stare at him. No one took any notice. He had been a nine-day wonder and this was the tenth day.

  He was well up the Viale when the first big raindrops hit him. He ran the last hundred yards and arrived at his house with the shoulders of his jacket soaked and his hair plastered flat with rain. When he threw the door open, Tina was standing in the hall.

  She gave a scream, threw her arms round his neck, and started to kiss him. Broke found himself kissing her back.

  She said, ‘Your coat is all wet, and your hair. You must take it off at once.’

  ‘Take my hair off?’

  ‘Your coat, stupid one. I will fetch a dry one.’

  ‘Don�
��t bother. Look, the sun is coming out again.’

  ‘Give it to me. At once.’

  Broke, in his shirt-sleeves, drifted across to the long window which gave on to the creeper-covered loggia and threw it open. Then he moved slowly across to the cupboard in the corner of the room and took out the battered black violin case which he had not opened since he came to Florence. In the same dream-like way he tightened the keys, tensioned the bow, and played a few tuning notes.

  Tina, who had been rummaging round in his bedroom heard them, abandoned her search for a coat, and came running back.

  ‘Better,’ she said. ‘That is much better. Now play something.’

  Broke smiled at her, and began to play.

  After the first few notes the door opened and Avvocato Riccasoli poked his head in.

  He said, ‘I had heard the news and came to congratulate you. What is that you were playing?’

  ‘I was trying my hand at the A Major Sonata.’

  ‘The Trecentocinque. Most appropriate. It benefits from a pianoforte accompaniment. I see that we have an instrument. No doubt it is vilely out of tune.’ He flung open the lid, ran his stubby fingers up and down the keys, said, ‘Not so bad,’ and started to play.

  Stumblingly and quietly at first, but with growing clarity and confidence as lawyer and client found themselves in sympathy, the notes of Mozart’s most beautiful sonata filled the stuffy room, filled the heart of Tina, as she sat on the edge of the sofa with tears streaming down her nose and dropping, unchecked, on to her chin, floated out of the open window, and filled the garden beyond.