“You’ve looked at his documents?”
Trotti frowned. “Documents?”
“His wallet. You’re a policeman, you’re …”
“I had no time to do anything. Your men arrived almost immediately. Very efficient, I must say.”
Mareschini lowered his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.
It was the first time that Trotti had spoken to Mareschini, although he had in the past seen him in the village—drinking white wine at Guerino’s or walking along the Lungolago. They were all the same, the Carabinieri who ended up at Gardesana. A good quiet posting. No crime other than people tipping their garbage into the lake—or the occasional German tourist taking his motor launch beyond the speed limit. An easy job in a quiet village where the well-cut dark uniform could easily impress; a good place to live before returning to the more familiar countryside of Sicily.
“Strange that he should be murdered beside a policeman.” Mareschini smiled slowly.
Trotti shrugged.
“A journalist.” Mareschini looked at Trotti, waiting for his reaction. “A journalist who carried a gun. From his identity card, he would appear to be thirty-seven years old.” A movement of the hands—there were dark hairs running along the edge of the pale skin. “He was thirty-seven years old. Name of Maltese.” He looked up. “Mean anything to you?”
Trotti shook his head and drank the coffee.
“And you’re sure he didn’t speak to you?”
“Have you found the car?”
“A stolen Mercedes.”
“Have you found the man’s vehicle?”
The Carabiniere frowned.
“How do you think this man—Maltese—arrived in Gardesana?” Trotti said.
The policeman nodded. “We’re looking into it, Commissario Trotti—but for the moment, no car has been identified.”
They had let Trotti wash his hands and face, and later a matronly woman—perhaps Mareschini’s wife—had cleaned the caked blood from around his nostrils. The patch of blood on his trousers had dried and turned a sticky black.
“A coincidence, then.” There was irritation in Mareschini’s voice.
“What?” Trotti asked.
“A coincidence that of all the people in Italy, it was beside you—an important and highly respected member of the forces of order, Commissario—that he was shot to death.”
“Yes,” Trotti said. “A coincidence.”
Mareschini stood up, and with his hands behind his back he started pacing backwards and forwards. He kept his eyes on the door. “But perhaps you recognized the man with the gun?”
“No.”
He looked up. “Can you describe him?”
“There were two men—you should ask the tourists from the boat. They were closer, they had a better view.”
“Please describe the murderer, Commissario.”
“Average height, dark hair—and a scarf over his face. That’s all I can remember. I saw the gun—the glint of the sunlight and then the woman began to scream.” He raised his shoulders. “I tried to protect myself.”
“Of course. And how did Maltese react?”
A brief smile. “I didn’t look. I didn’t imagine that it was him they were aiming at.”
Mareschini frowned. “I see.” He rubbed his chin and then came to a halt by the window.
The Carabinieri barracks were new and had been well designed, nestling into the olive groves of the lakeside hills. Through the open window, Trotti saw the descending layers of the rooftops, all a dull terracotta. Beyond them, a hydrofoil was cutting through the water, coming south, leaving a wide, white wake across the lake. Like a wound.
“You believe the assassin was aiming for you, Commissario?”
“I have been fired at before, Capitano. I didn’t stop to ask any questions—at my age, I no longer care to know the answers. I merely dropped to the ground … and gave myself a bloody nose.”
“The assassin was aiming for you?”
Trotti repressed a sigh. “I don’t know who he was aiming for, but the man, Maltese, was killed with two bullets. One of them must have touched his heart, I think. A professional job, Capitano.” Trotti paused, then added, “He died in my arms.”
“Ah!” Mareschini turned his back on the window and leaned against the sill, the trace of a smile on his lips.
An unimaginative provincial policeman who had probably never seen anything more distressing than a car accident and who was now trying to prove his professionalism. Trying to appear brisk and efficient.
Trotti could feel the dry blood on his trousers.
“And before he died, did this man say anything?”
“Capitano Mareschini, you’ve told me that the Nucleo Investigativo will soon be here from Brescia. I’ve already signed a written statement for you—these are questions that you’ve already asked me. You know the answers. I’m beginning to think that you doubt what I’ve already told you.”
“Commissario, please.” An apologetic movement of the pale hands, and the thin smile. “Please remember that you’re an eyewitness to a killing. A particularly bloody killing—not at all the sort of thing that we’re used to in this little backwater. It’s my duty …”
“The Nucleo Investigativo will be here any minute.”
Mareschini nodded. He took a packet of cigarettes from his tunic pocket and offered it to Trotti, who shook his head. Mareschini carefully lit a cigarette and inhaled the first mouthful of smoke before speaking. “You’re a policeman, Commissario.”
Trotti finished the coffee.
“You’re a policeman and I’m sure you know what it’s like to have a feeling, a sensation that you can’t quite identify but which your experience tells you is important. Something you should take into consideration.”
Trotti’s nod was scarcely perceptible.
“Can I ask you again, Commissario?”
“What?”
“Did Maltese say anything to you? You said he wasn’t dead when you got back to the bar. You held him. You see, I’ve an impression”—again the shrug—“I’ve this impression that you’re withholding something.”
Three bullets. The first had hit the wall. The second had gone through the man’s shoulder. The last had got into his chest, probably the heart. Trotti had seen the blood spurting, spreading further and further across the stones of the terrace. He had seen the face grow pale, he had felt the skin grow cold.
“I’m certain that in your rich experience, you’ve already worked with the Carabinieri. Admittedly here, this is only a small barracks. Not the big city, but …” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes squinted in the blue tobacco smoke.
“I’ve signed my statement. I don’t think I have anything else to add.”
The hydrofoil had lost its speed and was settling down into the blue lake water. In a few seconds it would be alongside the jetty, opposite the Centomiglia.
In a quiet voice, Trotti said, “I arrived just as Guerino brought him a glass of water. He was thirsty—he said he was thirsty but the water ran over his face, he couldn’t drink. We were waiting for the ambulance—people were pushing to see. The German woman was still screaming. And I held him in my arms.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He was afraid of dying—I could see it in his eyes and he gripped my arm. But before he could say anything, the grip weakened.” Trotti looked up at Mareschini and shrugged.
4: Villa Ondina
TROTTI SHIVERED.
Night was falling and the electric lamp, in the form of a glass flame, cast its wan light over the War Memorial.
“Goodnight,” Trotti said as he climbed out of the Alfa Romeo. The driver did not reply—perhaps he did not like the Pubblica Sicurezza. Before Trotti had closed the door, the car started on a tight turn, and with the gentle rumble of the exhaust pipe, it disappeared into the via XX Settembre.
The wind had dropped. In the small lakeside port, the boats at anchor scarcely moved; no creaking of hull agains
t hull, the masts were silent. So, too, was the lake, fast losing its somber color as a thin mist rose from the surface.
The Bar Centomiglia was closed. A neon light had been left on and cast a bluish glow over the tables and chairs and over the large stain on the stone slab near the wall.
Rope had been tied from chair to chair to prevent access. Guerino had taken in the tablecloths and the bar looked empty. Trotti wondered why Guerino had not washed the bloodstain away.
A sole Carabiniere stood there. He was smoking and his rifle was slung from his shoulder. From under the peaked cap, his eyes followed Trotti.
The Opel was where he had left it in the morning. Trotti unlocked it—his head ached from too much coffee, and the back of his throat was sore—and turned on the engine.
A slight deflection of the barrel and it would have been his blood smeared across the ground.
He drove to the Villa Ondina. The Opel ran silently along the viale Rimembranza, while the head beams moved along the smooth tarmac between the cypress trees. He drove past Mussolini’s villa, now hidden behind a copse of trees.
A day wasted and then Mareschini had said, “Can you stay in Gardesana for couple of days?” With a sly smile, he had rubbed at his chin and, not even looking at Trotti, had added, “Nucleo Investigativo seem to have been held up in Brescia. They’ll be here tomorrow.”
At the Villa Ondina, Trotti climbed out and pushed open the iron gates. The stiffness of his bloodstained trousers pulled against the hairs on his legs. He took the Opel down the gravel drive and parked in front of the main door. The plastic Madonna was alight. The door was unlocked and he let himself in.
Trotti turned on all the lights.
The interior, still warm from a day of spring sunshine, smelled of floor polish and moth balls, and Trotti realized it was his first visit to the Villa Ondina since the previous summer. He turned on the television to give himself company.
Signora Baccoli—the contadina—had made supper for him. In the kitchen he lifted the inverted dish and smiled. Ham, melon, salad and gnocchi, which needed heating. Suddenly he felt very hungry.
The Villa Ondina had belonged to Agnese’s father, who had made a fortune in pharmaceutical products for cattle. An unsmiling man, he had died ten years earlier. His wife, equally unsmiling and a devout Catholic in her last years, had waited seven years before following him to the family grave in Brescia.
Trotti undressed. His clothes were stiff with blood. He put them all in a plastic bag and tied the bag with a piece of string.
(Trotti had recognized the photograph.)
He could hear the mumble of the immersion heater. Signora Baccoli had turned it on.
(A coincidence, perhaps, that Maltese had a photograph of the girl in his pocket. The same photograph that Trotti had seen in the Questura.)
Trotti shaved and then showered, letting the scalding water run against his skin until he began to feel the heat penetrate his body and the coldness within him.
The shower was still running, and the water was still hot, when the telephone rang. He had forgotten to take a towel and, in his haste, pulled the cover from the bed the contadina had prepared for him. He left a trail of wet prints down the marble stairs. “Where’ve you been?”
“Who’s speaking?” Trotti asked and immediately regretted his own stupidity.
“Where’ve you been?” Repressed anger in her voice. “I’ve been trying to get through for the last twenty-four hours.” Agnese’s voice—her anger—was as clear as if she were phoning from the village.
“Where’re you phoning from?”
“You tell me you’ll be at the Villa and then you keep me waiting. Twenty-four hours, Piero.” A slight echo along the line—or between the telephone and the satellite somewhere over the Atlantic. “You are really very inconsiderate at times.”
“I was in the village.”
Agnese laughed one of her unpleasant, mocking laughs. “With one of your women friends?”
“I was at the Carabinieri barracks.”
“What on earth for?”
“It’s not important.”
“Of course not, Piero. After all, I’m just a silly woman. Why should you have to tell your wife what you’ve been doing? But that’s the way it’s always been, hasn’t it?”
Trotti did not reply.
“Piero?”
“Did you get my letter?” he asked.
“Perhaps. I can’t remember.”
Not even the decency to lie.
Without stopping to catch her breath, Agnese went on, “I imagine you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I needed a rest.”
“You never needed a rest when your wife wanted you to go to the Lake.”
“Is your American company paying for this phone call?”
There was a silence during which he could hear her breathing.
“You’ve got a nerve, Piero.”
“Is that what you phoned to tell me?”
“I need my diplomas.” Her voice was brisk. “It’s now two weeks since I asked you for them.”
“I’ll send them.”
“Now, Piero, now.”
“I’ve already got them out.”
“I need them immediately—my university degree and my specialization diplomas. The Americans are in a hurry and you can’t be bothered …”
“I’ll post them on Monday.”
“I’d ask Pioppi to do it for me—she’s more reliable than you. But like you, she doesn’t answer the telephone.”
“Perhaps she’s with the Nonna. She’s working hard for her exam next week.”
“Well, will you phone her and tell her to post them? I can’t keep on wasting time and money on these phone calls.”
“When do you think you’ll be coming back, Agnese?”
Her brisk, efficient businesswoman voice. “Pack them properly. At Bertini’s in via Stradella you can buy a plastic roll container. I don’t want them arriving here in a thousand little pieces. Don’t forget, Piero.”
He did not reply.
“Well, can you do that—can you do something for your wife?”
“Pioppi’s still not eating.”
“She’s got Nonna—and she’s got you.”
“She’s refusing to eat.”
“I know you can look after her. Listen, I’m going to hang up. I kiss you, Piero, and I kiss Pioppi. And remember, buy the container at Bertini’s. Send everything airmail and registered post—I don’t trust the Italian postal services.” A sudden click and the receiver went dead.
The bedsheet was damp. Trotti shivered and set the phone down. But even when he got upstairs, found a towel and rubbed himself down, his hand was still shaking.
Half past seven—it was now dark outside and in Pearl River, New York, she was just back from lunch—lunch with her wealthy, American colleagues. Well-dressed men with tiepins and an impressive casualness about their easy wealth, their business accounts and their sleek, American cars.
He was cold.
Trotti found an old sweater in a cupboard. He put it on, along with a pair of corduroy trousers that smelled of moth balls.
The phone rang again.
“Sorry to bother you, Commissario. Pintini of the Brescia Nucleo Investigativo has just contacted me, saying he’ll be here tomorrow with a team of investigators.”
“What time?”
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you.” There was no apology in Mareschini’s voice. “I can send a car to pick you up at eight.”
“I have my own car.”
Mareschini hesitated; then his satisfaction won over his professionalism. “There’s been a bit of difficulty with the prints.”
“Prints?”
“After the photographs, the body was sent to the morgue in Salò. Routine prints were taken and checked on the computer.” He added sententiously, “The Carabinieri central computers.”
“And?”
“They were identified.”
“Maltese had a crimi
nal record?”
“I know nothing about Maltese—but the prints belong to a certain Ramoverde—Giovanni Ramoverde.”
Trotti said nothing.
“Does that name mean anything to you?”
Still Trotti was silent.
“Giovanni Ramoverde was arrested in 1972 at the University of Milan.”
“Arrested for what?”
“Rioting—impeding the forces of law in the course of their duty. A suspended sentence.” A humorless laugh. “You’re sure you don’t know the name, Commissario Trotti?”
Trotti did not reply.
“Then I’ll see you here in the morning, Commissario?”
Trotti put the receiver down. Immediately, he picked it up again.
He dialed his home number. The distant telephone rang eight times.
Trotti went into the kitchen and without bothering to use a knife and fork, he hurriedly devoured the ham and melon. He ate some of the cold gnocchi.
He tried phoning Pioppi again. Then he turned out all the lights, turned off the television and left the Villa Ondina.
He climbed into the Opel.
5: Pavesi
THE LAKE, SILVER beneath the moon, was hidden by long sections of tunnel. Then the road opened out. The mountains fell behind. The silhouette of the cypress trees. The smell of the orange groves, the gentle hiss of the tires along the fast road. And in the distance, like another, distant country, the twinkling lights on the far side of the lake.
Trotti found a packet of Charms in the glove box, unwrapped one of the sweets and placed it in his mouth. Aniseed.
He skirted Salò, where already the corpse was cold in the hospital morgue; he took the Brescia road, turning right at the intersection with the Verona highway, and soon the lake was behind him, a silver reflection in his driving mirror, and then lost to sight behind the dark foothills. He drove past the marble quarries hacked into the hills. He felt that he was returning to Italy, leaving the lake behind him and coming back to the ugly, industrial plain. He glanced in the mirror. Nothing. He had the feeling that he was being followed.
The Puppeteer Page 2
