“A few years to go before I retire.”
There was a jeep—a Fiat Campagnola—standing near the farmhouse door. Men materialized from the building and the adjacent stables. A horse neighed somewhere. A man—he was wearing camouflage fatigue and a beret pulled down on one side of his face—came running towards Trotti. He carried a machine gun. His right hand kept the muzzle pointing towards the ground. With the other hand, he saluted.
“Commissario Trotti?” He smiled briefly at Trotti then glanced at Pisanelli.
“Pisanelli,” Trotti said. “He’s here to help me.”
For some reason, Pisanelli blushed. He lowered his face, then fell into step behind Trotti and the man who led them to the door of the farmhouse. He did not knock. He lifted the heavy latch.
“So at last you’ve got here, Trotti.”
Spadano was sitting behind a wooden table. Beside him were two other men in uniform. They looked up, but neither smiled. The air smelled of cigar smoke.
“We’ve located your Sardinians.”
They shook hands hurriedly. The tip of the cigar glowed in the poor light of the farmhouse. Spadano did not introduce the other men. He gestured for Trotti and Pisanelli to sit down. A bottle of red wine stood on the table.
“My Sardinians?”
“Or perhaps you’re not interested in who murdered Maltese. And who beat you up.”
“What’s Maltese got to do with you?” Trotti frowned. “I thought you were in the city, Spadano.”
“And I thought you were going to take a well-deserved rest—but instead you choose to get shot at.” He grinned. He looked alert and his uniform was freshly pressed.
Trotti wondered how long he had been up here in the hills.
“Care for some wine, Trotti?”
Trotti shook his head.
Spadano was still smiling. “You forget that this is a Carabinieri enquiry.”
“This?”
“Maltese was sitting next to you when he was murdered—but Gardesana is under Carabinieri jurisdiction.”
“So nice to see the Carabinieri willing to collaborate with the Pubblica Sicurezza.”
“I’m not collaborating with the Pubblica Sicurezza.” The smile had vanished. “You know what I think of the PS.”
“Then why invite me out on a country excursion?” Trotti added, “To a place where neither you nor I belong. This is Piacenza.”
“Trotti, you and I can work together. I trust you.”
“Work together at what, Capitano?”
“It’s possible that we’re both dealing with the same thing.”
“What?”
“Dealing with organized crime, Trotti. Both you and me—and it would make things a lot easier if we could pool our information.”
Trotti shook his head, not understanding.
“Trotti, you know what I think of a lot of your colleagues. But I’m not always very keen on mine either. And I don’t like the way that some of our own people refuse to share information—particularly when sharing information can mean saving time.” He took the cigar from his mouth. “Their names are Uras and Suergiu. Sardinians. Small-time criminals from Orgosolo in Nuoro province. Shepherds who’ve been driven out of Sardinia by lack of work. They have records for kidnapping in Sardinia. Then robbery with violence on the mainland. Stupid, but tough and reliable. But what’s interesting—”
“And you think you found them?”
“What’s interesting is why they’re involved in the first place. Not planners or organizers. And not marksmen. They’re the sort of people who work with sawn-off rifles—not with guns.”
“So?”
“Sure you don’t care for some wine, Trotti?”
Trotti shook his head.
“And your friend?”
Pisanelli had his eyes on the bottle but Trotti shook his head. “We try not to drink on duty in the PS.”
“Highly commendable.” Spadano poured a thumb’s worth of red wine into his glass and an equal amount into the glasses of the two officers.
He removed the cigar from his mouth while he drank.
“What makes you think that these Sardinians …”
“Suergiu and Uras.”
“What makes you so sure that they were involved in Maltese’s death?”
There came the soft crackle of static from a radio that had been set down near the window. From the aerial socket, a thick cable ran across the floor towards the open window.
Spadano replaced the cigar in his mouth.
“And how did you locate them?”
“You underestimate the Carabinieri, Trotti. Of course, we are unimaginative Southerners—but at least we have the merit of doggedness. We plod away at things. And these days we’ve got computers to help our slow, southern brains. So you won’t be too surprised to learn that it didn’t take Nucleo Investigativo very long to identify the murder weapon.”
“Murder weapon?”
“Which killed Maltese.”
“And?”
“A P38.”
“Which is precisely what I told Capitano Mareschini.”
Spadano held up his palms. “Nobody is criticizing you, Trotti.”
“But is it to state the obvious that you have asked me to drive the sixty kilometers to this place? Or was it to taste the local wine?”
“I want to collaborate—but there are people—Mareschini among others—who feel that your attitude towards us is cavalier.”
“Spadano, a man died in my arms—and I’m still not certain that it was him the killers were aiming at. Forgive me if I get impatient when a captain of the Carabinieri wants to play the amateur detective before he goes into retirement.”
Spadano smiled slightly behind the cigar.
“Where are these Sardinians?”
“Perhaps you ought to have been informed, Trotti—but there again, Nucleo Investigativo knows that you’re no longer involved.” The smile disappeared. “The same gun that was used to kill Maltese was used in the robbery at the Banca San Matteo.”
For an instant, Trotti was silent. “That doesn’t make sense.”
The door opened.
Spadano turned to face a young man in fatigues. His face was covered with black grease and in one hand he held a walkie-talkie.
“Movement in the house, Capitano.”
“What sort of movement?” Spadano glanced at his watch.
“The door’s been opened.”
“Anyone come out?”
The man shook his head.
Spadano gave Trotti a brief grin, looked again at his watch. “Then I think it’s time we moved in.”
26: Scythe
THE BUILDING STOOD at the bottom of the valley.
To either side there were empty fields of pasture which as they rose up the side of the valley became dry bracken and bush.
A Carabiniere in camouflage was lying in the grass. He had a machine gun lined up on the door of the house. Spadano crouched down easily beside him. Pisanelli helped Trotti lower himself onto the grass.
“Keep your head low.”
No movement in the valley.
The house looked deserted, the sort of place where a shepherd could live during the summer months of pasture. Along the roof—tiles that had already begun to cave in, revealing wooden rafters—birds moved backwards and forwards. From time to time, one would fly away, flutter, hover and then return to the point of departure.
Spadano took the man’s walkie-talkie and spoke into it.
A figure ran out from the trees where he had been concealed. He ran fast, doubled over. In his right hand, he carried a lightweight rifle. He headed for the house, reached it midway along the wall, and stopped with his shoulders against the bricks.
He wore a mask that covered his face.
It was late afternoon and the sun was beginning to move behind the hill.
The man was joined by three more Carabinieri. They did not speak to each other but communicated with fast hand signals. Then the first man, m
oving stealthily, approached the open door. The others went to either side of the open window.
More men ran across the grass.
A thud and Trotti felt a fear in the pit of the stomach. A sound that he recognized, that brought back memories.
Two more dull explosions, then from where they were hiding, Trotti and Pisanelli saw smoke that started to curl out of the window.
Spadano said softly, “Let’s go.”
Trotti tried to run. He followed Spadano and Pisanelli helped him, careful to stay on the left of the machine gunner’s line of fire, should the man decide to pull the trigger.
There was nobody to fire at.
Pisanelli grinned, but there was sweat along his forehead.
By the time the three men reached the building, the action was over.
The Carabinieri had pulled off their masks and they stood, with their rifles pointing at the ground, waiting for orders.
They cast long shadows on the grass.
“Where the hell are they?” Spadano was angry.
One of the men shook his head.
Spadano looked inside the building, pushing at the rotten door.
Eddies of tear gas billowed outwards, caught in the draught and he coughed.
“They must have moved out.”
Spadano gave the man a withering glance and lit a cigar.
Nobody had noticed the man.
He stood on the edge of the field, a man in black trousers that came down as far as his ankles and his muddy, peasant boots. In one hand he held a scythe; with the other he shaded his eyes against the western sun.
“And what the hell is he doing here?” Spadano was angry, very angry. “He could have been blown apart. Where’s Attilio?” Spadano walked towards the peasant who waited in immobile silence, his hand to his forehead.
The two men spoke but they were too far away for Trotti to hear anything they said.
The man pointed towards the copse. It was only then that Trotti, following the line of the outstretched hand, saw the car.
An Opel.
It had been driven across the grass and hidden beneath the trees.
Branches had been placed over the dull metalwork in an attempt to camouflage it.
Spadano turned away from the man and came running back. His face was taut and angry. “Attilio’s going to pay for this cock-up.” He took the cigar from his mouth to give a few brisk orders. “Anti-terrorist training, for God’s sake, and they can’t even do up their laces without having me there to hold their hands. Shit, it might be booby-trapped.”
Later, when the Carabinieri had been placed along the ditch at the edge of the field—Trotti found himself next to the peasant who muttered under his breath, and who repeatedly crossed himself—two men approached the Opel.
The man smelled of garlic. And goat.
It was his car, Trotti’s car. It looked normal, humdrum, reassuring.
One of the men carried a geiger counter.
Overhead a helicopter appeared.
Somewhere a grasshopper was chirping, but it forgot its song as the helicopter approached.
A man had crawled beneath the Opel. He stayed there, with only his legs visible. When he reemerged, he was grinning, his teeth white against the black grease. He called to the other man. One pointed at the trunk. The man with the counter spoke into his walkie-talkie.
He then came running back towards the ditch.
The officer approached the trunk of the car. He was no longer grinning. His hand touched the chrome lock.
Trotti heard the click distinctly.
27: Baccoli
SIGNORA BACCOLI INSISTED upon accompanying Trotti down the gravel path to Villa Ondina. It was dark, stars had come out and on the far side of the lake, the fairy lights zigzagged up the side of the mountain.
“We see you so rarely, Signor Piero.” The woman smelled of the hot kitchen that she had just come from; under her arm, she held a casserole. “If I’d known you were intending to come, I would have prepared something special.”
“It’s not necessary, signora. I am with a friend—and we have just eaten at Guerino’s.”
“At Guerino’s.” She laughed mockingly. She wore an apron over her black dress. Thick woolen stockings came halfway up her legs and her open wooden shoes scraped on the gravel. “There’s always plenty of pasta for two hungry men, Signor Piero.” She lowered her voice as she shifted the weight of the casserole on her hip. “I heard about the young man.”
“Let me carry the saucepan for you, signora.”
“There has been talk in the village. I don’t like to gossip, as you know—and anyway we live outside the village, Ruggiero and I, and we prefer things that way. The grocer is a thief—and if we were a bit younger and if we had a car, we’d go into Salò or up to Riva to do the shopping. I’ve lived here all my life, Signor Piero, but the shopkeepers of Gardesana don’t believe in friendship, or loyalty—or anything. All my life—my father used to grow lemons—and his father brought the soil over from the other side, ferried the earth across from the Veneto side in order to make the terraces—but that doesn’t concern the shopkeepers. All they believe in is money. They treat us in just the same way that they treat the visitors from Milan or the tourists. The tourists—the Germans—they’ve got money. But we haven’t. A war pension, Signor Piero—what’s a war pension for an old couple like us to live on?” She stopped walking. “Do you know how much Fratebene charges for his tomatoes—not local tomatoes, mind you, but tasteless imported ones?” She added contemptuously. “Common market.”
“What young man, Signora Baccoli?”
“Three thousand lire, Signor Piero. Common market tomatoes.”
“What young man, signora?”
She turned her head, the pale features just visible in the dark. “They say you were with him when he was shot.” She moved forward, the gravel scraping against the shoes. “There’s never been anything like that before. Not here.”
Trotti said nothing.
“Not even when the Duce was here. There was fighting—he went away to Milan—but there was never …” She lowered her voice. “There was never murder. Not in Gardesana.”
“You were here at the time of Mussolini?”
She gave a dry laugh—a sound like that of her shoes on the gravel. “I’m no longer a girl. I lived here throughout the war while Ruggiero was in Russia. That’s where he lost his fingers.” She raised her shoulders. “Frostbite.”
They had reached the front door of the Villa Ondina. From above the porch, the electric Madonna threw feeble rays against the surface of the wall, the climbing bougainvillea and clematis.
“And you saw Mussolini?”
“As near to me as you are now.” She nodded at the recollection. “He was a very big man—and very strong. But he was good. He cared about the village. Of course we didn’t see him very often—he was in the Villa and scarcely left it—but he cared about us. We knew that he was ill and he should never have left his wife. A terrible thing, to leave her for that other woman, who was no better than a …” She looked up at the Madonna and Signora Baccoli repeated, “The Duce was a good man.”
“He lost the war.”
“He gave his life.” She shifted the weight of the casserole and Trotti opened the front door of the Villa Ondina. The woman entered the hall and made her way towards the kitchen. “Twenty minutes,” she called over her shoulder, “and the pasta will be ready.”
Pisanelli had already settled in.
He gave Trotti a grin. He sat in the empty dining room, his feet on a chair. He was still wearing his suede jacket and he had a glass in his hand.
“Make yourself feel at home, Pisanelli.”
The television screen was alive with the fuzzy image of an old Alberto Sordi film. The picture was grey and unsteady, coming from one of the private stations on the other side of the lake.
Beneath the grin, the face was taut and the eyes unhappy. He put his head back to acknowledge Trotti’s remark and d
rank some more wine.
Trotti went to the phone. In New York, she should now be back from lunch. He picked up the receiver and dialed—he knew the long number from memory but had to dial three times before getting a line.
A voice in English.
“Signora Trotti, per favore.” Trotti added in English, “Please.”
The distant secretary said something but Trotti did not understand.
Again he asked for Agnese. There was a moment of awkward hesitation and then somebody spoke in Italian—a woman’s voice with a strong American accent. “Signora Trotti is not yet back in the office.”
“When will she be back?”
“I don’t know.”
“This is her husband.”
“I know.”
“Please.” He ran his hand across his forehead. “When she gets in, would you kindly ask her to ring me back?” He gave the phone number. “Tell her that it’s important and I’m waiting for her call.”
The voice repeated the number and then hung up.
Trotti went upstairs and showered. The water was not hot yet and it ran slightly brown with rust. He let the water run over his body—the bruises had almost disappeared on his chest, but on his thigh a small patch of blue was turning yellow. Trotti rubbed himself dry on a towel and went into the bedroom. Enclosed space and floor polish. He opened the blinds and a smell of clover, grass and the cold water of the lake rose to his nostrils. He breathed deeply, taking in the air. Prompted perhaps by the smell, he remembered the weekend—it must have been in ’55 or earlier—when Agnese and he had come to the lake without telling anybody. They had walked around the villa on tiptoe. And holding hands. Trotti smiled to himself at the thought.
“Nearly thirty years ago,” he muttered.
A milky whiteness lit up the sky beyond the silhouette of Monte Baldo’s shoulder. Soon the moon would be rising over the lake and casting its silver reflection onto the gentle ripples across the surface.
A knock on the door. “Signor Piero, the food is ready.”
Trotti turned to look at the woman.
She stood there, hesitant, a hand lifted to her face, as if she had toothache. “It’s about that man.”
The Puppeteer Page 10
