“Who were you looking for, Signor Commissario?”
“The proprietor of the Villa Laura.”
“I have told you, Signora Buonaventura—the proprietress—is resting.”
“And who are you?”
The girl looked surprised. “I live here. The signora needs someone to look after her.” She sounded offended.
Pisanelli coughed. “Kindly let us in, signora.”
She looked at Pisanelli and said coldly, “Signorina. Signorina Moroni.” She glanced again at Trotti and then stepped back.
They entered Villa Laura.
The hall was large and gloomy, with at least six cats sitting on a single settee. It was an old piece of furniture, upholstered in a deep green brocade that had lost its color with the years. The cats were pulling at the fabric with their claws.
The air smelled of cat urine; there was also the hint of excrement.
Pisanelli gave Trotti a lopsided grin. He held a long finger to his nose.
“Signora Buonaventura normally sleeps at this time of day. Until four o’clock. Perhaps the gentlemen would like to return later.”
“No.”
The same look of offended pride appeared on her young face. “Then perhaps I can offer you some coffee?”
“You are very kind,” Trotti said and sat down on the grubby settee.
The cats jumped away in fright and disappeared, almost in single file, up the stairway.
“That’s where they found the corpse,” Trotti whispered after the young woman had turned away and was walking briskly towards a far door.
Absent-mindedly, Pisanelli stared after her disappearing legs and the well-formed calves. “Pretty.”
“That’s where they found old Belluno,” Trotti repeated. “Belluno lying on the first flight of stairs—there—head downwards. Naked except for a singlet and a pair of underpants that had been stuffed into his mouth.”
“And the girl?”
“In the bathroom. She had been battered and then drowned in the bath water.”
Pisanelli mumbled something behind his hand.
“What?”
“Were they living together?”
“Who?”
“The old man and his housekeeper …” Pisanelli paused, blushing. “Were there relations between them?”
“Were they screwing, you mean?”
Pisanelli nodded hurriedly.
“It was never proved or disproved. What was certain was that there’d been no intercourse in the period preceding death. But the girl wasn’t a virgin, either. The doctor insisted upon the fact that Bardizza had been menstruating at the time of death.”
“But were they living together?”
“It was all a long time ago—over twenty years—and there weren’t the research techniques that we’ve got now. It was never proved that they had been lovers. No stains on the sheets or mattresses. But of course, Ramoverde and his wife insisted that they were having an affair. Ramoverde wanted to prove that the old man was infatuated and imply that he was losing control of his mind.”
Pisanelli shook his head. “If the girl wanted to marry him—marry him for his money—she’d’ve been better advised not to give in. Not before the wedding day.”
Trotti laughed and a single cat darted from under the Venetian chest-of-drawers. “For somebody who can’t tell one end of a woman from another, you know a lot of things.”
The young policeman frowned. “A year at the Faculty of Medicine, Commissario—and I have three older sisters.”
Trotti leaned back on the settee and laughed. He noticed that the fabric was covered with minute hairs.
The interior of the hall was as he remembered it: dingy walls, cornices of plaster and a mural on the ceiling with cherubim and rosy-cheeked goddesses of plenty. There was the painting of the army officer. It was in the same place, next to a tall mirror. It must have been painted just after the Great War. The name Diaz was on a piece of paper at the officer’s feet.
Pisanelli asked, “How can people go on living in a place where there’s been a murder?” He shivered.
Trotti did not answer.
The telephone was new, and with its red cord, it looked inelegant and out of place. It stood on a small table, on top of a pile of directories. Trotti was about to stand up when the young woman returned, carrying a tray. With her she brought the reassuring aroma of strong coffee.
“Ten years, signorina?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve been working here for ten years?”
“No.” She put down the silver coffee pot and looked at Trotti. Her waxy, pale features were devoid of expression. “I’ve been here for three years—answering an advertisement in the paper.” She added, not without pride, “I am from the Valdosta. I came because Signora Buonaventura fell and broke her hip. She needed someone to look after her.”
“I understand.”
The girl poured the coffee efficiently and in silence. Pisanelli watched her movements with interest; then the two men drank.
“Very good,” Trotti said. “You wouldn’t have any grappa?”
“There’s no alcohol in this house.” She stood with her arms folded.
She reminded Trotti of a well-behaved adolescent who had to accept—but only with reluctance—the rules imposed by strict parents. She was pretty, but very pale.
The sound of feet on the stairs.
“I thought I could smell coffee. Patrizia, be an angel and fetch me a cup.”
For somebody who had just risen from a siesta, Signora Buonaventura was immaculately dressed. She wore a silk blouse with long collar tips that came down over the soft, expensive material of her cashmere cardigan. She was a plump woman and she wore an ample skirt that matched the beige of the cardigan. The bangles of silver at her wrist jangled and around her neck hung two rows of large beads. There was another necklace—this one of silver—that supported a crucifix. “And who are these gentlemen?”
Trotti stood up.
She moved down the stairs slowly, almost theatrically, leaning on the thick banister of polished stone and moving both her feet onto one step before venturing down onto the next. “I hope they like cats.”
“Pubblica Sicurezza,” Trotti said and nodded towards Pisanelli who moved forward to help the woman.
She shook his proffered hand away. “And what do you want?”
“I’m making a few enquiries, signora.”
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Trotti was surprised to see that she was almost as tall as he was, one meter seventy-five or so, with white hair in rinsed waves and a strong face. The eyes seemed to have retreated behind the layers of pouched and wrinkled skin.
“Where’s my stick?”
Signorina Moroni reappeared carrying a stick that she gave to the old woman. She received no word of thanks.
“Well, gentlemen?”
Beneath the double row of beads and the crucifix, a pair of glasses also hung from her neck. The woman raised them without placing the arms alongside her temples, but holding them as if they were pince-nez. “Ah,” she said.
“Commissario Trotti of the Pubblica Sicurezza.” He added, “And Brigadiere Pisanelli.”
Pisanelli smiled inanely.
“Well?”
“There are a few questions that I should like to ask you, signora.”
“Why?”
“Because I need the answers.”
She lowered the glasses. “And what’s your reason for coming here?”
“I believe you are the sister of the late Signora Ramoverde.”
Under the thick layers of white face powder and the deep red lipstick, which gave an almost ghostlike quality to her face, the similarity to Maltese was striking. It was a similarity that Trotti found reassuring. At the same time he was aware of the fact that Pisanelli was intimidated by the woman. Tall, well over sixty-five years old, with expensive, slightly outdated clothes, she reminded Trotti of a severe schoolmistress.
“S
o what?”
Trotti was still standing and he held his empty cup of coffee. He moved to the table where the girl had placed the tray and set down the cup. “I can assure you that I have no intention of wasting your time.”
A deep voice, like a man’s. “Have the decency, young man, to tell me what you’re here for.” She came forward, leaning on the stick with both hands and lowered herself onto the settee. There was no longer any room for the two men.
“Where are my darlings?”
Two cats jumped up beside her.
“So beautiful, aren’t they?”
Trotti nodded politely.
“Sit down, for heaven’s sake.”
In a dark corner of the room, there were two old chairs. Pisanelli fetched them and gave one to Trotti.
“You see,” Trotti said in an apologetic voice, “I must ask you when you first came to the Villa Laura.”
“Does that have anything to do with you?”
“Please answer the question.”
“What question?”
“Did you come here after the trial of your brother-in-law?”
“Whatever makes you want to bring that up? That was a long time ago and I’d rather not be reminded.”
“I understand that the will was contested at the time of the trial.”
“Not at all.” She put her head to one side. “You are indeed a dull fellow. My father had left everything to that peasant girl—but the poor, greedy thing made the mistake of getting herself killed along with her benefactor.”
“So who did the property go to?”
“Property! There wasn’t much, you know. Three villas—but they can be expensive to maintain.” She stroked the cat beside her; the animal’s eyes closed with pleasure. “It reverted to my sister and me.”
“Matilde?”
The woman nodded reluctantly.
“And where is she now?”
“You are an uncouth man. My sister—if you insist upon knowing—is no longer with us. She passed away, God rest her soul. In 1975. Perhaps not one of the Creator’s most marvelous inventions—she was not an intelligent woman in my opinion—but He, in His infinite wisdom, loves us all. And intelligence is not the same thing as goodness.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Trotti said.
Pisanelli coughed.
“Signora,” Trotti asked, “when did you come to the Villa Laura?”
“Do I have to answer these fatuous questions? I’m an old woman and at my age, I have very little time for what goes on beyond these four walls.”
“Please answer my question.”
A sigh. “I was in Africa. Helping.”
“Helping whom?”
“My husband.”
“You’re married?”
“I was. I no longer am. Orazio is dead.” Her hand returned to stroking the cat. “A good man in his own way.”
“And what were you doing in Africa?”
She shrugged, and the necklaces moved in unison. “My husband died—and there was nowhere for me to live in Mogadishu. What was I supposed to do? Stay on in that benighted country? When at any street corner I could run into some dark-skinned urchin that might well have been one of my husband’s countless brood.” She leaned forward. “Are you married?”
“Yes, signora.”
“I trust that you are a faithful husband.” She raised a shoulder. “Anyway, all policemen are unimaginative. I imagine you don’t have the time or inclination for …” She folded her arms.
Trotti glanced at Pisanelli and for a moment, wondered whether he had fallen asleep. “About Africa, signora.”
“Nothing about Africa. I came back to Italy. At the time, it seemed a reasonable thing to do. It may not be civilization—it most certainly isn’t civilization—but after the land of those grinning monkeys, anything is better. At least in this country, the monkeys are white and they grin less.” She allowed herself a little shudder. “Africa is a land of communists and Muslims. I can’t say I approve.” Then, recalling that she was thirsty, she turned on the settee. “Child, I’m still waiting for my coffee.”
The girl entered, carrying another tray.
“With sugar. Hurry up. You should know by now how I like my coffee.”
Trotti noticed that the cup handed to the old woman was considerably larger than his or Pisanelli’s. He also noticed that she had big, strong hands.
“And Ramoverde?”
The woman took no notice. Receiving the cup from the younger woman, she raised cup and saucer to her puckered lips.
“And what happened to Ramoverde?”
The woman drank. “And darling, isn’t it time you fed the children?” Seeing the look of puzzlement on Trotti’s face, she added, “The cats.”
“Where is Douglas Ramoverde, signora?”
“A fool—as much a fool as my poor, beloved sister. God knows, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. At least Douglas had a pretty face.”
“Where can I find him?”
She looked at Trotti over the edge of her large cup. “I am not a medium.”
“He’s dead?”
“Are all policemen as swift of thought?”
“How did he die? And where?”
“How d’you expect me to know?”
“You lived with your sister for several years. She must have told you.”
Signora Buonaventura smiled. “I see that you know more about me than you admit.”
“Well?” Irritation had crept into Trotti’s voice.
“What exactly is it that you want to know, young man?”
“The truth.”
She held out her cup and the girl moved forward to pour more coffee. “I’m afraid that I’m not the purveyor of truth that you take me for.” She paused, sipped her coffee. “I’m merely an old woman—and I wish to be left alone.”
The cat jumped from her side and approached Trotti. It stopped, arched its back. The dark hair rose upright. It bared its small, white teeth.
“What happened to your brother-in-law? Douglas Ramoverde?”
“He went to Argentina.”
“With his family?”
“Of course.”
“They stayed there for a long time?”
“A couple of years. You understand, there was the scandal—it ruined Ramoverde, although, if you care to know my opinion, he deserved it. Never was reliable—and his nose began to twitch when he saw a woman.” She shrugged. “All men are the same—even policemen.” She glanced obliquely at Pisanelli.
“When did your sister come back to Italy?”
“For all I know Ramoverde was responsible for Papa’s death.”
“When did your sister return to Italy?”
“Is this Lascia o Raddoppia? Or some other stupid television quiz?”
“Please answer my question. When did Matilde return?”
“I’ve just told you. Her husband died—what remained for her in Argentina? The boy had grown up—he had a life of his own. He went to Milan University. Not a very persevering child—he gave it all up to become a journalist. A second-rate journalist.”
“When did your sister return? What year?”
The woman put her cup on the floor where one of the cats moved towards it stealthily. “I don’t know what your name is—oh, yes, I do, it’s Trotti and I’ve heard about you, Commissario Trotti—I’ve heard a lot about you. I should be most grateful if you and your comatose friend would leave me alone. You’re behaving like thugs. You ask me awkward, useless questions. I don’t remember these things—and anyway, they’re best forgotten. Ramoverde—Douglas Ramoverde was a mistake of my sister’s making. It was nothing to do with me. And anyway, it was all a very long time ago.” Her head turned and for a moment Trotti had the impression that the old eyes were staring at the flight of stairs where the body of her father had once lain.
“D’you ever see your nephew?
“Why does that matter?”
“Last week, a young man was gunned down in cold blood. In Gardesana,
on Lake Garda. He called himself Maltese. But I have good reason to believe he was your nephew.”
“How strange.”
33: Arrondissement
“HAVE YOU SEEN the newspaper?”
Trotti looked at his watch. “What time is it?”
“I think you ought to have a look.”
Trotti sat up in his bed. It was still dark, although first light was creeping round the edge of the shutters. “Why do you have to wake me up?”
A brief laugh. “On page two of the Popolo d’Italia there’s a photograph of your friend. Of your dead friend.”
“Who?”
“Novara—the journalist.”
“What are you talking about, Magagna?”
“Shot dead in the street of the …” He paused, as if he were reading. “Of the sixteenth arrondissement.”
“Who?”
“In Paris. You asked me to find him, Commissario. Open the paper and he’s there. Novara—the man behind the smear campaigns.” Again the laugh followed by raucous, heavy breathing.
“You smoke too much, Magagna.”
“Shot in the back of the head as he was returning from a local restaurant.” Magagna paused. “More effective than cigarettes, you’ll agree.”
“Where are you phoning from?”
“Monza. I’m still on my case.”
“Drugs?”
“This is a public phone,” Magagna said sharply. Then he added, “Why else do you think I’d want to come to Monza?” A brief, humorless cough. “If Novara knew anything about Maltese’s death, he’s not going to tell you. Not now.”
It was a moment before Trotti replied, “Novara and Maltese were journalists—and they knew what they were up against. Unless they were complete fools, they knew the rule.”
“The rule, Commissario?”
“Information is dangerous if you’re the only person to possess it. Information is power, but if you are alone in having access to that power, you—and the information—can be eliminated. With a bullet.”
The sound of a cigarette being lit.
Suddenly Trotti felt very clear-headed. “Maltese knew that he could be killed. That’s why he was hiding—but he wouldn’t have been stupid enough not to share his knowledge. A life insurance.”
“A life insurance that didn’t pay off.” Magagna added, “Now Novara is dead.”
The Puppeteer Page 13
