Persona Non Grata

by Timothy Williams

  Ornella Ciuffi smiled. A contagious smile.

  Trotti asked, “Who do you want to go and see?”

  “We agreed we were going to talk to Vardin.”

  “I need to see Bianchini.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to know where he was on Saturday night. I need to talk to him.”

  “With Bianchini? Or with his mother? And eat truffles? And drink wine in the middle of the afternoon?”

  “Professional objectivity, Signorina?”

  “Is it professional, Piero, to—?”

  “In public, my name is not Piero.”

  “Is it professional to get involved with people—with an attractive woman—we’re investigating?”

  “Is it professional to call your superior officer by his Christian name?”

  For a moment there was no reaction. Then her chin seemed to tremble. The corner of her lips whitened. She took a deep breath before speaking. “You said we were going to speak to Vardin. About the gun. And about his receiving threats from Galandra.” The mask returned, the youthful freshness disappeared. Impersonal, businesslike. She was no longer looking at him.

  “There’s no proof that Vardin was receiving threats from Galandra.”

  “Then let’s go and ask him, Commissario. Ask him what he’s done with his gun.”

  “I’ve got no idea where Vardin is.”

  “He’s gone fishing.” She added, “You know that.”

  “He went fishing this morning.”

  “Signor Vardin’s fishing near the Ponte Imperiale. Or at least he was still there ten minutes ago.”

  Trotti gave her an appraising stare. “How on earth do you know that?”

  Her voice was devoid of emotion. “You invite me for a meal. But no sooner have you ordered a couple of pizzas than you leave me here like a discarded toy.”

  “But—”

  “You forget all about me.”

  “You’re not being very fair.”

  “You want me to read Annabella and look at the pictures? Is that what you want me to do while I’m waiting for you?”

  “Ornella,” he said. “Please …” His hand moved across the deep red tablecloth and Trotti found himself touching her fingers.

  “A woman, Piero Trotti. But I’m also a policeman. Don’t forget that.”

  33: Rod

  EITHER CENTRALE HAD got it wrong or Ciuffi had misheard. Vardin was nowhere near the Ponte Imperiale.

  Ciuffi parked the car by the side of the road and they went down the path to the edge of the river. The Po ran sluggishly, clinging to the low riverbed. Underfoot, the pebbles were pale and reflected the afternoon glare. Smooth grey branches and miscellaneous flotsam were now stranded and dry against the stones, and dark traces of tar brought down by the river from the industrial centers upstream.

  Nobody, nothing.

  For a moment, Trotti stood with his hands in his pockets. The city—“A Northern city. Hard working, conservative and quietly xenophobic. But kind. And decent”—stood on the far side of the river. The modern, AGIP condominium rose up among the terracotta roofs, an anomaly in the architecture of the LungoPò.

  Yellow buses were turning into the bottom of Strada Nuova.

  Trotti turned and looked at Ciuffi. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  He shrugged. “I did as you asked.”

  “I am sure Galandra—his blackmailing—is the key to the attack on Laura Vardin. We must talk to Vardin, Commissario.”

  “Why?”

  “Vardin hasn’t been totally honest with us.”

  “Then we’ll talk to him—but another time.”

  There was something of the stubborn child about her. She stood with her legs slightly apart. The reflected light from the pebbles lit up her face from below. She shook her head. “Can we first check back with Centrale?”

  “It’d be more useful to go and see Bianchini.”

  “I’m certain Centrale said Vardin was here.”

  “It’s Bianchini I want to see.”

  “Riccardo is not going to run off.” She moved towards the path and the main road. She didn’t look at him. “Nor is Signora Bianchini.”

  In the car neither spoke. They had to cross the river to get back into the city. They took the Ponte Coperto and, although Ciuffi was driving, she turned her eyes from the road to look over at the river bank below. The columns of the covered bridge—it had been totally destroyed by the Allies at the end of the war and then rebuilt a few years later—dashed past, casting light and shadows on to her drawn face.

  The mask slipped. “There’s somebody fishing down there.” Excitement in her voice.

  “Near the Ponte Imperiale, signorina?”

  “I must’ve misheard.”

  “We’re going in the wrong direction, if we hope to see Bianchini.”

  “We’re not on piece work, Commissario Trotti.”

  “I see we are no longer on Christian name terms.”

  She was frowning, staring past him through the car window. “You didn’t seem to enjoy it.”

  “You’re angry with me.”

  “You don’t want to be liked, do you, Piero?”

  “What makes you think it’s Vardin down there?”

  “Or perhaps you can’t spare five minutes to go and look?”

  Back on the city side of the river, she turned right and after a hundred meters, pulled the car up on to the pavement between the trees, trees that had been planted towards the end of the Fascist era.

  (The LungoPò with its wide road had been one of Mussolini’s legacies to the small, provincial town—the LungoPò and the concrete barges, the hangars that had been built on the river banks for the seaplanes. And the young men Il Duce had sent to their death in Albania, in Russia and in the hills beyond the river.)

  “It’s him.” Ciuffi grinned her joy at Trotti. She got out of the car and started running down the steps.

  Almost in the shadow of the Ponte Coperto, a large boat rode at anchor. It must at one time have come upriver from the sea and now it served as a floating restaurant. Decorative rows of naked lightbulbs ran along the sides and on the aft deck, half a dozen tables were set out beneath an awning. The restaurant only functioned in the evening. In the early afternoon the boat seemed asleep, lulled by the slow and gentle movement of the river.

  A gangplank ran down from the boat on to a wooden pontoon.

  It was on the pontoon that Vardin sat fishing. In one hand he held a fishing rod. Beside him on the wooden planks there was another rod as well as fishing tackle.

  Trotti turned his glance from Vardin to Ciuffi. He was surprised by her speed. Neat, fast steps as she went down the stairs, her body slightly to one side and the click of her heels echoing off the red-brick wall of the LungoPò.

  On the other side of the river, Borgo Genovese.

  The serge uniform was attractive but it did not succeed in ageing her or giving her authority beyond her years. The small, lithe body of an adolescent girl.

  Trotti smiled.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Ciuffi ran a hand through her hair. She walked across the pontoon and called out to Vardin.

  Vardin turned.

  It was as Trotti approached them that the first bullet entered the side of her body, piercing the neat weave of Ciuffi’s uniform, her lungs and then her heart.

  Fractionally later there was a detonation but Trotti heard nothing.

  34: Phone

  “PAPA, IS THAT you?”

  “Pioppi.”

  “Papa, how are you? Are you all right?”

  “Where are you phoning from, Pioppi?”

  “They told me you were wounded. I’ve been trying to get you for the last twelve hours. Are you all right, Papa? I’m catching the next train home.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “The woman said you were shot at.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Papa, you must tell me the truth. I am worried about you.”

&
nbsp; “It’s nothing, Pioppi.”

  “It can’t be nothing if you’re in the hospital. Where were you hit? And how long are you going to be there for?”

  “A slight graze. I lost some blood.”

  “In the arm? Where were you hit?”

  “I’ll be out of here by tomorrow.”

  “Why did the woman say I couldn’t speak to you?”

  “There’s really nothing to worry about, Pioppi.”

  “Of course I am worried about you.”

  “There is no need. You must study. How is the course? And how is Nando?”

  “Nando’s with me now. We’re phoning from the station and I’m getting the Milan train in ten minutes.”

  “That’s absolutely stupid.”

  “Nando says it’s the right thing. Papa, you’ve been wounded. I will be there in five hours. And I phoned Mamma in America.”

  “In five hours I’ll be out of here.”

  “Mamma’s worried.”

  “Your mother has better things to worry about.”

  “Why are you always so stubborn? Why won’t you accept any help? I am your daughter—and I want to be with you.”

  “It is really not necessary.”

  “And the girl?”

  “What girl?”

  “They said there was a girl with you—a policewoman.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, how is she?”

  “She was hit.”

  “She will recover?”

  “Listen, Pioppi. There’s no need for you to come up. I am all right. I’ll be out of here soon. I will ring you tomorrow. I will ring from home. And, in the meanwhile, stay in Bologna. Stay with Nando—because he needs you. I’m all right, I swear to you. Don’t worry about me—and there’s no need to bother your mother. Tell her I am well. Just look after yourself, Pioppi. Ciao, bella.”

  “But Papa …”

  “I love you, Pioppi. Ciao.”

  35: Déjà vu

  “COMMISSARIO?”

  He was wearing an anorak and he had shaved away his mustache. He looked plumper than when Trotti had last seen him in Milan.

  “Commissario?”

  If Magagna had not been wearing his American sunglasses, Trotti would have had difficulty in recognizing him.

  “Well?”

  He had been sitting on a steel chair. He now stood up and emptied the contents of his pockets on to the bed. “I bought you these.” Half a dozen packets of boiled sweets.

  “A rich man.”

  “One of the advantages of working in the Pubblica Sicurezza—easy money and fast promotion.”

  Trotti smiled; then he winced in pain as they shook hands. “Unwrap one of those things for me.”

  “What flavor?”

  “A few years in Milan and you’ve forgotten that rhubarb is my favorite?”

  Magagna took one of the packets, removed the wrapping and placed the sweet in Trotti’s mouth.

  “Somebody been taking shots at you, Commissario?”

  “At me—or at a young policewoman.”

  “Ciuffi?”

  A sudden, overwhelming sense of déjà-vu. “You knew her, Magagna?”

  He shook his head. “Who did it, Commissario?”

  Trotti clicked the sweet against his teeth. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Not every day a policewoman is murdered—and a Commissario of the Pubblica Sicurezza has his rib broken by the same bullet.”

  Trotti said, “I want to get out of here.”

  “You’re in for at least a week.”

  “I’m going to find him.”

  “Who?”

  “Even if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “You know who it was?”

  Trotti shrugged.

  “And Ciuffi—you knew her well?”

  “We worked together. She was okay.”

  “Then it’s best if you do nothing, Commissario.” He shook his head. “Personal animosity …”

  “Even if it’s the last thing I do, Magagna.”

  “Think about your pension.” Magagna removed his sunglasses and looked at him. Dark, intelligent eyes. “Rest, Commissario. That’s what you need—perhaps even a holiday.”

  “I can count on your support, Magagna, can’t I?”

  “You’ll need to convalesce. You’re no longer a young man—you can’t afford to take risks.”

  “A few days, Magagna—that’s all I’m asking for.”

  Magagna placed a sweet in his mouth. He looked at Trotti. Then with both hands, he carefully put his sunglasses back on his nose.

  “You don’t owe me any favors, Magagna. But now, I’m asking you for a favor.”

  “Any news from Pioppi, Commissario? Not married yet or anything?”

  36: Warning

  “I THINK I know who killed her.”

  He had brought roses and the nurse had placed them in a vase by Trotti’s bedside. Now there were flowers everywhere. Bouquets from friends, colleagues, well-wishers. The sweet smell was strong and filled the small room.

  “I’m afraid you’re out of action.” The Questore put his head to one side as if to emphasize the point. “For the time being.”

  “But I know who killed her.”

  “Then you must tell the investigating judge in charge of the case.”

  Trotti let himself drop back against the pillows and stared at his hands and the wrinkled, sunburnt skin. The hands of an old man.

  “You can tell all you know to Judge d’Avorio.” A shrug. “Trouble is, Trotti, we have got all the press here—not just Milan, but people up from Rome, asking stupid questions. Not good for the city—and not good for the Questura. Things are going to be uncomfortable for a few days. I know that I can count on you.” The Questore raised his hand. “I would like you on the job. Rash at times, impulsive, polemic—but our Commissario Trotti usually manages to get the job done. Done well and fast.” An approving smile and a glint of the regular, white teeth. “Trotti, I don’t want you to think that you’re not appreciated.”

  Trotti was silent.

  “You understand?”

  He stared at his hands. “And Principessa, Signor Questore?”

  “I don’t want you thinking your competence is being called into question.”

  “What are we going to do about Principessa?”

  The Questore sat by the bedside. He was wearing a neat blue suit, immaculate and freshly pressed. “Principessa?” His hands lay on his lap. He raised his left hand slightly as a sign that he did not understand.

  “Gino’s dog.”

  “The doctors tell me that you should be out of here quite soon. I am relieved. You’re a lucky man, Trotti. Lucky to get off with just a broken rib—and slight shock.”

  “Gino retires at the end of the year—and his dog is dying. Gino needs a dog to get around. And for the company.”

  “You are in no way responsible for what has happened. Brigadiere Ciuffi was murdered in the course of her duty. All very unfortunate. And sad. There can be no question of your being held responsible. We all know that you are not a man to risk the life of your subalterns.”

  “Without his job—and without the dog, Gino will have nothing to do—nothing to live for.”

  “Ciuffi must have stepped back at the wrong moment.”

  “Gino has told …” Trotti lifted his glance. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Brigadiere Ciuffi must have stepped back at the wrong moment.” A hesitant cough. “The bullet wasn’t meant for her.”

  The smell of the flowers was now sickening. Turning his head, Trotti noticed for the first time there was a box of Swiss chocolates.

  “What you need, Trotti, is a rest. Perhaps up in the hills.” An indulgent smile. “Don’t you have a villa on one of the lakes?”

  “Lake Garda, Signor Questore.”

  “Get away, you need a rest. Go to the lake.”

  “I’m afraid …”

  “Or perhaps you would like to go to Bologna to be with y
our daughter.” He smiled. “Dotta e grassa—Bologna, the fat and learned city.”

  Trotti took the box of chocolates. A picture of the Dolomites on the lid.

  “I spoke to Signorina Trotti this morning over the phone. She is very worried about you. I’m sure you would be doing her a service by staying with her.”

  “There are things I have to do.”

  A cold edge to his voice. “I don’t think you have anything to do—not immediately.”

  “Things to do here,” Trotti said. “Here in the city.”

  “No, Trotti—I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”

  “Signor Questore—”

  The Questore held up his small hand. “Be reasonable.” He tried unsuccessfully to return the smile to his face. “I know you too well. I know you better than you know yourself, Trotti. And I know what happened between you and Leonardelli.” The Questore glanced at the box of chocolates. “I have nothing but respect for you. You are an honest man.”

  “A chocolate, Signor Questore?”

  “Honest—but rash. And at the present moment, with all of Italy watching us, I cannot allow any lapse of diplomacy.”

  Trotti was silent.

  “You do understand, Trotti, why I’m putting Commissario Merenda in charge of the police enquiries?”

  “Merenda?”

  “Two months, three months. A well-deserved rest. Time enough for your rib to heal. Time enough for you to get over …” The Questore leaned forward, placing his arms on the neat creases of his trousers. “I understand how you feel about Ciuffi. We are all upset about her. She was a woman—but she was more than that. Brigadiere Ciuffi was one of us. A good man—one of the best. Hard-working and good-humored. And above all, she shared all the ideals that for us in the Pubblica Sicurezza are so important. She was one of the team and as her immediate superior …”

  “Merenda in charge of the enquiry?”

  “I know Merenda will get the girl’s killer.” The Questore took a chocolate in gold wrapping.

  “It was me the murderer was aiming at. Me—not Merenda. And now Ciuffi is dead.”

  A nod as the Questore put the chocolate in his mouth and licked his fingertips. “Ciuffi is dead, Trotti. Nothing that you or I—”

  “Ciuffi died instead of me and now I don’t give a damn about you or Merenda or d’Avorio. It was me that was supposed to die—the bullets were meant for me. I’m going to find the man who killed Brigadiere Ciuffi.” He touched the bandage at his ribs. “If it is the last thing I do, I’m going to find him.”