Persona Non Grata

by Timothy Williams

  “Why?”

  “Because I hate you.” She smiled the same coquettish smile.

  “What harm have I done you?” Trotti could not hide his surprise.

  “Like your mother, Piero Trotti. Stubborn and self-righteous.”

  “Stubborn enough to want to know why you felt you had to kill me.”

  “A horrid, snooping policeman. A horrid little man.”

  Trotti had started to tremble. “Instead of me, you killed a young woman—an innocent young woman.”

  The Baronessa was no longer listening. She had turned and was now addressing Fra Gianni. “And then Italo came back. We all thought he had died. After so many years away, fighting all those wars, Italo came back. He didn’t know. I was married and I’m sure that it was his determination to see me again that helped him stay alive. In Russia he suffered frostbite—but he returned. Italo returned for me—for the only woman he had ever loved.”

  “Italo was sick.”

  “You are so like your mother, Piero Trotti.” She faced him. “Your mother was a calculating woman. A cold and calculating woman who thought I could get food and medicine from the Germans for her son. It was she who told me that Italo was back. Oh, she hated me, she’d never wanted her son to go with me. She said I was too old for him. But that didn’t stop her from telling me he was in hiding in the hills—hiding with the partisans.” Her eyes went from the priest to Trotti. “Whatever I did, I did for Italo. Not for that old woman.”

  “Mother died earlier this year.”

  She poured more schnapps into her glass. Her pale hand reminded Trotti of a bloodless insect. “So the priest tells me.”

  “Pauli von Neumann knew that the child was not his?”

  “Italo’s boy?”

  Trotti said, “The man I just met in Como. The German with a strange name. And a rifle in the boot of his car.”

  “Wolfgang is a dreamer. A poet and a dreamer.”

  “Your husband knew it was not his child?”

  “You believe I would lie to Pauli?”

  Trotti shrugged.

  “You are a peasant, Piero Trotti, and you take everybody for a peasant like yourself.”

  Fra Gianni spoke. “You lied to me all these years.”

  “Because you are a fool, Gianni. A priest and a fool.” She turned back to face Trotti. “Of course I told my husband. Pauli wasn’t happy. But he was good—and he understood. And later we had our two girls.” She raised her eyes towards where Fra Gianni was standing. “Ours was a very united family. I spent twenty marvelous years in Germany. And my daughters now write to me regularly.”

  “When you came back in 1965, it was then that you started murdering the old partisans?”

  “After the war Pauli and I lived in Hamburg. We were very happy. Of course sometimes we quarreled. But we were very happy—and soon after he died, I returned to Italy—and to the hills.”

  “You murdered Italo?”

  “Italo?” Her eyes flickered.

  “It wasn’t the partisans—it was you who murdered Italo—just as you tried to kill me.”

  55: Heirloom

  “I WAS IN Como with your son. He is in jail. I came here directly with the Captain of Carabinieri.”

  “A dreamer. Wolfgang is a dreamer like his father.”

  “Why did he change his name?”

  “What name?”

  “Schuhmaker—when your name is von Neumann?”

  She shrugged. “Pauli’s idea—he didn’t want the children to be laughed at at school. Very egalitarian, Pauli—he was ashamed of being an aristocrat. That’s why he married a peasant girl—an Italian peasant girl.”

  “And you gave the gun to your son?”

  “I didn’t give him anything, Piero Trotti.”

  “Why did he have the gun in his car?”

  “You must ask Wolfgang.”

  “He refuses to talk.”

  “Wolfgang is a good boy—but he can never be like his father. Because Italo was very special.” She smiled. “Italo was in love with me. And it was his love that kept him alive during the march through Russia. That terrible march through the snow when he lost two of his toes.”

  “I recognized him.” Trotti turned to look at the priest. “When I first saw the German, I thought it was my brother. He was sitting in the small cell and it was as if Italo had never died. The same face as Italo—older, and beginning to lose his hair. But still the same face.”

  “Not the same eyes. Nobody ever had those dark brown eyes.” The Baronessa shrugged. “Wolfgang wanted to help me—that’s why he came down from Germany. And that’s why he wanted to keep the gun.”

  “He could have thrown it away—thrown it in the river.”

  “A family heirloom?” A laugh. “He was furious I ever took it in the first place.” She glanced at the two men. “Strange how Wolfgang was so close to Pauli. He wasn’t the boy’s father and yet …” She faced Trotti, put her fist to her chin. “I was a good mother, you know. I loved my children—we still write. I am very fond of Wolfgang, who is so like his father. But I could never love Wolfgang the way I loved Italo. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Trotti did not reply.

  Gianni had sat down on the arm of the settee where he had poured himself a drink. He now held the empty glass between his large hands.

  “What are you going to do with me, Piero?”

  “What do you think, Baronessa?”

  The muscles at the corner of her mouth tightened. “A spiteful and vindictive person—even as a child.” She folded her arms. “With you, Piero, I can expect the worst.”

  “I must do my job.”

  “It was my fault—I shouldn’t have talked so much. I shouldn’t have told you everything. I regretted it immediately. You are more intelligent than the priest, I was suddenly afraid …” She hesitated, then smiled the same coquettish smile that she had used before. It softened her face and lit up her eyes. “You are going to throw an old woman into prison?”

  “An old woman who killed a young girl in the prime of her life.”

  “Like a priest, Piero.” A gesture of irritation, but the girlish smile remained. “At times, you can be so self-righteous.”

  “Brigadiere Ciuffi worked for me, Baronessa. It may not mean much to you—but I was responsible for her. She was an intelligent and good person. She was not beautiful—not beautiful as you were. But kind and hard-working.”

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  “I swore that I would find her killer—and I would see the killer punished.”

  She frowned. “You are a vindictive person, Piero. You always were. That’s why Italo always said—”

  “What do you know about Italo? You went to bed with him, you spent a few moments with him—and you think you know all about my brother? What do you know? You don’t own him. Because he gave you his child doesn’t mean that you own him, that you own his memory.”

  “I brought him back to life. Without me, without my love and my caring, he would have died.”

  “You murdered him.”

  A brittle, mocking laugh. “You say such outrageous things.”

  “You couldn’t have him as a husband—because you would never have given up your German baron and his wealth to go and live with a crippled war veteran. That was out of the question. Live with a poor Italian peasant when you had done everything to escape? When you had a house and money in Germany?”

  “The house in Hamburg was destroyed by the American bombers.”

  “You loved Italo perhaps in your cold and twisted way. I don’t doubt that you loved him. But you couldn’t accept that Italo would be going to live his life without you. You couldn’t accept that. You were carrying his child. And you knew there was no future for you. Not together.”

  “Absurd.”

  “And so you killed him.”

  There was a long silence. Just the noise of the river and the wind outside the house.

  “Just like your mother, Pier
o. You cannot understand—because you don’t know what love is. Real, disinterested love.”

  “Italo never loved you—he never even mentioned you.”

  A bright flame in her eyes. “It was a secret. Just me and Italo. And the Carabiniere.”

  “Saltieri?”

  “Saltieri helped us. Italo was very sick and his mind wasn’t what it had once been. Not even your mother knew about us. I didn’t want that interfering woman knowing about us. She knew I was getting food to Italo—food from the Germans. But she didn’t know that we …”

  “You visited Italo?”

  “It wasn’t easy. The partisans didn’t trust me, they never did. For them, I was the wife of a hated German officer. Although, God knows, Pauli never did the evil things they did to their own compatriots. They were monsters, Communists and monsters. Murderers. And your Primula Rosa, he was no better. He was …”

  “You stayed with Italo in the hills?”

  “How do you think I got pregnant?”

  “And the partisans didn’t know?”

  “I would go up into the hills with Saltieri. I wanted to be with him all the time—to be with Italo, to look after him. When we were together, it was just as it had been before he had gone off to be a soldier and fight in all those wretched wars. He was in Abyssinia—and Spain. And in the end he had to walk home from Russia. But he had always loved me.” Her shoulders dropped. “And I had gotten married.” She looked at Trotti. “It was the least I could do, wasn’t it? I would dress up as a man, put on a cloak and the Carabiniere would take me. It was my duty—after all the years. My duty to look after Italo after what he had been through.” A pause. “They killed him.”

  “They?”

  “The same wretched people who murdered Saltieri.”

  “The partisans?”

  “Piero Trotti, you never listen to a word I say.”

  “Such a lot is lies.”

  “They murdered Italo because he was with Saltieri.”

  “Then there’s no connection between my brother and the SS gold?”

  “Italo was witness to the murder of the Carabiniere.”

  “Why did they kill Saltieri?”

  “Because of me—indirectly because of me.” She shrugged. “He was fond of me.”

  “Fra Gianni says my brother knew about the gold.”

  “Italo was murdered long before the partisans ever took the Nazi gold.”

  “Then why did they murder him?”

  “Because they thought Italo was spying for Saltieri. And perhaps Saltieri really did hope to get Italo to tell him about the partisans.” She shrugged. “Or perhaps it was just for my sake that he went up into the hills and took the food and the cigarettes. Saltieri was our go-between—and, in the end, the partisans killed him.”

  Silence.

  “They killed Italo because they thought he had collaborated with the Carabiniere.” Again she shrugged. “They were his friends—the partisans and Primula Rosa were his friends.”

  Trotti could hear the whine of the wind.

  “They killed Italo.” Suddenly the bright smile. “It was only normal, wasn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “Only normal that I should avenge Italo’s murder. They deserved to die, all of them. Dandanin, Draghin, la Nini. And the two others—there were five of them and they were responsible for his death. The only man that I ever really loved—and they killed him in cold blood. I was right, wasn’t I, Piero? It was only right that I should kill them. They deserved to die, didn’t they?”

  56: Return

  TROTTI SAID, “SHE must have phoned the Questura and somebody put her on to Centrale—or AV7. She was expecting us. Somebody must have told her that Ciuffi had phoned in that we were going down to the river—looking for a man who was fishing.” Trotti smiled at Spadano. “The old woman took her rifle and drove down to Borgo Genovese in the 600. It couldn’t have been very difficult to find Vardin—he was the only person fishing at that time of day. The Baronessa was waiting for me.”

  “Why did she want to kill you?”

  “She was afraid.”

  “What of?”

  “She was afraid of me in a way that she’d never been afraid of the priest. She had him round her little finger—but with me it was different. She felt that I’d soon guess she was behind the five murders.”

  “According to your priest, there were six.”

  “Tomaso died long before the Baronessa returned from Germany. He fell into the river bed and smashed the back of his head.” Trotti shrugged. “Probably his death that gave the old woman her idea. Not the idea of revenge—but made her realize that a woman could kill them all and get away with it.”

  “And now?”

  “Now what?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Trotti laughed and put a hand on the door handle. “I’m going to go home and sleep.”

  “What are you going to do about the old woman?”

  Trotti climbed out of the car. “Buona sera, Capitano Spadano.”

  “You didn’t want me to arrest her.”

  “She’s the mother of my nephew.”

  “She murdered Brigadiere Ciuffi—and there’s enough evidence to arrest her for the murders in the hills.”

  “It can wait. A few days.”

  “Why?”

  “Buona sera, Spadano.”

  Spadano looked at Trotti in silence for a few moments. Then he nodded. “Buona sera, Signor Commissario.”

  “And thanks for everything.”

  The car did a sharp U-turn and disappeared along via Milano, heading back towards the city.

  Trotti pushed open the garden gate and went up the steps. He glanced absentmindedly at the potted plants that needed watering. He turned the key in the lock and let himself into the house. Trotti immediately recognized the reassuring, familiar smell. A smell of floor polish and emptiness. He shut the door behind him. His rib hurt. Pioppi’s bear was gone from the top of the wardrobe.

  He went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He was not hungry. He poured himself half a glass of chilled mineral water and turned on the television. Cold bubbles jumped from the glass on to his hand.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw again the old woman’s face.

  “Only normal that I should avenge Italo’s murder. They deserved to die, all of them. Dandanin, Draghin, la Nini. And the two others—there were five of them and they were responsible for his death. The only man that I ever really loved—and they killed him in cold blood. I was right, wasn’t I, Piero? It was only right that I should kill them. They deserved to die, didn’t they?”

  Half an hour later the telephone rang.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Who’s speaking?” Trotti asked.

  “Where’ve you been, Papa?”

  “In Verona.”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “There’s no need to worry. Where are you phoning from?”

  “They said that you’d been hurt.”

  “Give me your number, Pioppi, and I’ll ring back.”

  “Nando’s here with me. We’ve been worried about you. They said that you were kidnapped.”

  Trotti laughed. “A slight exaggeration.”

  “The man said you’d been kidnapped and that you’d been drugged.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “That nice man who works with you.”

  “Pisanelli?”

  “A policeman came round looking for me and I went to the Questura here. And I spoke over the phone to your colleague. He is very sympathetic.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about, Pioppi.”

  “A commissario like you—with a strange name. Minestra or Pasticcio or something.”

  “Merenda?”

  “That’s right.” A nervous laugh. “Commissario Merenda said that you’d been drugged and kidnapped and he wanted me to come and fetch you.”

  “Stay where you are, Pioppi.”


  “Who drugged you?”

  “Stay with Nando.”

  “Papa, you must tell me. Commissario Merenda seemed very concerned about you. He said the whole Questura was upset by what had happened to you—and that’s why he had me sent for.”

  “It’s all a mistake.”

  “What’s a mistake?”

  Trotti did not reply. He looked unthinkingly at the flickering television screen.

  “If you don’t tell me, Papa, I’ll have to phone Mother.”

  “Leave Agnese alone.”

  “Why were you kidnapped?”

  He repressed a sigh. “I was looking for a man. And in the course of the enquiries, I met up with an old friend of his. They’d been in jail together.”

  “Well?”

  “According to the Carabinieri, the two men—the man I was looking for and the man I spoke to in Verona—they were about to do a series of hold-ups—banks in the Verona/Mantua area. And so when I turned up asking questions, they wanted me out of the way. They thought …”

  “Well?”

  “They thought that I’d got wind of their projects. They wanted me out of the way for a couple of days. That’s all.”

  “They drugged you?”

  “Pioppi, I’m all right and they’ve been arrested. Two men and a woman so far.”

  “You always take risks.”

  “An old man like me?”

  “You’re not old.”

  “All I want to do is pick up my pension and retire.”

  “Go back to the hills?”

  “That’s right. I will keep bees and I will make my own wine. And perhaps have a few chickens and some cattle. You will be married and you’ll come with Nando, bringing the grandchildren.”

  “You’re laughing at me, Papa!” She paused. “And anyway, you don’t like Nando.”

  “Nando’s a good boy.”

  “Papa, do you want us to come up?”

  “No.”

  “We can catch the Milan train on Saturday. Commissario Merenda said …”

  “I’ll come to Bologna next week.”

  “You promise, Papa?”

  “I promise.”

  “Papa?”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you found the man who murdered the policewoman?”

  “Perhaps,” Trotti said. “I’ll be in touch. Ciao, Pioppi.”