by John Harris
Pugh put the notebook and pen away and looked at Focchia. ‘You’re telling me a pack of lies, aren’t you?’
‘No, your honour. I swear on the shroud of my sister who died as pure as driven snow at the age of seventeen.’
‘Save your breath,’ Pugh said, not unkindly. ‘I know more about your uncle than you do.’
Focchia smiled. ‘That’s possible, your honour.’
‘His name wasn’t Arnaldo. It was Gustavo. And he didn’t live in the Via Opera. His address was Via Maddalena, 7. And he didn’t have a wife buried here because he didn’t have a wife, or any children, in the north or anywhere else. He was a bachelor.’
Focchia looked panic-stricken. ‘Well, you see, he wasn’t a close relative.’
‘How close do you want him? He was your uncle, you said.’
‘Well–’
‘You don’t know the undertaker in Naples because the funeral was nothing to do with you. Neither there nor here. And you didn’t attend the funeral – which incidentally was at the Cimitero Monumentale – because you were never asked.’ Pugh smiled. ‘And this uncle of yours whose name and address you don’t know, whose funeral you didn’t attend – despite the fact that the coffin rested in your house for a night – was not a tall, strong man. He was small. Your size. I think you’d better tell me what you know.’
Focchia gave an agonised glance at his wife, who promptly burst into tears and flopped into a chair alongside the new radio.
‘It was nothing to do with me,’ Focchia muttered.
Pugh’s voice grew harsher. ‘The coffin was here! In your house! For a whole night!’
‘Yes.’ Focchia seemed able to admit that without worry.
‘He wasn’t your uncle, was he?’
‘He was – well – a relation.’
‘What relation? I can check.’
‘I–’ Focchia flung another despairing glance at his wife and gave up the struggle. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘He was not my relation.’
‘So why did the coffin come here?’
‘I was paid to keep it here for the night.’
‘I won’t ask how much. I expect it was enough.’
‘It was substantial, your honour,’ Focchia agreed. ‘We were in need of it. It seemed very little to do for the money that was offered.’
‘Who gave you this money?’
Focchia’s eyes were frantic again. ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Why? Because you’re afraid of him?’
‘I’ – Focchia shook his head as though recovering from a blow – ‘yes, your honour, I am afraid.’
‘Was the coffin opened here?’
‘I didn’t see it opened.’
‘So what happened exactly?’
‘I was told to tell the neighbours that my uncle in Naples had died and that now the trains were running he was being brought to Rome to be alongside his wife.’
‘Go on.’
‘We were told to expect the coffin on the morning train from Naples. We were not to meet it. We had simply to wait in the apartment, dressed in our best clothes, with black armbands, because it was being brought by relations.’
‘What happened when it arrived?’
‘We met it by the main entrance and followed it up the stairs. When it was inside the apartment, one of the men who brought it closed the door. Then he gave me a lot of money – 10,000 lire, your honour; that is a lot of money to us – and told us to go to the bedroom and stay there. After it was dark, we were told to leave the building and stay away for the night. We went to my daughter’s house, which is at Frascati. We said there was a gas leak.’
‘When did you come back?’
‘When they told us to come back. The next morning.’
‘What then?’
‘The coffin was still here, but there were several suitcases in the entrance. Shortly afterwards the undertaker arrived and took the coffin away. The men stood with their hats against their chests, and followed it down the stairs.’
‘And you?’
‘We were told to stay here and to say my wife was unwell and couldn’t go to the funeral.’
‘What happened to the suitcases?’
‘The men took them. They put them in a big black car which arrived to take them to the cemetery.’
‘Would it surprise you to know that those men didn’t go to the cemetery, either?’
Focchia sighed. ‘No, your honour. It would not surprise me.’
‘What about when the coffin had gone? What did you do?’
‘We tidied the apartment. Chairs were not in their proper places, of course. The coffin had rested on four of them in the living room. We put them back where they belonged.’
‘Did you find anything? Did the men leave anything behind?’
‘Wrappings, your honour. That’s all.’
‘What sort of wrappings?’
Focchia glanced at his wife, who dried her tears and disappeared to the kitchen. She returned later with an armful of paper.
‘We thought for safety we had better get rid of it in small portions,’ Focchia explained. ‘A little at a time.’
Pugh sifted through the paper. Eventually, he found a label marked ‘United States Army. 95th Evacuation Hospital.’
‘Is this all?’
‘There was a cracked bottle. We kept it in case it was wanted.’
‘Bring it.’
The bottle was small and Pugh guessed it had contained drugs of some sort.
‘Anything else?’
‘No, Signore.’
‘What do you think was in the coffin? Besides the body.’
Focchia shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Signore,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if there was anything. But I smelled whisky.’
Eight
It was while he was in Frascati checking Focchia’s story with his daughter that Pugh heard the Allies in France were on the move and, since the invasion of France seemed to herald the approaching end of the war more than anything in Italy ever had, he decided it might be a good idea to go on to Severino Campagna and pick up the paintings he had stored when he had departed for England early in 1940.
Signora Foa was pleased to see him. She looked older and very thin, but she insisted on producing a bottle of vermouth and left it with him while she searched for the canvasses. When he looked at them his heart sank. He had thought they were good but now, after four years, he recognised how awful they were. Perhaps, as he’d suggested to Tamara, he ought to go back to law because he’d never make a living as a painter.
‘They are very beautiful,’ the old lady said.
‘If you want them,’ Pugh said, ‘they’re yours. They’re not very good, but you ought to be able to sell them for a little. It’ll compensate you for looking after them for so long.’
He was glad to turn his back on that part of his life because, he saw now, it had been lonely, disillusioned and wasted, and he was glad to report back to Jones.
‘I think we’ve got to open that grave,’ he said.
Jones rubbed his nose. ‘What are you expecting to find?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ Pugh said. ‘Except a small man in a very large coffin which will doubtless be weighted with stones wrapped in blankets to stop them moving about. They were in a hurry and thought they could get away with it, and they couldn’t be bothered to put on a show of going to the burial. They wanted to get away with the loot.’
‘What do you think it was?’
‘Surgical instruments? Drugs? Penicillin? I think there was whisky, too, because they opened a bottle in the Focchias’ apartment.’
‘Who do you reckon’s behind it?’
‘The usual lot. But Sansovino, who was the sindaco at Vicinamontane, was one of the men who took the coffin to Rome. He’s the chap I saw visiting Tirandolo at Poggio Reale after I shoved him in clink for pinching penicillin. Perhaps he’s taken the operation over from him while he’s hors de combat. The other two were men I saw with him at Vicinamontane. I think they�
�re opening a new route. That stuff you were talking about in Reggio di Calabria isn’t all going by sea. Some of it’s going by rail from here.’
‘Right,’ Jones nodded. ‘I’ll have a word with the investigation department of the military police. They’ll back us up. How much do you think military personnel are involved?’
‘They must be involved somewhere. How else would they get the drugs?’
‘Do we have anything else that will convince them?’
‘I wondered who it was who approached Focchia to do what he did, so I tried to find out something about him. He’s a clerk at a garage. A big one. Name of Riparazione Partenope. Then I wondered why they’d picked him in particular, because the gangs never use people who’re related or known to be in touch for a thing like this. It turned out he was just handy, that’s all. All the same, it’s interesting.’
Jones obligingly looked interested.
‘Riparazione Partenope,’ Pugh went on, ‘is part of Industriale Pugliese, which seems to be a front operation for a man called Eugenio Gerratana, who’s well known to the Rome police. He was a collaborationist with the Germans, with the Fascists, with a lot of people, but he’s powerful enough to be untouchable. He’s the Roman equivalent to Vito Genovese. He runs the gangs. The big gangs are his and the little gangs pay him a toll to be allowed to operate. There’s one other thing. His wife’s name was Raffaela Tirandolo. Tirandolo’s Gerratana’s brother-in-law.’
Jones grinned. ‘Is he, by God? That’s interesting. We’re going to have to work this one carefully.’
‘Very carefully. Gerratana’s got a lot of pull and he lives as if he knows it – in a big house near the Sastavera Gardens – and he doesn’t give a damn about the police.’
‘He will if we find anything on his property. Because if this thing links up, we might round up a few others here and there as well. Perhaps not him or Genovese, but if we can round up enough of their sidekicks we can stop their antics.’ Jones frowned. ‘For a time, anyway, until they train some new blood. Still, even that would be a triumph. Let’s get on with it.’ He paused. ‘But let’s play our cards close to our chest, shall we? This is between you and me and the general. We don’t want anything leaking out.’
‘What about Tasker? He’s supposed to know what we’re doing.’
‘I think Baracca might be involved in this as well as in trying to get the Detto Bantis out of the country. The bastard might even be another of Gerratana’s relations, so we’ll keep it from Tasker, just in case he lets something drop.’
It wasn’t easy to get permission for the disinterment of Gustavo Grei without letting everybody in the world know what they were up to. But the colonel in command of the special investigation branch of the military police was an ex-Scotland Yard man, and he wasn’t the type to back away from responsibility. All he requested was that one of his men whom he could trust – ‘And, by God,’ he admitted, ‘you can’t trust ’em all’ – should be present. He signed the necessary forms without argument, and Pugh and Jones and a police major set off for Rome by road.
Highway 6 was still crammed with military vehicles going north, and all along the road were smashed hamlets and small towns, now lit by the sunshine that showed their wounds. The area was trying desperately to claw itself back to a normal existence in a waste of destroyed buildings and devastated fields and vineyards. Heavy carts dragged by lean oxen held up the traffic, and here and there peasants and monks worked to make ruined buildings habitable. The roads were full of refugees; men, women and children struggling along with all they possessed – bedding, mattresses, clothes and household goods carried on their backs or piled on handcarts. The desolation was everywhere, and in small dark rooms whole families crouched round a single table, indifferent to the moving troops and vehicles, to the shattered buildings and the debris of the battles.
Cassino, where the road looped south round the mountain, was in ruins and above their heads, brooding, lay the slopes that had dominated the battlefield for so long. There was a titanic majesty about the area, frightening in its vastness, and on one peak was the crumbled shape of what had been the sixth century Benedictine Abbey of Monte Cassino until a massive air attack had been made on it earlier in the year.
Rome had the look now of a sick individual who was gradually recovering strength. It was on its feet at last, shaky and weak, but moving. What business there was, was operating, and those who had jobs were going with certainty about their work. There were soldiers everywhere, mostly Americans but a few British, too, and as they passed through the Piazza Venezia they heard bagpipes.
They had not informed the American authorities of their visit and were operating solely with the British military police. The major in command was worried because there were a lot of revenge shootings of collaborators by people who had lost relatives under the occupation, and a great deal of partisan activity just to the north. Strafed continually by Allied aircraft, the Germans had unleashed their fury on the partisans who had tried to ambush them, and it had been reciprocated. Both Germans and partisans had been shot and tortured, and the Germans were having to form specialist units to combat the attacks.
But the police major had laid on help and went with them to the civic authorities and to the director of the cemetery, who led them to the grave. Over it already lay a marble slab, large and heavy and lacking in interest.
‘Bit quick, wasn’t it?’ Pugh said. ‘I didn’t think they worked as fast as that.’
‘It appeared two days after the burial,’ the director said. ‘I was surprised, because marble coverings take time.’
‘It’s square,’ the policeman pointed out in a flat voice. ‘Unsculptured, and has only the single name, Grei, which is not a long one. There are no forenames, no dates. Four letters. It wouldn’t take long.’
The director gave them the address of the stonemason who had provided the stone. He said he knew nothing more than that he had been paid – in cash – to carve the name on the block of marble and put it in place.
‘At once, they said,’ he told them.
‘Who were “they”?’
The stonemason shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Signore. They gave me no names. Just instructions – and money.’
His description indicated the same three men who had hired the clerk, Focchia; together with Andreotti, the funeral director; and Cirri, in Naples. Obviously their influence and interests were wide enough to cover both cities.
‘And probably a lot in between as well,’ Jones said.
The following morning, before it was properly light, Jones and Pugh and the police major appeared at the cemetery, where the director was waiting for them. He led them down the rutted gravel-covered road to the new part of the cemetery, where Grei was buried. Fresh gravel had not been laid on it since the war and it was uneven, bare in parts and green with sprouting grass. The director had erected canvas screens round the grave. ‘For a measure of privacy,’ he said. ‘There won’t be anyone here at this time but we have to preserve the decencies.’ And just alongside was a mobile crane belonging to the Royal Engineers. The Engineers had already managed to pass wire slings under the stone and the ends were shackled to the hook of the crane.
To one side, looking faintly embarrassed, like poor relations at a rich man’s party, were the two gravediggers the director of the cemetery had supplied. They were elderly Italians in shabby clothes, their faces gaunt as if they could do with a good meal, their chins sprouting beards several days old. Standing with them was a young doctor from the RAMC, who looked as if he hadn’t the slightest idea what was going on, and a priest, whom the director of the cemetery had insisted should be present.
‘Believe me,’ the police major said, ‘this has taken some doing without the Americans finding out.’
‘Perhaps it’s as well they haven’t,’ Jones said. ‘If – as we suspect – one of their people’s involved, there might be an attempt at a cover-up.’
The major nodded to the Engineer sergeant, and th
e driver of the crane started the engine. As he began to work levers and the wires tightened, the priest began to mutter to himself. The slings tautened and slowly the heavy slab of marble lifted. As it was moved to one side and laid on the ground, the priest crossed himself and the two gravediggers moved forward.
It was full daylight before they uncovered the lid of the coffin, then the two gravediggers lifted their heads to find out what to do next.
‘Just clear the earth away,’ Jones said. ‘So we can lift the lid. I want to see what’s inside.’
‘Gustavo Grei,’ the policeman said. ‘What else do you expect?’
As the lid was unscrewed, they all leaned forward.
‘Big coffin for a little man,’ Jones said.
As Pugh had expected, the corpse of Gustavo Grei, waxen-faced, sunken-cheeked, hands folded on his chest, was dwarfed by the size of the box that contained him because there was a gap at each side of the corpse which was padded by what appeared to be rolls of blanket.
‘Let’s have them up here,’ Jones said.
The blankets were passed up and Jones unrolled them carefully, almost as if he expected them to contain dynamite. By the time they had removed the lot, the corpse seemed lost in the enormous coffin.
‘There’s a lot of room left when you take those things out,’ the police major said.
‘Room for a few things such as contraband,’ Jones agreed. He turned to the director of the cemetery. ‘We shall need this coffin. Can you arrange to transfer the body to a coffin that would fit it?’
‘Try Andreotti,’ Pugh suggested. ‘I expect you have his address. He’d be glad of the work.’
The director nodded. ‘I’ll get in touch with him at once,’ he said. ‘What do you wish me to do? Re-inter him?’
‘Why not? He’s not done much except die.’
That night, they decided to call on Focchia again. The police major went with them because by this time he was beginning to grow very suspicious.
When they drew into the Via Romolo e Remo there was a small crowd of people standing outside the door of the block where the Focchias lived. Immediately, Pugh felt his heart thump.
