A Mortal Terror

by James R Benn

  “Shell shock,” Kaz said. “Combat fatigue.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I did not know these terms, but Dottore Galante explained them to me. It was his life’s work, he said, to learn about this. He was very annoyed with some officer who kept him from it, and had him sent to work at the hospital.”

  “Did he and Father Dare speak about this?”

  “Yes. When he came for dinner, it seemed the padre was asking his opinion about soldiers they both knew. But I did not pay attention to names. American names are so strange to me, especially the names soldiers use.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What is the word? Soprannome?”

  “Nicknames,” Kaz supplied.

  “Yes, yes. It makes it so difficult to understand, especially with the Americans. One of the men they talked about, he had a French name, at least to my ears. And there was something about a ridiculous town he was from. They always laughed when they said it.”

  “Louie Walla from Walla Walla?”

  “Yes!” She slapped her hand on the table. “The dottore was worried about him. Why, I cannot say. I was too busy preparing la Genovese.”

  “Were the other doctors at the dinner?”

  “No, they were both working. I think Dottore Galante wished to dine alone with Il Prete.”

  “La Genovese? Is that the Neapolitan beef and onion ragout?” Kaz’s concentration on the case had apparently been broken.

  “Yes, Barone. I will make it for you, if you can find some good meat. Not horse meat, although it will do in a pinch,” Signora Salvalaggio said, with a conspiratorial smile.

  “Why do they call it la Genovese, if it comes from Naples?” I asked.

  “A mystery,” she said, with a shrug.

  A real mystery. Priests and doctors, suicide and murder, hidden pearls and Willie Peter grenades. Nothing made sense, nothing connected. I drank the last of the espresso, now gone cold, the harsh taste gritty and sour on my tongue. Kaz and the signora chatted on about cooking while all I could think of was who was going to be dealt the next card.

  Then I recalled seeing women in Sicily, squatting at the side of the road, their knives slicing into the bodies of horses killed in the German retreat. The animals were still in harness, flies buzzing around their eyes, as the Sicilian women butchered them and carried slabs of flesh home, blood staining their shoulders. I watched Signora Salvalaggio, and wondered what she might be capable of. To what lengths would she go to recover her honor? Or the pearls?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “WHAT SHOULD WE do with the pearls?” Kaz asked as we drove to the palace to pick up Luca Amatori, our Carabinieri guide for our trip to Bar Raffaele in Acerra.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I wish I knew if they were a dead end or a connection to the murders. There might be some percentage in letting it slip that we have them.”

  “Meaning a fair chance that someone will try to kill us for them. I’d prefer a different plan, Billy.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t have worked anyway. If word got out, CID would want us to turn in the pearls. They’d sit in a locked file somewhere until a colonel with a key decided to bring home a souvenir. No sense in letting that happen.”

  “What would you do if this were Boston?”

  I wanted to say, Whatever the patrol sergeant said to do. My experience as a detective was limited to the few weeks between my uncle calling in a few favors on the promotions board, and the attack on Pearl Harbor. Before that, I’d been a beat cop, working different parts of the city, and helping Dad out when he needed a few extra bluecoats at a crime scene. Dad was a homicide detective, and it was his plan to bring me up in the family business. It was a good plan, but the war had gotten in the way. Instead, I said, “It’s not the same. I doubt we’d ever find a dead queen’s pearls in Boston.”

  “What about one of the old Boston families? The Brahmins, as you call them. You find jewelry from a theft that happened fifty years ago. The original owner is dead. The family is stupendously wealthy. No one is pursuing the case. What do you do?”

  I took a corner harder than I needed to, sending Kaz rocking in his seat. Only fair, since he was putting me in a corner too.

  “You forgot the old family retainer, living a life of shame.”

  “What if there were one?”

  “I know some cops who’d split it with her. Not many. A few would turn it in, a few would keep it for themselves.”

  “What about the rest?”

  “My dad always said you couldn’t trust a guy who was either too honest or too crooked.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kaz said.

  “I didn’t either, at first,” I said. It was hard to explain. “Okay, for example. There was a fire, a few years before the war, in Mattapan Square. Big two-family house, four-alarm blaze in the middle of the night. Everyone got out, and the firemen kept it from spreading to the neighbors, but the building was ruined, had to be torn down before it caved in on itself. So the next day, I’m there with a few other cops to keep the onlookers at a safe distance while the wrecking crew takes it down. There’s a fire truck too, in case anything’s smoldering under the debris.”

  “Are there any Boston Brahmins in this story?” Kaz asked.

  I responded with a hard stop at an intersection, but he’d braced himself for it. “Wait. There was an attic, used by the two families for storage. But it used to be an apartment, back before the turn of the century. No one remembered who’d lived there, or where they went. When they pulled the front of the house down, a wooden crossbeam came loose and hit the ground, rolled right into one of the workers. Broke his leg. So we push the crowd back to make room for him, and as we’re standing around while the firemen rig a stretcher, a cop named Augie Perkins notices a coffee can sticking out from the horsehair lathing on a section of interior wall. It was from the attic. Stuffed full of fives, tens, and twenties, all rolled up tight.”

  “Why leave money inside a wall?”

  “You’d be surprised what you find hidden in old houses. Lots of people don’t trust banks or their relatives, so they keep money hidden. Trouble is, they don’t tell anyone, and end up taking their secret to the grave.”

  “Who owned the house?”

  “I’ll get to that. The lid was off, and Augie sees that there’s a ton of dough in that can, and he thinks no one else sees it. So he eases over, kneels down to tie his shoe, pulls it free, and stuffs it under his jacket.”

  “But you saw him, right?”

  “No, a pal of mine did. Joe Leary, one of the firemen. He waits until the worker is loaded onto the ambulance, and the crowd breaks up. Then he clocks Augie good, opens his coat, and shows the rest of us what he’d taken.”

  “And you arrested him?”

  “No. Joe told us the building was owned by a rich guy named Frederick Perkins. Almost a Brahmin. Good enough for one of them to marry his daughter, and his money, anyway. We weren’t in a hurry to give him a tin can of cash he never knew about. So there’s ten of us, not counting the guy with the broken leg. Joe suggested we split it thirteen ways.”

  “Why thirteen?”

  “A share for each of the families that were burned out, one for the guy with the broken leg, and the ten of us. Even Augie, but we had to cut him in, just to keep him quiet.”

  “It sounds like an admirable plan.”

  “Except for Teddy Booker. Augie was the greedy one, and Teddy was the too-honest one. He threatened to turn us all in if we didn’t give the money to the owner of the property. Joe threatened to bash him one, too, but Teddy didn’t give in. He took the money, and reported both Augie and Joe for pilfering.”

  “What happened?”

  “No one would speak to Teddy after that. They called him By-the-Book Booker. He quit the force and moved to Chicago. Augie and Joe lost their jobs. Frederick Perkins got a can of cash, had a heart attack two weeks later and died.”

  “And the moral of the story?” Kaz asked.

  “Li
ke my dad always said, don’t trust anyone too honest or too crooked. They’ll both get you in hot water.”

  “I still don’t know what we’re going to do with the pearls. But at least now I know not to give them to Augite or Teddy,” Kaz said.

  “Which do you think Luca Amatori is?” I said, as we pulled onto the gravel driveway leading to the palace to pick up our escort and former enemy.

  “I think we’ll find out more without his boss around,” Kaz said. “Capitano Trevisi didn’t seem to think much his Tenente’s opinions.”

  “Buon giorno,” the Carabinieri lieutenant said as he walked to the jeep. He was right on time. Kaz got in back and the lieutenant thanked him.

  “After enduring Billy’s driving, you might not thank me, Tenente.”

  “Please, call me Luca. We are all lieutenants, yes? It would be tiresome to hear of it constantly.”

  “Certainly, Luca. Call me Kaz, which is Billy’s version of Kazimierz.”

  “Been stuck at tenente long?” I asked as we shook hands.

  “Stuck? Yes, and at war also,” Luca said, pulling his blue service cap down tight on his head. “It has been a long time since we have known peace. Here, take this turn for Acerra,” he said as we came to the main road. We drove south, past horse-drawn carts loaded with firewood, blackened ruins, the odd intact farmhouse, and fallow winter fields, sodden from recent rains. The weather was clearing, low gray clouds tumbling across the sky, making way for the sun and the bombers that would follow.

  “Have you been stationed at Caserta long?” Kaz asked, leaning in from the backseat.

  “No. I was transferred here with others from my battalion, two months ago. We had been in Yugoslavia, but returned to Italy with the armistice. I think we are about to be sent somewhere else. We have received new arms and supplies, and there are many rumors.”

  “Not the first time I heard that. Any idea where?”

  “No. No one tells us anything. We wait, we patrol, and we do what we can against the black market, but it is hopeless.”

  “Do you have much trouble with GIs?”

  “Yes, but we can do little about it. Only the military police and your CID may arrest your soldiers. We work closely with them, but it is understandable that they take care of their own in a foreign country.”

  His words made sense, but I could tell from his tone that it bothered him. It would bother any good cop, so I liked that about him. “Any scuttlebutt about where you’re going?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “American jargon,” Kaz said. “Rumors, loose talk.”

  “Ah. We will be flown into Rome after American paratroopers take the airport. Or, that we will land on the beaches west of Rome with our own San Marco Marine Regiment. We are going to protect the pope, we are escorting the king into Rome, take your choice. They all involve fantasies of heroics and reclaiming our national honor. I suspect the reality will be somewhat less glamorous.”

  “Rome is not that far away, maybe a hundred and twenty miles. It’s not impossible.”

  “Except for the Germans dug in along the Bernhardt Line, and on Monte Cassino, it would be a pleasant drive,” Luca said. “Although machine guns do spoil any outing.”

  “A seaborne landing does make sense,” Kaz said, more usefully. “To go around them.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell General Eisenhower next time I see him,” I said. Getting to Rome sounded fine to me. Maybe I could go along and find Diana.

  “If only generals would listen to lieutenants,” Luca said.

  “This general will. Billy is his nephew. We are attached to General Eisenhower’s headquarters,” Kaz said, with a touch of pride in his voice.

  “Really?” Luca looked like he had a hard time believing we worked for Uncle Ike.

  “Yeah, really. Now tell us what you know about Bar Raffaele.”

  “How can I say no to the nephew of General Eisenhower himself? The bar is run by a pimp named Stefano Inzerillo. He took over a bombed-out building, cleaned it up, put in a rough bar, a few tables, and serves terrible wine at high prices, which soldiers are willing to pay.”

  “The women?”

  “Inzerillo is smart. He does not employ them directly, and they do not use his premises for their services. He has kept out of trouble, and probably pays someone not to declare the place off-limits.”

  “But he did have trouble recently, according to the men in Lieutenant Landry’s platoon. He made them pay for damages.”

  “I had not heard. Inzerillo has at least two men at the bar at all times to prevent fights.”

  “Bouncers?”

  “If you mean men who will break an arm or a kneecap, then yes.”

  “Thugs,” Kaz said.

  “Yes, thugs,” Luca said, nodding his head. “If anyone caused damages, they must have been damaged themselves. Inzerillo is not one to be caught unawares.”

  We drove on, passing a crumbling castle perched on a hilltop, surrounded by olive trees. Destroyed in another war, centuries ago, Luca informed us. It was nice to know we weren’t responsible for every ruined building in sight.

  “Billy,” Kaz said from the backseat, “there’s a jeep following us. It’s been there since we left the palace, hanging back.”

  “I see it,” I said, checking the rearview mirror. With the canvas top up, it was hard to tell who or how many were in it. “You sure it’s following us?”

  “Either that or they left for Acerra right after us.”

  “There is an AMGOT office in Acerra,” Luca said. The American Military Government for Occupied Territories ran government functions in areas that had been liberated. “I’ve made the trip on several occasions with American officers in a jeep. Nothing unusual about it.”

  “Keep an eye on it anyway, Kaz.” At that moment, two jeeps came around a curve and passed us in the opposite direction. A common enough sight, as Luca said. I drove on, past olive groves, the trees with their silvery leaves in straight rows, marred by the occasional shell hole and shattered, blackened trunks.

  We followed Luca’s directions into Acerra, winding through narrow streets, past a walled castle, complete with moat and drawbridge, where American and British flags flew next to the Italian banner. That had to be AMGOT. We entered a neighborhood of even narrower streets. Clothing hung from lines strung between buildings, adding odd traces of color to the dingy and shadowed roadway. Shops and homes were shuttered, and only a few civilians were on the street, eyeing us with indifference, suspicion, fear, or avarice, depending on their intentions. I was pretty sure that covered all the bases in this part of town.

  We pulled over in front of a building with a gaily painted sign announcing this was Bar Raffaele. The sign was the nicest thing on the street. Empty wine bottles, cigarette butts, and other debris littered the sidewalk. The sour smell of spilled wine mingled with the tang of urine and rotting garbage.

  “Welcome to Acerra,” Luca said.

  “Reminds me of certain parts of Boston,” I said. “Scollay Square, right outside the Crawford House, for instance. Makes me a little homesick, almost.”

  “It makes me ill,” Kaz said. He pounded on the locked door. “I hope it smells better inside.” There was no answer.

  “Aprire, aprire!” Luca thundered, hammering on the door with the butt of his pistol. “Carabinieri!”

  I heard the creak of doors and shutters opening all around us, as people risked a look at the commotion. I turned around and they all shut, no one wanting to take a chance on being seen and dragged into an unknown situation.

  “Carabinieri? Italiano?” came a voice from behind the door. It sounded fearful and weak, not what I was expecting.

  “Si, aprire ora,” Luca said, and the door cracked open far enough for a bloodshot eyeball to peer out at us. It flickered at each of us, growing wide as it lit on me. Luca said something calming in Italian, and the guy finally undid the chain lock and opened the door.

  He was holding a sawed-off shotgun. But that wasn’t w
hat surprised me. It was his face. Ugly purplish-red bruises covered it. His other eye was swollen shut, and he winced as he stepped back, the shotgun pointed to the floor.

  “Posare il fucile,” Luca said, in a tone that I would have recognized in any language, coming from a cop. Put the gun down. He did. “Che è successo a lei?”

  “Who is the Americano?”

  “A friend. Now tell us, what happened to you?”

  Inzerillo steadied himself with one hand on a chair, then eased himself down into it. Broken ribs. I could tell by the way he moved, and by the sharp intake of breath between clenched teeth. Two fingers were taped together on one hand, probably broken. His knuckles were about the only part of him that wasn’t bruised, meaning that he hadn’t even gotten a good punch in.

  “You were beaten by someone who knew what they were doing,” I said, walking around the table to look at Inzerillo from all angles. “Somebody who took his time, who wanted to inflict as much pain as possible, and still leave you conscious. He broke your fingers, cracked your ribs, worked on your face, but didn’t hit you in the head. Or your mouth, so he wouldn’t have pieces of your teeth in his fist. A connoisseur of pain, a man who enjoyed his work.”

  “I fell down the stairs,” Inzerillo said in his thick accent. If he could have moved his face more, he would have sneered.

  “A man who might come back,” I said.

  “When did you fall down these stairs?” Luca asked him as he holstered his pistol and then removed the shells from the shotgun.

  “Last week, I don’t remember. Venerdì?”

  “Did anyone see you fall down the stairs last Friday?” Luca asked. Inzerillo shook his head. “Where were your men, your bodyguards?”

  “Ask them, if you can find the bastards!”

  “What was the argument about?” I asked.

  “I told you, I fell down the stairs. Am I under arrest?” He sounded hopeful.

  “No, Signor Inzerillo,” Luca said with a sigh. “We have nothing to arrest you for. Clumsiness is not a crime. Gentlemen, do you have any other questions?”