'You're just in time!' the contessa continued as the maid poured the pleasantly spicy infusion in the cups and withdrew without a word. 'I hate having tea alone ... Or perhaps you'd prefer coffee?'
'Tea will do very nicely, thank you, Contessa.'
He remembered her well. She was tiny, angular, and very pale: a pallor her discreet make-up could not quite conceal. Her vaguely blue-tinted hair was perfectly groomed, as if she had just come from the hairdresser. She was wearing a light silk dress and a few discreet jewels which betrayed her elevated rank without shouting it to the rooftops.
'I hope these cakes are to your taste, Chief Superintendent. They're from Sicily'
Her manner was coquettish, and her eyes sparkled.
'Very much so.'
'Please help yourself, Chief Superintendent. It's always a pleasure to be with civilised people, and that happens more and more rarely, don't you find? I go out less and less. I'm sometimes invited to social events, but I find them increasingly boring and pointless. Things aren't the way they used to be. We live in an ugly world, and it'll get worse, take it from someone who went everywhere for as long as I could, when my poor husband was alive. The ugliness is increasing. You're not safe within your own four walls any more, I think you know what I'm referring to . . .'
'Yes, of course.'
'It's a shock, I can tell you that, to discover that strangers have been rummaging among your things, not to mention the damage . . . You don't know how much I miss those folding kidskin fans! They were part of my life, a rare collection, an heirloom, did you know that?'
'Yes, Contessa, you told us when you reported the theft.'
'Of course, it's just that it rankles with me so much ... By the way, is there any news?'
'Still nothing - but we're working on it. They must be having problems offloading them. We'll get them sooner or later, don't worry'
'Do you think so?'
'With that kind of robbery, unless it's been carried out on commission, the thief usually has a great deal of difficulty selling the stolen goods.'
'Let's hope it's as you say, Chief Superintendent, and that you manage to get them back. I'd be so grateful! But you haven't come here to listen to me grumbling. So tell me, to what do I owe this pleasant visit? Mind you, I think I can guess.'
'I'm sure you can, Contessa. I'd like to continue where my secretary left off.'
'If possible. I think I told him everything, though . . . What a nice young man!'
'Did you know Ugo and Simonetta Palladiani well?'
'Fairly well. We didn't see each other socially, if that's what you mean, but I've been living in this building since I was born and the Palladianis have always been our neighbours.'
'So you knew Ugo when he was born?'
'Practically, yes.'
'What kind of man was he?'
'A tearaway, I'd say. A handsome child who became a handsome but spoilt teenager. Then a handsome adult, but still spoilt! Expensive cars, girls, all that kind of thing.' She chuckled. 'When he was young and when he wasn't so young.'
A rich man's life, in other words. Did they have a lot of money?'
'The family, yes, but when Folco, the father, died, he left them rather badly off. Ugo took over the business, not very successfully. He never lacked for anything, though, I can assure you of that.'
'He seems to have had rather a lot of ups and downs before he started his PR company'
'Not in his social life, though. Endless parties and expensive dinners. And what's PR, anyway? Is that a serious profession? You tell me ..."
Ferrara ignored the remark. 'As far as you know, is his second wife rich?'
'Who, Miss Forte dei Marmi?' the contessa exclaimed immediately, and laughed. 'Come on, Chief Superintendent! A nobody who likes to think she's a somebody. Pretty, yes, he always liked them pretty! But rich, no! The classic cover girl who marries an aging man. Someone without a name . . . Tonelli or something like that, just imagine! A drunken father, a miner or something, over in those parts, where the marble quarries are, you know? No, no, Ugo Palladiani never had a cent from her. Quite the contrary, trust me!'
And yet he miraculously recovered from a serious financial crisis when his clothes business failed.'
Tm sorry, Chief Superintendent, but I couldn't tell you anything about that, apart from the fact that I was as surprised as you are. Someone, I can't remember who, said he must have had help from somebody, but no one ever knew who or why. At least I never did
She did, however, seem an unusually well-informed woman. He wouldn't have used the word 'gossip', only out of respect for her title and age, but he certainly thought it.
Who might know?'
‘I’d tell you if I could, but believe me . . .'
If I don't know, then I don't hold out much hope for you was the clear message. But that didn't rule out - in fact, it reinforced - the idea that he had been helped by loan sharks.
'Contessa,' he said, standing up, 'I shan't bother you any longer. Thank you for your hospitality.'
'Oh, nonsense. It's been a pleasure. Come back whenever you like. I always like having visitors.'
She rang a little silver bell to summon the maid.
'Jacqueline, show the Chief Superintendent out. Goodbye, give my regards to the Commissioner . . . and don't forget those fans!'
'Don't worry' he said as he walked away.
The same thing he'd said to Rita Senesi.
Back out in the street, Ferrara was hit by the hot wind that was beating down on the city without bringing any relief.
He switched on his mobile. There was a text message from Rizzo, telling him he'd be back in the office the next day.
The only good news he'd had all day. He would delegate the Stella case to Rizzo, and devote himself body and soul to the search for Massimo, which meant to the murder in Marina di Pietrasanta, and he didn't care if it was within the Carabinieri's jurisdiction or not.
He decided to return home.
As he walked in, he heard the sound of a saxophone in the background, and recognised Billie Holiday's recording of 'The Man I Love'. Petra often played Billie Holiday to relax when she had a lot on her mind.
They didn't say much to each other that evening. She only had to look at his face to know that there was no news.
After a cold dinner of ham and cheese, eaten quickly, Ferrara sat down at his desk to have a last look at the Stella file before he passed it on to Rizzo the next day. Keeping himself busy was the only way to exorcise, for however short a time, the spectre of his friend's absence, which hung in the air, making the apartment feel cramped and inhospitable.
He had written a memo headed For Francesco Rizzo, summarising the case to date and listing suggestions as to the direction he thought the investigation should take, and was now studying the report on Freemasonry, when his work mobile rang.
'Is that you, Chief Superintendent? I'm sorry to call you so late.'
It was a woman's voice, young and self-confident. 'Thanks for calling me back, Signorina Pizzi.' 'It's more than a duty, it's a pleasure. We haven't spoken in quite a while. Are you still angry at me over the Gatto thing?' 'I've never been angry with you. And anyway ..." 'Yes?'
'Whether I like it or not, it's become a kind of trademark, you must have seen the other newspapers . . . And it's not just the newspapers. The only person who absolutely refuses to use it is my wife. But I'll tell you this - there are situations in which I'd prefer to be a cat rather than a police officer.'
'Is this one of those times?'
'I'm going through a bad patch, yes.'
'That makes two of us, then. But you didn't call me to cry on my shoulder, I suppose.'
'You're right. I read your article about the death of that Florentine businessman in Marina di Pietrasanta and wanted to know a little more.'
'But aren't the Carabinieri handling the case?'
'Yes, they are. Let's just call it professional curiosity, shall we?'
She was a journali
st after all and he couldn't tell her too much, couldn't tell her what he was really worried about. If he did, he'd find his name mentioned in connection with the case the very next day on the front page of Il Tirreno. He could already see the headline, across four columns: MYSTERY MAN FROM MURDER VILLA IS FRIEND OF FLORENCE SQUADRA MOBILE CHIEF.
All right, let's call it that,' she said. 'I smell a conflict of jurisdiction. In that case, don't leave me out. . . when the time comes, of course. But if II Gatto himself has called me, that must mean the homicide theory is no longer just a theory. Am I right?'
He decided it was safe to give that much away. 'If you don't mention your source, affirmative.'
'Don't worry, I won't. I don't think the Carabinieri would like it, do you?'
'Good girl.'
'Anyway, I was expecting it. This is a nasty story, Chief Superintendent. Much nastier than it seems.' 'In what way?'
'I won't say too much now. Read my newspaper. I'm just finishing the article ... as long as they don't censor it! I'm adding powder to the fire - and when it explodes it'll be louder than carnival!' There was pride in her words, but her tone was weary rather than amused.
'I'll do that. But can you tell me anything about Simonetta Palladiani?'
'What do you want to know?' she replied, a touch cautiously, her voice cracking slightly, as if embarrassed as well as weary.
'You wrote about her as if . . . you knew her well. Did you know her?'
'We were classmates. We grew up together.'
'I see,' Ferrara said, thinking of himself and Massimo: schoolfriends who had grown up together. And do you have any idea where she is?'
'If only I knew!' she said with a sigh. An anxious sigh? Ferrara wondered.
'Could she have gone on holiday?' he suggested. 'Before her husband died, perhaps?'
'No, Chief Superintendent. Unfortunately she was there that night.'
'How do you know?'
'The housekeeper told me. She was the one who told me everything, in fact. I got fed up waiting for the Carabinieri!'
'What's the housekeeper's name?' 'Grazia Barberi.'
'And do you know where she lives?' Ferrara insisted, making a note on a piece of paper.
'In Pietrasanta, right at the top. The Via Martiri di Sant'Anna, a pink building, five storeys high, you can't miss it.'
'What kind of person was Simonetta Palladiani?'
'Why do you say "was"?' Claudia protested, her voice breaking with emotion.
'I'm sorry, it just came out. It was only because she hasn't been found yet. . . Are you very close?'
'We used to be, but I didn't see anything of her after she married that guy and went to Florence. We spoke a few times on the phone when she moved to Marina, but we've never seen each other again. If there really was a murder, she has nothing to do with it, believe me
The same certainty he felt about Massimo!
'Was there anyone else in the villa?'
'So you know that, do you? Yes, a man from Florence, her latest boyfriend apparently'
There were still so many things he would have liked to ask her, he might have been on the phone for hours. Talking face to face was always preferable. A particular intonation of the voice, lowered eyes, a hesitation, could say more than a thousand words spoken at a distance.
'Listen, signorina, could we meet?'
She seemed to think it over. 'Yes, I'd like that - it might be useful to both of us,' she answered finally. 'When?' 'How about tomorrow?'
'I can't do it in the morning ... I could manage late afternoon. How about an aperitif at the Twiga in Marina di Pietrasanta?'
'What's that?'
'Chief Superintendent! Don't tell me you still go to the Capannina? The Twiga's the hottest place in town! Footballers, models . . . the creme de la creme!'
'Wouldn't we be a bit too visible?'
'If we need privacy we could always walk along the beach, far from prying ears.' She wasn't being flirtatious, but establishing a worried complicity.
Ferrara sensed a kind of urgency no different from his own, and he felt less alone.
'Is five okay?'
'Let's say six.'
He started looking through the file on Freemasonry again, but couldn't concentrate. What was it that Claudia Pizzi had found out? What had she meant about an explosion? The first thing next morning, he absolutely had to read Il Tirreno.
He lit a cigar and skimmed through the lists of members as if reading the phone book. One of the best books to send you to sleep, his friend Massimo had once suggested to him: a lot of characters and no plot. Except that he had already lost sleep on Monday night and tonight would be the same, even with all the phone books in Italy.
Especially after the name that suddenly leapt off the page, going through him like an electric shock: Ugo Palladiani, born in Florence on 30 January 1940, was a member of the Concorde lodge!
13
Michele Ferrara could not wait until he got to the office, where the newspapers would be waiting for him, but bought a copy of Il Tirreno at the newsstand near where he lived before getting into his service car.
He leafed through it while the driver dodged the pedestrians as he did every morning, and when he reached the last page he started again from the first, with no better luck. The only item about the death of Ugo Palladiani was a brief recap of the case, unsigned, which added nothing new, illustrated by a photo of the impenetrable exterior of Simonetta's villa, guarded by the Carabinieri. No sign of Claudia Pizzi's explosive article. Had they censored it as she had feared? He thought of calling her but dismissed the idea. She had told him she would be busy and anyway she would tell him everything, at greater length, that evening at the Twiga.
Besides, they'd already arrived at Headquarters and he had to get out of the car.
He started going through all the newspapers as soon as he was in his office. Fanti asked him if he wanted a coffee, and he said yes. The other papers had picked up on the news by now, and went into it in greater depth than today's Il Tirreno.
There were photos of Simonetta and her various activities, and La Reppublica and Il Corriere della Sera already mentioned the homicide theory. Il Corriere della Sera even carried a short interview with Captain Fulvi, who was non-committal but praised Belsito's efforts and implied that the Carabinieri would soon solve the case.
None of the papers mentioned Massimo Verga, and Ferrara wondered if that was a good or a bad sign. He leaned towards the latter, though: it suggested a strategy on Captain Fulvi's part to make the suspect drop his guard while his men, with Belsito at their head, tightened the circle around him. An old trick which sometimes worked when you weren't dealing with hardened criminals.
He tried to dismiss the thought, concentrating on the daily routine, which he wanted to get out of the way as quickly as possible so that he could devote all his time to the only case that interested him. But his mind kept going back to that Masonic list which included the name of Ugo Palladiani. What were the implications of that?
The first and most obvious, which had occurred to him during another sleepless night, was that 'the Brotherhood' had rescued Palladiani from financial collapse. He didn't like it very much, because it would put paid to the already flimsy idea of the loan shark, but you couldn't base a case on an aesthetic preference, and whether he liked it or not, it would have to be gone into.
He put aside the files and took the membership lists out of his briefcase.
The Concorde lodge had fourteen members, twice the minimum necessary to constitute a lodge. He looked at the professions noted down next to the names. Apart from Palladiani, there were three lawyers, an engineer, a headmaster, a professor, two doctors of medicine, a commercial accountant, two shopkeepers and two industrialists. A depressing list: in theory all of them could have had the means. He wished he could have had Anna Giulietti's help to interview them, but the Palladiani case didn't come within her jurisdiction - it was under that of the Prosecutor's Department of Lucca.
&nb
sp; This reminded him that the Carabinieri had mentioned that the deputy prosecutor was Armando Lupo, an old acquaintance from his days in Sicily. Ferrara had not even known that he had been appointed to Lucca. They had worked well together in the past, but that was of no advantage to him now, because he wasn't dealing with the murder in Pietrasanta and the Carabinieri were.
He fell back again on the last resort. 'Fanti!'
'Yes, chief?'
'Can you photocopy this page and try to find out all you can on each one of them, apart from Palladiani of course. See if they have criminal records, if there are any lawsuits against them, and most importantly how they're doing financially. But please keep this to yourself! No official requests, no checking of bank accounts or anything like that, for goodness' sake. Only what you can find out without attracting attention. Get Venturi to help you.' Venturi was the man in the Squadra Mobile who knew everything that had ever happened: he was a walking archive of dates and names. 'But I don't want him to breathe a word of this either, got that?'
'Don't worry, chief.'
'Good. Has Rizzo arrived?'
'Not yet.'
'Send him to me as soon as he gets here.'
Once Fanti had left the room, Ferrara went back to his files.
He had just finished dealing with the most urgent matters when Francesco Rizzo appeared. Ferrara felt relieved. A big, reserved man, with eyes that tended to be evasive, Rizzo was unfailingly loyal and generous. He gave Ferrara a sense of security. Right now, he needed him desperately.
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