Ontreto

by Peter Crawley

  Ric eases the door back and inches inside. He motions Officer Paolo to follow. The grey clouds cast a dim light and his eyes take a moment to adjust. The room seems crowded and even darker with the two of them in it, but it takes Ric only a couple of seconds to see that Claudio Maggiore is no longer in residence.

  57

  From the third floor of the old warehouse, the diminutive Commissario looks even smaller and by the time Ric and Officer Paolo have climbed back down, he is soaked through and in poor humour. He glowers at Ric. “Paolo,” he grumbles, indicating the hill behind them, “eh?”

  “Si, Commissario.” The tall poliziotto draws his pistol and cocks it.

  “Oh, come off it Maso,” Ric says, shaking his head. “You seriously think I’ve got you up here on a wild goose chase? All this way? In this bloody weather?”

  Talaia dips his head and a trickle of water spills off his Homburg. “I’m not sure what to think, Signor Ross.” He raises his eyebrows, nods at Officer Paolo and inclines his head towards Ric.

  “Si, Commissario.”

  “I’m not about to make a bolt for it either,” Ric states.

  “No?” Talaia replies. “But if any more fanciful notions should come to your mind, Paolo here will hinder your flight by putting a round in your leg. Do you understand?”

  “Sure! But that won’t be necessary, Commissario. I’ve got as much to lose as any of us; more probably.”

  The walk back up the hill is hard work and takes them much longer than the walk down. The rain whips at their heels and the mud and sludge from the saturated pumice makes the going slippery. Talaia’s short legs struggle against those of his taller companions.

  The windows of the car steam up and Officer Paolo has to wipe the screen continually to keep sight of the twisting road.

  “So, where do we go from here?” Ric asks.

  “Why don’t you tell me, Signor Ross? All of my sources inform me that Maggiore Claudio is in Palermo. You are the only one who seems to think he is dead.”

  “Not think; know. I told you, Maso, Claudio was in that room, dead as a post two days ago. The marks on his neck and the look on his face were consistent with him being strangled, exactly as I heard him being strangled the morning I arrived.”

  Talaia’s expression is one of only mild interest. “I am Commissario Talaia, not Maso, Signor Ross. I think the time for such informality is over.” He pouts for a second, “You know the look on a man’s face when he has been strangled?”

  “Unfortunately, I do. To see it once is enough; it’s not something one forgets.” The faces of the dead parade in front of him, like ghouls in a house of horrors. Ric blots them out, trying to concentrate. “Now I haven’t the first clue why anyone would want to kill him. Perhaps it’s to do with this hotel, perhaps there’s something else entirely, I don’t know. I understand he was gay; might that have something to do with it?”

  “I doubt it very much,” Talaia murmurs. “Isola di Lipari might well be a World Heritage Site, but the attitudes of the people are no longer so out-of-date.”

  “Is it possible Candela thought he was going to meet Claudio Maggiore in the Piazza San Bartolo the evening he was murdered?”

  “Signor Ross, I am surprised you can make such a suggestion. If Maggiore Claudio is dead, how could he hope to have enjoyed a rendezvous with Girolamo Candela?”

  “Was Candela gay?”

  “Not according to my sources.”

  “Then it has got to be something to do with this planned development,” Ric reasons.

  “I told you before, there is little to no chance of this construction ever happening; too many–”

  “Mouths to feed, I know. Then there has to be something else going on; something we’re not looking at.”

  “Looking at!” Talaia repeats, burying himself in the collar of his jacket. “Looking at! It may have escaped your notice, Signor Ross, but at this point we have only one body, that of Girolamo Candela. For this crime we also have a weapon and a chief suspect whose fingerprint is on this weapon. This is fact; inescapable fact. Also, at this point we possess no evidence that Maggiore Claudio is dead; no body. We only have the testimony of the man whose print appears on the gun which we know was used to murder the man whose body we do have. Until, therefore, I have the body of Maggiore Claudio, I must assume that he is alive and well and busy sampling the delights of Palermo.

  “You know, Signor Ross, I mentioned before that though the islands are a World Heritage Site, the people are no longer backwards in their outlook. Well, there are many myths and legends concerning the ghosts of those exiled to Lipari, and it is believed that if you walk over the Poggio dei Funghi you have a good chance of meeting many of the former, long-departed residents of the island: everyone from Fulvia Plautilla, the wife of Caracalla, to Massimo Farinelli, one of Il Duce’s greater antagonists. Perhaps it was one of those you came across in your fatigue.”

  “Farinelli?” Ric repeats. “I’ve heard that name before somewhere.”

  “Massimo Farinelli?”

  “Yes, someone told me he was killed here while trying to escape.”

  The Commissario is surprised, “You have heard of him.”

  “Sure, there’s an old guy I’ve been talking to. He’s been trying to help me trace my great-grandfather. It turns out my great-grandfather, Antonio Sciacchitano, tried to warn Farinelli that he had been betrayed. This old guy – Old Nino they call him – remembered his father had smuggled my great-grandfather over to Sicily in his fishing boat. Saved his life or so it would seem.”

  “It was a bad time,” Talaia adds, nodding thoughtfully. “Farinelli was a very important man. He had many good political connections with the Americans. If he had lived, who knows what he might have been able to achieve.”

  The rain slashes against the screen and waves crash against the shallow beach before them. Officer Paolo has to slow the car as they descend the tight turns into Canneto.

  “How come you know so much about him, Commissario?” Ric asks.

  “Oh, before I became a policeman I studied history. It pays to understand history when so much of the past is continually dragged into the present; particularly in Italy.

  “Massimo Farinelli, though much younger than Matteotti, was a very outspoken critic of Il Duce and he was fortunate not to suffer the same fate. Although, if I remember correctly, he was equally fortunate not to suffer a similar fate at the hands of one of his many girlfriend’s fathers. He was quite the Lothario, the Casanova; a roué of note, one might say. He was almost as successful at seducing young women as he was at furthering his political career. When news of his death was published in the papers, there followed an outpouring of grief which eclipsed even that of Valentino.”

  “What did he look like, Maso? I mean, was he tall or short, thin or fat, or was he dark-haired or what?”

  “Farinelli was tall, very tall, and blond and strong. He was one of the Arditi, the daring ones. If you were to put together the perfect curriculum vitae for seducing women, he would have ticked all the boxes.”

  Ric is quiet for a moment. He is thinking of the characters he has met since his arrival, the faces of whom came to him in his dream-filled sleep. He considers telling Talaia the story Old Nino has told him, but figures that the little detective is unlikely to buy it now that he has been dragged up to the beach at Pietra Liscia in search of a corpse which has got up and walked.

  “Commissario?” he asks. “What’s going to happen when we get back to the police station? Are you going to charge me for Candela’s murder?”

  Talaia stares out the window at the torrents of rain threatening to drown the village. He sighs as though he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I am not sure, Signor Ross. So far you have not been truthful with me. The fact that you did not tell me the pistol was yours when I asked you, leads me to suspect there is more that you are keeping from me. Perhaps only a fool would not put you behind bars until we have completed our investigation. Your a
ssociation with Maggiore Marcello and the alibi you both insist on trying to sell me makes me uncomfortable.

  “But I think keeping you here on the island is not wise for now. Perhaps a short period of reflection in one of our cells in Messina is what is required.”

  “I had a nasty feeling you were going to say that.”

  “Oh, yes. Why?” Talaia glances at Ric.

  “Because if you send me off the island, there’s not much chance you are going to complete your investigation. Obviously there’s got to be some connection between Candela and whoever murdered him. Surely, if you find the connection, getting to his murderer will be the easy part.”

  “Of course.”

  “In which case, can you do both of us a favour and ask Officer Paolo to take us over to Quattropani? There are a couple of questions I need to ask Old Nino. I’m not certain it will help the pieces of your jigsaw fall into place, but it might give us a clue as to whether they are part of the puzzle.”

  Talaia glances at him once more; his right eyebrow is raised in question, “Do you seriously expect me to take you sightseeing when you have already destroyed my shoes?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Commissario. I’ll try not to get your shoes any dirtier than they are. And, if you’re lucky, there might just be the reward of a glass of palm wine when we get there.”

  “You drink that stuff?” Talaia asks, astonished. “They say it makes you blind.”

  Ric laughs, nervously, “Oh, Commissario, you’ve no idea.”

  The little detective studies him for a minute. “I must say the promise of palm wine as opposed to the promise of a corpse is far more attractive.” He groans and rubs his face in exasperation, “Okay! As long as I don’t have to drink the legbi, I suppose this detour won’t hurt. I doubt whether the Aliscafo will be running and there is no chance they will send a helicopter in these conditions. It looks like we are both going to have to spend one more night here. Please inform Officer Paolo where you would like to go.”

  “Nino lives above Quattropani,” Ric offers.

  “Cafarella Nino, vicino Chiesa Vecchia. Lo so,” Officer Paolo replies.

  58

  “But this man must be nearly one hundred years old,” Talaia remarks, as the car pulls up.

  Ariana answers the door. At first she is pleased to see Ric, but when she realises he has poliziotti with him, the pleasure shrinks from her smile.

  “Signor Ric, buon pomeriggio.”

  “Mi dispiace disturbarla, Ariana.”

  “Si, per favore, entrate.” They follow her through to the living area.

  Nino is reading, in Braille. Enveloped in the sofa, he looks even smaller than the Commissario and the gloom of the leaden sky lends his skin a leukaemic pallor. “Come in, Ric. So good of you to come and see an old man who has nothing to do with his time. Oh, you are not alone; you have brought friends?”

  “Yes, Nino, I have brought Commissario Talaia and Officer Paolo with me; I hope we’re not interrupting.”

  “No, not at all. You are a welcome diversion from Dante Alighieri, and like most of the dead poets, he will wait.” He cocks his head, “Ariana, bring some wine, please. Officer Paolo, you say? Is this Favolaro Paolo, the son of Augusta, who lives in San Calogero?”

  The tall poliziotto steps forward and leans down to offer his hand.

  Old Nino feels for it, “Ah, such large hands! You are tall, Paolo, eh? You were tall as a child. Your mother used to worry that you were growing so fast your bones would be weak. They are not; I am glad.”

  Officer Paolo steps back, grinning, obviously embarrassed but no little proud that he has been greeted before his boss.

  “And this Commissario? For what reason do I merit the visit of an Inspector of Police?”

  Ariana takes the Commissario’s coat, hangs it in the corner and disappears to the kitchen.

  “Vossia benedica, signore,” Talaia begins, politely. “We apologise for calling unannounced, but Signor Ross has some questions he would like to ask you.”

  “Questions, eh? He is always asking questions, Commissario. That is why he has come to Lipari; he is looking for his holy grail. Please, sit.”

  Ariana returns with a tray of wine and glasses.

  Nino smiles and spreads his hands as though he can see the drinks he is offering his visitors. “Legbi, Commissario. Can I persuade you to take a glass with an old man?”

  Talaia scowls, but replies, “Sir, if I can avoid it without offending your hospitality, I would prefer to.”

  “Ah,” Nino says, his face lighting up with amusement, “a wise policeman and an honest one too; such a rarity. Naturally I am not offended. There will be more for me and good palm wine is, like a straightforward policeman, hard to find. Ariana, coffee for the inspector. Ric?”

  “I’ll take a glass, thank you, Nino,” Ric interrupts. “I don’t know about the others, but I need it.”

  As is the custom, they drink and make small talk for a while.

  “Now,” Nino says, satisfied that custom has been observed, “what can I do for you?” Even though he cannot see him, Nino looks towards Talaia.

  “Signore, allora–”

  Nino lifts his hand to interrupt, “In English if you don’t mind, Commissario? We have a British guest; let us grant him the honour of speaking in his tongue.”

  Talaia scowls briefly, but then, forgetting Nino is blind, grants the old man a strained smile, “Of course. Signor Ross thinks you may be able to help us with some detail of history.”

  “Please?”

  The Commissario clears his throat and, hoping that Old Nino is now ready, begins, “He has told me that it is possible you knew his great-grandfather, Antonio Sciacchitano, and of how the night three political deportees made their escape, he tried to warn them that they were betrayed. I am not sure what relevance the details of a failed escape can be to my investigations, but it cannot hurt to find out if there is a historical connection. Perhaps you would do us the kindness of relating the story once more?”

  Judging by the way he looks up sharply and frowns, Old Nino is not taking an instant liking to the little detective, “This is not a story, Commissario. A story suggests an imaginary event, a fiction. These things he has told you actually happened. This is the truth, not a story!”

  Talaia winces, “Chiedo scusa, Signor Cafarella.”

  Over the next hour, Old Nino repeats his account of the events from that night over eighty years before. Like any proficient raconteur, he is prone to embellish whenever the scene will allow for it and he glosses over some of the detail which might not stand up to the scrutiny of a more cynical audience. And whenever the old man strays from the path, Ric does his best to stifle a grin. But he tries not to reduce the impact of Old Nino’s account by diverting Commissario Talaia’s attention away from the notes he is taking. Every now and then, he glances at Ric out of the corner of his eye, as if to suggest he is finding some of the account hard to swallow. And when the old man gets to the part about both Antonio and Ric sharing the same birthmark, he coughs and splutters out loud and immediately apologises. Yet, other than this mild outburst of incredulity, he keeps his observations to himself and treats the old man with the respect his years demand.

  Nino raises his hands in appeal, “So you see Commissario, amazing as it sounds, the grave of Antonio Sciacchitano contains no corpse.”

  Talaia allows the old man’s conclusion to hang for a moment before stating, “Con permesso, Signore, there is only one way to find out if this story, scusi, this version of historical events, is reliable; and that would be to exhume the body of Antonio Sciacchitano. Do either of you,” this time he raises both eyebrows towards Ric, “have any idea of the legal issues involved in obtaining permission for this?”

  “No,” Ric answers for both of them. “We haven’t got that far yet.”

  Talaia shakes his head, “There is a saying in Italian, non svegliare il can che dorme, which if I am right in thinking translates as do not wake up the dog wh
o sleeps. Do you know what is meant by this?”

  “Naturally, Commissario,” Ric replies. “But if you will permit me, I think you’re getting a little ahead of me. There are a number of reasons I’ve asked you to come here and so far you’ve only heard half of what I want you to hear.”

  “Nino,” Ric turns his attention to the old man, “you’ve told us that Antonio Sciacchitano came to your house and pleaded with your father to take him and a young woman to Baarìa.”

  “Si, he took Tonio and a young woman.”

  “And it’s the girl who interests me as much as Sciacchitano. Who was she, Nino? Who was the girl your father took to Baarìa that night?”

  He inclines his head, his dark glasses masking his thoughts. Gradually, the old man grows animated, as if he is remembering where he has hidden the legbi from Ariana.

  “Ah, that is it! It was Katarina Maggiore of course: Vincenzo’s daughter. I remember now; she was Vincenzo’s daughter, Katarina. She was,” he pauses searching for the right words, “enjoying a liaison with Massimo Farinelli. They had been seen together at passeggio.

  “Much later, the rumour going around the città was that it was Vincenzo who had betrayed Farinelli to the Fascisti. Vincenzo found out that Katarina was with child and he was outraged that a man with such a questionable reputation would take advantage of his daughter, particularly when Vincenzo was doing so much to help him escape.”

  Ric interrupts, “But you told me that Vincenzo sent Tonio Sciacchitano to warn Farinelli that he had been betrayed. Why would Vincenzo do that?”

  Old Nino looks up, as if the conclusion of the tale is written on the ceiling: “Because Katarina begged her father to rescue him. She told her father she would surrender herself to the sea if he did not halt the progression of his plans.”

  “Katarina was pregnant with Farinelli’s child,” Ric repeats for Talaia’s benefit.

  “Yes, it was so. Sadly, Tonio Sciacchitano was too late to warn the deportees and, as we know, Farinelli and the others were killed.”

  “And afterwards,” Ric adds, “Vincenzo sent his daughter away?”