‘I think we should be deceiving ourselves,’ said Elizabeth, ‘if we went on any other assumption. Dindoni is dead.’
‘Agreed,’ said the Commander. ‘But because we’ve lost a battle, it doesn’t follow that we’ve lost the war. What about Maria?’
‘When Maria went back to the café and found that Dindoni, for reasons, incidentally, which are still unexplained, had left the house, she was sensible enough to telephone me at once. I invited her round to my house. She was in a state of hysteria, but my wife succeeded in calming her. The following morning I took steps to place her in safe custody.’
‘Where is she?’
Riccasoli hesitated.
‘All right,’ said the Commander. ‘We’re all on the same side here. But I agree. The less people who know, the less chance of it getting out. Let’s leave it that you’ve got her safe for the moment. What’s the next step?’
‘The next step, which I have already put in hand, is to arrange for Maria to make a sworn statement of all that she knows, in front of a notary. Then, should anything unfortunate happen to her, too, we shall at least have a statement in a form which would be admissible in a Court of Justice.’
‘Surely you’ll have more than that,’ said the Commander, springing up. ‘It will take us a long way down the course. Almost into the straight.’
Riccasoli, as a student of human nature, took pleasure in observing the Commander. His abrupt but decisive movements; his naval and sporting metaphors; the piratical jut of his beard, all corresponding so exactly to his conception of an officer in the Royal Navy. Now, however, he shook his head sadly. ‘It will not,’ he said, ‘get us to the winning post. It will scarcely get us past the first flag.’
‘They were confederates,’ said the Commander. ‘Either of them can tell us as much about it as the other. It might only be secondhand evidence in Court, but we shall, at least, know what happened.’
‘You forget,’ said Riccasoli, ‘that I have already spoken to Maria. To have the statement recorded is only a formal precaution. What she knows, I already know, and it is not very much. Her part in this plot was a small one.’
‘Plot!’ said Elizabeth looking up. ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone use the word. Then Robert didn’t do this thing. There was a plot.’
‘Certainly there was a plot. A very carefully worked out plot, involving more than one person. A plot composed by professionals, who took great care that each person involved knew only sufficient to play their own part. Maria, for instance, had a small, but important role. It was necessary that the Police should get to Signor Broke without delay. For consider – if there had been a delay only of a few days, he might have taken his car to the garage, to have it serviced and cleaned. To have the broken fog-lamp repaired. What more natural? But by so doing, he would have destroyed, quite innocently, the main part of the evidence against him.’ He swivelled round in his chair, turned his soft brown eyes on Elizabeth, and repeated, ‘Quite innocently, you understand.’
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth.
‘The only convincing way to direct the Police immediately to Signor Broke, was that someone should have been passing in the street, and should have noticed the number of the car. But why should a casual passer-by notice it? True, it was an English car, of uncommon make. But that is not very convincing. But if one saw, and heard, the accident. The squeal of brakes, the scream of skidding tyres, that would make one take notice. Yes?’
‘It would also fix the time of the accident,’ said the Commander. ‘I mean, it would appear to fix it. At a time when Broke was known to have been driving down the road.’
‘That is so.’
‘Whereas the cemetery keeper, who had absolutely no reason to lie, puts the whole thing an hour later.’
‘Also true.’
‘Well, I mean to say, that clears the whole thing up, doesn’t it? They simply took Broke’s car out of the garage – after he was in bed – the dog heard ’em doing it, and kicked up a fuss – and used it to run over Milo.’
‘Yes, but–’ said Elizabeth.
The Commander had evidently begun to see some of the difficulties, too.
‘Remember,’ said Riccasoli, ‘that two facts are clear from indisputable scientific evidence. First, that Milo was hit by the car. Second, that he did not die for some two hours after he was hit. How did they induce him to be at this particular point at half past eleven at night? It is certain that he would never have gone there willingly. Do you suggest, perhaps, that they bound him, hand and foot, laid him in the road, ran over him, and then removed the bonds?’
‘I wouldn’t put anything past those two thugs we’ve heard about,’ growled the Commander.
‘I agree. But it would be scientifically impossible. First, the signs of the ligatures would have been quite apparent. Secondly, he was not run over. He was hit, by the car. Thirdly, if they left him alive after the accident, they were surely taking an appalling risk. He might have recovered. If not entirely, certainly enough to speak.’
‘I give you the last point,’ said the Commander. ‘But as for the first two, there was no need actually to tie him up. Could they not have threatened him, with a knife or a gun, and made him walk down the road?’
‘Never,’ said Tina. ‘Never would he have done it. However many guns they had pointed at him, he would have fought and struggled. He would not have gone like a lamb to the slaughter.’
‘Also, it would have been entirely impractical,’ said Riccasoli. ‘You are threatened with a gun, and ordered to stand, just so, in the middle of the road. You hear a car coming. Do you continue to stand? Certainly not. You jump to one side. If you are shot, what matters. It is no worse than being run over.’
Elizabeth said, ‘That’s not the real difficulty. If we now think that Milo was killed and Robert was framed for the same reason – I mean, because they had to be stopped from having this talk, or the whole story of the Etruscan tomb and the planted “relics” would have to come out – then it means that the master-mind behind this plot must have been Professor Bronzini.’
‘Well?’ said the Commander.
‘I’ve never met him myself,’ said Elizabeth. ‘But I’ve heard plenty of stories about him, and you’ve met him, more than once, Commander. Could you honestly describe him as a master criminal capable of organizing – how did you describe it, Avvocato – a carefully worked-out plot – a plot composed by professionals?’
The Commander said, ‘Perhaps he’s a damned good actor.’ But he said it without a great deal of conviction.
It was at about the time that this conversation was taking place that Carabiniere Scipione received a shock.
He was sitting in the office in the Via dei Bardi filling in the nightly returns from hotels and boarding houses when the door opened and a stranger walked in.
This was a middle-aged man, of medium size, with black hair, soberly dressed. Scipione said, ‘Well?’ and continued with his work. The stranger said, ‘I would like to see the officer in charge of this station.’
‘Tenete Lupo is busy. Perhaps you will tell me your business.’
‘And perhaps I will do nothing of the sort,’ said the stranger.
Scipione looked up. Although the man was smiling, there was an undertone to his voice which sounded a warning. He said sharply, ‘Your name and business?’
The man put his hand into his pocket, took out a note case, extracted a card, all with due deliberation, and laid it on the table.
Scipione sprang to his feet. In his agitation he nearly knocked over the table. He said, ‘A thousand apologies, Colonel. I will go myself.’ As he reached the door it opened, and Tenente Lupo came in. Without a word, Scipione thrust out the card. The Tenente read it, and came forward with a smile.
‘Colonel Doria,’ he said. ‘You are from Rome. Your name is known to me, although we have never met.’
‘The omission has now been remedied,’ said Colonel Doria. He sat down, and motioned the Tenente to be
seated also. Scipione remained standing stiffly to attention. ‘I should, perhaps, tell you why I am here. I have a letter from our Comandante-in-Capo, at Rome, which will establish my credentials. That is not important. It will not explain that he himself is acting under orders. The orders of the Minister of Defence.’ Colonel Doria paused, and added deliberately, ‘The new Minister of Defence.’
‘The new Minister?’
‘I see that you have not yet got the midday edition of the Osservatore.’ He took a folded newspaper from his pocket and laid it on the table, indicating the passage in question. Tenente Lupo read it quickly. When he spoke the words were carefully neutral, but it was clear that he had suffered a shock.
‘The Ministry of Defence in the new government has been offered to Antonio Lungo.’
‘Not only offered. Accepted. I understand.’
‘He is of the Communist party.’
‘Our new master,’ said Colonel Doria, selecting his words with equal care, ‘is of that party. He has, I believe, known for some time that he would be selected for this post. That has enabled him to make certain immediate decisions. He has, for instance, expressed himself as dissatisfied with the handling, by his predecessor, of this case of the Englishman, Broke, which has attracted such publicity in the press. He has studied the papers personally, and I have been ordered to take charge of the investigation.’
The silence in the room was broken by a slight movement from Carabiniere Scipione, which seemed to call the Colonel’s attention to him. He said, ‘Perhaps we could continue this conversation in your private office, Tenente?’
Scipione held the door open for them. His face was as crimson as if it had been smacked.
When they were resettled, Colonel Doria said, ‘As a first step, it will, I fear, be necessary to remove that young man from the case.’
‘An excellent man in every way,’ said Tenente Lupo, stiffly.
‘No doubt,’ said the Colonel. ‘But a Sicilian.’
‘The implication being–?’
‘I imply nothing. But I, too, have read the papers. There are, at this moment, two dangerous professional criminals in Florence. They arrived some three weeks ago. Their arrival was reported to you by your office at the station.’
‘That is true,’ said Tenente Lupo. ‘And I ordered an immediate check of the registers of all hotels, pensioni and boarding houses. It was unsuccessful.’
‘And it was carried out by whom?’
‘By Scipione. But surely–’
Colonel Doria held up one hand. He said, ‘Do not let us jump to conclusions. We must simply remember that many Sicilians who are not themselves members of the Mafia have nevertheless affiliation sympathies. Let me turn to another point. It was to Scipione that you entrusted the surveillance of the witness, Dindoni, now believed to have been killed, possibly by those two men. What report did he make on the matter?’
‘He lost sight of Dindoni in the crowd. It was the evening of the poll, you understand. There was great confusion. I could not altogether blame him.’
‘I do not blame him myself,’ said Colonel Doria. ‘But it was unfortunate. This is not a case in which mistakes will be lightly forgiven, you understand?’
Lupo understood very well. Where a Minister, to enhance his own prestige, or to discredit his predecessor, expressed personal interest in a case it was essential to the well-being of all concerned, from the Comandante-in-Capo dei Carabinieri in Rome down to the humblest Tenente in Florence, that the matter should be smoothly and successfully concluded.
He said, ‘What do you plan to do?’
‘First, these two men must be found. I have here full details from the records in Rome. They can be held, for the moment, on some technical charge. Failure to register will be as good as any. Then, I wish to see all the witnesses myself. The man Labro, the cemetery keeper, the woman Maria Calzaletta.’
The Tenente’s face clouded. He said, ‘The first two will present no difficulty. But Maria has for the moment disappeared.’
‘Then she must be found,’ said Colonel Doria.
A door in the upper storey of the far wing of the Villa Rasenna opened, and Danilo Ferri came out. He shut the door quietly behind him, and walked along the corridor, his footsteps silent on the matting which lined the floor.
No one looking at his dark composed face would have supposed that he had any troubles in the world. A man of order and method, under whose capable hands the complex machinery of the Villa ran smoothly and silently.
He descended the main staircase with a curiously neat and cat-like tread, and found the giant Arturo lifting the great urns of flowering shrubs on to the terrace for their daily watering.
He stood watching him for a moment. Then, almost as though it were an afterthought, he called to him, ‘Arturo.’
‘Signor Ferri?’
‘There is one matter I should like you to see to. It is a matter of confidence, which I do not wish to have discussed with the rest of the staff.’
‘I am no chatterbox.’
‘I know it. The matter is this. We have two unexpected guests. I received them, myself, last night, and lodged them in the end room in the north corridor. They will be with us for a few days. Since it is not desirable that others should know of their presence, it follows that they cannot leave their room. They will need food, and drink. Can you see to it yourself. If you use the back stair, from the little courtyard, no one need see you.’
Arturo smiled a lazy smile. He had been standing all the while with a huge earthenware pot of azaleas in one hand, as if unconscious of its weight. Now he placed it gently on the ground, and said, ‘There will be no difficulty. I myself will take care of them.’
2
The End of a Dream
Colonel Doria had been allotted a handsome room on the first floor of the Carabinieri Station in the Via dei Bardi and it was here, on the morning of the next day that he spoke to Avvocato Riccasoli.
The two men were alone in the room. The windows were wide open and an electric fan fluttered in the corner, but it fluttered ineffectively, for the heat was of a character and a quality beyond the attention of electric fans. It had weight as well as temperature. The sky above Florence was still a fiery blue, but thunderheads were building up in the mountains behind the city.
‘It was good of you to come so promptly to see me,’ said the Colonel. ‘You appreciate, I hope, that there need be no reticence between us. We are both, if I may so express it, on the same side.’
‘We are both on the side of justice,’ said Riccasoli softly.
The Colonel considered this reply as carefully as if the whole conversation was being recorded for posterity. Then he said, ‘That is a correct statement. But it is an incomplete one. For there is also the interest of the State to be considered, an interest more important, in my opinion, than that of any individual. This case has become one of national, almost international importance. I cannot tell you why. Intrinsically, it is nothing. Perhaps it is the standing of the accused, perhaps the coincidence of the elections. Perhaps it is a feeling, an instinct, which journalists possess, that there is something more, something unrevealed, which lies behind a simple running-down case. This does happen. You will remember when the accidental drowning of a young lady near Rome nearly upset the government of the day.’
‘I remember it well.’
‘This case may not be as important, but it has some of the same elements. And I can assure you of one thing. When it comes to trial – if it comes to trial – you will have reporters here from every important newspaper in the country. You will be on your mettle.’ Riccasoli smiled faintly. He said, ‘I would not presume to conduct so important a case in Court myself.’
‘So! You will have a leading advocate from Rome?’
‘Not from Rome. The case in Court has been accepted by Sindaco Trentanuove. You will recollect that he is a qualified advocate.’
If the news surprised Colonel Doria, he was too experienced to show it. But he sa
t back a little in his chair to consider it. He said, drily, ‘That will not diminsh the public interest in the case, I should imagine.’
‘I should imagine not, no.’
‘It leads me to the next thing I have to say. It is important that the full truth should be established before the matter comes to Court. So far we have half truths.’ He tapped the bulky folder on the table in front of him. ‘There has been inefficiency at certain levels of the investigation. Not, I think, anything worse than inefficiency.’
His eyes challenged Riccasoli, who did not accept the gambit, but mopped his forehead with a large white handkerchief.
‘The first step will be to question the witness Maria Calzaletta.’
‘Yes.’
‘I have reason to believe that you know where she is.’
‘Yes,’ said Riccasoli, sadly.
‘Then I must ask you to bring her here.’
Riccasoli considered the matter whilst he continued to mop his forehead. He said, ‘It would be better, I think, if you would consent to go and see her. She is in a very disturbed state following the death of Dindoni. She was not greatly attached to him, but they had been – closely associated.’
‘They were lovers?’ said the Colonel bluntly.
‘Yes. They were lovers.’ Riccasoli considered the oddly assorted couple and sighed. He said, ‘She is being looked after in a convent near here. She has been given work by the sisters. I have some influence with them. I was able to do them a small service over a matter of taxation. Here is the address.’
The sky was darkening as the clouds rolled up from the south and the west. Little gusts of wind made the leaves dance in the gutter and rustled the dry stalks on the walls of the Villa Rasenna until they scratched, like ghosts seeking for entrance.
The Etruscan Net Page 20