“Why?”
Mary Coddrington gave a girlish giggle. “Why? Because by temporarily changing my sex, by putting my uterus to sleep, the drugs allowed my body to heal. The growths on the uterus wall—the growths that had already provoked two miscarriages—they could now heal. Heal and disappear. Of course, there was a price to pay. I became a monster. I don’t think I’m an aggressive person by nature, but with the drug I became—for the space of several months—a man.” A snort of amusement. “A man or a monster—it’s probably the same thing.”
“That’s why you lied?”
“For the previous ten days, we’d done nothing but quarrel. There were times when I was violent, quite hysterical. I was supposed to tell those Carabinieri that?”
“The truth shouldn’t hurt.”
“In this backward, medieval country? Even Carlo, who knew what I was taking, didn’t really understand. Even Carlo thought I’d genuinely changed, that I didn’t love him anymore. If he’d gone with another woman at that time, I would have forgiven him. I was loathsome.” The Englishwoman paused, looking around the classroom as if seeing it for the first time. “You know what?”
“Tell me, signora.”
“At the time of sweet Carlo’s death, the sight of him slumped in the seat of that Mercedes—it’s a horrible thing to say, but I swear inside me there was a voice telling me it was better that way. A man’s voice, the deep voice of the testosterone coursing through my blood.” She looked at Trotti. “I stopped the drug that day. Not much point anymore. As I recovered my femininity, I realized I’d lost my one hope in life. Carlo, sweet Carlo, for whom I’d been preparing my body—he was dead, murdered by that evil old woman.”
79: London
“AND BASSI?”
“What about him?”
“Another lie, signora.”
She gave an amused, girlish laugh. “I lied?”
Magagna had finally arrived, entering the classroom at the same time as the secretary with a pot of tea. He now sat like a dutiful pupil at one of the desks, dipping the slice of ginger cake into the cup of tea and milk.
“The night Bassi was murdered, people came to his apartment and they were looking for something. They turned everything upside down. They were looking for something that could be slid between the sheets of a paper or behind a photograph. Or between the pages of a book.”
The Englishwoman looked at him in silence. She held the saucer in one hand and Trotti had the impression that the hand trembled.
“Something that these people assumed Bassi had in his possession. And they wanted it back. They wanted it back so badly that they had to silence him for good. With a bullet through the head.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Absolutely nothing, signora. Except that you called Bassi after his departure.”
“I called him?”
“You left a message on the answering machine. A message reminding Bassi he had a rendezvous with you.”
There was silence in the room. Silence other than the sound of Magagna placing the soggy cake in his mouth. He shifted his glasses up on to the top of his head, no doubt to prevent their misting in the steam of the hot tea.
“Well?”
“Well what, commissario?”
“I believe Bassi was not quite the fool everyone took him to be. I believe he suspected Turellini’s murder was the result of professional jealousies.”
“Carlo didn’t talk about that sort of thing.”
“I don’t believe you, signora. Everybody talks. There comes a time when we all have to let off some pressure. And I’m sure even before you ever took your hormone treatment, Turellini had mentioned his problems to you. After all, his problems would be your problems.”
The woman said nothing.
“I believe Bassi realized you knew a lot more than you pretended. I also believe he’d found out about your strange behavior. Bassi had worked for me. He had a lot of failings—he accepted criticism badly and he was unsure of himself. His lack of self-assurance was one of the reasons for his always having a hand up some woman’s skirt. But Bassi never struck me as being a complete fool. Like me, he’s a peasant. But whereas I’m from the hills, he’s from the plain. You know, it’s not because you don’t straighten your tie and because you wear a suit that you’re a city dweller. In some ways Bassi was slow. But he had the peasant’s cunning. And he had enough time to find out about you.”
She said nothing.
“You gave him something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. But it was you who gave it to him and it was because of the document and the knowledge it contained that Bassi was murdered.”
She had begun to shake her head and the brown-blonde hair.
“I suspect it was a copy of the accounts of the Cisalpina Foundation. Perhaps it was that—probably something that Carlo Turellini had left in his safe.”
“Why should I give anything to Bassi?” Her voice was querulous.
“Because Bassi threatened to tell the Carabinieri about how things had been between you and Turellini for the weeks preceding his murder. You really think the maid didn’t talk? You really think a detective like Bassi, with little else to do with his time—you think he didn’t know about that?”
Silence.
“Bassi’s mistake was to privilege his cherchez la femme. Perhaps mistake’s not the right word. Whatever. He wasted a lot of time barking up an entire series of wrong trees. But no sooner had he changed the focus of his inquiry than suddenly everything changed. All hell was let loose. The Palazzo di Giustizia warned him off the case. People started making oblique threats and in frustration he went to Vissuto. Which was as wise as signing his own death certificate.”
The trembling of the pale hand had ceased but it now occurred to Trotti that she was not the beautiful woman that he had seen before him only a few minutes before. She was frail, a woman fast approaching middle age and aware of her own failures and frailty.
It was her smile that made her appear young and now Mary Coddrington was no longer smiling.
“No, signora, you have nothing to worry about. You didn’t kill Fabrizio Bassi. I’m not accusing you of that. You gave him a document that was in all probability the direct cause of his death. But even without it, he’d’ve gotten himself killed. Sooner or later, Bassi’d’ve got himself killed because he wouldn’t listen to the people warning him off.”
She took a deep breath. “I have a class in an hour. I would like to go to lunch.” With a white hand on the edge of the desk, she slipped into a standing position.
“You didn’t kill anybody. But you lied to me, signora.”
She said nothing. She scrutinized Trotti’s face while almost imperceptibly she shook her head. It was as if she were searching for something that she could not find. She looked weary. Then she turned away and faced the blackboard.
Trotti spoke to her back. “If you’d told me the truth, perhaps my young colleague wouldn’t have been driven off the road by the same people who murdered Fabrizio Bassi. Perhaps my young colleague wouldn’t now be lying in a hospital bed in a deep coma, with only a cardiograph to prove that he’s still in this world.”
Somebody had written the word London on the blackboard.
She was staring at the word, no doubt wishing that she was there. Wishing that she was anywhere except in Milan on a cold winter’s morning.
80: Track Record
SHE CAME TO the door of the apartment. Her nervous glance went from Trotti to Magagna. She was wearing the same necklace as before over the top of a black cardigan.
“Polizia di Stato,” Magagna announced, smiling while briefly showing his identification.
She nodded unhappily. She took a step backwards. “You’d better come in.”
Trotti and Magagna followed her into the large living room.
“Please be seated.” Signora Lucchi added, “I do hope you’re not going to be long. I’m expecting some friends over.”
>
Trotti glanced briefly at the modern paintings in their old-fashioned frames.
Signora Lucchi made a movement of her hand to her necklace. “What do you want this time? Commissario Trotti, isn’t it? I thought you’d seen my lawyer.”
“Avvocato Regni offered me employment with you.” Trotti smiled.
“So he informed me.” A corroborating nod of the small, birdlike head. The woman pulled at a long sash and immediately the Filipino majordomo appeared. “Coffee for these gentlemen please, Pablo,” she said, without turning to look at the small man. “You can bring me a glass of Fiuggi mineral water.”
The butler left the room.
“Then you’ve decided to help us identify my ex-husband’s murderer?”
“Why did you engage Signor Bassi, signora?” Trotti asked.
There was a tightening of the lines around her mouth. “You think Signor Bassi’s unfortunate death is in some way connected with the inquiries he’d been carrying out into my ex-husband’s death?”
“Why did you engage him?”
“Avvocato Regni knew the man. Regni seemed to think he was efficient.”
“Very strange, signora. Most people seem to think Bassi was a fool. A womanizer and a fool, best left to divorce work. Far too slow for an important murder inquiry. You yourself told me he was incompetent. Like something in one of those awful American series on ReteQuattro.”
She placed one hand on the knee of her pleated skirt. “I see you are entrusted with a murder inquiry.”
Trotti brushed away the sarcasm with a gesture of his hand. “Bassi worked for me. I don’t like seeing colleagues being murdered.”
“I believe he was thrown out of the Polizia di Stato long before he was killed.”
“Yet you employed him.” Trotti gestured with outspread fingers. “Instead of going to one of the agencies here in Milan, you chose a provincial private detective with an inglorious track record.”
“You must consult Avvocato Regni. He makes all these decisions.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded.
“Regni came to my office a few days ago, signora. He was hoping I could help you in a private capacity. Avvocato Regni assured me it was you who wanted to employ me.”
“Really?”
“You employed Bassi because you had no choice. It was your sister-in-law, Carlo Turellini’s sister, who insisted on a parallel inquiry. The police seemed to be getting nowhere and she wanted to know who killed her brother.”
“Understandably.”
“Unfortunately for her, she decided to share the expense of a private detective with you. And you chose Bassi.”
“Why, commissario?”
“You knew about Bassi. Indirectly, most probably, through your husband who was for a long time a friend of Dr. Quarenghi’s. You knew about Bassi’s affair with the Viscontini woman. Mayor Viscontini and Quarenghi are brothers-in-law. Employing Bassi let you off the hook.”
A quizzical frown. “I don’t think I understand.”
“You didn’t want any inquiry. Why should you? But your sister-in-law insisted and since you were paying your share, you chose somebody incompetent. Incompetent whom you hoped to buy off.”
“Incompetent in what way?”
“Incompetent in that he never asked himself the first question any self-respecting private detective should always ask.”
Her head moved sideways. “Which question?”
“Bassi never wondered why you employed him. He never questioned your motives. Or if indeed he did, he allowed himself to be influenced by the easy money. Good, easy money.”
“Are you accusing me of wanting to influence Signor Bassi’s inquiry? At a time when I was paying his fees?” She gave a chirping laugh. “Is that what you’re saying?”
Trotti looked at her.
“Well?”
“Quite simply I’m saying you murdered Carlo Turellini, Signora Lucchi. You murdered your ex-husband.”
“An interesting theory.”
“Since his sister insisted upon employing a private detective—you had no call to be very frightened by the Carabinieri’s inquiry—you helped her choose the man least likely ever to get to the truth. Of course, you were quite right.”
“Right?” she echoed.
“By the time Bassi was murdered, a bullet through his head, it’d never occurred to him Dr. Turellini had been murdered by his ex-wife. By the very woman who was paying Bassi’s fees.” Trotti glanced at Magagna. “Bassi died as ignorant as he’d lived.”
Signora Lucchi laughed and the butler entered with two cups of coffee, a bottle of mineral water and a plate of biscuits on a silver tray.
81: Surly
THE BUTLER BOWED and left but before he closed the door, the cat entered the room, walking prudently, one paw in front of the other, its surly glance appraising Signora Lucchi’s visitors.
“Bassi spent valuable time looking for a slighted lover. It never occurred to him the slighted lover was the woman employing him.”
“Me?” Signora Lucchi hid a slight shudder. “Mere hypothesis, commissario.”
“After a year of wasting good money on an inquiry you obviously never wanted, you needed to be rid of Bassi. You wanted to put the whole thing behind you. Your sister-in-law couldn’t complain you hadn’t done your best. At last you could decently dismiss Bassi. Which is precisely why the man started worrying.”
Signora Lucchi shook her head. “You’re merely surmising.”
“Bassi saw you were going to turn off the tap and he went into overdrive. Afraid of having to go back to doing divorces. He’d always seen himself as an American detective. He’d hoped this case would make him rich and famous. Famous for succeeding where the police had failed. And rich because you’d offered him good money to find Carlo Turellini’s killer. But with the threat of your dropping him, Bassi started looking into the possibility not of a crime passionnel but a murder among the medical community.”
She nodded authoritatively. “I once believed my husband was killed because of professional jealousies.”
Trotti laughed sardonically. “It was Bassi—not Carlo Turellini—who was killed because of the professional jealousies between your husband and Quarenghi.”
She said nothing.
“Finally Bassi reached the same conclusion as the Carabinieri. It was precisely because Quarenghi believed Bassi was on to him that Bassi was murdered. Murdered with a bullet through the head, signora.”
“A professional killing,” she nodded.
“Bassi’s was a professional killing. Turellini was murdered by a woman.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Signora, you killed your ex-husband.”
“What on earth makes you say a thing like that?” She turned, seeking moral support from Magagna who sat in silence, watching her from behind his dark glasses.
“A professional gunman would never use a piece of equipment dating from the war in Spain.”
“You really believe I shot Carlo Turellini, commissario?”
“You’d grown up together. You’d had a daughter together, and although Turellini had divorced you, you weren’t particularly upset. Divorced, but Turellini still loved you in his way. There was still something between you. You told me he’d ring you regularly whenever there was a problem. It was always to you he’d turn in time of need. He made you feel wanted. Appreciated.”
Her voice was unexpectedly soft with reminiscence. “We should never’ve broken up. It was his fault. Carlo just didn’t know how to be happy with the present.”
“You loved him?”
“Of course I loved him. I still do.”
“As long as Turellini was with Signora Quarenghi, you weren’t apprehensive. The friendship between you and your ex-husband remained. Even when Turellini started living with the Englishwoman, you weren’t particularly concerned. A younger body than yours. As you wittily observed, Mary Coddrington wouldn’t know how to heat water. She wouldn’t
even know how to shit straight. You felt she couldn’t give him what you’d always been able to give him.”
“Why on earth then should I kill the only man I’d ever loved?”
The cat suddenly leaped on to Magagna’s lap. Magagna sat back in surprise, then started stroking the animal. The cat purred with gratification. Magagna asked, “You saw your ex-husband just before his death?”
Signora Lucchi glanced at Magagna before turning back to Trotti. “Tell me why I should want to harm the one man I loved.”
“She was going to be pregnant.”
“She?”
Trotti said, “Your ex-husband was always in such a hurry. Always running after things.”
“So?”
“Suddenly he was learning to slow down. I don’t suppose he’d been much of a father to your daughter Carla. At the time I imagine he was concerned about his career. That’s the way we men are. But here, nearly twenty years later, he was going to have another child. And that you couldn’t bear.”
“What proof can you possibly have?” She tilted her head as she looked at Commissario Trotti.
“What was it you’d always told him? Something about seizing the day. For once he was following your advice. Carlo Turellini was learning to enjoy life. The simple pleasures of the family.”
“What makes you think I’d be jealous of that silly Englishwoman?”
“There was also the question of money.”
“Commissario, I have enough money.”
“Money for Carla until she was twenty-one. But she’d soon be twenty-one and with a child on the way, you realized there’d be a new will. No reason for your husband not to change his will now he was starting a new life.”
Signora Lucchi hesitated before shaking her head. “Carlo married me because of my money. I didn’t need anything from him.”
“Signora Lucchi, you told me it was important Carla should get her fair share of Turellini’s wealth.”
Big Italy Page 31