Very untidy.
The files that he had carefully stacked and catalogued a couple of weeks earlier were now in a state of collapse; on the desk there were sheets of typewritten paper and the half circles of spilled coffee. The air was stuffy.
Trotti took off his jacket slowly and then hobbled over to the window. Traffic in Strada Nuova. The morning mist was clearing and the terracotta tiles of the old city were beginning to take on their summer glow. At last, spring had arrived after a long cold winter and a wet April. Within a few days the hot weather would be back, and the still, windless air would hang over the Po valley.
He let the desk take his weight and sat down. Then he picked up the phone. “Gino?”
The voices came simultaneously over the line and through the wooden partition in the wall. “Commissario?”
“You’d better put me through to the Questura in Piacenza.”
Gino laughed. “They’ve been phoning for the last two days.”
“And what did you say?”
“Commissario, I’m paid to know nothing.”
“Thanks, Gino.” Trotti put the phone down and riffled through the top drawer of the desk. He had finished the bottle of grappa before going up to the Lake. Apart from a few sticky sweet wrappers, a few isolated grains of sugar and an old, crumpled football coupon, the drawer was empty.
The red light began to wink.
“Questura, Piacenza.”
“Trotti, Commissario Trotti here.”
“Well?” The voice was unhelpful.
“The Questore—if he’s available and not too busy.”
A series of muffled clicks.
Trotti waited, the phone against his ear, while he looked through the other drawers. Empty.
“Ah, you decided you couldn’t make more use of our hospitality, Commissario?”
“Signor Questore, I felt I had abused your kindness long enough.”
“And that’s why you borrowed an entire suit from the changing rooms of the hospital?”
“I needed to get back home.”
“Of course, Commissario Trotti.”
There followed a long silence.
“I assume, Commissario, that there’s a purpose to this phone call—or perhaps you merely wished to inform me of your state of health.”
“Alive,” Trotti replied. “Thanks largely to the efficiency of your Pronto Soccorso.” He coughed.
“And what can I do for you? What can I do that your colleagues can’t do for you?”
“I should like to know whether my car’s been located yet.”
“This isn’t a lost property office.”
Before Trotti could reply, the line seemed to go dead—not even the sound of a hand over the mouthpiece.
“Seventy-five Opel—registration PV 13379, color mustard yellow?” The Questore’s voice.
“You’ve found it?”
“No—but I’ll let you know as soon as we have.”
“Thank you very much,” Trotti replied, “and I’ll send you the suit of clothes immediately.”
“Most obliged—unless you feel that you still need them. The gardener at the hospital has been complaining and their speedy return would be appreciated, not least by the gardener himself.”
Trotti thought the Questore was going to hang up and removed the hand-piece from his ear.
“Trotti, have you heard from the Nucleo Investigativo?”
“No—I don’t think so.”
“But you know that the money has been identified.”
“What money?”
“The money that was found on your friend Maltese—it’s been identified.”
Trotti felt a coldness in his stomach. “Where does it come from?”
“I think you’d better contact Gardesana. I have the impression that Capitano Mareschini is most anxious to hear from you.”
Without another word, the Questore hung up.
Trotti muttered under his breath; angrily his finger hit the button of the telephone. “Gino, put me through to the Carabinieri in Gardesana.”
“Gardesana?”
“Gardesana del Garda—in the province of Brescia. I’m in a hurry.”
He put the phone down and stared at it testily. Then he got up and, using the desk as support, went to his jacket to see if there were any sweets in the pockets. He was still looking when the red console started blinking.
“Capitano Mareschini?” Trotti leaned his weight against the edge of the table.
“Speaking.”
“Trotti here.”
“Ah!”
“I must apologize for Friday night—I’m afraid I got called back to the city—family matters. And then outside Bergamo—perhaps you’ve heard?—I was attacked by two men.”
“We still await your visit, Commissario. I believe that the Nucleo Investigativo have certain questions—important questions—that they need to ask you.”
“Of course. I’ve only just come in to the Questura—I’ve been in bed. But I’ll phone the NI in Brescia.”
“Do that.” A long silence. “I look forward to seeing you in Gardesana, Commissario.” The voice was cold and the Sicilian accent was more noticeable over the telephone line.
“Capitano Mareschini, I’ve been in touch with Piacenza. I gather that the money on Maltese …”
“Money?”
“I believe it’s been identified.”
“Possibly.” The voice was flat.
“Identified as …?” Trotti let the question hang but there was no reply. Outside in the corridor somebody walked past the office. Trotti recognized Pisanelli’s voice and felt an irrational sense of irritation.
“Would you know in what way it has been identified?”
“No.”
“I see.”
After a while Mareschini added unhelpfully, “You must contact NI in Brescia.”
“I really think we should cooperate, Capitano Mareschini. As officers of the Carabinieri and the PS …”
“Precisely. Are there any other questions, Commissario?”
“No, Capitano.”
“Buongiorno, Commissario.”
Angrily Trotti cut the line, pressed the button and told Gino to put him through to the Nucleo Investigativo in Brescia. “And tell Pisanelli I want him in here fast.”
Trotti waited.
Almost immediately the console began blinking. He picked up the receiver. Click and then a single tone. It continued ringing for over a minute; then somebody answered.
“Carabinieri?”
The voice sounded faintly surprised. “Yes.”
“Put me through to NI.”
“Why?”
“Commissario Trotti phoning. Please hurry.”
“Nucleo Investigativo?”
“It’s about the murder of Maltese at Gardesana.”
“Yes?”
“Please hurry. Give me the investigating officer. This is Trotti of the Pubblica Sicurezza.”
“I’m afraid the investigating officer has gone to lunch.”
“Lunch, Signorina? But it’s not even ten o’clock.”
“Please hold the line.”
There was a knock on the door and Trotti looked up to see Pisanelli enter the office. He was wearing his leather jacket that was considerably the worse for wear—he had not changed it or had it cleaned in four years. A sheepish grin. Pisanelli seemed to be getting balder by the day. He nodded deferentially and sat down on the canvas armchair.
A man’s voice. “Hello.”
“Commissario Trotti here.”
“When can you come in, Commissario?”
“Come in for what?”
“You were a witness to the Gardesana killing.”
“I made a full statement at the Carabinieri barracks.”
“Other questions that need answering. Can you come in today?”
“Whom am I speaking to?”
“When you arrive at the desk, just ask for Nucleo Investigativo.”
“I believe the money
that was in Maltese’s wallet has been identified.”
“A report has been sent out to all Commands.”
“What money, exactly?”
“I’m not in a position to give information over the telephone. Come in and see us today. I think I can give you an appointment.”
In a neutral voice, Trotti said, “I’ll see what I can do.” He put the receiver down.
Pisanelli was leaning back in the chair, studying his fingernails.
Trotti looked at him for a moment. In a soft voice he said, “If you haven’t got anything better to do than your manicure, Pisanelli, go over the road and get some coffee. Real coffee. Pisanelli—nothing from that machine in the corridor. And a couple of packets of sweets.” He ran his tongue along the jagged edge of the broken tooth.
“You look a bit battered, Commissario.”
Trotti picked up the phone. “Last call, Gino. This time the Carabinieri. Here, in the city. See if you can get me Spadano at Caserma Bixio.” In the same breath he said to Pisanelli, “You needn’t worry about my health. Get some coffee—and worry about your prospects with the Pubblica Sicurezza.”
“Spadano called this morning, Commissario.”
“What?”
“Spadano called this morning,” Pisanelli repeated.
“Called who?”
“He wanted to speak to you.” Pisanelli smiled foolishly. “I was here so I took the message.”
Trotti put the receiver down slowly.
Pisanelli looked at his nails. “It was about the money.”
“For Christ’s sake, Pisanelli—what did Spadano say?”
“Look—I took the call down.” He pointed to a scrawled note that had got partially hidden beneath the blotter on Trotti’s cluttered table. “Maltese.”
“What about it?”
“The numbers correspond with the stolen money—the money taken at the time of the hold-up.”
“Hold-up? What hold-up?”
“Here.” Pisanelli nodded his domed head. “In the city. At the Banca San Matteo.”
The light was blinking.
Trotti picked up the phone. “Yes.”
“Capitano Spadano.”
16: Banco Milanese
“NOTHING ON THE girl?”
Magagna had been smoking and over the telephone line his voice rasped in Trotti’s ear. “Sentenced and then reprieved. But for the moment, I’ve got nothing on her. I’ve put out a trace. Let’s hope the Carabinieri don’t associate Lia Guerra with the Maltese killing.” He paused. “What happened to the photograph?”
“I took it.”
Magagna clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “Where is it now?”
“No idea.”
“What d’you mean, no idea?”
“It was a photograph that we had on file here and it was a chance in a million that I should recognize her—you know, that photo where half her face is covered with a handkerchief and she’s about to hurl something—probably at the Celere or at the fascist forces of repression. I recognized it—and I took it.”
“Then where is it, Commissario?”
“In the glove box of my car.”
“And where’s your car?”
“I wish I knew.”
Magagna gave him an unsympathetic laugh that crackled over the line. Trotti took a sweet from the packet that Pisanelli had brought him. “Let me know when you get something on her, Magagna.”
“I should be working on Ragusa.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to do that.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, then Magagna said, “I’ve had better luck with Maltese.”
“He was Ramoverde’s son?”
“He was in Argentina—after the Villa Laura affair, the entire family emigrated to South America.”
“The Ramoverde family?”
“Of course.” A slight pause. “After a short return to Italy, he got a job with Popolo d’Italia. He was their correspondent for Latin America. And apparently he was pretty good stuff. He wrote articles on the Dirty War, Videla and all the rest. He even managed to make the front page of the Popolo.”
“Where did you get this information from?”
“Then he got the sack. 1980, just about the time the Popolo d’Italia changed owners. The paper was bought up by a big consortium called Stampital. This same consortium is supposed to have certain interests in South America, particularly Chile and Argentina. Which would explain why Maltese suddenly found himself without a job.”
“What’s your source of information on this, Magagna?”
“Look, you ask me to do you a favor.” Magagna sounded peeved. “And I’ve done it. This isn’t my field; you know that Ragusa is in Monza and that’s where I should be, instead of doing all this running around for you.” He paused, caught his breath. “This isn’t classified information. You could have got it from Finanza.”
Trotti sucked at his sweet while at the same time he folded and refolded the cellophane wrapping. The telephone was propped between his head and shoulder. “Go on, Magagna.”
“Maltese left Argentina, spent some time in the States and then returned to Milan.”
“When did he get back?”
“Have you heard of Novara?” Magagna asked.
“A journalist?”
“You’ve heard of the Banco Milanese?”
“Of course.”
“Banco Milanese Holding is a conglomerate. BMH has interests in Liechtenstein, in the Bahamas and in South America. In Peru alone, there are six Banco Milanese agencies. And through Stampital, it is also supposed to have a ruling interest in the Popolo d’Italia.”
“Go on.”
“The Banco Milanese is a highly respected Catholic bank—and now it’s under inspection from the Banca d’Italia for irregularities. There have even been rumors that the Banco Milanese is on the verge of collapse. The Director, Bastia, is expected to resign at any moment. A lot of wealthy families—people who for generations have trusted in the Banco Milanese as a reliable and respectable bank—are suddenly going to find themselves a lot less wealthy.”
“What’s all this got to do with the journalist Novara?”
“Novara used to be a partisan and a communist during the war. Now he’s an agent provocateur. They used him at Fiat in Turin to set up bogus trade unions—to undermine the real trade unions that were getting too pushy for the management’s liking. That and then a series of smear campaigns.”
“Smear campaigns?”
“There are always good people who get left by the wayside—and who understandably feel bitter. Novara has developed a way of cashing in on their bitterness. He gets them to supply him with information—perhaps even with compromising documents—and then he publishes a broadsheet. Distributed free of charge—he sends it to bank managers and judges and lawyers and anybody else who might be interested in the facts that he’s revealing. Highly unnerving. And sometimes very damaging. The final stage of blackmail.”
“And Maltese?”
“Don’t rush me.”
“I don’t see the connection with Maltese.”
“He was furious with his newspaper, the Popolo d’Italia—or at least with the new, subservient management. He wanted revenge. More important, from Novara’s point of view, Maltese possessed the kind of information that could be very damaging.”
“What did he know? He’d been living in Argentina?”
“Precisely.”
“Well?”
“Banco Milanese de l’América del Sur.”
Trotti asked irritably, “What?”
“As a journalist—when the Popolo d’Italia was still a respected newspaper—he had done some work on the holdings in the Southern Hemisphere.”
“Where?”
“In Argentina, Chile and Peru—and even in Nicaragua where the bank was selling arms to the Sandinista rebels.”
“So what? Italy sells arms to everybody.”
“But not every bank—not every national and highly respec
ted bank, particularly with a strong Catholic foundation—is now threatened with bankruptcy.”
Trotti could imagine Magagna smiling.
“There are a lot of people who have reason to regret that Maltese was ever fired. He was a good journalist, from what I gather. But with a change in management of the Popolo d’Italia and with considerable financial interests at stake, the Banco Milanese could not afford be on bad terms with the military men in Buenos Aires and Santiago. And in Argentina, the Generals were hardly likely to do business with people who owned a newspaper unfavorable to their régimes. So Maltese was fired.”
“Buenos Aires could have expelled him.”
“Maltese, in fact, did a lot of his work out of Brazil, where he felt safer. Even so, several attempts were apparently made on his life.”
“In Italy he was safe.”
“Until he fell in with Novara—and Novara pulled off his coup.”
“You mean the Night of the Tazebao?”
“You heard about it, Commissario?” Surprise in his voice which Magagna did not try to hide. “And you know what Tazebao means?”
“Something to do with political posters.” Trotti shrugged modestly. “I sometimes glance at the papers.”
“Then there’s no need for me to explain what happened?”
“Remind me.”
“Overnight the posters went up all over Milan—plastered on every available wall. So that by the time Bastia, the director of the Banco Milanese, arrived for work—the offices are near the Scala—the damage had already been done. Of course, he tried to rip the posters down, but people had seen them and read them. One or two important people had even found copies in their morning post. They’d seen the accusations.”
“What accusations?”
“A Catholic bank selling arms to South America—to both communists and reactionaries; of illegally exporting currency to Switzerland, in the face of all exchange-control laws.” Magagna laughed. “There was even the secret number of Bastia’s private account in Switzerland. Bastia’s and his wife’s. The posters on the walls also accused Banco Milanese of subsidizing fascist regimes in Central America—and of investing in the cocaine trade. A highly respected Italian bank, with close Vatican ties, was accused of being involved in the production and sale of contraceptives. But perhaps most damaging of all was the simple question on the poster. Why had the prestigious Popolo d’Italia never mentioned, never made the slightest reference to the illegal traffickings of the effective owner?” Magagna paused. “Nobody was fooled about the source of information—just as nobody for a moment ever suspected anyone other than Novara as instigator. Maltese had helped him spill the beans. It was as if Maltese had signed his own death warrant.” Then Magagna added, “That was in January. From then until last Friday, nobody saw him—nobody, not even his old friends among the journalists. Maltese went into hiding. He was scared because he knew that his life was in danger.”
The Puppeteer Page 6