The Puppeteer

by Timothy Williams

  “Is that all?”

  “A horrid man. I feel sorry for my poor niece.”

  “And Baldassare contacted you?”

  “At eight o’clock in the Hotel Ambassador last night. Just as I was about to go to bed.”

  “And that’s why you wanted to see me, Signor Giudice?”

  “Piero, you’re a good man. You know that I’ve always had considerable esteem for you. But you must be careful.”

  “It is possible that he’s involved in Ramoverde’s death.”

  Dell’Orto raised a white eyebrow behind the glasses.

  “I think he knew that I was going to Gardesana.”

  “You’ve just told me that your being there was a coincidence.”

  Trotti looked away.

  “What did I tell you? All those years ago, what did I tell you, Piero?”

  Trotti did not reply.

  “Motive.”

  “Signor Giudice, you believed that you’d found a motive for Ramoverde to kill his father-in-law. A trial with judge and jury came to a different conclusion.” Immediately, Trotti regretted the sharpness that he had allowed to enter his words.

  “The jury did not agree with me—but that didn’t necessarily make me wrong.”

  Trotti shrugged. “It was all a long time ago.”

  “Not for me, Piero. You knew the dossiers—there were times when you were my right-hand man. Tell me, Piero, was I wrong?”

  “I think that there may be a connection between Maltese’s death and the fact that Baldassare knew I was going to Gardesana.”

  “How did he know?”

  Trotti did not reply.

  Dell’Orto said softly, “You thought he was guilty, didn’t you?”

  “Who?”

  “Douglas Ramoverde?”

  It was then that Trotti noticed a plaintive note in the old man’s voice. He looked at Dell’Orto and for a fleeting moment, he felt sorry for him in a way he had never felt sorry for him before. In the twenty years since the trial, the two men had met rarely—and then in 1968, Dell’Orto had gone into retirement, had returned to his villa outside Arezzo. But Trotti could see that the doubts had never left the old man. In his voice, he heard the years of self-questioning.

  “You thought he was guilty, didn’t you?”

  He was tempted to shrug, but Trotti knew that it would not have been an answer. It was not to repeat Baldassare’s threat that the old man had come to the city. It was for the sake of a long forgotten murder trial that was as important as the faded yellow pages of Vita e sorrisi. A sense of responsibility—perhaps of guilt worried him. And it continued to worry him, like a disease that would not go away, like a cancer slowly eating away at the host tissues.

  “Because even if the jury set him free—and I was glad when he was absolved—Douglas Ramoverde’s life was already over. It ended the day I had him arrested. It was you, Piero, who went to the Villa Laura—you saw his face that day. He was resigned for the worst, wasn’t he? He knew he would never be a free man again. The insinuations stayed with him for the rest of his life. And was all that of my making? Was it all my fault, because I looked to the motives?”

  “Douglas Ramoverde returned to Piacenza.”

  A dry laugh. “And then he left Italy for good. He took his family and he no doubt hoped to start a new life in Argentina. And there he died. He died in exile. Like some Roman emperor, it was I who sent him into exile.” He allowed a weary smile to crease his face. “I still have my doubts, Piero.”

  “Now his son is dead, too.”

  Dell’Orto looked at Trotti in silence.

  Trotti said, “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “And you really believe, Piero, that Baldassare is involved in Maltese’s death?”

  “A lot of people wanted Maltese dead—he had helped write an article which virtually destroyed the director of the Banco Milanese—the director and all the people behind him. Maltese knew that—and he had gone into hiding. He knew that he could get killed—and he was. But somebody wanted him to die in my presence.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “I’ve no idea, Signor Giudice.”

  “And the Banca San Matteo affair, Piero?”

  Trotti looked at Dell’Orto. “What about it?”

  “I read about it in the paper.” He shrugged. “And I saw your name.”

  “It’s been taken out of my hands. Under the control of the Finanza.”

  “You know Pergola?”

  “Yes.” Trotti asked, “Why do you ask?”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “He’s lucky to be alive. Two bullets in the leg.”

  “But what’s your opinion of him?”

  Trotti said, “I try not to have opinions.”

  “Do you think there could be a connection between the robbery at the Banca San Matteo and what’s happening at the Banco Milanese?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Dell’Orto smiled. “My wife has invested quite a lot of money in the Milanese.”

  “Why do you ask about Pergola?”

  Dell’Orto did not reply. There was silence while he looked at Trotti; it was as if he were trying to decide something in his own mind. “Cherchez la femme,” he said softly and then he put his hand to his waistcoat. “I wonder if you remember those letters that spoke about a woman in Piacenza. At the time of the trial.”

  Trotti frowned.

  “Cherchez la femme, Piero.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, perhaps there was a woman. Perhaps Ramoverde really wasn’t at the Villa Laura on the night of Belluno’s death. A woman—a mistress. Adultery—something he would never have dared admit to his wife. Or to anybody else, for the sake of his good name and his dental practice.”

  “What letters?”

  “Perhaps I should have paid more attention to them.” Dell’Orto’s smile was weary. “But perhaps I was afraid to admit to my own determination to see Ramoverde found guilty by a court of law.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “There are times, Piero, when I wonder how honest I am.”

  Trotti shook his head.

  “I didn’t come to see you about Baldassare, Piero.”

  “You’ve had a long time to come to terms with your doubts over the Ramoverde affair.”

  Again the smoothing motion of Dell’Orto’s hand across the Provincia Padana. “You’re right, of course.”

  Signora Allegra stood waiting in the shadow of the portico. One hand rested on her hip. Trotti wondered whether she was looking at him—her eyes were in the shade—and gave her a brief smile, which she did not return.

  “I received a letter, Piero.” The retired judge slipped a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his well-cut suit.

  He handed the letter to Trotti.

  The paper was thin and had acquired a looseness from having been folded many times. The print was irregular, clumsy—carried out by somebody who was not used to working with a typewriter.

  You destroyed the only man I ever loved.

  And now you have killed his son.

  No date. No signature.

  48: Maserati

  “DELL’ORTO NEVER KNEW Maltese.”

  Trotti shrugged. “He saw him at the murder trial.”

  “That was years ago.” Maserati gave a self-conscious smile. “Why should he feel guilty about the murder of someone he scarcely knew?”

  “The letter—it shocked him.”

  “Judges receive threatening letters all the time.”

  “But not twenty years after the event.”

  Maserati was one of the new generation of policemen—one of the young men who had been recruited during the years of political tension. They were not interested in policing the streets or coming into contact with the public. Many of them had been to university or technical institutes and Maserati was a technician who was only really happy when given a laboratory coat and a precise task to perform.
/>   “I don’t see how I can help you, Commissario,” Maserati said, adjusting his tortoiseshell glasses.

  “Maserati, the records must be here.”

  “What year?”

  Trotti found himself irritated by Maserati. He was intelligent and hard working—there could be no doubt that since his arrival in 1980, Sezione Archivi had been revolutionized. It was Maserati—without any particular training in archive work—who had insisted upon the computer which now stood in the corner of the chill room, a green dot blinking on the screen. Now when the need arose for a cross reference, Trotti no longer found himself being forced to hang on to the internal telephone waiting for a piece of information that the woman could never give. Or if she could, it would nearly always be incomplete. Maserati had imposed his scientific approach upon the section. He was competent, extremely well-organized and had a thoroughness that was almost Teutonic. But he was also humorless. To the fastidiousness of an old maid and the cold precision of a Swiss watch, he added a kind of boorishness as if he felt ill at ease with anything other than his machines and their printouts.

  “1960—or 1961.”

  The laugh was unexpected. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

  “Out of luck?”

  “Do you realize all the work that this job involves, Commissario? Having to get everything scheduled? Not easy, you know. And Signora Paternoster is away on maternity leave.” Behind the lenses, the eyes were offended and moved erratically. “I’m still working on 1968 and you want 1960.”

  “I would like to see the old files.”

  “I haven’t gotten around to them yet.”

  “But they’re available?”

  Another laugh, this time self-justificatory. “You’ll have to go downstairs to the basement. And look under the dust.”

  “I’m looking for a series of letters. They’re in the file.”

  A sigh.

  “Dell’Orto mentioned a series of letters. I need to see them because it’s possible that there’s a connection between the Villa Laura and Maltese’s death.” Trotti added, “It’s possible that Maltese was working on the trial—perhaps he was writing an article. And it’s quite possible that he came up with information that could have caused difficulties.”

  “Maltese was murdered because he knew about the Banco Milanese.”

  “Why was he killed in Gardesana, then?”

  “It might’ve been the only place where the assassins could get to him.”

  Trotti said, “It’s important that I see the dossiers.”

  “I see.” He wore a white coat and the sleeves were rolled up to his forearms. A repressed sigh and Maserati stood up. “Then there’s nothing for it but to go and look.”

  Trotti followed him out of the laboratory and together they went down the two flights of stairs to the basement of the Questura.

  Maserati turned on a light.

  The walls had been partially painted—the Questura dated from the late fascist era—and in places the grey cement was showing through. Linoleum had been put down. It deadened the sound of their feet. The air was musty and carried the odor of damp paper.

  “1960,” Maserati said to himself.

  “The Villa Laura killings were at the beginning of August.”

  Maserati had reverted to the role of the absorbed scientist. He did not seem to be aware of Trotti’s presence. “1960,” he repeated.

  Trotti waited.

  The young head turned. “You think it’ll be a child’s game to find the Ramoverde dossier, Commissario?”

  “I’m sure you’ll do your best.”

  “Just look.” He gestured to the rows of bookcases.

  Faded manilla files tied together with string, a piece of yellowing paper to identify them slipped beneath each knot, masked two walls.

  “You people upstairs—you’re all the same. You get angry—you want everything immediately and you think I’m not doing a proper job because I’m still bogged down in 1968.” He nodded towards the files and then rubbed his hands. “Two more years’ work here—and looking for your files will be like looking for a grain of sand on the beach at Milano Marittima.”

  49: Squadra

  TROTTI RECOGNIZED THE tuneless whistle.

  “Where are you going?”

  The thin silhouette was caught against the light coming from the entrance. With the suede jacket thrown casually over his shoulder, Pisanelli was about to leave the Questura.

  For a fraction of a second, he froze. Then Pisanelli swung round.

  “Where the hell d’you think you’re going, Pisanelli?”

  “To lunch.”

  Trotti reached the top of the stairs and he walked towards Pisanelli. “Not now.” Trotti shook his head. “There’s work to be done.”

  “I haven’t eaten, Commissario.”

  “Maserati needs your help.”

  “Maserati never needs help.”

  “He’s downstairs in the old archives. Go and help him.”

  “But Commissario Trotti, I haven’t eaten.”

  “You work for the Squadra Mobile—not in a restaurant.”

  Pisanelli glanced at his watch. He said, “I’m meeting a friend.”

  “She’ll have to miss you.”

  “But we intend to get married!”

  “Then she’ll have to get married by herself.”

  Pisanelli slid the jacket from his shoulder and looked at Trotti. The attempt to appear angry was only partially successful. “Etta and I are getting married next month—and she’s expecting me at the Bella Napoli pizzeria at one thirty.” He added forcefully, “In three minutes.”

  “I’ll phone the Bella Napoli and leave a message.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “You want a pizza, Pisanelli? A margherita? A quattro stagioni?” Trotti brushed past him, heading towards the entrance and the granite steps that were bright in the sunlight. “I’ll have them send you a pizza.”

  “But …”

  “There’s three days’ work sifting through the files. Go and help Maserati—then perhaps you’ll be able to see your Etta before the end of the week.”

  “What work?”

  “Maserati will explain.”

  Trotti stepped out into Strada Nuova, now deserted of traffic. An old woman stood on the far side of the road, near the War Memorial. Two black shopping bags were at her feet and she was looking at the limp flag.

  “And where are you going, Commissario?” Pisanelli called out after him. He stood at the top of the steps, one shoulder slightly forward, as if to give himself courage. “You don’t feel that you ought to help your subordinates?”

  “I’ll be back in half an hour. I’m going to the Policlinico.”

  “And in half an hour, I’d be back from the Bella Napoli.”

  “Stop moaning, Pisanelli.”

  Pisanelli turned away in silence, reentering the darkness of the Questura while Trotti headed towards Piazza Castello to find a taxi. The air was warm, but not yet hot and windless. He regretted that he had not taken the Ganna out of the garage.

  Apart from one or two students, the street was deserted.

  Trotti walked past the Teatro Civico, where white and red posters announced forthcoming attractions—posters almost identical to those used by La Scala. Cool air and muffled music came from the porticoes. Bruckner, perhaps, deadened by the thick doors. The Hungarian National Orchestra on tour in Italy, and not enough money to pay for a midday pizza. Instead, they were practising.

  Trotti went past the new tavola calda, with its odor of hot oil and tomatoes.

  “Commissario!”

  He turned round and squinted his eyes against the light.

  “Can I talk to you?”

  At first Trotti did not recognize the tall man with the sad face.

  “But not here, not in the street.” He gestured with his arm, and walking with a forward stoop, he hurriedly crossed the road and headed towards the university.

  “Let’s go to my o
ffice in the Questura.”

  The man took no notice and Trotti followed him. It was as they entered the coolness of the main quadrangle that he realized who his companion was.

  “Over here.”

  He stopped beneath the main flight of steps that led to the university library. There was a service door and because the man stood in the shadows, only the observant passerby would have noticed him.

  “You work in the Servizio Estero, don’t you?”

  The man nodded. He did not hold out his hand but looked at Trotti with his hangdog eyes. “Grandi—head of the exchange counter.”

  “I think we could talk more easily in the Questura.”

  Grandi shook his head. “I won’t take up your time, Commissario Trotti.” He was carrying a leather bag slung from one shoulder. He undid the strap and took out a newspaper. “I saw the photograph in this morning’s Provincia.”

  “What photograph?”

  “Commissario, I’m a law-abiding man. But I’ve my family to think about. And I don’t like taking risks.” He coughed, but the sad eyes remained on Trotti. “The photograph of the man who got shot on Lake Garda.” He opened the paper and tapped at the passport-like photograph of Maltese.

  “Well?”

  “I’ve seen this man.”

  Trotti felt his heart miss a beat.

  “A few months ago—he came in to see the director.”

  “Director?”

  “At the Banca San Matteo—Signor Pergola.”

  50: Matron

  “I WANT TO see her.”

  “I’m afraid she’s sleeping.”

  “She’s my daughter. I’m allowed to sit with her.”

  “The doctor gave express orders that the patient shouldn’t be disturbed.”

  “My daughter’s been here for three days. Nobody’s ever stopped me from seeing her.”

  “I must obey the doctor’s orders.” The woman was matronly in appearance—ample chest beneath a white smock and greying hair that was pinned up above the nape of her neck. She wore a white cap. She stood with her arms akimbo. “The patient needs rest.”