“The patient is my daughter.” Trotti was aware that he had raised his voice.
“You must come at another time. I have my orders.”
Trotti placed his hand on the door handle. “I wish to be with my daughter.”
The nurse looked at him, squinting her colorless eyes. “You leave me no choice but to call the doctor on duty.” She folded her arms beneath her chest and walked down the corridor, past the plaster statue of San Matteo in his whitewashed niche.
Trotti entered the room.
Pioppi was asleep. Now the tubes that ran into her arms had been removed. Her black hair billowed out on the pillow and the light from the table lit up her pale face. There were flowers at the window and also beside the small transistor that was tuned to a local station. Soft, rhythmic music.
Trotti noticed that the books had disappeared.
The body rose and fell with slow, regular breathing,
Pioppi stirred and in her sleep she was smiling. He bent over her. He pushed the dark strands of hair away from where they had fallen into her eyes. Then he heard the door open behind him.
“You must leave, I’m afraid.”
“Go away.”
“Your daughter needs to rest.”
“She is resting. I won’t disturb her.”
The doctor placed a hand on Trotti’s shoulder; the other hand took him by the arm. Then the young doctor, the stethoscope swinging against his chest, tried to pull Trotti to his feet.
Trotti stood up and turned. He caught the man by the throat of his jacket. As Trotti pushed him towards the door, the eyes were suddenly stretched with surprise and fear. The doctor was thin, lighter than Trotti expected. The young man would have crumpled to the floor had he not managed to catch hold of the door handle and support himself in time.
“Now get out!”
The doctor straightened his tie. He turned and left.
Trotti returned to the bedside.
Pioppi’s eyes were open. “Papa.”
“How are you feeling, Pioppi?”
“Is Mama with you?”
“She phoned from America last night. She’s phoned several times.”
“And the Nonna?”
“We’re all missing you, Pioppi. But you’ll be home soon.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”
Her smile was feeble, hesitant. “I don’t feel very strong.”
“But once you start eating, you’ll feel better …”
She frowned.
“Eat and rest. You’ve been driving yourself too hard, Pioppi.”
He leaned forward to touch her forehead. He noticed the eyes flinch.
“You’ve got to look after yourself, because we love you. We need you. Where would your mother and I be without you?”
Pioppi smiled sleepily. “Kiss me, Papa.”
His lips touched her forehead. He could smell her hair. “We’re all worried about you, Pioppi. Get well fast.”
Her eyes closed.
“I must leave you.” Trotti took her hand between his two palms. “But before I go, I want you to answer a question for me.”
Her eyes opened again and focused slowly.
“I told you and the Nonna that I intended to go to the Villa Ondina—but I didn’t tell anybody else.”
Her eyelids were closing again. She was falling asleep. “Did you tell anybody, Pioppi?”
“Tell anybody?” she mumbled.
“Did you tell anybody where I was going?”
Pioppi closed her eyes.
Her father squeezed her hand. “Did you tell someone?”
“Papa …”
There were steps in the corridor. Fast steps and angry voices.
“Tell me. I won’t be angry with you, but I must know.”
The door opened.
“Pioppi, it’s important.”
Pisanelli.
51: Campigli
THE COUNTRYSIDE WAS flat and Pisanelli sulked.
He drove with his eyes on the road. He did not speak to Trotti except for an occasional monosyllable. Then, when they reached Piacenza, crossed the Po and skirted the city, he appeared a bit less aggrieved. “Good food in Piacenza.”
“When we get back, I’ll buy you a pizza.” Trotti smiled. “You and Maserati did well.”
“It was the first dossier I laid my hand on.”
Trotti sat with his arm through the window. “Even so, you worked fast.”
“There were at least three letters.” He added, “I took a photocopy of only one because they were all the same. They all accused Maria Campigli of being Ramoverde’s mistress.”
“Maria Elisabetta Campigli of Fluviale, Province of Piacenza.” Trotti fell silent and Pisanelli drove for another twenty minutes, then took the unsurfaced road. The car bumped on its springs. They moved down towards the river. Through the trees, they could see decaying buildings and a brick wall.
They came to a halt in the courtyard.
It must once have been a small village, stranded in a loop of the river. Three or four houses with tiles of a deep red that had turned black. In places, some of the roofs had fallen in. The air carried the smell of cattle, but there were no animals in sight. The stables were empty. Thin pillars of brick supporting roofs built over long wooden rods. On the floor, no straw or manure.
They got out of the car and waited a few moments. There was a light wind rustling through the trees. The two men listened to the noises of the countryside—crickets, birds and the distant sound of the river. Then they heard the slow movement of feet.
An old man was walking with a stick. His boots struck against the dry earth and cobbles of the farmyard. Slung across his shoulder, he was carrying a gun. He moved slowly, his body arched forward and his legs bowed.
“Signor Campigli?” Pisanelli moved towards the man.
The man took no notice of him.
“Signor Campigli?”
“Well?” He stopped and put his weight on the stick.
“We’re from the police.”
“I’m too old to go to prison.” He spoke in dialect. Though it was nothing like Trotti’s own dialect—it was amazing how along the Po, the dialects could vary from one village to the next—Trotti had no difficulty in understanding.
Pisanelli turned to Trotti.
Trotti approached the old man. “It’s about your daughter.”
“You want to marry her, then?” The face broke into a smile that revealed a mouth without teeth. His skin was like the surface of a walnut. A gnarled hand shaded his eyes from the brightness of the sky.
“Why not, Signor Campigli? I’m sure she’s very charming.”
The man was even more amused. He leaned forward on the stick and laughed—a laugh that resembled a hoarse cough. He wiped at the specks of saliva forming at the corner of his colorless lips.
“She used to work in the city.” Trotti made a vague gesture in the direction of Piacenza.
“She used to work in the city,” the old man repeated, changing a few vowels to his own dialect. He laughed again.
Trotti glanced at Pisanelli.
“We’d like to talk to her.”
“You’re trying to find her?”
Trotti nodded. “I am from the Pubblica Sicurezza.”
“Maria Campigli?”
“Can you please tell us where she is?”
This time the old man—he was wearing a faded, collarless shirt and a thick leather belt—leaned forward to place a hand on Trotti’s arm. An old hand, scarred and worn by a lifetime of work in the fields. “If you find her, you can send her back.” He looked up and his wizened face appeared radiant. “A young, beautiful daughter …” With his hands he made a gesture that suggested a female body. “That’s what I need. That’s what an old man needs. To do the cooking, to help me in the fields, to feed the animals!” He laughed, the toothless gums pushed against his lips. “A young woman to look after me.”
“Where is your daughter?”
�
��They’ve gone.” He turned, moving his body slowly, pivoting on the stick, his eyes carefully watching his own hesitant feet. Then he raised the stick to gesticulate towards the dilapidated stone houses. “They’ve all gone—gone to the city. Gone away.”
“Where does your daughter live in Piacenza?” Pisanelli asked.
“My daughter lives in Piacenza?” He looked at Pisanelli’s young face and it was at that moment that Trotti realized there were tears in the old man’s eyes. “My daughter lives in Piacenza?”
“Try to help us.”
“She is with her mother. Maria Campigli is with her mother.”
“Where?”
Old eyes—they looked at Pisanelli and then back at Trotti. “She has been with her mother these last fourteen years. Incurable.” He repeated the word, “Incurable and now Maria is with her mother. And with her grandmother.” With the same hand that held the stick, the old man crossed himself. “God rest her soul.”
52: Confession
THE FIRST THING that Trotti noticed was the eau-de-cologne. It lingered in the air of the corridor, competing with the smell of the coffee from the machine and with the more acrid smell of human sweat.
At least the spilled sugar and the empty paper packets had been swept away.
Trotti entered his office.
Pergola turned and stood up. A hesitant, uncertain smile came to the neatly shaven face. The eyes seemed darker than usual.
“An immense pleasure,” Trotti said and nodded briefly. He sat down behind his desk, automatically opened the drawer to see if there were any sweets. “Please sit down, Signor Direttore.” He gestured to the greasy canvas armchair. “Kindly make yourself feel at home. And perhaps I can offer you something to drink. Some coffee—or perhaps …” He went hurriedly through his pockets. “Or perhaps something to suck on.” He held out a packet of rhubarb-flavoured Charms. “Not Smith Kendon, I’m afraid.”
A tight smile. Pergola shook his head.
“Well?”
“I’ve come to see you, Commissario, because …” He paused and the prominent adam’s apple bobbed unhappily.
“Because you want to confess?”
“Confess?” Pergola put his head to one side, genuinely surprised.
Trotti held up a hand. “Forgive my frivolity.” He glanced at his watch. “Half past eight in the morning—and a beautiful May day. I’m just not used to finding a bank manager of all people in my office.” He gestured around the small office—at the dingy dossiers that he had recently tidied and that were now piled haphazardly at the feet of the radiator, at the photograph of Pertini that looked as if it had been there since Koblet had won the Giro d’Italia. “I’m afraid that for elegance, my office cannot compare with yours at the Banca San Matteo.”
A magnanimous shrug while the eyes watched Trotti carefully.
The pigeons were cooing. The summer heat came through the window and Trotti felt surprisingly relaxed—perhaps the news from the Policlinico, or perhaps the effect of having cycled into work. A few drops of oil and the Ganna was running smoothly, as if it had not spent the last eight months in the garage. “How can I help you, Signor Pergola?”
Hs coughed. “I was not …” A gesture of the hand. “I was not totally frank with you, Commissario.”
“Frank about what?”
“And it is now something that I regret.”
Trotti smiled blandly while his fingers played with the ragged end of the sweet packet.
“When we last met … there were things that I should have mentioned.”
“It’s not too late.”
“I saw yesterday’s paper and I saw the photograph of Maltese.” He nodded. “I wasn’t completely truthful with you, Commissario. I knew Maltese—he came to my office.”
“Ah!”
“He came to see me.”
“When was this?”
“About four months ago.”
“Before the robbery?”
Pergola nodded. “It must have been in January. But you see, I didn’t realize it was him.” Very slightly he raised the padded shoulders of his narrow suit. “I”m a provincial banker—and I know little about what happens up the road in Milan. To be honest with you, I’m not very interested.”
Trotti frowned.
“When he came to see me, he gave me his name. Not Maltese. He called himself Ramoverde.” Hurriedly, Pergola went on, “How was I to know that he was Maltese? Of course, I had heard of the Ramoverde affair—who hadn’t?—but that was a long time ago. And of course, I didn’t associate the Ramoverde sitting in front of me with the ex-journalist of the Popolo d’Italia.”
“Was this before or after the Night of the Tazebao?”
“I checked in my agenda—when you came to see me.” An apologetic smile. “It must’ve been about a week before.”
Trotti nodded. “Afterwards, Maltese disappeared.”
“He said he was writing a book—and that he needed to do some research.”
“What sort of book?”
“About his father, Douglas Ramoverde. He said that the time had come for the truth to be told. People who could have been hurt were now dead, he said, and he felt that there was nothing to be afraid of. The truth needed to be told, if only for his father’s sake.”
“Then he knew who killed Belluno?”
For a moment, Pergola paused to think. He looked small and ill at ease; he was sitting forward on the edge of the chair, his buttocks resting on the wooden frame. “That’s the impression he tried to give me.”
“Did he tell you who it was?”
Pergola replied, “I wouldn’t have wanted to know.”
“If you weren’t interested in the Belluno affair, why did Maltese come and see you?” Trotti raised a shoulder.
The man said nothing, but looked at Trotti with his dark eyes. He bit at his lip.
“What did Maltese want from you, Signor Pergola?”
A deep intake of breath. “I think he wanted information.”
“Be more explicit.”
Pergola looked anxiously about the office. Then he lowered his voice. “He wanted information about a lodge.”
Trotti frowned.
“A masonic lodge, Signor Commissario.”
Trotti sat back in his chair and for a moment, he sucked the sweet. “Ah,” he said.
“Maltese—if that was his real name—”
“His real name was Ramoverde.”
“Ramoverde seemed to believe that I could help him.”
“And could you?”
“He wanted to know about the freemason lodge.” A flitter of a smile; the skin of his face was drawn tight across the high cheekbones. “Ramoverde seemed to believe that his father had been murdered by freemasons.”
“Why?”
“He believed that there had been rivalries.”
“What sort of rivalries?”
Pergola shook his head. “I don’t know. He got very excited and mentioned a lot of names that I’d heard of—and even more that I had never heard of at all. People that he accused of being involved in Belluno’s death. And in his father’s court trial.”
“What sort of people?”
“I can’t remember, Commissario.” Their eyes met. “I wasn’t particularly interested.”
“Then I imagine you threw him out of your office. You told him to be on his way.”
“Not quite.” He rubbed one hand against the sharp crease of his trousers. “I wanted to hear what he had to say.”
“What exactly did Maltese want from you?”
“An introduction.” He no longer looked at Trotti but at his two narrow hands, which he had placed on his knees. “Maltese wanted an introduction to the Lodge because …”
“Because you’re a member?”
Pergola acquiesced with a small nod. “He said it was a case of the son trying to put the record straight over his father’s trial.” Pergola raised his eyes—dark, intelligent eyes.
“How did he know you were a freemason
?”
“In the same way, perhaps, that he knew I was no longer interested in the ritual.”
“I see.”
“Commissario, you don’t see because you cannot understand. I was reluctant to tell you the truth when you asked me about Maltese—but I’ve been through the initiation ceremony. I’ve made vows.” A small smile. “Now I’m here and I’m talking about these things openly.”
“Perhaps you are afraid.”
The smile grew larger. “I’m not afraid of the law—if that’s what you mean—because I’ve nothing to be afraid of. I’m a law-abiding citizen—no more, no less. Nor am I afraid of them.”
“Them?”
“The Lodge doesn’t frighten me because I know what it all means—little men pretending to play at the Ku Klux Klan, men who take their wives to church on Sunday and then when they meet among themselves, they talk rubbish about the Great Architect. They’re not genuine masons—they believe in all the childish liturgy as much as you or I do. A front, an organization—that’s all. A form of Mafia, a network of contacts, of preferences.” He smiled sadly.
“How could Maltese have known that you were no longer very keen about being a freemason?”
The bank manager raised his hands, then let them fall back onto the creases of his trousers. “I can’t be sure.”
“Nor do I see any reason for him to want to see you.”
Pergola stood up and for an instant Trotti wondered what the other man intended to do. He watched Pergola as he walked, limping slightly, to the open window and stared out across the terracotta roofs of the city. Then he turned and folded his arms. “I would like something to drink.”
“Coffee?”
He nodded.
Trotti went to the door and shouted, “Brigadiere.” In an instant, a young man in uniform appeared. “Two coffees from over the road. And a couple of brioches.”
The policeman nodded and moved towards the lift. Trotti closed the door.
“You see, Commissario, I liked him.”
“Him?”
“He came to my office and I realized that an introduction was not really what he wanted. He already knew quite a lot about the lodge—for one thing, he knew that I was a member and for another, he knew that I was disenchanted. If he’d really wanted to, he could have got an introduction from somebody else. It was as if he were testing me—or as if he were trying to get something from me without my realizing it. But after a while, we both began to relax. It was then he told me about the book he intended to write.” He looked at Trotti, then looked away. “I think I can guess who killed Maltese.”
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