The Puppeteer

by Timothy Williams

  “Who?”

  “I have your word, Commissario, that this conversation will rest between you and me. I know that I’m dealing with somebody who is honest.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “Twenty years in banking have made me cynical—forty-five years of living in Italy have made me very cynical. But I trust you. And I know that you’ll respect my trust.”

  “You’re afraid of something?”

  “I’m not afraid for myself. But there are others to think about.” He paused. “Do you have children?”

  Trotti nodded.

  “Then you’ll understand. For them, Commissario, not for myself.” He moved back to the canvas chair. “Do I have your word that you’ll respect the secrecy of what I tell you?”

  “I must do my duty.”

  “By all means do your duty. I merely ask you to treat this conversation as, well … off the record.”

  Trotti nodded.

  He relaxed then. He sat back and crossed his legs. One hand clasped his ankle—he was wearing white socks. “He was only seventeen when his grandfather was murdered and understandably it came as something of a shock. He was quite fond of the old man—a fondness which his grandfather reciprocated. Then Ramoverde went to prison, there was all the publicity connected with the trial—things which upset him profoundly.”

  “Was his father guilty of the murder of Belluno?”

  “His father was not a murderer—of that he’d always been certain, even though his father had never discussed the whole business with him openly. Then they left for Argentina. For the boy it was an exile—or an admission of guilt. He saw his father age, start drinking and then die. Later, he returned to Milan where he studied. Then he got his South American job with the Popolo d’Italia … of course, he didn’t tell me which paper, afraid perhaps that I would realize that he was the journalist Maltese.”

  There was a discreet knock on the door and the officer entered, carrying a tray. He placed it on the cluttered desk and handed a screw-top cup to Pergola, who thanked him. He bowed slightly and left.

  “I made the association with the Tazebao much later.” He tapped the injured leg.

  “You know the director of the Banco Milanese?”

  “Bastia?” He shook his head. “We don’t gravitate in the same orbits. But like anybody else who reads the newspapers, I know that he is facing considerable difficulties. The night of the Tazebao was merely the last stage in blackmail, when the victim refuses to pay his debts and punishment has to be paid out.”

  “Who was blackmailing Bastia?”

  “You read the papers, Commissario.”

  “Maltese supplied Novara with information for the posters. But who paid Novara? Who was blackmailing Bastia?”

  Pergola shrugged. “If you really want the man, you’ll find him in a New York penitentiary—a Sicilian who fled this country for fraud. We Italians are an indulgent people—we have so much dirty linen that we have decided to give up washing it. The Americans, however, see things differently.”

  “You mean Scalfari?”

  “He’s serving a prison sentence in America. It will probably keep him out of the way for the next twenty years.” Pergola nodded. “Not a very pleasant prospect for a man who has known the ‘palazzo’ all his life, who has manipulated men, controlled them, used them.”

  “Scalfari was in his American prison at the time of the Tazebao.”

  “Precisely.”

  Trotti frowned.

  “Scalfari expected favors from Bastia now that he was in jail. He asked Bastia to help him—when in all probability it was Bastia who tipped him off to the American police.”

  “And the Tazebao was his revenge?”

  “I assume so. Like you, I read the papers.”

  “Did Maltese mention Scalfari or Bastia to you?”

  “When Maltese came to see me, we didn’t talk about the Banco Milanese. He simply said that he was interested in the Lodge—that’s all. Interested in the Lodge because he felt that directly or indirectly, it was involved in his grandfather’s murder.”

  “Then, in your opinion, where did Maltese and Novara get their information on Bastia?”

  “Scalfari knew everything—absolutely everything about the dealings of Bastia and the Banco Milanese. And if he knew everything, it was because there had been a time when he had been propping Bastia up with his own money—drug money, money from organized crime, money from illegal building and from prostitution. It was money that he used to put an insignificant Milanese banker in charge of a major bank—a Catholic bank, respected in the financial community and supported by the Vatican. It was precisely what Scalfari needed. A front—and Bastia was precisely the man he needed. Arrogant, cold, provincial—and not very intelligent. Scalfari knew that he would be able to manipulate Bastia just as he chose, get him to do what he wanted him to do. An ambitious little banker—a nonentity of Scalfari’s creation.” Pergola did not try to hide the bitterness that had crept into his voice. “Unfortunately, Scalfari’s creation turned out to be the more cunning of the two—more cunning than Scalfari. For if Bastia is not exactly intelligent, he compensates for that with his overwhelming ambition.” He nodded. “And so to get rid of the old Sicilian, Bastia informed the American police.”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “I’ve lived all my life in this country.” Pergola smiled. “I’ve had ample time and opportunity to learn how blackmail works.”

  “Then who, Signor Pergola, in your opinion, murdered Maltese?”

  “The actual killer—I don’t know and I doubt if you ever will. But now Novara is dead, too. I read that he was assassinated in Paris.”

  “Who was behind the two killings?”

  “It could, of course, be Bastia. Maltese and Novara embarrassed him. Worse than that—with all the revelations on the walls of the Banco Milanese.” He gestured. “But once Maltese and Novara had served their purpose—and brought Bastia round to seeing reason—to seeing that he still had to collaborate with Scalfari, neither Scalfari nor Bastia needed them anymore.”

  Trotti drank his coffee in two fast gulps; as he drank, his eyes remained on Pergola.

  “Some time ago I mentioned to a very old friend—a freemason—that I was disenchanted. Like many people, I had joined the Lodge for professional reasons. I no longer needed the Lodge—and I found the quarrelling and the reactionary politics all rather distasteful.” He paused. “I must assume that my friend was not very discreet.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question, Signor Pergola.”

  “What question?”

  Trotti lowered his cup and placed it on the desk. Then he picked up one of the brioches and ate it; crumbs fell down the front of his jacket.

  “You say that you did not know that Ramoverde was a journalist?”

  “We didn’t talk about Scalfari and Bastia, if that’s what you mean. That didn’t appear to be what he was interested in.”

  “You still haven’t told me what it was that Maltese wanted from you.”

  Pergola repressed a sigh of impatience.

  “Well?”

  “You do know, don’t you, that Belluno was a Venerabile Maestro?” The banker gave a weary smile. “Maltese wanted to know why the fact that his grandfather had been an important figure in the Lodge of Propaganda Beta was never mentioned during the long trial.”

  53: P-Beta

  MASERATI SHRUGGED.

  Trotti repeated, “Propaganda Beta.”

  “Off-hand, there’s not much I can tell you.”

  “What do you know about freemasons?”

  Maserati gave a short, irritating laugh and pushed at the sleeves of his white coat. “Wait a minute.” He got up from the stool he was sitting on and walked softly over to the small screen. He began typing; the keyboard chattered with a series of soft, plastic sounds and meaningless words appeared in green on the screen.

  “You see?”

  Trotti shook his head.

 
“Over four hundred fifty lodges in Italy. Grande Oriente is the largest. In Rome.”

  “And Propaganda Beta?”

  Maserati typed “Propaganda Beta” on to the screen. He pressed another key and waited. Then he shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Trotti bit his lip. “Not much use, your computer.”

  “Learn to ask it the right questions, Commissario.”

  Trotti turned to leave but Maserati held up his hand. “Wait, Commissario.”

  “What?”

  “Ask it the right question and it’ll give you an interesting answer.”

  “What?”

  “For example, the computer tells me that Uras, the Sardinian, was arrested in 1966 for attempted kidnapping. And that the investigating judge was Giudice Dell’Orto.”

  Maserati gave the monitor a tap of proprietorial pride.

  54: Phone

  “YOU KNEW THE girl in the pizzeria, Commissario?”

  The air in the elevator was fetid and Trotti could smell the coffee on Magagna’s breath. He ran a finger along the handle of the engraved sickle. “You’re better without a mustache.”

  Magagna put his hand to his upper lip—and then stopped, his hand in mid-air. “Pisanelli’s girl?” He used a rising intonation and Trotti noticed that he had acquired a Milanese lilt to his voice.

  Trotti nodded.

  Magagna laughed. “Poor old Pisa.”

  “Her name is Etta and he wants to marry her.”

  “How old is she, for goodness sake? She can’t be much older than seventeen.”

  “She’s at the university—specializing in psychiatry.”

  Again Magagna laughed, but he closed his mouth as the elevator door opened. They stepped out into the corridor.

  Principessa lifted her head.

  “Any phone calls, Gino?”

  The blind man said, “No.” Then he frowned. “Magagna?”

  Magagna grinned. “As sharp-eyed as ever.”

  Gino stood up and he moved out from his desk. The two men embraced. “How are you?”

  “I mustn’t complain—I’m with Narcotici in Milan. Hard work but interesting.”

  “You’ve put on weight.”

  “You see everything, Gino.”

  The old man tapped the frames of his thick glasses. “You don’t need eyes to see.” He nodded. “At least five kilos. Your wife must be a good cook.”

  “Dear old Gino,” Magagna said and laughed. He squeezed the old man’s arm before following Trotti down the corridor. Trotti opened the door and Magagna entered the office, looked around and gave a low whistle. “Hasn’t changed much in eighteen months.”

  “You were the last person to tidy it up.” Trotti stepped over a pile of beige dossiers and sat down at his desk. “You shouldn’t have made me drink that wine—it’s given me a headache.”

  Magagna lowered himself into the canvas armchair. His eyes went over the desk, the map and the photograph of the president on the wall, the filing cabinets, the cellophane wrappers beside the wastepaper bin. “Just as it always was, Signor Commissario.”

  “Why do you want to grow a mustache again?”

  “There are times when I miss this place.”

  “Nobody made you leave.” Trotti picked up the phone, pressed the plastic button. “Gino, I’ll be wanting to make a few calls.”

  “Nobody made me leave—that’s true. But have you tried living on the salary of a brigadiere when you’ve got a wife and child to support? Do you know how much a packet of Muratti costs now?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Then a packet of sweets—do you know how much they cost?” He sighed. “Four years, Commissario—and I was happy here.” He crossed his legs and ran a finger along the short hairs of his growing mustache. “I did some useful work.”

  “You wanted to get married.”

  “It’s not against the law.”

  Trotti looked up. “I never stopped you from getting married, Magagna.”

  “But you never allowed me any promotion.”

  “Promotion takes time.”

  “And four years is a long time.”

  “And so you went to Milano.” Trotti placed his hands on the desk. He felt giddy. Perhaps it was because of the wine—synthetic chianti of which he had drunk three glasses. His fingers seemed abnormally long. “That was your decision.”

  “We worked well together, didn’t we, Commissario? Your brains and …” Magagna shrugged. “My youthful charm.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Magagna looked at Trotti; Trotti looked out of the window. The sky was cloudless.

  “You know that I would have stayed on.”

  Trotti gave no sign of having heard. “What did Dell’Orto say?”

  “I told you on the phone. He sent Pisanelli and me on a wild goose chase to find Ramoverde’s mistress—a woman who had worked for him as a secretary. The only trouble is that she’s been dead for the last decade.”

  “With me instead of Pisanelli, you’d be getting results.”

  “Magagna, you know you’re better off in Milan.” Trotti spoke into the telephone. “Gino?”

  Magagna moved forward and between his lips he held an unlit cigarette. His glasses were in his hand.

  “Put me through to the Hotel Ambassador.”

  “Which hotel?”

  “Hotel Ambassador in Milan, Gino.”

  Trotti put the handset down and stared through the window. Overhead, the pigeons were cooing. The light started to blink.

  “Yes?”

  “Hotel Ambassador, Reception. Can I help you?” A woman.

  “Pubblica Sicurezza, Commissario Trotti.” He paused. “I should like to speak to Signor Dell’Orto.”

  “Kindly wait a moment.”

  A series of metallic clicks and someone calling the name Dell’Orto. Muffled laughter.

  “Hello?”

  A man’s voice. “Signor Dell’Orto is not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Have you tried phoning his home?”

  “When did he go out?”

  “Go out?”

  “Perhaps he’ll be back soon?” Trotti asked.

  “Signor Dell’Orto, judge in retirement?” The sound of rustling paper.

  “Yes.” Trotti glanced at Magagna who was staring at the telephone.

  “Please wait a minute.”

  Magagna lit the cigarette.

  “Judge Dell’Orto left yesterday morning.”

  “He hasn’t been back?”

  “He left to go home, Arezzo.”

  “Thank you,” Trotti said slowly and he put the receiver down.

  He looked at Magagna in silence.

  “Somebody has been taking you for a ride, Commissario.”

  Trotti said, “Be quiet.” Then he opened the lower drawer of his desk and took out the old leather-bound address book. On the cover, everything was printed in gold-embossed English. There was the logo of the pharmaceutical company. Underneath, PEARL RIVER, NY.

  Trotti found the number immediately.

  “A line, Gino!”

  On the other side of the partition, Gino bumped his hand against the wall. Trotti picked up the phone and dialed. The code for Arezzo was long and the lines were busy. Trotti had to compose the number three times before he got through. Then the phone began to ring and Trotti could imagine the sound echoing through the villa.

  “Pronto.”

  “I should like to speak to Judge Dell’Orto.”

  It took Trotti a few seconds to recognize the accent. It was a woman’s voice. From Africa—probably Ethiopia or Somalia. “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He left a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Where is the judge?”

  “He is not very well. He is depressed. He has to go to Milan.”

  “Where in Milan?”

  “Pardon?”

  “D’you have an address?”

  “Yes. It is Villa Felicità, San Polo, Arezz
o.”

  “An address in Milan,” Trotti almost shouted. “Can you tell me where I can find the judge in Milan?”

  “Milan?”

  “Yes, yes.” Trotti paused. “Listen, is the signora there?”

  “Signora?”

  “I would like to speak to Signora Dell’Orto.”

  “I am afraid that is not possible. She is no longer here.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She is dead. She died at Christmas.” The woman paused.

  “The judge was very upset.”

  Trotti said nothing.

  “Hello?”

  “Can you tell me where I can contact Signor Dell’Orto in Milan?”

  “I am sorry, I do not understand.”

  “Did the judge say when he was coming back?”

  “Pardon?”

  “When will the judge return?”

  “Return?” The African voice was anxious. “The house is still dirty. The painters are lazy and they have not yet finished the work.”

  “When will the judge return?”

  “Perhaps he is with his nephew,” the woman said hopefully.

  “With who?”

  Her pronunciation was difficult but she spoke slowly. “Signor Giudice said he was going to see his nephew. He teaches in the university, I believe.”

  55: Parrot

  “THIS TIME YOU come with a friend.”

  Baldassare gave a slow smile and the lines along his forehead started to crease.

  “I suppose he’s going to hold me down while you kick me. Or perhaps he’s going to put electrodes on my testicles.”

  “Surprised you’ve got any.”

  The smile vanished and Trotti sat down on the chair while Magagna moved to the window. Baldassare let his shoes fall from the desktop; the heels hardly made a noise as they landed on the green linoleum. Then he held out his two hands. “The handcuffs, Commissario.”

  Trotti waited.