Persona Non Grata

by Timothy Williams

  She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “No flashy cars or nice houses. Just the same old people, living their quiet lives.”

  Trotti stood up slowly. “Then there is no money.”

  “Commissario, the money is there. Pauli told me—and Pauli never lied. Rivalries between families,” the Baronessa said. “Smoldering anger that in forty years has killed at least ten men and women.”

  “Ten, Baronessa?”

  “In the last days of fighting, about five villagers were killed. Always the same thing—it was never clear whether they had collaborated with the Fascists or whether they were partisans. After that, for about fifteen years, everything was calm. Then just a year or so before I came back from Germany, the killing started again. Since 1964, at least five people have been murdered … and nearly always with a blunt instrument.” She paused, a brittle smile on the thin lips. “Hit from behind with a blunt instrument.”

  “And nobody’s gotten rich.”

  “In a small village, you don’t always want to show what you’ve got. Tongues can wag.”

  “Or of course it could be the opposite.”

  “The opposite, Commissario?”

  “Perhaps the money is there. Somebody had hidden it.”

  “Somebody?”

  “A secret that must be kept. And the only way of keeping it is by killing those who share the secret.”

  “It is possible.”

  Trotti set the glass down. “Aren’t you afraid, Baronessa?”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Of knowing more than you should, perhaps?”

  “Afraid of dying?” She laughed again, a strangely girlish laugh, while her eyes remained on his. “My son lives in Stuttgart now, he is married and his children are grown up. The eldest is at university. My two daughters have their own lives to lead. They write regularly but they don’t need me—a silly old woman. And as for Gianni, he has got his memories of the life in the hills, of his partisans and of his beloved Primula Rosa.” She turned away to look at the photographs on the piano. “I have lived long enough.”

  18: Voghera

  “I CAN’T HELP you.”

  “Of course you can, Piero.”

  Trotti shook his head. “I have no jurisdiction outside the city.”

  They entered Voghera and the priest took the wide, empty boulevards towards the station. Trotti looked at his watch; the train was due in another twenty minutes.

  “You can look for Primula Rosa.”

  “Santa Maria comes under Carabinieri jurisdiction. You can’t expect me to tell the Carabinieri they haven’t been doing their job properly. Tell them that my good friend the priest has reason to believe six people have been murdered under their noses—and they haven’t noticed a thing.”

  Fra Gianni braked sharply. His lips were drawn tightly against each other.

  They parked outside the station, in the bright light of the street lamps. Several billboards announced films at the local cinemas. Cars stood in the forecourt and there was the bustle of anticipation in the station. Trotti went to the ticket office. He joined a queue of people that included a few young men in army uniform.

  The priest placed his hand on Trotti’s arm. “I’m not asking you to open new enquiries. Of course not.”

  Trotti paid for his ticket, for a moment surprised how cheap it was. Then they went to the bar and ordered two coffees.

  “Primula Rosa, Piero.”

  “What about him?”

  A couple of soldiers were laughing. They wore ties tucked into their shirts and neat jackets, but the trousers were crumpled and the shoes dusty. They had slid their berets beneath their epaulettes.

  “Find out where he is.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think he knows.”

  They were standing at a chest-high table. Trotti raised the small cup of coffee.

  “He knows about the bullion.”

  “Perhaps he stole it, Fra Gianni.”

  It was warm in the bar, even though the glass doors were wide open and gave on to the platform.

  On the far tracks, in the penumbra, a local train in dark browns, unlit and unnoticed, waited out the night. “In the Questura, you can locate him. Use your computers—and you have your contacts. Find him—because, if you don’t, more people are going to be found with their heads smashed in.”

  Trotti shook his head.

  “You won’t do that for me, Piero? For an old friend?”

  “A young and athletic friend.”

  Fra Gianni placed his hand on his shoulder. “I’m counting on you, Piero.”

  “Primula Rosa?”

  “His real name is Mario Vecchioni. After the war he went to Milan and worked at Pirelli. I last saw him in 1967.”

  “And you didn’t ask him about the killings?”

  He shrugged. “At the time, I believed they were accidents.”

  The tin voice of the loudspeaker announced the arrival on time of the InterCity train number 48 for Milano Centrale.

  “Is he still with Pirelli?”

  “He lost his left hand in the last days of the war—picking up a grenade. He did it to protect his companions. It shouldn’t be hard to find him, Piero.”

  Trotti shrugged.

  “You can find him.”

  A few minutes later, the long train pulled on to the platform, an alligator stenciled on to the side of the high locomotive. There was the dull thud of doors being opened and closed, shouts from the soldiers and laughter as they climbed aboard.

  The first-class carriage was in the middle of the train. Fra Gianni pulled open the door and Trotti got on to the tram. The air in the carriage was warm and unpleasant; the door to the lavatory had been left open.

  “I can count on you, Piero?”

  Trotti smiled, the train whistled and then the stationmaster waved his flag.

  “You’ll let me know, Piero?” Fra Gianni had to shout above the sound of the jolting wheels.

  Trotti said, “I’ll see what I can do,” and leaning against the open windows, he looked down on the platform. It was now empty except for Fra Gianni standing like an old marooned sailor.

  Trotti repeated, “I’ll see what I can do.” He smiled at Fra Gianni, gave him a little wave.

  Trotti turned his head. He saw the bright lights of the bar. And, as the train picked up speed, he had the impression of seeing Signora Bianchini beyond the open doors of the café.

  She was sitting at a table, drinking coffee. She was not alone.

  19: Protuberant

  SHE SAT IN the low canvas chair and looked around her, her neck stretching and the pale eyes protuberant. She looked at the old posters and the map of the province.

  “It is very kind of you to come into the Questura so early in the morning.”

  She turned to face Trotti. “I have no intention of being late for work. I have not been late in twenty years.” The eyes seemed to take time to focus. “I am a woman of the twentieth century and I earn my living with dignity.”

  “What exactly …?”

  “I told the woman everything last night.”

  “Then perhaps, signora, you could repeat everything to me.”

  “Signorina.” She folded her arms. “Signorina Podestà. I am not married.”

  For a moment they looked at each other.

  The woman’s nose twitched. “There is an unpleasant smell.”

  Signorina Podestà was below average height and she sat uncomfortably in the low canvas armchair. She had dark hair that was badly cut and needed combing; an upturned nose that pulled at the pale flesh of her upper lip and which gave to her face a look of permanent surprise and disapproval.

  Trotti turned in his seat to see that the partition was firmly closed. “I’m sorry about the … the smell. It’s the drains.” Trotti shrugged apologetically. “You would care for something to drink?”

  For a moment, Signorina Podestà did not reply. Then brusquely she shook her head.

  “You were raped?”r />
  Another firm shake of the head. “Somebody tried to rape me. Somebody very low and revolting. But I am a woman of the twentieth century and I know how to defend myself.”

  “How did you defend yourself, signorina?”

  “There are evening classes in self-defense at the Istituto Magnoni. I have a quick eye and I learn fast.”

  “Who tried to rape you?”

  She snorted. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be wasting my time here. And you wouldn’t be dealing with a case of rape but with a case of murder or …” A moment’s hesitation. The pale face blushed. “Or castration.”

  “You didn’t see your aggressor?”

  “I was sleeping. Sleeping in my bed.”

  Trotti pulled the writing pad towards him and wrote a couple words.

  “When was this, signorina?”

  “About ten days ago.”

  “What day?”

  She thought for a moment, knitting her forehead. “It was the Saturday night.” She held a handbag between her large, pale hands.

  Trotti wrote down the word Saturday. “At what time?”

  “When you’re being raped, you don’t look at your watch.”

  “Make a guess, signorina. Was it after dawn?”

  She raised her shoulders. “At about three o’clock perhaps.”

  “Can you describe what happened?”

  “Not very well. I was sleeping.”

  “At home?”

  “I don’t sleep in other people’s beds.”

  “Of course not, signorina.”

  “I’m not sure …”

  “Signorina Podestà, you live where, exactly?”

  “Opposite Ciel d’Oro.” She now took her time in replying. “My poor mother passed away a few years ago and since then I have been living by myself. And I keep an eye on my sister who lives in the apartment above me. She is not—my sister is not quite normal. You understand?”

  Trotti nodded. “And where do you work?”

  “I could have got married …” She unfolded her arms and played with the clasp of her handbag. “I prefer to wait. We are in the twentieth century and I don’t believe there is any need to rush into these things. And I have little time for children.” She frowned. “Drains, you say? It’s very strong.”

  An apologetic move of the hand. “And you work where exactly?”

  “I am a medical secretary.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “For the medical insurance company. IMPS.”

  Trotti nodded. “You live on the ground floor, signorina?”

  “On the second floor. But the main entrance is rarely locked because there is this man who … The front entrance is rarely locked and anybody can enter the building.”

  “But you lock your own front door.”

  “Of course.”

  “You didn’t report the attack immediately?”

  “There are some things …”

  “That require delicacy.”

  “Precisely.” She nodded.

  “But you have waited nearly ten days.”

  “There was no point in coming to the police. I know the police, I know what you are like.”

  “Like, signorina?”

  “But then I read about the poor little girl. And so I telephoned the newspaper.”

  Trotti nodded. “And what exactly can you tell me about your attacker?”

  “Everything.”

  “Can you give me a step-by-step account of what happened?”

  “I always wear pajamas.” She leaned forward, her hands clasping her bag, and her voice a conspiratorial hush. “I used to go to bed naked.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “It’s a lot healthier.” The corners of her mouth twitched. She continued, “But I am not as young as I used to be. And so now I wear pajamas.”

  “I understand.”

  A distrusting glare of the colorless eyes.

  “And what exactly woke you up?”

  “He was on top of me.”

  “A man woke you up?”

  “Of course. He was trying to do horrible things—horrible things that men do.”

  “What did you notice about him? About the way he looked? The color of his hair?”

  “Horrible things that you men do.”

  “How old was he?”

  “It was dark.”

  “Was he a young man? When you tried to push him away …”

  “I didn’t push him away. I threw him. I threw him from me. That’s why I wear pajamas—like judo clothes. They don’t impede your movement.”

  “Well?”

  “A woman should never be naked in front of a man. It only encourages him to greater bestiality. I make a point of carefully buttoning my pajama jacket.”

  “Bestiality?”

  “All men are animals.”

  “Signorina, are you certain you were attacked?”

  “He wore a bracelet—or else it was a watch strap—because he bruised my face.”

  “You are quite sure that you were attacked?”

  “Of course I was attacked. But I looked after myself.” A brief snort. “God helps those who help themselves, and if I count on the police, I might—”

  “You don’t have any bruise on your cheek.”

  “He hurt me—the awful man hurt me.”

  “There is nothing that you can remember that might be a clue to the person’s identity?”

  “Fortunately the bruise has gone down.”

  “You didn’t see your attacker, did you?”

  “I have already told you it was in the dark.”

  “But you threw him to the ground?”

  “And then he ran off.” She nodded forcefully. “Men—they’re all cowards.”

  “Some women …” Trotti began, then coughed. “There is a school of thought that believes some very sad and lonely women would like to be raped.”

  The eyes opened wide, as if trying to leave their sockets. “What do you know about women, Commissario?”

  Trotti looked down at the yellow paper. He coughed. “There was nothing about him that you noticed? His size or the smell of his breath or the color of his hair? A beard or a mustache …?”

  “Perhaps he was one of those southerners. Southerners go in for bracelets. Particularly soldiers.”

  “A soldier, Signorina Podestà?”

  “Why not? Ciel d’Oro is less than three hundred meters from the barracks.”

  “And so you think he was a soldier?”

  She shrugged. The protuberant eyes looked down.

  “You don’t have any proof, do you, signorina?”

  “A couple of days later—it must’ve been the Tuesday—I found this. It must have slipped under the bed.” She opened the large handbag.

  20: Belt

  CIUFFI HELD OUT the beige folder. “The Vardin dossier, Commissario.”

  “Are you free now?”

  Brigadiere Ciuffi nodded hesitantly.

  “Then perhaps we’d better go to the hospital.” He held up his hand. “By the way, when you see Pisanelli, thank him for finding the woman.”

  “Woman, Commissario?”

  “Or rather, if you see Pisanelli.”

  “What woman are you talking about?”

  “The spinster with the protuberant eyes.” Trotti played with the buckle. “She gave me this,” he said.

  Ciuffi sounded hurt. “It was me, Commissario. I got her. The Provincia gave me her address.” She tucked the beige folder under her arm. “It was me who fixed the interview for this morning. I knew you’d want to see her.”

  “Standard issue army belt buckle.” There were crossed cannons in bas-relief, two standards and a coat of armor. “Says it got pulled from the phantom rapist’s belt in the struggle. She probably bought it in a surplus store.”

  “I haven’t seen Pisanelli since yesterday, Commissario. As for the woman, they had her address at the Provincia.” The young face was taut and disapproving. “I located the woman—and I drew
up this dossier on the Vardin affair myself. Without any help from Pisanelli or anybody else.”

  Trotti handed her the belt buckle. “Says she found it under her bed.”

  Ciuffi looked at the object on her open hand.

  “The spinster seems to think she was raped by one of the soldiers from the nearby barracks—the Cairoli barracks.”

  “If Signorina Podestà is a spinster, it is no doubt the result of having looked after her mother. It’s not her fault if she never had the time to get married. I don’t see why you have to use an emotive word like spinster.”

  Their eyes met. She gave him back the buckle. In a lighter voice, she added, “Doesn’t have to be a soldier, Commissario.”

  They left the office.

  Waiting for the lift meant being near the dying dog. Together they walked down the stairs of the Questura. One or two men went past, saluting.

  Trotti saw Commissario Merenda and nodded.

  Merenda lifted his hand. In it he held the newspaper. “I see our friends at the Provincia are enjoying themselves.” His voice was deep, virile. The regular features on his young face broke into a smile.

  Trotti raised an eyebrow.

  “The Provincia is making good mileage out of your raped little girl. Headlines about a wild maniac. And a police force that is incapable of protecting our womenfolk as they lie in bed at night.” He placed his hand on Trotti’s shoulders. “Glad you decided to take this one on, Piero. Better you than me. Good luck to you—you’ll be needing it.”

  “Thanks.”

  Commissario Merenda went on up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  Trotti turned to Ciuffi who was still watching Merenda. “You think Podestà was raped, Brigadiere?”

  She looked at Trotti and her eyes came into focus. “Why not, Commissario? Or perhaps you believe that it is just a frustrated woman’s repressed sexual drive. A spinster’s wishful thinking? Another silly female with sexual fantasies.”

  “It’s possible.”

  They walked past the main desk out into Strada Nuova. A woman in black, her stout legs hidden behind several cartons, was arguing with the officer on desk duty.

  “You can check where she works—she said the man bruised her. See if you can get any corroboration. Unfortunately, after ten days, there’s no way of giving her a medical check. But if she’s a virgin …”