Persona Non Grata

by Timothy Williams

  “Why does it bother you, Trotti?”

  “It bothered Ciuffi.”

  “Ciuffi’s dead.”

  “I don’t like being lied to.”

  “You’re not going to bring Ciuffi back to life.”

  “Vardin is responsible for Ciuffi’s death. Because of his lies.”

  Spadano shrugged.

  “If I had had just the slightest inkling of what was happening, Ciuffi would be alive today.” Trotti turned from Spadano to MacSmith. “You can understand that?”

  “You expect Vardin to tell you that he had collaborated with Galandra? Collaborated with a man who had just spent more than seven years in jail?”

  “Vardin knew who attacked his child. He knew it was Galandra.”

  “You’re not being realistic.”

  “Ciuffi would still be alive.”

  “Not realistic and enjoying wallowing in your guilt.”

  “Ciuffi was killed because she was working for me.”

  “How could you have known that Galandra was going to take a shot at Vardin?”

  “I should’ve guessed.”

  Spadano took the cigar from his mouth, blew smoke from his lips and then swallowed the remaining vermouth. His eyes remained on Trotti. “How were you supposed to know that Galandra would start shooting the minute you and Ciuffi turned up?”

  Trotti stood up and went to the window, breathing in the fresh air.

  MacSmith’s apartment was at the top of an old building and the small attic window gave on to the red roofs of Verona, a network of nearly deserted streets and the hurrying, muddy Adige.

  It was mid-morning, but already the atmosphere in the room was thick with the smoke of MacSmith’s Marlboro and Spadano’s Toscani cigars. A small room, almost claustrophobic with its stacked, sagging bookshelves and the dusty, engraved prints on the walls. Old Piranesi prints and maps in Latin of the Americas. Everything in the room appeared old—even antique—except for the red telephone on the desk, and next to it, the portable computer.

  “You checked for me?” Trotti turned to face Spadano.

  “Checked?”

  “On Primula Rosa. Isn’t that why you came knocking on the door after midnight?”

  “You asked me for a favor, Trotti.”

  “I don’t imagine you came to see who I was sleeping with.”

  A smile that seemed to run parallel to the line of his crew-cut. Short, grey, well-cut hair. “I liked what I saw. Nice tits. And broad hips.”

  “Primula Rosa, Spadano?” Trotti said.

  “I haven’t been able to find anything on Primula Rosa.”

  “Thanks for the favor.”

  “The deaths at Santa Maria are coincidental, whatever the priest likes to think. Even if we do find this Primula Rosa of yours, it’s not going to change anything.”

  Trotti looked out over the roofs. He could just make out the grey walls of the arena. “You know, when I took the train at Voghera, I’m pretty certain I saw Signora Bianchini in the station bar.”

  “You’ve had ample time to ask Signora Bianchini about these things. Ample time—and where better than in bed?”

  Trotti spun round. “You saw her?”

  “A beautiful woman.”

  “How did you know I was with Signora Bianchini?”

  “You’re a lucky man, Trotti.”

  “You’ve been following me.”

  Spadano smiled enigmatically.

  “Why have you been following us?”

  “I must be jealous of your success, Trotti.”

  “It was you who followed us to the opera?”

  “You go to the opera, Trotti?”

  “You were following us. I went with Signora Bianchini to the arena and you were following us.”

  “Not very likely. I didn’t get into Verona until midnight.”

  “What game are you playing, Spadano?”

  “Trying to help you, Trotti.”

  “We were followed last night. That’s why she was scared—that’s why Signora Bianchini came into my bedroom. You scared her with your silly games.”

  MacSmith had been sitting back with his head on the worn leather of the armchair, staring at the ceiling. In one hand he held his small glass; in the other, the bottle of vermouth. “You gave the money to Soldati?”

  Trotti turned his glance from Spadano.

  “I told him you would pay him.”

  Trotti nodded. “At the SIP there are all the telephone directories. I put the money in the Isernia directory and waited until I saw him picking it up.”

  “Perhaps it was Soldati checking you out last night,” MacSmith said. “He wanted to see what you were like—wanted to check you before the meeting at the telephone exchange.”

  “You told him I was going to the arena?”

  “No.”

  “You told him which hotel I was at?”

  “No.”

  “Then it wasn’t Soldati.”

  Spadano laughed. “You’re a strange man, Trotti.”

  “I want to find out who murdered Brigadiere Ciuffi. If you find that strange …”

  “I find you strange.”

  “I asked you for a favor, Spadano. I asked you about Primula Rosa. The Carabinieri have been making their enquiries, you have access—”

  “Strange, Trotti, because you know that Primula Rosa is a dead end. Strange because you’re now looking for the girl’s murderer and yet you keep worrying about those deaths up in the hills.”

  “Perhaps there’s a connection.”

  “Connection between Ciuffi’s death and the muddled lucubrations of an old partisan priest?”

  “Signora Bianchini—”

  “You saw her at the station in Voghera? So what, Trotti? So what?”

  “Then what the hell are you doing here, Spadano?”

  “I told you.”

  “Told me what?” Trotti had raised his voice and he could feel that his face had flushed.

  “I am paying back a few favors.”

  “What favors do you owe me?”

  Spadano drank the vermouth. “Sometimes I wonder.”

  Someone whistling in the street below; the distant sounds of the city.

  “I didn’t have to come down to Verona, Trotti. And if I had known the reception I was going to get, believe me, I wouldn’t have bothered. I would have let you get on with it. Instead of phoning through to the hotels to locate you, I could have stayed home in the barracks.” He put the glass down. “I don’t have to help you.”

  “What help?”

  “You need my help. Because you’re not going to get any from the Pubblica Sicurezza. You’re certainly not going to get it from Merenda, who hates your guts. Or from Pisanelli, whom you’ve alienated by treating him like a child. Or from Magagna, who you kicked off to Milan once he wanted promotion.”

  “What are you trying to say Spadano?”

  “Something that you should have realized a long time ago, Trotti—that you put people’s backs up. That you make it hard for them to work for you.”

  “Then leave me alone.”

  “I’m saying that people who like you, who respect you because they know you are honest, because they know you are a good policeman—even they find it impossible to work with you.”

  “That’s what you drove down to Verona to tell me, Spadano?”

  Silence.

  “Thanks.”

  “There are times, Trotti …”

  “Thanks, Spadano. Now drink up your vermouth. Thanks again—it’s all very helpful.” Trotti turned back to the window. “But it doesn’t bring me any nearer to finding the girl’s killer.”

  “Chiasso, Trotti.”

  “What about Chiasso?”

  “I’m telling you something that even Merenda doesn’t know yet.”

  “What?”

  “The customs post at Chiasso is run by the Carabinieri and that’s why I wanted you to know. I wanted you to know before Merenda. I wanted you to know last night. I came to you
r hotel and you sent me away.”

  “Know what?”

  “A car with German registration plates was stopped for a random routine check. And beneath a false bottom to the boot, one of our men found a gun.”

  “Well?”

  “Still too early for thorough ballistic tests. But it would seem we have located the gun that was used to kill Signorina Ciuffi.”

  47: Truth

  “WHERE TO?”

  “We’ll take the autostrada.”

  “Where are we going, Commissario?”

  “Como.”

  “This morning you said we were going to Bergamo—to see a woman.”

  “The same direction.” Trotti shrugged. “I can see Galandra’s sister later.”

  “Why do you want to see Galandra’s sister?”

  He did not reply.

  “A stupid woman asking stupid questions?”

  Trotti glanced at his watch.

  Signora Bianchini raised an eyebrow. “You can’t be an easy person to live with.”

  “Who’s asking you to live with me?”

  “Thank you.”

  Trotti bit his lip. “I’m seeing a man the Carabinieri arrested at Chiasso. They’re now holding him in Como.”

  “You’re angry, Commissario?”

  “No.”

  “You’re angry with me. I shouldn’t have asked you to let me sleep with you.”

  “You didn’t sleep with me.”

  “We slept in the same room.”

  Trotti gave her a brief glance.

  “At the Ristorante Fontanella you seemed very worried at the prospect of having to share the same room.”

  The tinted window of the Audi cut out much of the September mist that was hanging over the fields of maize.

  Her voice was bantering. “I hope you’re grateful.”

  “Grateful for being kept awake?”

  “Grateful for all the driving.”

  “I’ve already thanked you for your help.”

  “But you don’t trust me?”

  “No.”

  “At least you’re honest.”

  “I’ve reached an age where I can no longer be bothered to lie.”

  It was lunchtime and the autostrada was virtually empty except for a few trucks in the slow lane.

  They drove past a Pavesi restaurant, where the adjoining parking lot was full of cars and neatly parked articulated trucks. The smell of hot oil and tomatoes.

  It was hot inside the Audi.

  She was no longer smiling. “Why don’t you trust me?”

  Trotti lowered the window. “For God’s sake.”

  She banged her hands against the steering wheel, her face pale with sudden anger. “Riccardo is innocent. You know that. You know it was Galandra who did it, you know that he wanted his revenge on Vardin.”

  “What do you know about Galandra?”

  “Why don’t you want to trust me?”

  “What do you know about Galandra, Signora Bianchini?”

  “At least your journalist friend is a gentleman.” She did not hide her bitterness. “He knows that I have been worried about my son—it’s only natural, isn’t it?”

  “MacSmith?”

  “Your friend had the kindness to tell me things you’ve been hiding from me.”

  “MacSmith talks too much.”

  “He can see my son is innocent.”

  “I have no proof of your son’s innocence.”

  “You still think I’m lying? When you’ve got virtual proof of Galandra’s guilt? You still think that I’m covering up for Riccardo? That I’m using my feminine wiles to save my son?” She banged the horn noisily at a rusty Austin Innocenti which had pulled out into the fast lane. Trotti glanced at the speedometer; they were traveling at well over a hundred kilometers an hour.

  She lowered her voice. “You still think I’m lying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I didn’t ask to be your chauffeur.”

  “I didn’t ask you to rescue me from the hospital.”

  “I felt sorry for you.”

  “For me? Or for your son?”

  “Of course I must try to protect my son. I am a mother. And a woman.”

  “You are a married woman.”

  She took her eyes off the road to put her head back. “Married,” she said, letting the air escape through her nose.

  “You have a husband.”

  “You don’t seem to consider yourself married,” she replied hotly. “Yet you have a wife.”

  “We’re not discussing me, signora.”

  “But can’t you understand, Trotti?”

  “Understand what?”

  A hand through her hair in a gesture of exasperation. “Can’t you understand? I like you.”

  “Good.”

  “Is that all you’ve got to say?”

  “About what?”

  “I like you, Commissario Trotti. I like you. You are a good man.”

  “I am pleased.”

  “I am attracted to you. As a man, as a human being.”

  “A flatfoot in off-the-peg clothes, signora?”

  “I’m not used to making declarations.”

  “You’re not used to telling the truth.”

  Her eyes widened.

  Trotti looked through the open window. The wind pulled at his hair.

  “I’m lying?”

  “That you like me?” Trotti shrugged. “You’ve lied before.”

  “When?”

  “Signora Bianchini, you yourself told me about your past, about how you came to meet your husband.”

  “So what?”

  “The poor girl from the south. Alone and frightened in the big city.”

  “It was wrong to use my good looks? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “You have considerable charm. And you make use of it.”

  “And in finding a husband, I was just acting like any prostitute?”

  Trotti shrugged.

  “So you think I’m doing the same thing now?”

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Signora Bianchini.”

  “I’m twenty years older and my looks have gone.”

  “You are very attractive.”

  “For you I am ugly?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You dislike me?”

  Trotti was silent.

  Her right hand left the steering wheel and she lightly touched his sleeve. “It is not easy for a woman to tell a man that she likes him.”

  “Where is your son, signora?”

  As if stung, she withdrew her hand. “What do you want from me, Trotti?”

  “The truth.”

  “I tell you I don’t know where Riccardo is—and it is not important.”

  “For me it’s important.”

  “I think I understand why your wife left you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Too many wretched questions. You are like a dog, worrying at a bone—at a bone that doesn’t exist.”

  “What were you doing in Voghera, signora?”

  “Voghera?”

  “The day you took me up to the hills—up to Santa Maria.”

  “Voghera?”

  “At the railway station. You were seen talking to a man. In the station bar.”

  For a moment, Trotti thought she was going to smile. Then she put her hand to her mouth.

  48: Guzzi

  IT WAS ONE of the old Guzzi motorcycles. A single piston and still in fairly good condition thanks to careful maintenance.

  Signora Bianchini took her foot off the accelerator.

  The traffic policeman stood near the road. He had parked his machine against a billboard advertising pressure cookers. In his hand, he held a stick with a red roundel. With the other hand, he indicated to the Audi to pull into the verge.

  He was small and his riding boots had been carefully polished.

  She was a careful driver and by the time they pulled off the autostrada she was going no faster than fifteen kilom
eters an hour. The car bumped up on to the verge and the policeman stood back.

  As he lowered the window, Trotti wondered why a traffic cop should carry a sub-machine gun over his shoulder.

  “Commissario Trotti?” The man gave a brisk salute. Flat, soulless features beneath the pudding-bowl helmet. A pale face and wrinkles at the eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I ask you to open the rear door, Commissario?”

  “Why?”

  “Please open the rear door.”

  Trotti leaned over the back of the seat and was about to unlock the door when he turned to glance at Signora Bianchini.

  Fright in her eyes.

  Trotti’s hand stopped, hovered in mid-air.

  The policeman slipped his finger on to the trigger of the gun.

  The car surged forward, the engine roaring in bottom gear, and the woman holding the accelerator hard down on the floor.

  “Christ!”

  Trotti was thrown back against the seat. “What the hell are you doing?”

  She was leaning forward in her seat, her hands grasping the wheel.

  The Audi ran along the verge and then pulled out on to the empty autostrada. A few cars. A Mazda had to brake sharply, letting the Audi pull into the inside lane.

  Trotti managed to turn his head and look out of the rear window. His view of the policeman was impeded by the Mazda.

  “He was going to kill us.” She changed gears noisily. The car gathered speed.

  “You are mad.”

  “Traffic cops don’t carry guns.”

  Trotti looked at her, glanced at the rearview mirror. It was then that he saw the Lancia.

  “Slow down.”

  It must have been parked, not far from the motorcycle. A small, rising cloud of burning rubber from the rear wheels.

  Signora Bianchini shook her head without looking at him.

  Trotti turned again, the seatbelt impeding his free movement.

  The Lancia overtook the Mazda, flashing its lights.

  “Slow down, they’re police.”

  Signora Bianchini hesitated.

  The Lancia was catching up, getting bigger.

  They were now traveling at a hundred and twenty kilometers an hour.

  The road was virtually empty. The surface was poor, runnelled by years of heavy traffic.

  The car rocked as the suspension coped with the uneven surface.

  “Let them overtake, signora.”

  Her face was white, taut.

  “Let them overtake.”