Warmly,
Stefania Valenti
She wondered whether it was appropriate to tell Montalti she was carrying on the investigation on her own. She decided to avoid direct mention, so he wouldn’t get the wrong idea about her and her professionalism.
If he or anyone else had news that might help to reopen the case, she would of course be pleased to accept any and all advice.
She turned off her computer and headed for the door. As she was going out her cell phone rang.
“Hi,” said Valli.
She felt a rumble in her stomach, something like a slight shudder.
“Hi, Luca.”
“It’s nice to hear your voice, Stefania.”
There was a moment of silence at the other end, then a little chuckle. Stefania smiled.
“Would you like to go for a walk along the lake on Sunday afternoon? We could start out from Santa Maria del Tiglio, at Gravedona.”
She hesitated, remaining in limbo for a moment, then gave up trying to resist.
“Of course, I’d love to see you again, Luca. Shall we say four o’clock?”
She’d laid the stress of her intonation on his name.
“Four o’clock would be fine. See you then.”
She smiled as she hung up, certain that he was also smiling.
Back in her office the following Monday, she was determined to get back in touch with Madame Durand. Whatever the cost.
She’d thought about it the whole weekend, from the time she passed by Villa Regina and continued on along the lake road, curve after curve. She’d told herself she had to try. She owed it to Karl, after all. She needed only to find a pretext, a plausible excuse for going back and speaking tête-à-tête with Madame Durand. If she could get that far, steering the conversation in the right direction would be child’s play.
When she got to Como she decided she would have a coffee in peace. It wasn’t yet seven thirty and she felt like taking a walk. She avoided the usual bar by the station and took advantage of the opportunity to go into the walled city, stopping at one of the town’s most elegant cafés, the Arte Lyceum.
On her way back she ran into Lucchesi at the hot-drink dispenser in the station’s lobby, leaning against the counter, rubbing his eyes with one hand and stirring his coffee with the other. She remembered that he was the last person to have any contact with the Cappelletti family. She wanted confirmation.
“Yes, Inspector, I called them up and talked to that guy Armando.”
“And it ended up with them requesting that we stop bothering them, correct?”
“Exactly.”
So Lucchesi wasn’t going to want to call them back, even if tortured. Unless . . .
“Great, then take it easy and finish your coffee, but don’t fall asleep over it. Then you can do me the favor of calling that guy back. You can tell him that Inspector Valenti has instructed you to tell him that she would like to meet again with Madame Durand to discuss some new developments in the case. Did you get that?”
She stopped a moment to observe her colleague’s reaction.
“More specifically, you can tell him the inspector would rather meet with her confidentially, because she wants to talk to her about some very personal things involving some old family belongings. Then get back to me immediately with his answer. Okay?”
Lucchesi nodded and set off for his office with his head down.
Stefania went upstairs thinking over the whole affair. Since she wasn’t technically certain that the partial locket belonged to Margherita, she couldn’t say definitively that it was a “family belonging.”
But at this point she had to risk forcing the issue. How else was she going to get Madame Durand’s attention? There was no other way to get an audience with her without having to go through her lawyer. So she might as well try. It was a calculated risk. The matriarch presided over the destinies of the living and the memories of the dead, keeping a close watch over both. This seemed to Stefania reason enough to give it a try.
Then there was that other aspect of the case that kept nagging her.
Madame couldn’t not know. She was there during those crucial days, and no doubt was privy to Margherita’s secrets. Perhaps she’d even had occasion to exchange a few words with Maria, even though the two didn’t seem terribly fond of each other. She was, after all, Giovanni’s future wife. She could well have learned a great many things from him and guarded them jealously all these years.
The minutes ticked by. Stefania read her mail, organized some open files on her desk, put a few shelves in order. She envied the clear, tidy desks of Giulio and some of her colleagues. Her own always looked like a battlefield.
But I never lose anything, she thought.
By now almost an hour had gone by. She lost patience.
“So, Lucchesi?”
She heard a sigh at the other end of the line.
“Well, Inspector, I called and I explained things the way you said.”
“And so?”
“He said they would let us know.”
“I see. Okay, thanks.”
She was irritated. She’d betrayed the promise she’d made to herself to leave her boys out of this investigation. Maybe she was just deluded. She was merely wasting time waiting for something to happen. Maybe Giulio was right. How could she think that something would happen? On her desk the file concerning the arson cases was clamoring for her attention. She had to discuss them with Carboni at nine thirty—that is, in twenty minutes.
She snatched up the file and headed down the hall.
“Lucchesi? Piras? I have to go see Carboni shortly. Did you take care of those interrogations? Do I have to think of everything around here?”
“Look, everything’s already in the file. I put it on your desk last Friday,” said Piras.
“Yes, but we should have talked about it sooner. Are we a team or not?”
She went out without waiting for an answer. She was in the wrong and didn’t want to admit it.
She went upstairs to Carboni’s office. When she was outside his door the bells of the nearby church rang half past nine. The chief inspector was sitting at his desk talking on the phone to someone who seemed to be giving orders at the other end. She couldn’t hear the words, but she could sense the authoritarian tone. Carboni looked tired, with his one-day stubble and dark circles under his eyes. As he spoke he ran his hand through the gray and now thinning hair on his forehead.
“Yes, Your Excellency, I understand perfectly. And I share your concern, but I can guarantee you that, though we don’t have unlimited resources . . .”
A pause. The voice at the other end seemed to impart orders with the same peremptory tone as a few moments earlier.
“Our investigation is casting a wide net,” Carboni was anxious to say, “and I can guarantee you that there is no underestimation of the problem whatsoever on our part. Law enforcement in this town is as dear to our hearts as it is to yours, Your Excellency.”
Stefania, who’d remained waiting in the doorway, turned as if to leave, but Carboni gestured to her to close the door and sit down. The phone call came to an end. Stefania felt bad that she’d been an unwilling witness to that dressing down from the higher spheres. She said nothing. Carboni recovered from that heated conversation after drinking a glass of water.
“So, Valenti? Where are we in the investigation of those fires in that chain of stores? Are there any new developments?”
“Inspector, I have here the transcriptions and depositions of witnesses ranging from sales clerks to the owner. To say there’s nothing useful is an understatement. If you want you can see for yourself. I’m still sticking to the idea I had right from the start.”
“Which is?”
“To check the store’s accounts’ books, the owner’s private accounts, and maybe even set up some wiretappin
g, of both the owner and his personnel. And then I would see what the insurance company has to say and find out the exact monetary value of the damages.”
“Why?”
“Because based on what I’ve seen, the actual damage is almost laughable.”
“And so? Explain what you mean, Valenti. I don’t feel like playing guessing games today.”
“Mr. Carboni, all that went up in flames in the end were a few large boxes, which just happened to be empty, because the clothes they’d contained had already been stored elsewhere. All that smoke merely blackened the walls. There is no structural damage, apart from a few stools and curtains, because, again purely by chance, the fire was set on the side of the store where there are only the bathrooms and staff’s dressing rooms. Let’s be clear about this: with a little scrubbing and a whitewash it’ll all be as good as new again. In my opinion, it’s some sort of initial warning, some signal to soften someone up.”
“So you think there’s some sort of blackmail or protection racket behind this, as some of the papers have written?”
“Maybe, or maybe gambling debts on the owner’s part, that sort of thing. Didn’t you see the expression on his face? He has no record, of course, but the whole thing smells fishy. Maybe he set something up with one of his employees and they set the fire to collect on the insurance.”
Carboni looked thoughtful.
“The authorizations may come sooner than you expect, Valenti.”
Stefania looked at him inquisitively.
“And when we’ve got them we’ll have to close the case, do you understand? We will have to, and quickly, even. That case, at least, Valenti. I already have other problems to resolve.”
“Why, what will happen otherwise? Will we be sent out to direct traffic?”
The quip wasn’t her own, but sounded like it was. Carboni made a hint of a smile and gestured that she could go.
Descending the stairs, Stefania heaved a sigh of relief. Despite the sympathetic attitude she’d assumed in front of Carboni, she had no interest in that case or in His Excellency’s concern for law enforcement. She prayed that the authorizations would wait until the following week to arrive.
What she really wished at that moment was to know whether Madame Durand would see her. When she ran into Lucchesi on the staircase, her colleague shook his head no.
The whole day went by, then the following morning, before something happened. But it wasn’t what she’d expected. When Stefania returned to her office after lunch, she saw a long, elegant paper envelope on her desk, ivory in color, with no stamp on it. Curious, she opened it and found only two lines written in a cursive hand, slanted and stylish, if a bit retro: I’ll expect you at ten o’clock on Saturday morning. Coffee with milk and no sugar, if I remember correctly. G.D.
She summoned the guard to find out who’d delivered the letter, which had no return address, but all he could tell her was that a tall, somewhat taciturn man had appeared, saying he had a personal letter for Inspector Valenti, and that after giving it to the guard, he’d turned on his heels and left without another word.
It was only a few days till Saturday.
16
She got to her appointment a few minutes early.
At the front door she was greeted by the same butler as the first time, who on this occasion led her through the garden along the western side of the villa. The lake in the distance sparkled in the morning sun, beyond the balcony that gave onto the dock. The air smelled of freshly cut grass. The rose espaliers along the path were bursting with color and scent. The butler gestured to her to go and sit down on an open-air veranda furnished with small white wicker armchairs. The patio faced the garden.
“The signora will be with you presently,” the man said and then left.
Left alone, Stefania began contemplating the lake and the roses blooming everywhere along that side of the park. One branch extended towards the pane of glass, full of magnificent, sweet-smelling reddish-purple blossoms. It dawned on her how rare the scent of roses had become, and how the ones she would buy from the florists in town smelled mostly of plants and refrigeration. Instinctively she reached out to touch one and pricked her finger.
As Stefania stood there with her forefinger between her lips and frantically searching for a handkerchief in her purse with her other hand, Madame Durand made her entry. She looked at her with surprise and then amusement.
Stefania smiled likewise.
“Your roses are magnificent.”
“Yes, but they sometimes have too many thorns.”
“Thorns and essence of rose. We’re no longer accustomed to either these days.”
Madame nodded, gesturing to Stefania to sit down.
“All right, then, my dear, what was it you wanted so urgently to talk to me about?”
“I wanted to show you some objects, one in particular, and to ask you a few questions.”
Stefania would never have imagined it would be so easy to broach the subject.
She opened her purse and took out the bag in which she’d placed some of the exhibits. She put it on the table, taking care not to open it before she needed to.
“The last time we met, we were trying, in our investigation, to identify the man to whom the remains found in your ruined cottage near the mountain pass belonged.”
“I remember perfectly well.”
“We’ve succeeded in identifying him with certainty,” said Stefania. “His name was Karl Dressler, a German soldier stationed in this area shortly before the end of the war. We know that he lived here for a few months before he died, during the period when the villa served as a military hospital. Do you remember?”
“Do I remember the military hospital or Herr Dressler?”
“Both.”
“I remember the soldiers, the wounded, the doctors and nurses. Like my sister-in-law, Maria, for example. They took up a whole wing of the villa: the guest apartments and the stables.”
“And what about Mr. Dressler?”
“Him I remember much less. I think I saw him perhaps two or three times, and I never actually talked to him directly. We did sometimes happen to dine or take tea with some of those guests, but only the officers, to tell you the truth.”
Stefania took out the photo of Dressler among his fellow soldiers, and showed it to Madame Durand. She looked at it for a few seconds, then pointed with her middle finger.
“I think he’s this one. But when he was here he was different—thinner, and he looked older than this.”
“Do you think these might be his glasses?”
Germaine carefully studied the fragment of an eyeglass frame that Stefania had set before her.
“Yes, perhaps. It may be the same kind of frame, but too much time has passed and I could be wrong.”
Germaine Durand fell silent and turned her blue eyes on Stefania.
“Just now you said you’d identified those remains as belonging with certainty to Dressler, and so I’m wondering why you’re asking me these questions, Inspector.”
“I’ll get to the point, Madame. You see, we know that man was Dressler. We also know that he disappeared from the villa right before the sudden decampment of the entire German column. We know he was up in these mountains, in the area of your cottage, but we don’t know how or why he died, and how he ended up in that building—or rather, under that building.”
She said it all in one breath. A few moments passed before Madame Durand resumed speaking.
“I see. And you think I might somehow be useful in helping you solve this enigma?”
This time it was Stefania who looked Germaine Durand straight in the eye.
“I think you probably know a lot of things that could help us to understand what happened.”
“Such as?”
Stefania didn’t answer, but extracted from the envelope the photograph showin
g Margherita and Maria together with Karl Dressler and the other soldiers in the villa’s garden.
“Have a look at this photograph.”
Madame studied the image and almost instinctively extended her fingers as if to caress Margherita’s face, but then withdrew them at once. Then, in a subdued tone, she said:
“This is Margherita and Maria in their nurse’s uniforms, with Dressler and other German soldiers. This one with the bandage over his eye is Colonel von Kesselbach. Dressler was his attendant. They were wounded together in a military operation. The colonel said that Dressler saved his life. He was very fond of him, to the point that he insisted that Dressler be interned at Villa Regina and given the same treatment as was usually reserved for officers.”
“Heinrich von Kesselbach, by any chance?”
“Yes, my father knew him well.”
So we now have a surname for Uncle Heinrich, thought Stefania.
“You see, Madame, in a way this photo contains the beginning and the end of our story. It shows all the characters of the tragedy that would unfold shortly after it was taken.”
Germaine Durand leaned back in her armchair. She took off her glasses and ran her fingers dramatically over her eyes.
“So you think it was a family tragedy?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you think happened?”
“I can tell you my impressions, the idea I’ve formed about this whole affair. Dressler and Margherita apparently met at the hospital, fell in love, and the matter came soon enough to the attention of her older sister, Maria. Let’s assume for a minute that Margherita confided to her sister not only that she was in love with Dressler but that she intended to marry him as soon as the war was over. At that point the sister, driven by a sense of family loyalty, felt duty bound to tell her father. Let us imagine, on the other hand, that Margherita, not yet twenty-two years old, told her secret as well to a girl her own age, a friend. A kind of relative, let’s say, the person she confided in most: her brother’s fiancée. Girls like to talk about love, after all.”
Madame Durand said nothing.
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