“They clearly didn’t like you.”
“How’d you know I was here, Magagna?” Trotti clicked the sweet against his teeth.
“Pisanelli told me.”
“Pisa?” Trotti hesitated, his memory returning.
“I was driving down from Bologna when he called.”
“How is Pisanelli? Where is he? Did they hurt him?”
“Pisanelli’s at the wedding.”
“What wedding?”
“He’s getting married.”
“Oh, my God. What’s the time?”
“You’ve been under sedation for over twenty-four hours—they thought you had a concussion.”
“The time, Magagna?”
The other man looked at his watch, and Trotti noticed it was an expensive Swiss affair in rolled gold. “Half past nine.”
“Friday?”
“Half past nine, Saturday morning.”
“Christ! Pisanelli’s wedding.”
“I was hoping you’d forgotten.”
“You’re going to get me to the church.”
Magagna smiled, “In hospital pajamas?”
The white door opened and a male nurse entered.
He was middle-aged with grey hair and effeminate features. He wore a silver crucifix in the lapel of his lab coat. Beneath the coat, there was a white shirt and a khaki tie. “You’re not supposed to have visitors.” He placed a delicate hand on Magagna’s shoulder. “With liquid that could well be spinal fluid coming out of my mouth, I’d make sure I was getting some rest.” He spoke in a flat, lisping monotone.
“Commissario Trotti wants to go to church—to his goddaughter’s wedding.”
“Kill two birds with one stone—go to his own funeral while he’s there.” The lips pulled tight, as if activated by a purse string.
The nurse turned on his heel and left the bright, hospital room in silence.
53: Déja Entendu
“Papa, is that you?”
“Pioppi.”
“Papa, how are you? Are you all right? Where are you phoning from? From a hospital?”
“I’m with Magagna.”
“You were supposed to call me. I’ve been trying to get you for the last twelve hours. Are you all right, Papa? I’m catching the next train to Rome.”
“There’s no need.”
“Anna said you’d been arrested.”
“You believe everything you hear?”
“Papa, you must tell me the truth. I’m worried about you.”
“It’s nothing, Pioppi.”
“It can’t be nothing if you’re in the hospital. Are you hurt? And how long are you going to be there for?”
“A slight bruise.”
“Anna said they beat you up.”
“I’ll be out of here in half an hour.”
“Why did Anna say you were hurt?”
“There’s really nothing to worry about, Pioppi.”
“Of course I’m worried about you.”
“There’s no need. How are the girls? And how’s Nando?”
“Nando’s with me now. Tell me where you are. I’m getting the Rome train.”
“That’s absolutely stupid—I’m leaving for Pisanelli’s wedding.”
“Nando says it’s the right thing to come. And I phoned Mamma in America.”
“Magagna’s driving me to the wedding.”
“Mamma’s worried.”
“After all these years I’m sure your mother’s got better things to worry about than her accident-prone husband.”
“Why are you always so stubborn? Why don’t you accept any help. I’m your daughter—I want to be with you.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“And the girl?”
“What girl.”
“Anna said there was a girl with you.”
“Yes?”
“Well, how is she?”
“Dead.”
“That’s what Anna said. Who is she?”
“Listen, Pioppi. There’s no good reason for you to come to Rome. I’m all right. I’ll come to Bologna as soon as I can get away from the wedding. And in the meantime, stay at home. Stay with my little girls—because they need you. I’m all right, I swear to you. Don’t worry about me—and there’s no need to bother your mother. Tell her I’m well. Just look after my Francesca and my Piera. Kiss them for me, Pioppi. I’ll be with you tomorrow. Ciao, amore.”
54: Tiburtina
Magagna drove.
He could have taken the autostrada but it was Saturday morning; there would be the convoys of trailer trucks, panting in the uphill sections and reckless as they lumbered downhill, carried forward by the momentum of the Apennines.
Trotti slept; his unshaven chin had sunk to his chest and he looked, with the bags under his eyes, like a crumpled insect.
Magagna took small, provincial roads, heading north. There was hardly any traffic. A few fishermen, returning on their Vespas from an early morning at the river. They held their rods like aerials and their legs appeared deformed by their protruding wader boots.
The Alfa Romeo came to a bridge and the car shook as it took the bump.
Trotti woke with a start.
It was a clear day and the mountains stood snow-capped against a cloudless sky.
“Sleep well?” Magagna asked. He had developed a double chin in Milan. He was wearing his aviator sunglasses and an unlit cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.
“I wasn’t sleeping.” Trotti rubbed his eyes. “You spoke to Pisanelli?”
“Nice day for a wedding.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“I wouldn’t worry about Pisanelli, commissario.”
“Of course I worry about him. I always have.”
“Anna’ll make an honest man of him yet.”
Trotti emitted a sharp sound of vexation. “Is Pisanelli all right? They didn’t beat him up?”
“They?”
“In via del Tempio. The Carabinieri stuck a bag over my head, so I couldn’t see much.”
“Pisanelli’s busy. You’d expect that, wouldn’t you, on his wedding day?” Magagna made a gesture of his hand. “Your clothes are in the back, commissario. Pisa said you were threatening to turn up in goggles and a snorkel.”
“He’s lucky I’m turning up at all.”
“That’s not what Pisa says.” Magagna gave him a quick look of appraisal. “Anything’d be better than those pajamas.”
Trotti looked down at the military pajamas of faded khaki. The pajamas were short and Trotti wasn’t wearing any socks. On his feet, he had a pair of black conscript shoes that Magagna had dug out of a hospital cupboard.
“You went to the Hotel Toscana?”
Magagna shook his head. “The Carabinieri took everything.”
Panic in Trotti’s voice. “The wedding gift for Anna, the photo? And the Carabinieri coat?”
“I found some clothes at Pisa’s place—I think they belong to his father-in-law. Should fit you—old man Ermagni has a paunch, too.”
It was another five minutes before they started to climb, winding between the vineyards, green and neatly terraced. Perhaps because of the fresh air coming through the open window or perhaps because he felt he was awakening from a bad dream, Trotti felt less tired.
“The sedative’s losing its effect?” Magagna lit his cigarette. “You were in a bad way when we left the hospital.”
“I’m no longer under arrest?”
“Apparently not.”
“Never believe the Carabinieri.”
“I don’t suppose they think you’re going to abscond to Tunisia.”
“Or Guatemala.”
“They know about the wedding. Perhaps that’s why they didn’t rough up Pisanelli,” Ma
gagna said and laughed loudly.
“That’s funny?”
“Poor Pisa’s already cripple enough.” Magagna’s eyes were fixed on the driving mirror. He said in a matter-of-fact voice, “We’ve been followed ever since we left Sant’Onofrio.”
“Where?”
“They may have let you walk out of their military hospital, but your Carabinieri friends don’t want to lose the commissario from Lombardy. Still convinced you’re a lady killer.”
“And a pervert.”
“I could’ve told them that years ago.”
55: Sapienza
Sera Romana
The lifeless body of a black woman was discovered yesterday in a quiet hotel in Trastevere.
Signorina Wilma Barclay, age 21, was found lying on a bed in the Hotel Toscana. She had been stabbed to death with a single blow. The weapon, a knife, had pierced her heart, and death was fast, but not immediate. Bleeding was not profuse.
The young American woman had met her death some two hours before the discovery of the body. She had recently been engaged in sexual activity.
Both Carabinieri and the Polizia di Stato were called to the gruesome scene by a couple of anonymous phone calls. Capitano Rizzi discovered the young woman lying naked on the bed. Although her wrists were attached to the bed, at the time of death she had the free use of all her limbs. There was considerable bruising to the face and on the inside of the thighs.
The hotel room had been rented to Piero Trotti, a retired commissario of the Polizia di Stato. Commissario Trotti who is a native of Lombardy and who for many years served with distinction in his native city, is helping the police in their enquiries.
Commissario Trotti was not in the hotel when Capitano Rizzi arrived. He was later located in an apartment near the Coliseum.
According to informed sources, Commissario Trotti is spending a few days’ holiday in Rome.
In his native city, Commissario Trotti headed a children’s section, specializing in the detection and prevention of child abuse. Last year, Commissario Trotti retired prematurely and at the time, there were rumors that he had been forced to leave, following irregularities. There were complaints from both children and parents.
The murder victim, Signorina Barclay, had been in the country for little over six months. Following a dispute, she had left Milan and the family she was working for. It is believed that she had been prostituting herself in Milan.
Barclay grew up in Chicago. She told her employers that she was looking for her Italian father. Her mother was once a military nurse serving on the USAF base at Padua.
It is not yet known whether Signorina Barclay was in any way connected with illegal organizations operating in Lazio.
A couple of years ago, the manager of a prostitution ring at Sapienza University was arrested for immoral earnings. He had created a network of foreign students who sold their services to businessmen.
While helping the investigators, Commissario Trotti collapsed and is presently under observation at the Ospedale Militare Sant’Onofrio.
According to informed sources, an arrest is imminent.
56: Sleep
“Last year, Commissario Trotti retired prematurely and at the time, there were rumors that he had been forced to leave, following irregularities. There were complaints from both children and parents.”
Magagna shrugged.
Trotti sounded hurt. “I retired because I had reached the age of retirement. What rumors? I never heard any rumors. Damn it, I was asked to stay on. The hospital wanted me to stay on. The Questore wanted me to stay on. The mayor wanted me to stay on.”
Magagna asked, “And Signora Scola?”
“What about her?” Trotti pushed the newspaper off his lap and onto the floor of the car.
“Pisanelli always said Scola rather liked you.”
“Signora Scola’s a married woman.”
For five minutes, neither man spoke, then Magagna said, “Who killed the American girl, commissario?”
“How would I know? I was with Pisa.” Trotti pulled the newspaper back onto his knees and again he read aloud. “She had been stabbed to death with a single blow. The weapon, a knife, had pierced her heart and death was fast but not immediate. Bleeding was not profuse.” Trotti turned to his friend. “Killed with one blow, Magagna?”
“Seems unlikely, but if the knife pierced Wilma’s heart, it’s possible. Normally there’d be blood all over the place because of the pressure that builds up in the heart.” Magagna took his eyes from the road, “You didn’t see the corpse?”
“Of course I saw the corpse. The face was badly bruised. There was very little blood apart from the staining on the sheet.”
“How do you explain that?” Magagna had worked with the Omicidi in Milan for eleven years.
“You tell me, Magagna. You’re the expert.”
Magagna answered thoughtfully, “Normally, if the stabbing pierces the heart, blood leaves splatter patterns.”
Trotti caught his breath, “And death would be quick?”
“Quick but not immediate.” Magagna added, “I saw no signs of blood on the walls.”
Trotti turned in his seat. “How come the Carabinieri let you into the room?”
“Place was spotless. If it hadn’t been for the two men in uniform at the top of the stairs and the scene of crime tape everywhere, I’d never’ve guessed there’d been a murder. Just the mattress that’d been taken away.”
“Why did they let you in?”
Magagna raised an eyebrow. “If the knife pierced the ventricle of the heart where the blood goes from the heart to the lungs, death would’ve been slower. Blood would trickle out.”
“Death wasn’t slow.” Trotti said querulously, tapping Roma Sera where it lay on his knees, “The weapon, a knife, had pierced her heart and death was fast but not immediate.”
“The girl didn’t try to get up from the bed, so she probably never had time to seek help.” Magagna took a drag on his cigarette, then with the cigarette between his fingers, gripped the steering wheel. “It’s possible she died of asphyxia long before she ever succumbed to loss of blood.”
“Suffocated?”
“Death from lack of oxygen. Quite possible, if the lungs were torn. She’d’ve drowned in her own blood.”
“Drowned in her own blood,” Trotti repeated dully.
There was another silence in the car.
“Death was fast but not immediate.” Trotti shivered and turned to look through the window of the Alfa-Romeo at the passing countryside. “My God.”
(Wilma smiled suddenly and at that moment, she was so pretty, so young, so sweet, so innocent that Trotti could not stop himself from sharing the smile.)
Magagna remarked cheerfully, “After thirty-seven years in the police, you didn’t know death was gruesome?”
“The long night awaits us all, Magagna.”
57: Mani Pulite
Magagna’s eyes were raised as he looked at the car’s mirror. “You want me to lose your Carabinieri friends, commissario?”
“I want to get to Anna’s marriage and I want to get there in one piece. It’s the first day of the Renaissance.”
“What?”
“That’s what the dead girl said—the day Petrarch met Laura and fell in love—somewhere in France. Pisa’s wedding day.”
Magagna accelerated gently as he pulled the Alfa out of a curve. At the same time he took another draw on his cigarette. “Poor Pisa.”
Trotti’s ears were beginning to pop as the car rose into the hills. “I don’t see why he’s poor. Pisanelli’s always loved Anna. Ever since she was a little girl.”
“That was twenty years ago.”
“He’s been waiting for Anna to grow up.”
“Or your goddaughter was waiting for Pisanelli to grow up.”
“Sh
e used to be my goddaughter.”
Magagna had a brief, bemused smile. “Used to be?”
“I haven’t seen Anna in a very long time. She avoids me—Anna’s never forgiven me for Pisanelli’s accident.”
“Pisanelli was doing his job.”
“That’s not what Anna thinks.” Trotti shook his head.
“Now she’s got them all to herself—Pisanelli and Pisanelli’s pension. The girl ought to be grateful to you.”
“Anna’s not mercenary.” Trotti then asked, “How’s your wife, Magagna? How are the little boys?”
“Not so little anymore. They take up a lot of real estate in a small apartment.”
“Then go back to Pescara. Get yourself a proper house.” Trotti smiled. “Years since I last saw the boys.”
“So I noticed,” Magagna replied.
“How are they?”
“Strapping teenagers, more interested in basketball than soccer. And more interested in girls than in basketball.” There was reproach in Magagna’s voice. “Now you’re retired, there’s nothing to stop you from visiting them. From visiting my wife and me, while you’re at it. You still know where Milan is, don’t you? Or did you think it’d disappeared with Craxi and Craxi’s socialists? With Operation Clean Hands?”
(Trotti had never been a good godfather to Anna, just as he had never been a good friend to Magagna and Pisanelli. Trotti had always been too busy, too caught up in his work. For more than twenty-five years, the only thing that ever really mattered was his job.
It had come as a surprise all those years ago when his driver, Ermagni, asked him to be godfather to Anna. Trotti had accepted more from weakness than conviction. Over the years he had scarcely seen little Anna, though she lived just a couple of blocks from the via Milano.
Then, in 1978, Anna was kidnapped. Just six years old and she had disappeared while playing in the public gardens of via Darsena.)
They were fast approaching a crossroads and a village. A series of billboards announced an AGIP filling station.
“They’re still tailing us. Sure you don’t want to lose them?”
“Risk my life? Miss the wedding of my goddaughter? Miss the Renaissance? No, Magagna. Let the bastards play their little games. They know I never killed her.” Trotti added, “I was with Pisa. Wilma was murdered long after I’d left the hotel.”
The Second Day of the Renaissance Page 14