Picture of Defeat

by John Harris

  ‘Yes, Contessa. With me.’

  ‘It is against the rules. I don’t make them, of course. Is she a good girl?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if the Sergente Plummer’s girl is a good girl.’ She shook under a volley of coughs and gestured towards the decaying stairs. ‘Very well, Sergente. I trust you. You have always behaved yourself. I am blind.’

  Pushing Tamara inside his apartment and telling her to lock the door, Pugh got old Mori to take him back to where he had left the motor cycle. Driving to the Palazza Pizzoni, he found Jones’ office was locked and there was no sign of any of the other sergeants.

  Going to his desk, he fished among the papers for the file he’d been saddled with just before his departure north to Vicinamontane, concerning one Private Peter Charles Weeden, of the Royal West Kent Regiment. It had started, it seemed, with an enquiry into an Italian girl who was accused of having swindled an American soldier but, unfortunately, it had been discovered that the soldier wasn’t American at all but a British deserter, Private Weeden, of the West Kents, who had decided that, since the Americans were better paid, better fed and better clothed, he was wasting his time in the British army. Acquiring a uniform, he had affected an American accent and claimed he belonged to an American unit. It had been his inability to leave women alone that had exposed him, and the information had been passed on to Tasker, who had passed it on to Jones, who had handed it to Sergeant O’Mara, who had passed it to Pugh. Tasker’s note was still attached on the report and the original complaint was signed ‘Arnold J. Baracca, Colonel,’ and was stamped with his office stamp.

  Looking in O’Mara’s desk for a magnifying glass, Pugh laid the slip of paper given to him by Zolli alongside. The formation of the a’s and the r’s and the c’s was exactly the same as those in Baracca’s signature. From his drawer, he produced the form with its blurred signature that had granted permission for the transportation of Gustavo Grei’s body to Rome, which he had obtained from the station. Laying it alongside the note attached to the report on Private Weeden, Pugh lifted the magnifying glass again. The signature was still illegible, obviously deliberately so, but here again there were the same c’s and the same r’s, and the office stamp, broken and worn, was exactly the same in every detail.

  Carefully locking the papers away in his drawer, he sat for a while staring into space. If the note found on the man who had attacked him had been written by Baracca, it seemed to indicate that it was Barracca who had wanted Pugh done away with. He had suspected for some time that Baracca was interested in the Detto Banti canvasses, but was he also somehow involved in the business of the coffin full of drugs and whisky going to Rome? And who was the woman who had telephoned Tamara? It could only have been some girl friend of Baracca’s.

  But Pugh hadn’t told anyone but Jones, and he felt he could trust Jones as he could trust Tamara and old Tassinari and Foscari. That left only one person who could have passed on the information that the paintings had reached Naples – Marcopolo Detto Banti.

  Pugh was still frowning as he headed for his rooms. Tamara was just appearing from the bathroom when he arrived. She looked pink and happy but still not entirely certain what he was after. However, she had done a cleaning job on the little flat and a lot of clothes that had been left lying about were neatly folded and put away. She had obviously come out in a rash of womanly house-pride.

  Impulsively he bent to kiss her, and she lifted her face so naturally to him the familiarity startled him.

  ‘I am happy here,’ she said. ‘It is a good apartment.’

  ‘Not very big,’ he admitted, ‘but big enough. I’ll arrange for you to have a key.’

  She looked worried. ‘Do you think the man will come again?’

  ‘He won’t. He’s in the mortuary. He was shot dead but there might be another.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Not here. There are too many soldiers here.’

  ‘Please take care, Piu.’

  ‘I may have to go to Rome. If I do, I’ll arrange with Sergeant O’Mara to keep an eye on you. You can trust him and he won’t bother you. He’s got his own girl.’

  He took her to the small restaurant down the road, where most of the sergeants ate. O’Mara was there with his girl and he gave Pugh a startled look that changed to admiration as he studied Tamara. They joined forces and Pugh bought wine, and they finished off with brandy. By the time they left, Pugh and Tamara were feeling warm enough to sit in the gardens along the Via Caracciolo.

  ‘Have we found our painting expert yet?’ Tamara asked.

  ‘We’ve got one and there’s another coming from Arts and Monuments who’s neither a dealer nor a collector, just a professor of the history of art. I think we can rely on him. At the moment, though, we’re a little busy with a few other things that have turned up.’

  Back at the flat, she made coffee from the American K ration sachets that Pugh was always being given, and they sat drinking quietly. As the minutes passed, he noticed she was not anxious to go to bed and he realised she was afraid.

  After a while he went to the bedroom. She gave him a nervous glance but it changed as he emerged with an army blanket, which he tossed on the settee.

  ‘You must be tired,’ he said. ‘The bed’s all yours. Lock the door if it pleases you.’

  She blushed. ‘I’m sorry, Piu,’ she said. ‘I didn’t trust you. I shall not lock the door. I think you are a good man.’

  Pugh grinned. ‘Perhaps you’d better, all the same. I might be good but I’m not saintly.’

  That made her smile, but she rose and headed for the bedroom. ‘It is good here,’ she said. ‘I feel safe.’

  The following morning, Pugh woke to find her fully dressed beside the settee, holding out a cup of coffee.

  ‘For you. I think I must now go to the hospital.’

  He sat up, allowing the blanket to slide to the floor.

  ‘Don’t speak to any strange men.’

  ‘I shall keep myself only for you, Piu.’

  During the day, Pugh went along to Tassinari’s to find Marco. The old lawyer was working at a big desk in his chilly room. Despite the sunshine, his fleshless fingers looked blue with cold.

  ‘I have worked out the estate,’ he said. ‘I have it all down.’

  ‘Is there anything apart from the paintings?’

  ‘Nothing. I suspect Marco was selling off his brother’s belongings during the whole of his last illness. He probably has quite a lot of money salted away.’

  Pugh looked about him. ‘Where is Marco?’

  Tassinari shrugged. ‘He left. In disgust, I think. He said he was going to the Galleria Umberto. He’s probably trying to sell a few small treasures that he managed to hide from us.’

  The Galleria Umberto was the geographical and spiritual heart of Naples. A vast, cavernous glass-roofed cross made up of four wide arcades and a central hall lined with shops, cafés, bars and billiard saloons, it was the trysting place for any Neapolitan engaged in business, legal or otherwise. Its small café tables were ideal for discussions, the tiny cups of coffee, their price inevitably high, the statutory fee for their use.

  Under the great canopy, you could see a film, do your shopping, get a cure for syphilis or pick up a woman. You could also give away a fortune to the beggars, because the gallery was full of them, and they were the most pathetic in the whole of Italy. They always had been and now, since the liberation, they were even more so. There were mothers with babies at the breast and toddlers clinging to their skirts, and hordes of unattached children who appeared from nowhere, silent and unspeaking, holding out their hands for alms. Pugh had often heard it said that mothers borrowed each other’s babies to beg there and that they pinched their bottoms to make them cry, but the pathos was such that though Naples was the most depraved city in Europe, Pugh had never entirely believed it. Since he was known there and recognised as a soft touch, the children crowded round him holding out their hands with a murmured �
�Ho fame’ – I’m hungry. Among them was a youngster with a peg-leg to replace the one cut off by a tram, and Pugh dished out a few coins to assuage the guilt he felt. The German and Allied occupations had destroyed morals more thoroughly than bombs had destroyed houses. There were hard-faced small boys who had lived on their wits ever since they could walk; carrying little trays on which American cigarettes were laid out separately for sale, with contraceptives and dirty postcards; or pimping for their sisters, who worked from one of the cafés or walked up and down the long arcades arm-in-arm studying prospective customers with bold eyes.

  Walking past the shops selling hats – of which there seemed plenty – and clothes – of which there seemed hardly any at all – and past the religious images and souvenirs, he spotted Marco Detto Banti in a shop whose window contained a single strip of red velvet, on which were posed a few fragments of jewellery and silver that looked very much like the treasured possessions of Neapolitans who had been obliged to sell them to stay alive.

  On the counter between the owner of the shop and Marco Detto Banti was a small bronze figurine, and they seemed to be having a furious argument about its value. Neither of them noticed Pugh enter the shop until he put his hand on the figurine, then the shopkeeper reached under the counter for a weapon. As Marco started to bolt, Pugh grabbed his collar, holding him as he turned to the shopkeeper.

  ‘If that’s a gun,’ he said, ‘you’d better leave it where it is. I suspect that what’s being offered has been stolen, so you won’t be interested, will you?’

  The shopkeeper straightened up, shaking his head vigorously, and, picking up the figurine, Pugh pushed Marco outside. He made no further attempt to escape, merely following dejectedly as Pugh made his way to a bar. Finding a table, he sat down and gestured to Marco to do the same. He indicated the figurine.

  ‘It belonged to Bocco, didn’t it?’ he said.

  Marco nodded.

  ‘So, technically, it’s not yours to sell. It belongs to Bocco’s daughter, doesn’t it?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Are there any others?’

  ‘One or two.’

  ‘I’ll come and collect them.’ Pugh ordered drinks then leaned forward. ‘As it happens, though, I’m more interested in something else. Someone tried to kill me last night. He was waiting for me. He had an address in his pocket. Tamara’s address. Did you give it to someone?’

  ‘No, I swear. On my dead mother’s grave!’

  ‘Come off it, Marco. Tell the truth.’

  Marco subsided and the nod came again.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘An American. I thought it might make a little money. They promised me a cut.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘The pictures.’

  ‘You don’t know where they are.’

  ‘I thought they’d know how to find out.’

  Pugh exploded. ‘You bastard! You gave them that address so they’d pick up Tamara! They’d have beaten her up for it, perhaps even tortured her. They’d have done for both of us.’ Pugh grabbed at Marco so angrily that the waiter who was just arriving with the drinks backed away hurriedly. Pugh looked up, slammed Marco back into his seat and paid for the drinks. ‘Who was it you told?’

  ‘An American officer.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know his name.’

  ‘Was it Baracca?’

  ‘I think that was his name, but I’m not sure.’

  ‘Why did you think he’d be interested?’

  ‘Because he’s a crook.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I saw him in Vicinamontane. Before my brother died. Talking to Sansovino, the Mayor, on the steps of the Palazzo Municipale. They seemed to be organising something.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because he came more than once.’

  Pugh frowned. No wonder the word had got around quickly that there were Detto Bantis available. If Baracca had been in Vicinamontane, he would inevitably have heard of them.

  ‘Did you tell him there were paintings?’

  ‘No.’

  Pugh leaned forward. ‘Tell me the truth or I’ll have you arrested for trying to sell stolen goods belonging to a British citizen we’re interested in.’

  ‘Bocco wasn’t British. He renounced his citizenship.’

  ‘We’d arrange to have him de-renounce it. Did you?’

  ‘I might have done. I met him once. In the bar.’

  ‘So it was you who started the hue and cry about the Detto Bantis. I ought to beat your head flat, Marco. On the other hand’ – Pugh reached out and swallowed his drink – ‘perhaps not. Thanks to you, we found out who the Detto Bantis belong to. How did you know Baracca was in Naples? Did he tell you?’

  ‘No. I saw him here in the Galleria. With a British officer. I came down to try to sell something, and I saw him.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Drinking. Just drinking. What else would he be doing?’

  Pugh frowned. ‘He might have been trying to sell the bloody Galleria, for all we know,’ he said.

  Captain Jones whistled when Pugh told him what he’d learned.

  ‘Baracca,’ he said slowly. ‘Think he’s the one supplying Tirandolo?’

  ‘It’s obvious what the bastard was up to,’ Pugh said. ‘And this was going to be a put-up job like the Focchias in Rome. Two bodies. A hopeless love affair.’

  ‘You?’ Jones laughed. ‘A love affair? You’re not the type.’

  ‘Maybe not. But who’d know that but you and me? They were after the whereabouts of the pictures and they’d just have left us to be found. Star-crossed bloody lovers in a suicide pact.’

  Jones frowned. ‘I think we have to tread carefully,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to be certain where we’re going. I wonder if we ought to warn Tasker, after all.’

  Pugh shook his head. ‘I think it would be better if we kept him out of it,’ he said.

  ‘He’ll play hell when he finds out.’

  ‘Let him. He’s a pal of Baracca’s and he might just let something slip. Besides, I’m looking forward to seeing his face when we tell him. “Sir, your old buddy, Colonel Arnold J Baracca, US army, has been arrested. The charges are conspiracy and complicity in fraud and murder.”’

  They discussed the aspects of the case and Jones eventually agreed to go above Tasker’s head to the general.

  ‘He’ll probably push me on to the brigadier,’ he said. ‘Because everybody’s getting ready for the move north of Rome. But the brig won’t let us down.’ He sat back and stared at Pugh. ‘My God, this thing’s blown up, hasn’t it? Da Sangalla and De Castro arrested, Corneliano shot dead, and your friend Tirandolo already in custody. Now Baracca. We’ll end up with half Italy behind bars at this rate. How do you want to work it?’

  ‘I’m going to keep an eye on where Baracca goes. We might even find out who his contacts are.’

  ‘Not you,’ Jones said. ‘O’Mara. They know you too well, and they might take the opportunity to bump you off.’

  When Pugh called later in the day at the questura, the police officer, Zolli, happened to be there.

  He grinned at Pugh. ‘Papagallo,’ he said. ‘Furio Papagallo. Known as Capatosta – Hard Head. The man who attacked you. We identified him. He’s in with the gangs. We’ve had him in our sights for some time over a few missing people. I think you’ve done us a favour.’

  On his way back to Casa Calafati, Pugh drove past Tasker’s office. Not unexpectedly, Tasker’s car was outside the O Sole Mio bar and, as usual, Cirri’s horse was tied to the lamp post.

  Sergeant O’Mara was sitting in another bar further down the street. ‘He’s in there, boyo,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s with him?’

  ‘Himself – Tasker. They have the drink taken. The undertaker feller, Cirri, and Brother Gregorio, the guardian of the catacombs, are there, too.’ He grinned at Pugh’s expression. ‘Catholic priests like a drink now and then, boyo. Sure, this one does, anyway.’


  It sounded a disappointing gathering. Pugh had half expected Sansovino or one of the other big names from the Naples gangland. Perhaps even Genovese himself. It was late when Pugh returned to the Casa Calafati, so he entered quietly. Tamara had obviously been waiting for him because she was stretched out on the settee, her face in the cushion, her hair like lace across her cheek, her lashes like small fans against her skin. Over her face was a copy of Domenica del Corriere, the sensation magazine all Italians seemed to love. The cover depicted a nun being savaged by a wolf.

  As he bent over, she stirred and turned on her back, blinking at the light. As she focused and finally saw him, she came awake immediately and her mouth widened in that warm grin of hers, then unexpectedly, instinctively, she flung her arms round his neck and hugged him with such a spontaneous demonstration of relief he felt desperately touched.

  For a moment they clung to each other, then she pushed him away, blushing through her laughter.

  ‘Forgive me, Piu! I was worried. And when it grew late I was afraid. They decided at the hospital to pay me for all the time I was away and I bought meat. Not much, but I was going to cook a meal for you when you arrived. Unfortunately, I fell asleep.’

  He placed the figurine he had obtained from Marco on the table alongside her.

  ‘A bit more of your past,’ he said. ‘I found it in the Galleria Umberto. It belonged to your father.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I spotted Marco trying to sell it. There won’t be much else now, though, apart from the canvasses.’

  As he leaned over her he could feel the warmth of her skin and began to think of things that he’d been trying to push to the back of his mind for some time.

  ‘You smell good,’ he said.

  ‘It is French perfume. Black market. Very expensive. I bought it today. With the money they gave me. After the meal I shall have to eat nothing but bread and olive oil for a week.’ She looked at him, her eyes big and knowing and spiky with long lashes. ‘I think you are thinking things, Piu,’ she said.

  ‘It doesn’t require much imagination.’