Beside him, his wife nodded; she held a pale blue handkerchief to her mouth. “We will pay, Dottore,” she said softly.
Trotti wrote something on the paper, then looking up, gave a pale smile. “I understand. However, I have given orders to your bank. There can be no further transfer of money without my permission. You must understand that it is better this way. Give them money and they will want more—you know that. They’ve made no agreement with you and there is no reason for them to respect your good faith. They are kidnappers—there’s no reason why they shouldn’t be thieves and murderers. We must protect Anna.”
“I will pay. I want to pay.” He moved clumsily out of the armchair.
“Sit down, Signor Rossi,” Trotti ordered calmly. “Sit down, please.”
Rossi sat down slowly; he glared at Trotti.
“Do you have any enemies?”
The question surprised Rossi and in his surprise he turned to look at his wife. Her face remained expressionless.
Trotti repeated the question.
“No, I don’t think so. There are people who don’t like me—and who I probably don’t like either. But enemies, no. When you own a bar, you can’t afford to have enemies.”
Trotti decided that Rossi was not lying—at least, not deliberately. But he had the impression he had put an idea into his head—an idea that had not occurred to him before.
“Listen again,” Trotti said and he rewound the tape. “Tell me what you hear.”
They listened to the recorded conversation; this time the static of the telephone was amplified and the tape scratched noisily. “You hear?”
“Hear what?”
Trotti stopped the machine, pressed the rewind button and they listened to the same section. “There.”
“What?” Rossi frowned with frustration.
“There are bells.”
“I can hear nothing.”
His wife said, “Please play it again.” And then, “Yes, I can hear them.”
“The Gabinetto Scientifico can’t identify anything for the moment. But they think they’re church bells. So I’ve had a copy sent to Milan and maybe the specialists there will come up with something more precise.”
Rossi’s excitement had drained away. “And perhaps they won’t and all the time, Anna is alone in the hands of dangerous criminals.”
“You must have faith in us, Signor Rossi.”
“Faith, faith, faith.” He snorted angrily. “Faith in the police force when you allowed Moro to be gunned down in the street like a cheap gangster and his five bodyguards killed, without even the time to use their weapons. Faith! In the Pubblica Sicurezza and the Carabinieri and the Finanza when with all your money and all your equipment, your guns and your helicopters, you can’t protect the public. I want the child back, Commissario Trotti. I want her back alive.” He screwed up his lashless eyes. “Faith, how do you expect me to have faith in you?”
“Because you have no choice. No payment will be made to the kidnappers—now or later. That is out of the question.”
“Her blood will be on your hands.”
Trotti could feel that he was losing control of his temper. Intellectually he understood the man’s anger, yet at the same time, his bovine stubbornness was irritating to the point where Trotti felt that only physical violence would silence him. “I don’t have to remind you, Rossi, that Signor Ermagni is the father. All decisions about Anna must come from him.”
“A queer! An incompetent, lazy bastard. I never wanted her to marry him. And now look what’s happened. It’s his fault isn’t it? He left her alone, he went out into the street.”
“I know Ermagni—he used to work for me. He has his problems but then we all do. You have no right to criticize him. He is hard working, and he loves his daughter. Has it occurred to you that it’s because you have turned his child against him that she decides to go with strangers? Because that is what happened. Anna did not leave the gardens in via Darsena under duress.”
“He killed my daughter.”
“Absurd. I knew your daughter, Signor Rossi—you may not remember but I was at their wedding. She loved her husband and he loved her. Anna is the child of their union and you have no right—either moral or legal—to come between Ermagni and Anna.”
“I hate him.”
His wife caught her breath. “You mustn’t say those things.”
Trotti put the cap on his pen. “Listen carefully, Signor Rossi, if you don’t want to get into trouble. Go home and stay there. You don’t do anything, you don’t open the bar. You just sit by the phone and you wait. And you don’t get any clever ideas and you don’t consult any lawyer. You just sit quietly and you trust us to get—”
A knock on the door and without waiting, Magagna came in. He was not wearing his sunglasses and his eyes were slightly red.
“Go away,” Trotti said and gestured towards the couple. “You see I’m busy.”
Magagna remained motionless; he held a large envelope in his hand.
With thumb and fingers, Trotti made an Italian gesture of anger and incomprehension. “What do you want?”
“Another leg,” he said as he held out the envelope. “They’ve found another leg in the river.”
17
TWO OLD MEN sat in the sun on a painted bench; they wore loose coats over their striped pajamas and they both smoked, sharing the same stub of a cigarette. A thin trail of blue cloud hovered over their heads.
It was late afternoon and Trotti shivered.
He moved away from the window. It was cold in the morgue and the sweat on his body had dried. He buttoned the collar of his shirt and straightened his tie. His jacket he had left in the car.
“The same woman.”
Bottone looked like a priest, despite the white tunic and the stethoscope hanging from his neck. There was a pallor about his skin and he had pushed his steel glasses back onto his forehead while the long hands probed the dead flesh.
Magagna watched in silence, his mouth pursed beneath his mustache. He had not taken off his sunglasses even though the light was artificial in the long chamber.
“Without a doubt,” Doctor Bottone said without looking at either policeman. “And she was cut up some time after death. You see, there’s little sign of bleeding.”
Magagna remarked, “The left leg was found further upstream.”
“Probably got caught against something. A partly submerged root or a sandbank.”
Magagna turned to Trotti. “The disposal bags are identical. Nothing particularly interesting about them—they can be bought in any Standa or UPIM throughout the country.”
There were two steel trays and a limb lay on each—mauve-blue flesh with a jagged tear where the severing had taken place.
“Not a very neat job,” Bottone said, running a finger along the mutilated thigh. “They probably used—the people or persons who did the cutting—a professional instrument. But without skill. There are definite signs of hacking. You see?” A hurried glance in Trotti’s direction.
“Could it be a woman?”
“Of course it’s a woman,” Bottone replied peevishly. “You can see by the depth of the thigh, the size of the feet. Varicose veins—probably in her late thirties, early forties—but not very well-preserved. The legs have been shaved—but need shaving again. Bristly.”
“Of course,” Trotti said humbly. “I meant something different.”
“Different?”
“Could a woman have done the cutting—the butchering?”
The smell of formaldehyde in the morgue was overpowering. One wall was covered with a cabinet of large lockers. Trotti wondered how many corpses were concealed by the antiseptic steel doors.
“A woman?” Bottone looked up and with his sharp nod, the glasses slipped from his forehead onto the bridge of his nose. He looked at Trotti with the disapproval that a scientist feels for the profane. “A woman?” He turned to see what Magagna thought. Magagna was taking notes in a small leather booklet. “Yes, I suppos
e it’s possible but rather unlikely. I can’t be certain. A lot depends on the instrument. And the woman. You must give me time, Commissario. Time. And then it would still be little more than conjecture.” He screwed up the pale eyes. “Why a woman?”
“Why not?”
Bottone raised his voice slightly and spoke in a querulous tone: “Is it likely? A whore—she,” he gesticulated with the stethoscope towards the lifeless legs, “she was a whore and women don’t normally kill whores. Not normally.”
“What makes you think that she—that these legs once belonged to a prostitute?”
A knowing smile. He pushed the glasses back onto his forehead and turned to scrutinize the flesh again. “Look, look. Skin lesions—and here, you see, there are ulcers. The signs of tertiary syphilis.”
“Is that proof?”
“Proof, no. But for me, experience is proof. But here, the texture of the skin. Sure signs of a poor diet, poor in fruit and vegetables. A sign that she was fairly far down the socioeconomic ladder. The shape of her ankles,” he ran his nail against the instep, “here it bulges. Deformed by bad shoes, by high heels. Traces of dark red varnish on the nails. It all points to somebody who wanted to appear attractive, glamorous. It was her meal ticket.”
Trotti thanked Bottone without shaking hands.
“My pleasure.”
“And I’d be grateful if you could do any further research.”
“As you wish—but you’ll find I am right, Commissario. The woman’s a whore.”
Trotti nodded and with Magagna left the morgue, letting the rubber barriers beneath the door swish silently behind them. Outside, in the hospital corridor, with its well-scrubbed wooden floor, the air was hot again. It hit Trotti like a damp flannel across the face. But he shivered.
Magagna took an MS from a packet and lit it as they went down the stairs. “Ah,” he said. “The real world.” He turned and made a gesture with his first and smallest finger towards the morgue.
“I didn’t know you were superstitious.”
“I hedge my bets.”
They went out into the sunshine. The two old men had disappeared; a couple of nurses went past. One was telling a joke in dialect. The other opened her mouth to laugh and then caught sight of Trotti. She moved on hurriedly.
“Check out the whorehouses. Not just in the city but also out near the barracks. You never know, it could be a frustrated kid doing military service. Ask the girls, check out with all our informants. Check even with the transvestite who hangs out near the station—he might know something. But it’s possible she’s not local so check again with the Carabinieri. But specify that you’re looking for a prostitute.”
“Nothing so far on missing persons. Neither from Milan nor from the Central computer. Pronto Intervento are deliberately cagey.”
“Spadano wouldn’t give you the time of day without a directive in triplicate from Rome.”
“But I don’t have the impression they’ve got anything to hide.”
“Keep at it. I don’t want the Carabinieri interfering—you know what they’re like.” He put a hand to his forehead; he was now perspiring freely. “Christ, it all happens at once. We’ve got sawn legs being fished out of the river and a kidnapping. And yesterday Leonardelli was on to me.”
“What does he want?”
“Just that we drop everything and keep an eye on a couple of spoiled kids. A round-the-clock job and I haven’t got a man to spare.”
“So?”
“I’ve given it to Pisanelli.”
Magagna laughed, a spluttering laugh that came through his nose and blew at the strands of his mustache.
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s very funny. I like Pisanelli, he’s all right. But he’s not exactly the smartest man in the Squadra. He should have been a doctor or a teacher.”
“He’s not stupid.”
Magagna looked at Trotti in silence. Then, blowing out cigarette smoke, asked, “Why all the fuss, anyway?”
“Leonardelli wants no scandal at election time.”
“He’s not a Communist, is he?”
“He’s a survivor.”
Trotti took Magagna’s arm and together they crossed the hospital courtyard to where the car was parked. Magagna climbed in.
“I’ve got things to do,” said Trotti, leaning through the open window. “And later this evening, I’d better see how he’s doing, our Pisanelli. Take the car and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Magagna switched on the ignition.
“One other thing. Look, until the elections—unless I tell you otherwise—I’d rather you didn’t wear uniform.”
Magagna looked disappointed. “Just when I’ve got her to iron it. You haven’t noticed? The sharp creases?”
“Who irons it?”
Magagna lowered the glasses on his nose and looking at Trotti, smiled and gave him an exaggerated wink. Then the car pulled away. It took a large swing and leaving a thin, blue vapor, went through the hospital gates.
Trotti went out of the hospital; the fat porter sitting at the main gate, L’Intrepido on his knee, gave him a friendly wave and a large smile.
He crossed the main road and went to a tilted parasol and a large, deep, red refrigerator where a man was selling soft drinks. In scratched script across the front of the refrigerator COCA-COLA had been painted. Trotti bought a bottle.
The man placed two straws in the neck.
“Give me a paper cup.”
“Paper cups cost money.”
“And the bubbles make me belch.”
With a closed face, the man handed him a cup; Trotti poured the dark liquid and drank. It was sweet and there was a thin rainbow of oil beneath the bursting bubbles. And a slight smell of wax.
Trotti moved away and beneath a large oak tree sat down on a concrete slab. It probably came from the nearby building site where luxury apartments were being constructed. A crane swiveled slowly against the sky.
Trotti watched the passing traffic—yellow buses, cars and the occasional ambulance, snub-nosed Fiats, turning into the main gates of the hospital. On the other side of the road, a woman was selling flowers; from time to time she sluiced down the pavement with a bucket of water.
The cup was cold in his hands.
“Commissario?”
Trotti turned. At first sight, he did not recognize the man. He looked thinner in the well-pressed white lab coat and the dark hair was hidden by a nurse’s cap. He was smiling.
“I caught sight of you purely by chance. I’ve got to go back but I saw you coming out of the morgue. Visiting friends?”
“Dottor Clerice.” Trotti stood up and they shook hands. Behind the smell of hospital antiseptic, there was still the hint of expensive eau de cologne.
“You recognize me in my disguise?” He laughed.
“You should be sleeping.” Trotti looked at his watch. “Nearly four o’clock. You ought to be resting after a hard night watching the nurses work.”
The young face was pale. “I haven’t stopped since one o’clock this morning.”
“A good day for appendices?”
“An articulated truck came off the main Milan-Genoa road; it swung right around and four cars went straight into it. It was carrying toxic gas but fortunately it didn’t explode. Five major casualties—and three have died already.”
Trotti could feel the chill of the morgue again. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”
Clerice shrugged. “These things happen. I imagine in your line of business you must come across a lot of gruesome sights.”
Trotti had the impression that Clerice was waiting for a reaction.
The traffic hummed by; another ambulance pulled slowly through the hospital gates. And slowly the shadow of the large oak moved across the pavement, exposing the toe of his shoe to the afternoon sun.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“Thanks.” Clerice’s face lightened. “Yes, thanks. I’ll get it,” and he went over to the refriger
ator. Trotti watched him. Slightly overweight but a good-looking young man, with an intelligent face.
“Mind if I sit beside you?”
He was not wearing any socks and Trotti noticed that the pale ankles peeked from between the bottom of his trousers and his thick leather moccasins. He sat on the concrete slab beside Trotti. He drank through two straws.
“Commissario,” he said as he placed the bottle between his feet on the asphalt pavement. “You must excuse me.”
“For what?”
“May I see your identity?”
Trotti took the wallet from his jacket pocket and opened it. Clerice nodded towards the perspex and the narrow stripes of red and green.
“I’m sorry,” he smiled, “but I had to be sure. I was rather rude towards you yesterday but …” He shrugged with one shoulder. “Well, I didn’t know if could trust you.”
“You can trust me.”
“I hope so.”
There was a pause; the two men looked at each other, Clerice’s plump face in a lopsided smile.
“Collegio Sant’Antonio di Padova is a Catholic establishment,” Clerice said, “and we are supposed to live in the odor of sanctity.”
“Difficult.”
“And I am not married.” He blushed very slightly.
“Tania?”
“How did you know?” He frowned his incomprehension and then laughed. “We intend to get married. Once I’ve got a decent qualification and I can be sure of a job in a hospital—even in some fly-blown place in the Mezzogiorno. Tania and I are in love.”
“And you share your afternoon siestas with her?”
Clerice lowered his eyes. “The concierge knows—but we have an agreement. I can get her special treatment at Gynecology.” He lifted the bottle and sucked briefly at the striped straws. “You see, the Dean mustn’t know. He’s an old priest and he has old-fashioned ideas. If he finds out, I’ll lose my place in the college. And I could never afford lodgings in the city. I must stay.”
“With all the crucifixes?”
“With all the crucifixes.” Clerice’s cheeks were dark, he needed a shave. He looked up. “You see, Tania did notice something the other day—something a bit strange.”
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