The Death of an Irish Consul

by Bartholomew Gill

  “But didn’t you—don’t you—have your own conception of those things?”

  “Yes, but the difference was I was perceptive enough to keep myself from talking about things that would frighten away a sheltered young woman from a noble background. Rattei was always raving like a wild man. And then, when Cummings arrived with his Oxonian charm, his ease of manner, he seemed so stable, mature, part of her own class, which he was. All of us, Rattei, Zingiale, Pavoni, and the rest were so busy squabbling over her amongst ourselves, the Englishman stole her right away. We hadn’t really a chance. We—rather Rattei—had created a climate that forced her to flee from us.” He reached for the door handle. “I really must excuse myself, Chief Inspector. I’m exhausted what with the events of yesterday and all. I’ve got a busy schedule tomorrow.”

  “One more question.” McGarr opened the door for Battagliatti. “Didn’t Rattei force you to flee Italy for over thirteen years?”

  Battagliatti sat in the car, then flashed a seemingly genuine and full smile at McGarr. “That’s just one of his victories in our agon, McGarr. It’s a Greek word. You should look it up. Then, perhaps, you’ll understand more completely our relationship, Rattei’s and mine.”

  Slowly the car pulled through the crowd.

  At a discreet distance McGarr and O’Shaughnessy followed.

  The newspapers had said Battagliatti was speaking to merchant mariners in Livorno next morning, students at the university in Pisa the next afternoon.

  McGarr planned to dog Battagliatti until he lost his aplomb.

  The rally was on the docks of Livorno, in a warehouse alongside a barge canal. Mostly coastwise tankers plied that water and, now that the tide had fallen, the pilings that contained the banks were black with sludge. The sky was overcast, and it wasn’t only the cool breeze off the Mediterranean that kept McGarr and O’Shaughnessy in the car. A clutch of party members, red stars pinned to their lapels, had clustered around the door of the corrugated metal building. They allowed only merchant mariners, dock workers, Italian policemen, and journalists inside. McGarr, wondering if Battagliatti had had anything to do with their exclusion, parked their car in front of the party chairman’s Lancia.

  While the building on occasion filled with shouts and cheers, McGarr ambled down the canal bank to a road, where in a tobacco shop he phoned Carlo Falchi, the carabinieri commandant in Siena, who said, “Foster has just confessed, implicating Rattei in everything.”

  McGarr said, “You just happened to volunteer to grill him all day long after your Roman co-workers were exhausted.”

  “Esattaménte.”

  “You just happened to know what to ask him so that he cracked.”

  “The technique was Irish, of that much I am sure.” Falchi was beside himself, having succeeded in extracting a confession from Foster after the big-shot Roman carabinieri had failed. “It was a highly detailed confession. He told of meetings he had had with Rattei, what Rattei wore, what he said. He remembered the names of restaurants, descriptions of waiters, the numbers of taxicabs they had taken, dates, times, places, everything. It appears that we’ve got Il Condottiere Rattei now. The sheer mass of the evidence is overwhelming.”

  “Have you picked up Rattei yet?”

  “It’s only just happened. We haven’t got through to Chiusdino yet. In any case, it’s early still. You must realize Italian hours differ from those of less civilized countries. Anyhow, I doubt that Rattei has gone anywhere.”

  At that very moment McGarr was conceiving of a very good place for Rattei to go and it was not jail, where McGarr’s access to him would be constrained. In an official way, McGarr wasn’t at all concerned about the Cummings murder. If Rattei had been an accomplice in the murders of Hitchcock and Browne—and McGarr still had not made up his mind about that—McGarr would bend every effort to get the Italian back to Ireland and justice, including a little official duplicity.

  Falchi was saying, “We’ve begun to check Rattei’s whereabouts on each occasion Foster said he met him. It all seems to dovetail.”

  “A work of art,” said McGarr, his tone too wry for Falchi.

  “Thank you. I don’t mind saying I deserve the compliment.” He was gloating.

  “What, exactly, did he say?”

  “When he discovered that his two superiors in the ENI security department were involved in a rival company, let’s see—I’ve got the name someplace here——”

  “Tartan,” McGarr supplied.

  “That’s it. Then he, Foster, went to Rattei.”

  Here, McGarr thought, was an apparent discrepancy, since McGarr already knew Rattei, through his lawyers, had checked with the Panamanian government. Rattei could merely have been checking Foster’s story, however.

  Falchi continued, “In conversation, they discovered how much the both of them hated this certain type of Englishman. Foster, because of his prior involvement in the British Secret Service—do you know about that, Pietro?——”

  “Yes.”

  “——hated all three of his former commanders, a certain Hitchcock, a Browne, and then Cummings himself; and Rattei hated the first two because of their having stolen those secrets from ENI and Cummings because he had married Enna Ricasoli.”

  “Then Foster told him that Cummings too was one of the major investors in Tartan.”

  “Of course.”

  “And Rattei’s temper flared.”

  “Right again. He became a madman. They worked each other up to a fever pitch and planned the assassinations of the three of them. Rattei himself was to murder the first two in Ireland, and Foster was to take care of Cummings. Foster chose to do this in Italy, because Rattei, who knew Cummings was to become the British ambassador to the country, had connections here and knew how to work things so that if Foster were caught he’d receive a light sentence.”

  “And that makes such an interesting defense, doesn’t it?” McGarr mused. “You know, the big man with big money entrapping the little and black man who is down on his luck. Did you ask him why he didn’t try to escape?”

  “Yes. He described it as a momentary lapse of consciousness, as though this dementia which had led him to kill Cummings had passed with the man’s life. He felt—sorry.”

  “I see,” said McGarr. “That much alone could form the basis of a plea of temporary insanity. In all, Foster has set himself up.”

  “Twelve years, I estimate,” said Falchi. “With good behavior, he’ll serve seven. If he’s contrite enough, you’ll never get him extradited to Ireland. Also, under Italian law, he might even get to keep the money that Rattei was supposed to have paid him. And the bank will pay him interest too.”

  “And what about Battagliatti?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s not a licensed helicopter pilot anywhere in Europe.”

  “But you told me he was a pilot.”

  “Yes, but at that time there were no helicopters in the Russian Air Force. But don’t be so impatient. Remember, you’re not dealing with that flamboyant Roman slime which masquerades under the title of carabinieri, you’re dealing with the real carabinieri, those of us who, in spite of our leaders, manage to keep our reputation for thoroughness intact.”

  “Well?”

  “Patience, patience. What are you in such a hurry about? We’ve already apprehended the murderer and are about to arrest his accomplice too.”

  “Christ—this phone call is costing me money. Spit it out.” McGarr didn’t know if he had enough cash to pay for as much time as they had used already, and he was anxious to call Rattei.

  It seemed to McGarr that there was a flaw in the relationship Battagliatti purported to share with Rattei. The former professed only an agon, or competition, with Rattei, whereas McGarr believed it well might be a true hatred. Also, McGarr could well understand why Rattei would have wanted to kill Cummings and perhaps the others, but he did not understand why the killings were so clumsy. That certainly wasn’t Rattei’s style, unless he was being framed by somebody else. Foster too wou
ld naturally have avoided the many blunders involved in the murders. Rattei had recently completed a massive oil deal with the Soviet Union, which could explain Foster’s reception at the Moscow airport, his stamped passport that provided him an alibi during the period in which Hitchcock and Browne had been murdered, and Rattei certainly had the sort of money necessary to have paid for Foster’s services. McGarr well knew that in international politics a lucrative and vital business partnership, such as one based on oil, was more valuable to a state than any three men’s lives or a mere ideological difference.

  Battagliatti, on the other hand, had connections in Russia, access to Communist funds which were in all probability not inconsiderable, tiny feet, a hatred for Cummings perhaps no less profound than Rattei’s, and a violent past in which Rattei himself figured as one of the prime antagonists. In short, McGarr just didn’t believe the situation was as simple as Foster made out or that Battagliatti looked upon Rattei with as much equanimity as he professed. That was the crux of the investigation, which McGarr was anxious to explore.

  “Well?”

  “I got to talking to a friend of mine—he’s a Communist too—about Battagliatti over skittles last night. My friend, who is originally from Colle Val D’Elsa, swears he once saw Battagliatti fly a helicopter into a rally himself when his regular pilot took sick.”

  “Could you corroborate that story for me, perhaps get several signed statements? Also, I’d like to see your dossiers of Battagliatti and Rattei, if I could.”

  “Yes, it seems I owe you several favors now. The Rattei dossier is on my desk right now. The”—Falchi cleared his throat—“rabble abandoned it when they slunk back to Rome. I can get you Battagliatti’s, but that’ll take several days: But, why bother? If Rattei has been framed, he’s powerful enough to take care of himself. The spectacle of Rattei and Battagliatti locked in mortal combat over a beautiful, wealthy woman will divert the Italian press for whole months. The epic proportions of this struggle are really too magnificent to disturb.”

  “To be candid, Carlo, what bothers me most is why Rattei allowed himself to be framed.”

  “Perhaps he had no other choice.”

  “Nonsense. I interviewed him in Scotland about the other two murders two days before the Palio. He’s a smart man. He probably knew as well as I that Cummings was going to be the next target and that he himself was a suspect in the murders. He didn’t have to return to Italy to be arrested. Remember, as well, he hired Foster to begin with.”

  Falchi sighed, “You’ll never understand the Mediterranean temperament, Pietro. Rattei is in love. He returned to see his paramour. But, if you think any other confession is imminent, make sure you contact me first.” Falchi hung up.

  McGarr then called Rattei’s villa in Chiusdino. When Rattei got to the phone, McGarr said, “I was just talking to the carabinieri in Siena. Foster has confessed and implicated you in the Cummings murder in a way which your lawyers will find difficult to contest. You’ve been framed, I believe.”

  In a tone which seemed to McGarr strange, Rattei said, “Then you don’t believe Foster.”

  “No. But I’m neither a jury nor a court of law.” McGarr paused. “Why would Francesco Battagliatti want to frame you?”

  “Do you think he is the author of this thing?”

  “I have no proof and Battagliatti claims you have an interesting sort of friendship, that in spite of everything you might even admire each other.”

  “Il gnòmo!” Rattei said in a hot rush.

  McGarr said, “I just thought you’d like to know where things stood,” and hung up. He could have told Rattei where Battagliatti would be that afternoon, but he thought it best to let Il Condottiere find out for himself. A man of his resources would quickly learn of Battagliatti’s whereabouts.

  Now that he had baited the bull, McGarr called the Excelsior.

  “How was Florence?” he asked Noreen.

  “Wonderful, as usual. Bernie and Hughie are still trying to recover from Il Latini. I had to drive home.”

  “Anything from Gallup?”

  “Yes. They’ve checked the flight logs and hour meters on all the ENI helicopters in Scotland. Not one of them could have been used to fly to Ireland and back during the days in question. Tartan Limited is run on a shoestring. It doesn’t own a helicopter. Otherwise, the helicopter investigation is progressing. Gallup estimates that in a day or two they’ll have covered every possible landing and refueling site between Dingle and Aberdeen.”

  There was something wrong about the way in which they were approaching the helicopter aspect of this case, but McGarr knew not what.

  “Also, British Customs reports that Battagliatti was in England two weeks before the party at the Italian embassy.”

  McGarr said, “I wonder if we could find out what Foster’s political affiliations were. I wonder if he was a member of the Communist or Labour parties in Britain.”

  “I’ll try to find out. Maybe Ned Gallup knows who to ask.”

  When he got back to the warehouse, the rally was just breaking up. The parking lot was filled with merchant mariners. McGarr leaned against the fender of his car and waited for Battagliatti. O’Shaughnessy stayed behind the wheel of the Fiat.

  The little man was not glad to see McGarr. “What now?”

  “Oh, just a couple details that slipped my mind yesterday, sir. It’s about your friend Enrico Rattei. I know you are as anxious as I to help him. I’ve got a suspicion that you don’t think he’s guilty of killing Cummings.”

  “Of course not. A man like Enrico doesn’t do a thing like that. It’s this black, Foster, I read about in the papers. If you check into his background, Chief Inspector, you’ll see why he did it. It’s all there. His mentioning Rattei is just an attempt to get off with a light sentence. He’s grabbing at straws. If he can say somebody powerful put him up to it, he’ll look like a mere pawn in a conspiracy, the fall guy. A jury will give him a few years and that will be that.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Perhaps you should have. You’re a policeman, are you not?” Battagliatti pushed by McGarr. In back of him there were twenty burly party members, the red stars obvious on their lapels. They had their hands plunged into their jacket pockets and stared at McGarr sullenly. “And, now, you’ll have to excuse me, signor. I have other business to take care of.” Battagliatti opened the rear door of the Lancia.

  “Just one small question more, sir, if you don’t mind.”

  “But, I do! I mind! I’m not the only source of information about Enrico Rattei, and I’ve got many more important things to do than talk to you.” Battagliatti waved his hand to the merchant mariners.

  They quickly surrounded the Fiat, in which O’Shaughnessy was still sitting, lifted and placed it several feet away from the bumper of the Lancia.

  But McGarr had grabbed the back door of that car before Battagliatti could shut it. “I’m just wondering what you were doing in London, that’s all, sir. You were there for two whole weeks, weren’t you?”

  “Yes—attending a party colloquium and visiting with officials of the British government. If you can remember, the Labour party is in power there at the moment.”

  “Two weeks?”

  On a signal from Battagliatti, several of the merchant mariners began approaching McGarr.

  “I thought you told me you were a busy man?”

  Battagliatti tugged on the door but McGarr held it firm.

  “Yes—two weeks.”

  “You wouldn’t want to show me a copy of your itinerary or a schedule of your visits while in the British Isles, now would you, sir?”

  “How right you are.”

  “That’s because you spent most of the time meeting with Moses Foster and piloting a helicopter back and forth to Ireland twice, isn’t it, Mr. Chairman?”

  One man grabbed McGarr’s wrist, another his other arm. Yet another shoved him with both hands.

  McGarr fell against the side of the car.
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br />   The man who did the pushing then threw a flurry of punches at McGarr’s head and face. The force of the blows raised McGarr up and sprawled him over the trunk of the Lancia.

  Liam O’Shaughnessy bulled his way out of the Fiat, grabbed the first man he could, and placed the muzzle of his Walther against the mariner’s temple. He didn’t have to say a word. Nobody moved. But the driver of the Lancia drove off.

  McGarr toppled off the trunk. His lip was split, one eye puffing. He wiped the blood from his mouth and felt his front teeth. One was loose. He picked himself up and, lashing out, he punched the man who had hit him square on the nose. He could feel the cartilage snap under his knuckles. The man fell back against and was held by his comrades.

  McGarr walked around the car and got behind the wheel. He adjusted the seat, and then O’Shaughnessy, still holding the gun to the mariner’s head, directed him into the back seat. He shut the door and slowly they drove off.

  At the end of the parking lot of the warehouse, McGarr stopped the car, and O’Shaughnessy popped open the rear door and tossed the mariner out onto the tar.

  Immediately, the men in the group began to shout. They hurled rocks at the Fiat.

  McGarr thought he heard a couple of shots.

  “Shall we give Battagliatti a scare?” McGarr asked O’Shaughnessy. His lip was swollen so that it hurt when he spoke.

  “Maybe we better get you a stitch.”

  “Not now.”

  McGarr, cranking up the Fiat to its limit in all the gears, started after Battagliatti. He wanted to get on the Lancia’s bumper and ride it all the way to Pisa. He had his own plan how to handle the party chairman there. The newspaper article had said that Battagliatti had been having trouble with the younger members of his party. Most of the university students believed he had sold out the ideals of communism by becoming a mere parliamentarian, somebody whom the capitalists could manipulate.