A Dark Song of Blood (46 page)

It was just past nine in the evening when Bora returned to his office at the Flora, and – after making sure his diary was still in
the safe – sat at his desk. For a few minutes he simply sat there, with his eyes closed, trying to empty his mind of the jumble of sounds and images jarring inside him, until the silence of the room felt like an ocean that would mercifully drown him. Then once more, with little hope of succeeding, he went through the motions of telephoning the transit camp at Servigliano, whose contact number Dollmann had obligingly provided while he was in the hospital, days ago. Unexpectedly, this time he was able to get through.

The records section chief listened without interrupting. He’d likely expected Westphal’s aide to berate him for the escape of detainees after the night-time bombing of three weeks earlier, and when no reprimand came forth, he was more than willing to answer questions.

“Yes, Major,” he said after a long interval likely employed shuffling papers, which had made Bora fear the line would fall again. “He had been originally brought in on 17 September from the Salerno Beachhead. Within days succeeded in slipping away from the Italians, who as you’re aware ran the camp until early October. Most of the escapees were caught by us, but he managed to stay at large until late in February of this year. I remember the circumstances, because he led us on a wild goose chase, and it was at the same time we received the prisoners from Malta and Tripoli. Where had he been meanwhile? The interrogators didn’t get a straight answer out of him, but he was well-fed and wearing civilian clothes. Surely he was not hiding in the woods, as he claimed, or mooching off some dirt-poor farmer. He’d been wounded in the thigh, also, an injury which had been professionally attended to. My opinion is that he stayed in town somewhere, maybe Ascoli Piceno, maybe further south, hoping to rejoin his own. Only by accident did a militiaman guarding the Ascoli bus station become suspicious, and when it was clear that the man couldn’t speak the language and tried to get away, he shot him. The bullet took out his right ear lobe. Even so the
Italians had to race after him, because he bolted. Only blood loss got him down.”

Bora had not hoped for this to happen, really. He was astonished that he had guessed right, by the pertinent information, and by the speed with which his energy peaked, as if the day hadn’t been as hard as it had been. He sat up in the chair, barely guarding his enthusiasm, taking quick notes. “You said ‘maybe further south’. What makes you think so?”

“His forged papers were too well prepared. I’m thinking Pescara, or even Rome.”

Still scribbling, Bora wanted to whoop. “Did you keep the clothes he was wearing at his capture in February?”

The records section chief sounded puzzled. “Why, yes, Major Bora. As by routine.”

“Do you have access to them? Fine. Before we close, I will ask a couple of questions about his clothing and shoes, and for a description of his leg wound. No, no. Just humor me. Meanwhile, I want you to keep him in isolation and watch him closely until I can send for him.”

“
Send
for him? I don’t understand.”

“Sergeant First Class William Bader, US Army, is wanted for the murder of Magda Reiner, a German national, secretary at our embassy here in Rome.”

No sooner had Bora put down the receiver than he dialed Guidi’s number. It was nearly ten o’ clock, but this could not wait. The phone rang for a long time, then the sleepy voice of a toothless old man answered; it had to be the professor, Bora thought, and asked for Guidi.

“The inspector doesn’t live here any more,” the sleepy voice said. “He moved out, and didn’t leave an address or a phone number.”

Bora realized now that he hadn’t spoken to Guidi in a week, that he’d made himself scarce for a variety of reasons, and it must have come across as though he’d dropped the ball on the Reiner case. Now that he had something to say – that
he had all but solved the crime, and needed to talk over the details, he’d have to wait until the morning to talk to Guidi. The morning? No, he was to join Kesselring in the morning. Tomorrow night, maybe, if a shell didn’t take his head off or the Americans didn’t break through.

Well, there was no helping it. Once more Bora walked into the dark street and into his car, with the dance of artillery fire flashing like pale northern lights overhead.

Half an hour later, Donna Maria looked on when he silently packed his few things and set them by the door.

“I’ll be back to see you, but these have to go tonight.” He stepped into the parlor and lightly touched the photo of himself and his brother, linking arms somewhere in Russia. “You had better put this away, too.”

She did not want to cry, and angrily waved her hand at him.

31 MAY 1944

Bora spent Wednesday at Frascati, and was grudgingly back in the evening for Dollmann to come as a witness during the reception at the Flora. Having shipped out their luggage, both men were in undress uniform. Neither of them brought up the apology at first, but Dollmann lightly gossiped about the officers who would attend the party. “As for you, you nearly ruined what you had so nicely held together, just because you got angry at Sutor. At least you should have had the sense to remonstrate with Kappler, not to a private’s son, an upstart idiot who already didn’t like you.”

Against his will, Bora took the punishment. “Kappler will know I do not mean it.”

Kappler actually said, while Sutor gloated and made the rounds of the hall cracking jokes and drinking to the humiliation of the army, “You’re more sinister than you let on, Bora. If this was your idea, you’re genial. If not, you have a clever advisor.”

Bora had enough to do trying to keep his temper down. He managed one of the most hard-fought smiles of his career, so as to hide a murderous want to get even. “An apology was called for,” he said, meaning it literally.

1 JUNE 1944

There was a soft pink haze at the horizon, where chubby clouds grew bright at the lower hems. Even the battering of artillery sounded new at the start of the day.

Field Marshal Kesselring snapped the new epaulets on Bora’s shoulders. “Well, Martin, let’s hope the war lasts only long enough for you to make full grade. I was quite older than you when I made lieutenant colonel. But, boy, those were other days.” He grimaced with his big teeth, like a bulldog. “I, too, used to look so spruce in the morning when I was thirty, and an adjutant in the Bavarian Foot Artillery.” They shook hands. “I’m asking again for permission to abandon Rome without a fight,” he added. “We’ll know by tomorrow.”

It was all there was to the ceremony. Temporarily quartered in and around a chapel in the Frascati countryside, paratroopers took up their positions for the day. On a kitchen table found God knows where, Kesselring consulted muddy commanders over maps and typewritten sheets. Bora was familiar with that fiction of control on paper, the last step before giving up.

Danza was not one to pry – he’d figured out what the story was between the inspector and the dead girl, and kept his mouth shut – but this morning he asked him, standing at attention before Guidi’s desk, what he would do when the Americans came.

Guidi was surprised at first, though it was clear that everyone was thinking the same thing, and it just came down to who
would raise the argument first. Toeing the line, because one never knew, he said, “Danza, governments change, but the police remains the police. I’ve been thinking of possibilities.” He couldn’t tell Danza that in the last twenty-four hours he had toyed with the idea of joining the Resistance, and promptly shelved it. He had no desire to fight anything. The last six months had upended his life, and it was enough.

“I have been thinking of possibilities, too,” Danza replied, understanding there would be no confidence-sharing.

Guidi nodded. He was a good fellow, Danza, and courageous, too. As for him, it was as with most things; even the urge to seek vengeance had been short-lived. He saw things from such a balanced equipoise, he grew bored with himself, but did not get hurt.

At mid-morning, there was a call from Caruso. The tone was so accommodating, Guidi was at once suspicious. “So, Guidi, how have things gone with you?” It was hardly the circumstantial greeting one replies to, so Guidi was quiet while for the next five minutes Caruso complimented him on successfully closing a diminutive, irrelevant case of profiteering at Tor di Nona. “Your good work makes me forget our spat.” The chief of police laughed a narrow laugh. “Let bygones be bygones, eh?”

Still Guidi listened.

“By the way, since you are working with the Germans on the Reiner case, especially with this major, what’s his name...”

“Bora.”

“Bora, yes. I thought it had something to do with winter weather. The north wind, hee, hee...” The laugh was so narrow, he must be barely opening his mouth, Guidi thought. “Do you see him frequently, yes?”

That’s what it was about. ‘Guidi kept non-committal, “I have barely seen him since the end of March.”

“But you’re on good terms.”

Guidi was thinking of Bora racing up the Via Paganini
stairwell with his armed men. “We’re not friends, if that’s what you mean.”

“I think you’re quite mistaken in that, Guidi. He’s been... Why, he’s even given me some hard times on account of you.”

“I didn’t ask him.”

“Well, I know he’s still in Rome, so I am asking you to contact him.”

Not ordering,
asking.
Guidi sneered into the mouthpiece, noiselessly. “Surely the chief of police would have easier access to him than I.” He took his little vendetta.

“Except that Bora and I have had our differences – professional things. Set up an appointment with him for me.”

“Yes, Dr Caruso.”

“The sooner the better.”

“Very well. And since we’re here, allow me to remind you that the investigation regarding the Reiner case will continue,
even as the situation changes.
”

Caruso’s lack of immediate reaction could have many reasons. “That may be,” he said afterwards, “that may be. But whom will you work with?
Ras
Merlo hasn’t been seen in over two weeks, and for all we know he may no longer be with us.”

Guidi clenched his teeth. “He’s not the only suspect, Dr Caruso. And what makes you think anything happened to him?”

“Dead or alive, Merlo disappeared. You have no other accused on hand. Your phantom tenant is nowhere to be found. With victim, accused and witnesses gone,
even as the situation changes
you haven’t much of a case, do you? I’m telling you so that you won’t waste your energy.”

Dollmann hardly made a secret of the fact that he was saying his goodbyes. Of his many acquaintances in Rome, he got to see most on 1 June. When someone mentioned to him that Frosinone had fallen to the 8th Army, he remarked, “I can’t think of nicer people it could fall to,” and, “Have you been to Frosinone? It’s a dreadful little place.”

At his exit from the Excelsior, where he’d had lunch with General Maelzer, he found Kappler waiting for him by his car. “We need to talk, Colonel Dollmann.”

“Why not?”

“It’s about Bora. We’ll have to do something about him.”

“Do you think so?” Dollmann circled his thumbs, leaning on the shiny side of his car to keep his chauffeur from Kappler’s stare. “You’re probably right. Officers like him confuse the troops by seeking alternative allegiances to those set by the Party.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Kappler set his skinny jaw forward. “He killed the woman in the square, I’m convinced of it. I can’t believe he dared, and no one actually saw him open fire. Not even you, although you were behind him.”

Dollmann did not lose control over one muscle of his face. “Of course we know how keenly he pursued partisans elsewhere. All
he
knew is that she was involved in partisan activities.”

“Maybe.” Kappler looked up at the beautiful June sky. “He’s not the kind you can intimidate.”

“Do you speak from experience?”

“He’s not the kind you can intimidate, let’s leave it at that.” There was a short break in Kappler’s train of thought, reflected by a pause. “Naturally I won’t touch him if you tell me not to touch him.”

Dollmann removed a speck of dust from his sleeve. “I’m not telling you anything.”

That evening, crabby in his armchair, Caruso frowned with displeasure. “Damn that German, it’s the third time you’ve tried – is he ever in?”

“It’s hard to say. He may just refuse to come to the phone.” Guidi looked around, hands behind his back. He could smell haste in the air. It showed in Caruso’s insistence and his furtive glances at the watch, which conveniently he’d slipped
from his wrist and placed where he could read it through the corner of his eye.

“It’s nearly eight o’clock, Dr Caruso.” He pretended not to notice his attention to the dial. “If you do not wish me to leave a message at Colonel Bora’s office, and there’s no word that he will be available later tonight...”

“You can’t leave, if that’s what you’re thinking of. Stay right where you are, and in half an hour we’ll try again. Now call his hotel room. We haven’t checked there in forty-five minutes.”

“May I at least call my office and check on things?”

“
After
you call the hotel.”

Bora was not at the hotel, but Danza, who picked up the phone at the police station, said that Colonel Bora had left a message during the afternoon. “Said it’s urgent, Inspector. Said to be at the office tomorrow afternoon between two and three, as he’s calling you there.”