Converging Parallels (20 page)

“I am investigating the disappearance of a child.”

“Anna Ermagni?”

“You read the newspapers.”

“Part of my job, Commissario. As a politician, I have to know what the Press is saying; and I have to read all the newspapers, Left and Right. And of course, I have to read the
Provincia
.” Another smile. “At the moment, we are in favor. The result of the pedestrian precinct, I imagine.”

“Perhaps.”

“Like everybody else, the journalists were up in arms about a pedestrian zone. The Fascism of the Left, that’s what they accused us of. But now they’re only too glad not to have trucks running past their offices in the Corso. But to return to the child, I see in the newspaper that she has been found.”

“That is correct. But we do not know why she was kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?”

“The people who took her—a couple, we think—asked for a ransom of twenty million lire. A small sum by modern standards. Then they returned the child before having made contact with the grandparents.”

“The girl is safe now?”

Trotti nodded.

“Then, Commissario, I don’t really see why you need worry.
The matter is over; no money was paid and the child is home safe. I imagine you have other problems on your hands—like political terrorism.” Very slightly he raised the shoulders of his suit; it was then that Trotti noticed, against the soft weave of the wool lapel, a small enamel badge. Red enamel with a yellow decoration—the hammer and sickle. “I know that I have many other problems.”

“A crime has been committed, Signor Sindaco,” Trotti said and he was aware of the foolishness in his own voice. “A crime has been committed and those responsible must be brought to justice.”

“A moralist, Commissario. I see that you are a moralist.”

“A police officer,” Trotti replied quickly. “And I don’t believe that moral indignation is the prerogative of the Italian Communist Party.”

Faint amusement flickered across Mariani’s face at the prospect of a battle of ideas. “There is much for us to be indignant about, I think you”ll agree. Thirty years of a republic, Commissario, and we still have an Italian Fascist party. Thirty years of so-called democracy and the real power in this country is still in the hands of the same people. People and interests actively defended by the Carabinieri and the Pubblica Sicurezza.” His eyes glinted with amused hardness.

“It is my duty,” Trotti replied slowly, “to find out who kidnapped Anna Ermagni.”

Mariani’s dark eyes stared at Trotti. Disappointed, perhaps, that Trotti had not risen to the bait. The wrinkles moved towards the eyes. Forty-seven, forty-eight, the mayor was younger than Trotti; but the eyes were underlined by dark rings from overwork and lack of sleep.

“You know, of course, Commissario, that I am a relative.”

“Relative?”

“Of the child. A very distant one—but for us, family ties are still important. Her grandfather—he owns a bar, the San Siro, on Corso Garibaldi. I suppose that it’s about that you want to talk to me. Michele Rossi—he’s a distant cousin.”

“I didn’t know.”

Again the smile, slightly patronizing. “You know at least that I am from Calabria. I came here to study at the university and I decided to stay. No need to tell you that the local people still see me as a meddling outsider—except when I do things that will bring money into their pockets. Rossi, too, is from Calabria—Lago Negro. We’re related by marriage.” He paused while he stared at his fingers. “There are several of us here—all of us more or less related. We’ve been coming north since the end of the war. To get work. In the sewing machine factory or in the textile factory. I was lucky; my father had a shop and he could afford to pay my fees. He wanted the best education for me and it was decided to send me here, where I could stay with an aunt.” A downward movement of his mouth. “I haven’t seen Rossi for a long time.”

“You know Anna?”

“I know who she is; I knew that she was Michele Rossi’s granddaughter and I went to her baptism. But that was before …” He raised his hands from the desk and gestured towards the room. “Before I became mayor.”

“I, too, was at the baptism.”

The mayor raised an eyebrow.

“I am Anna’s godfather,” Trotti said simply.

“Which explains your interest in the affair.”

“I am also a friend of Ermagni’s.”

“Ermagni—I scarcely know him. A taxi driver. Over these last four years, I really haven’t been able to keep up with family affairs. For us, the family is still very important, but because of my work, I have become like a northerner. However …”

“Yes?”

“I should perhaps tell you that as soon as I read about Anna’s disappearance, I phoned Michele. It was the least I could do. I told him that I was willing to help him as much as I could. But within the framework of the law.” A brief flicker of amusement and again the wrinkles tightened at the corner of the eyes. “But what could I do? Money, I suppose I could give him money—and I suggested it. But he assured me that he had enough and anyway, he said that you,” the hand pointed vaguely towards Trotti,
“had forbidden any payment. Not that that would have made any difference. I know Michele and no law would prevent him from caring for his granddaughter. He loves that child—more perhaps than he loved his own daughter—and he would go to any lengths for her.”

The desk was almost bare; a few newspapers, a telephone and a framed photograph. A small, silver frame. Trotti imagined that it contained a family portrait but as he leaned forward, resting his arms, he recognized the features and the round spectacles of a young Antonio Gramsci, founder of the Italian Communist Party.

“There was nothing I could do. I am a politician but that does not mean that I have power over criminals—although, I don’t have to tell you, many politicians are little better than criminals—and you don’t have to go all the way to Rome to find them.”

He brushed at dust, probably imaginary, on his lapel. “I was upset, of course. Kidnapping—if indeed that is what it was—is not something we expect in this town. This is a quiet city—thanks largely to the deliberate policy that we have observed since we have been in power. A small city with a human dimension. Of course, I was also upset as a relative. But,” he shrugged, “what could I do?”

“There is nothing that the individual citizen can do in a similar situation. It is for the police to deal with these matters.”

“A criticism of the Socialists, Commissario? You don’t perhaps approve of their overtures towards the Red Brigades?”

“I am a police officer. I simply wished to point out that in the case of Anna Ermagni, there was little that her grandfather could do.”

“There is a difference, then, between Anna Ermagni and Aldo Moro?”

“That is not for me to decide.”

The mayor stood up. From somewhere downstairs there came the soft hammering of a typewriter; regular hammering, a small tinkle and then the metallic slide of the carriage returning to a new margin.

Sunday morning and people at work in the town hall.

“There is nothing else, Commissario …?”

Trotti did not move.

“There are pressing matters …”

“It is about a car, Signor Sindaco.” Trotti crossed his legs and took a notebook from his pocket. “A Citroën.”

“What about it?”

“I believe,” Trotti said, looking at the bare sheet of paper of his notebook, “I believe that you own a Citroën. A DS.” He looked up and the mayor returned to his seat. The face had a look of puzzlement. Trotti could not decide whether he was genuinely puzzled or merely acting.

“I own a Mirafiori. A Fiat. Very humdrum.”

“You don’t own a red Citroën DS?”

“No.” He shook his head. “And even my own car I scarcely use. In town I prefer to use a bicycle—now that it is safe to use it. And when it’s absolutely necessary, I use an official car and chauffeur.”

“You’ve never owned a Citroën at any time? A Citroën with Milanese registration.”

“I used to, yes.” There was no change in the mayor’s voice. “I used to—but that was some time ago.”

“You got rid of it?” Trotti’s voice was matter-of-fact.

“I sold it.” The mayor hesitated slightly. “Or rather, I gave it to my son, Sandro.”

“Your son?”

“That is correct, Commissario.”

“And he still owns it?”

“I don’t know.” A slight movement of his hands which now lay on top of the newspaper. “I scarcely have time to see my family. I am here seven days a week. Today it is Sunday and I have work to do; my family life, I’m afraid, has to take second place. But to answer your question, no. I don’t think he still has it.”

“You know the registration number?”

“No.” His mouth closed sharply. “But wait.” He took a small diary from his jacket pocket and flipped through the pages. “Perhaps it is here. No.” He went through the pages
several times; then he picked up the phone. “Carla,” he said, “get me my home number.” He put the phone down; then looking at Trotti, he went on: “It was a Milan number. I was working at the Policlinico in Milan several years ago and a colleague had the car to sell. I had done him a favor and at the time it seemed a bargain. But that was before the price of petrol started rocketing.”

“The reason I need to know …” Trotti began.

The mayor held out his hand as the phone rang and he picked up the receiver. His face softened and he smiled. To Trotti, he mouthed, “My wife.”

When he put the receiver back in its cradle, he was smiling. A genuine smile and he looked younger. “MI 74220. My wife is marvelous; a memory like a computer.”

Trotti jotted the number down on the page of his notebook. “And when did you hand the car over to your son?”

“A year ago—perhaps more.” Mariani smiled and for some reason—perhaps the eyes, perhaps the mouth—Trotti felt for the first time that the mayor was ill at ease.

“May I ask, Commissario, the reason for all these questions?”

“You own a villa in the hills?”

“Yes. There’s nothing wrong with that, I hope.” The mayor’s voice was sharp. “Nothing illegal.”

“And you go there regularly?”

“I used to. I get a lot less time nowadays.”

“Of course.” Trotti doodled on the notebook; a series of parallel arrows. “You haven’t been there recently?”

Mariani answered promptly, “No.”

“You are quite sure?”

The dark eyes stared at Trotti. “I don’t see why I should answer these questions. Are you trying to accuse me of something?”

“I make no accusations. I merely ask for information.” He drew three more arrows before continuing. “Can you tell me in whose name the car insurance was taken out?”

“I handed everything over to Sandro. It was an expensive car to run and I hadn’t used it for a couple of years. Nice to look at but a beast to run and not the sort of vehicle adapted to the
narrow, cobbled streets of this city. I gave it to him as a graduation present.”

“You can prove this?”

“Prove? You are accusing me of something, Commissario? I don’t enjoy being treated like a criminal.”

Trotti replied softly, “Forgive me, Signor Sindaco.” He smiled broadly, showing his teeth. “It’s just that we have evidence—circumstantial and probably unfounded—that the people who kidnapped Anna Ermagni used a red Citroën.”

The mayor held his glance. “Commissario Trotti, I am not a kidnapper. Nor is my son.”

“Of course not. I merely …”

The mayor brushed Trotti’s remark aside. “It does not mean because I come from Calabria, because I am a southerner, that I am a bandit. I can assure you that I have no need to kidnap children—and certainly not the children of my own relatives.”

Trotti replied blandly, “I apologize. You understand, I am sure, that all evidence, however circumstantial, must be followed up.”

“Then everything is quite clear.” The mayor stood up and held out his hand. “The matter is over. You have the registration of the car. As I said, I am not certain whether Sandro still has it. But of course, you can check with him.”

Trotti took his hand. “What does he do, your son?”

As if by magic, the door opened and the midget porter came into the room.

“Like his father, he is a doctor.”

“At the university?”

“In Naples. He is doing his military service.”

T
ROTTI CAME OUT
of the town hall into the sunlight. He stood for an instant at the top of the stairs and watched the soldiers. There were five of them, walking arm in arm along the Corso; their dark khaki shirts were pressed and their uniform trousers just a bit short for their long legs. They were Alpini; on their young, blond heads they wore the round felt hat of their regiment and the long feather.

Trotti came down the steps as they went past. They did not notice him for they were listening intently, their mouths open in anticipation of laughter, to a joke being told by one of the soldiers in the harsh gutturals of the Bergamasque dialect. Trotti smiled and turned to watch them as they disappeared into a dark café.

He walked back to the office.

A lot of activity for a Sunday morning. On the door, an appuntato saluted him and along the cool corridors, men in shirtsleeves were hurrying purposefully. One or two acknowledged him—hastily, a brief smile and without stopping to talk.

Inside the lift—with its permanent smell of old smoke and the hammer and sickle scraped into the aluminum paint—he pressed the button for the third floor. The lift moved slowly.

Principessa was slumbering beneath the desk, her paws extended on the cold floor.

“On Sunday?” Trotti said with surprise.

Gino raised his head; like the dog, he had been dozing. A
smile flickered behind the thick glasses. “Leonardelli called me in.” A cup of cold coffee stood on the desk, pushed aside and forgotten. “Something has come up.”

“What?”

“I just answer the phone. You mustn’t ask me these questions.” He tutted. “A blind old man.”

Trotti placed a hand on his shoulder; Gino was wearing a blue cardigan over a white shirt, cloth slippers on his feet. “Did anybody call for me?”

“Your friend Avvocato Romano.”

“An old bore.” Trotti laughed. “He doesn’t seem to realize that other people have their own lives to live—and that we have a job to do. A dog and playing scopone with his cronies in the Bar Duomo—that’s all he’s got to do and he thinks everybody else has as much free time as himself.”