Converging Parallels (30 page)

Spadano coughed to clear his throat. “We got a phone call at about eleven o’clock. Somebody—an anonymous caller—saying that there had been a knife fight at the San Siro.”

Trotti raised his head. “The San Siro in Corso Garibaldi?”

Spadano nodded. “That’s right. Old man Rossi—grandfather of the little girl.”

Trotti’s face had drained of all color. “A knife fight?”

“A couple of men went down to check—it’s standard procedure.” Spadano did not take his eyes off Trotti. “The place was closed. Blinds down, the tables on the terrace had been cleared—which was strange because it was early for the San Siro to close. It would normally stay open until the end of the last performance at the Arti cinema. Then one of the men noticed light coming from the ventilation bars just above the level of the pavement—and the sound of people laughing. They got suspicious and called for reinforcements.”

“Gambling?”

“Roulette. About thirty people there—well dressed and well heeled. Quite a surprise because the San Siro is not a very sophisticated place—jukebox and a billiard table in the back room. Not the sort of place that you associate with the city’s wealthiest and most beautiful people. But that’s what they were. Men in evening dress and bow ties, women in gowns and jewelry. The cream of the local citizenry, Commissario.” Spadano allowed himself a small smile. “Including your wife.”

Trotti was frowning. “She’s in a cell by herself.”

“The least I could do for a fellow policeman.” A hint of irony in his voice. He breathed at the stubby cigar. “For the others it doesn’t really matter. You know these people as well as I do, Commissario—they are always safe. Doctors, architects, professional people with money. They can look after themselves—they’ve got the money and they’ve got the contacts.” He paused. “But Signora Trotti is the wife of a policeman.”

Trotti remained silent. He looked at Spadano—regular features, tanned skin and hard eyes behind the rising cloud of smoke.

“It puts you in a difficult position, Trotti. A very difficult and embarrassing position. People know that she was there. She’s your wife and you’re responsible for her—you who are a policeman and who should be above suspicion.” He paused. “I imagine you have powerful friends.”

“You are going to press charges?”

“Of course not. We wouldn’t even have taken her into custody if we had known who she was. But she said nothing.”

Trotti looked at Spadano and then looked down at the floor. “I’ll have to resign.”

“Resign?” Spadano laughed. “I don’t think that the Pubblica Sicurezza is that demanding.”

“She never tells me where she goes. I had no idea.” He raised his shoulders. “I’ll get another job.”

“And lose your pension.” Spadano took the cigar from his mouth. “Let’s not exaggerate, Commissario. Certainly your wife is an embarrassment. She allowed herself to get caught in an illegal gaming parlor—goodness knows where the wife of a policeman can get that kind of money from. She could have informed us straight away of her identity rather than forcing us to bring her here—with the consequent humiliation for both her and you. The law must take its course—but there’ll be nothing more than a fine; and perhaps the embarrassment of publicity.” He replaced the cigar. “But for you to resign, Commissario—that won’t be necessary. You have friends—friends who want to help you and who want you to stay where you are. Perhaps you have friends who owe you a few favors.”

“I don’t ask for any favors.”

“The problem,” Spadano said simply, “is bad publicity.”

Their eyes met. “The
Provincia
was there?”

Spadano nodded. “I think so.” He tapped ash into a tray. “A young chap, fairly large. He was there when my men broke in.”

“Angellini.”

“You know him?”

“Yes. How did he know what was happening? Why was he there? Who tipped him off?”

Spadano shrugged. “Could have been him who phoned us with the bogus story of a fight. He knew what was going on and wanted to be in on our arrival. A nice front page story—and you know how the
Provincia
hates the local
nouveaux riches
. The paper would have collapsed years ago if the editor hadn’t been pumping into it his own considerable wealth. The shopkeepers
all hate him and refuse to advertise. And the editor hates them. That’s why he’s always supported the mayor—even though the mayor’s a Communist and the editor is an old Fascist.” Spadano laughed—a genuine, warm laugh. “An illicit casino in the basement of a bar. Thirty arrests—including the wife of a prominent policeman. Just the thing for an ambitious journalist—especially before the municipal elections.” He looked at his watch. “The paper should’ve come off the presses. We’ll see just how much political advantage the
Provincia
hopes to get out of all this.”

Trotti bit his lip. There was a long silence.

“She didn’t need money,” he said.

“Perhaps she was looking for something else.” Spadano raised the wet end of his cigar. “Excitement. Adventure. Perhaps she wanted to run the risk of being arrested. Perhaps she wanted to embarrass you.”

“If that’s what she wanted, she’s succeeded.”

“Trotti,” Spadano said softly, “I don’t owe you or the Pubblica Sicurezza any favors. There are a lot of people in this place who would like to get even with you—your professional behavior, you and the Questura, is not a source of joy for us. You moved in on Gracchi at a time when we had him under surveillance.”

“He kidnapped the girl.”

Spadano laughed; then he picked at strands of tobacco caught on the tip of his tongue. “I think you must be dreaming.”

“The type on the kidnap note corresponds with his typewriter.”

“Absurd. We had him under surveillance. That’s why we asked you not to touch him.”

“Asked me? Nobody asked me anything.”

“The PS was informed—and from what I heard, Trotti, you personally were informed.”

“I received no request from the Carabinieri.”

“I’d like to believe you.” He stubbed out the cigar.

There was a short pause. “He is guilty. He took the child—the typewriter proves it.”

“Gracchi may have typed the note—it’s possible but not very likely. But he certainly did not take the child.” Again Spadano
laughed. “He’s been under surveillance the last two weeks—perhaps you think that stupid, southern Carabinieri wouldn’t notice the minor detail of a kidnapping?” A short coughing laugh. “We can supply Gracchi’s alibi.”

Trotti remained silent, embarrassed.

“They were watching him. They were watching him and perhaps he could have led to more important arrests. And so you move in—the Pubblica Sicurezza moves in and blows everything—at a time when we should be collaborating. It’s not my concern, of course—I leave that to the specialists. But it looks strange, Trotti. It looks suspiciously like protection.”

Trotti shook his head.

“A cover-up.”

“No,” Trotti replied emphatically but Spadano held up his hand.

“It doesn’t concern me, Trotti. But let me say this: I personally have no desire to see you destroyed. I suspect that you are being used. I don’t have much respect for the Pubblica Sicurezza and I know about Leonardelli. There are people in Strada Nuova I would rather see eliminated than you.” He lowered his voice. “But there are people who would like to see you go. Take my advice.” He was now sitting, his arms flat against the top of the desk and his eyes glinting. “Be careful—before you’re out of your depth.”

A knock on the door.

“Avanti!”

“The
Provincia
, signore.” A uniformed officer entered and placed a neatly folded copy on the scratched varnish of the desk. Spadano stood up. He ran a finger over the columns of the front page. Then he turned to the inside pages.

“Thanks.”

The uniformed man left.

Spadano took another cigar from the packet and held the end between his white teeth while he lit it. He pushed the paper towards Trotti.

A picture of San Siro, caught in the pale light of the photographer’s flash.

“Looks as though you’re in luck, Commissario Trotti.”

V
IA
L
UGANO
.

Trotti did not wait for the aunt to answer. He knocked at the door, while at his feet the cat moved sensuously, its green eyes staring at him. He tried the handle; the door was unlocked. He pushed it open and entered the dark hallway.

A smell of breakfast, warm bread and coffee. The woman’s grey face appeared from the kitchen.

“Pubblica Sicurezza.”

The haggard face disappeared and the kitchen door closed.

Trotti went to the bedroom and opened the ground glass door with its cherubim, seraphim and its coat of arms.

Stefano Angellini was asleep. There was an empty whisky bottle on the floor and the radio was emitting cheerful chatter for those who had to get up early and go to work.

“No news from Rome, no communications from the Red Brigades.” The voice was deliberately optimistic, as though speaking of the washing powers of a new detergent.

The air was stuffy, with its familiar odor of sweat and unwashed clothes; over the floor, books and dirty washing. Several unwashed glasses.

Angellini snored, his white, fleshy body, only partially concealed by a sheet, rising and falling gently with the slow rhythm of his breathing. Air rasped at the open throat.

Trotti went to the window, almost falling over the typewriter.
He unlatched the blinds and threw them open. The sun had already risen; its early rays caught a far window of the courtyard. The soft, damp smells of early morning; another day.

Trotti looked at his watch. 6:30.

“What do you want now, Commissario?”

Trotti turned round. Angellini had opened one eye; he then closed it; the large head nuzzled into the pillow. Trotti went to the sink—a disposable razor, French shaving cream and the minute traces of yesterday’s beard against the grubby porcelain. He ran water into his cupped hands and crossing the room, threw it—it curved, like a silvery cat raising its back—into the pale face.

“Wake up.”

“Shit.” Angellini sat up. Water trickled down his face and chin onto the sheet; two blotches slowly formed. “What do you want?”

“The truth.”

“Go away—let me sleep.” He wiped the back of his hand against his face.

“Get up.”

“It’s early—let me sleep. Go away, leave me alone.”

Before Angellini could fall back onto the pillow, Trotti caught the edge of the sheet. Angellini tried to grasp it but Trotti was stronger. He pulled it off the bed and threw it into a corner. Angellini was naked. His hands went to his groin.

“Now get up.”

“You’ve got no right.”

Trotti scooped up the kimono from where it was lying on the floor and threw it at Angellini’s head.

“Christ.”

“How did you know about San Siro?”

Angellini put his large feet on the floor and wrapped the kimono about his flabby shoulders. “San Siro?”

“Be careful, Angellini, be careful. Don’t play with me.” Trotti pointed a finger at the younger man; very slightly, his hand was trembling. “Tell me about the San Siro and don’t get clever. You knew, didn’t you?”

“That it was a gambling den?” He laughed. “Of course I
knew.” He wiped his face again. “Pass me my trousers, will you?”

“For how long? When did you find out?”

“Come on, Trotti. The San Siro is common knowledge—it’s been there for years, everybody knows about it. Where else do you think the rich can go for their fun? Gambling is illegal outside San Remo or Venice. Your rich friends have got to spend their money somewhere.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You didn’t ask, Trotti. You didn’t ask.” He laughed.

Trotti’s face was drawn. He looked at Angellini without blinking. “My wife is in jail.”

Angellini shrugged.

“My own career is in jeopardy.”

“Scarcely.” Angellini went over to the dark oak wardrobe and from the pile of discarded clothes, pulled out a pair of jeans. They were of faded denim; he put the jeans on. They were tight and he had to pull in his belly in order to close the zip. From the same pile he took a loose cotton shirt. In his eyes, there were still traces of sleep. He ran his hand through his hair. “Zia,” he shouted, turning his head towards the door. “You can bring some coffee.”

A muffled grunt from the kitchen.

“You have friends, Trotti—an influential and respected man like you. Politically you are safe.”

“Let me decide that—I can do without your opinions and I can do without your trying to justify your behavior. You informed the Carabinieri. Why?”

Angellini laughed. “Trotti, I informed no one.”

“Don’t lie. You were there when the Carabinieri arrived.” Again he pointed. “You’d do anything to get onto the front page of the
Provincia
.”

Angellini put his hands in his pockets; he leaned against the wardrobe, his bare feet peeping from beneath the faded jeans. “If this is your way of thanking me, Trotti, I think I prefer toothache. Your wife was conspicuous among the people arrested. I was there. I saw her being put into the van. We took photographs, I could have put that in my article.”

“You want to blackmail me.”

“You’re a fool, Trotti. It wouldn’t have done me any harm to put the photographs in the paper—and it wouldn’t have done the paper any harm, either. But I didn’t, did I? Why not? To blackmail you? You come here, you wake me, you throw water in my face and pull me out of bed. Some way to thank me.” He snorted. “Perhaps I should blackmail you.”

“You invented a story about a fight and you phoned the Carabinieri. You engineered everything.”

“You’re a fool, Trotti—but I thought at least you were an honest fool. I now see you’re dangerous—a Fascist. You treat people as you please. You don’t care. You’re dangerous.”

Trotti raised his hand. He was about to strike Angellini when the door opened and the aunt, her face grey and marked with more lines of suffering, entered carrying a tray. A steaming coffee pot.

“I didn’t inform the Carabinieri.”

“A coincidence, then.”

The woman set the tray on the desk and, making room, pushed aside several books—about the Mafia, in bright dust-jackets. One of the books toppled, and falling, it knocked a small photograph in a glass frame.