Death in Tuscany (34 page)

He asked the usual questions and received the usual answers.

He was about to leave when he was struck by a coloured print showing two red marble columns with golden capitals, an open book full of Hebrew characters in the middle, a five-pointed star at the bottom and two stars at the top, a crescent moon on the left and a sun on the right which seemed to him identical to the one in the photograph. Around the outside were other, smaller objects, such as a skull and crossbones, an open compass crossed with a ruler, stars and other things.

'What's this?' he asked, intrigued.

'That's just a proof,' the printer replied. An illustration for a book about Freemasonry'

At the end of the day, Sergi reported disconsolately to Superintendent Rizzo that he had found nothing, absolutely nothing. But then, just as he was about to leave, he laughed and said that the sun might be a Masonic symbol. Rizzo would probably not have paid much heed to that, if it wasn't for the fact that when Venturi came to make
his
report, he mentioned the old bookseller's theory. Even though Venturi apologised and told him that the bookseller was probably senile, Rizzo started to give it some serious thought. It was true that two small clues like that didn't constitute evidence, but you couldn't rule them out. As Ferrara always said, there was no such thing as coincidence when you were investigating a crime.

Since he hadn't even got that much from any of the others, and since he also wanted to know how Ferrara was and if he needed any help, he decided to call him. That curious little clue was as good an excuse as any, and at least they could both have a laugh about it.

20

It was dark, and Ferrara was moving with difficulty along a narrow tunnel which was getting ever narrower. He felt as if he couldn't breathe, and he was sure he would die before he got to the end. He had to keep his arms out in front of him, lever himself with his elbows against the damp, viscous earth, and push himself forward. After an enormous effort, he had only moved a few inches. He should have used his legs, he thought, and it was then that he realised that his ankles were being held by icy hands which gripped like steel claws. They were what he was fighting against, what he was trying to escape.

Laughter - horrible, deafening, humiliating, macabre laughter - echoed inside his head, as if to point up the futility of his childish efforts. Childish, like everything he did. It wasn't Massimo Verga who hadn't grown up, it was him. He was the real Peter Pan, still playing cops and robbers at his age! And now the robbers had decided to get their own back.

But it wasn't the mockery in the laughter that made his heart miss a beat, it was its astonishing clarity. He would recognise it even surrounded by the laughter of thousands - only Francesco Leone laughed like that. And indeed there he was, bending over the immature, naked body of Claudia Pizzi: the undeveloped

breasts with their small, pinkish nipples, the sparse black down on the mount of Venus, the frail, delicate limbs . . .

'Oh, it's you, Ferrara, come on, we were waiting for you,' Leone said to him, but he had the sneering face of Professor d'Incisa, and the same expensive wristwatch.

'You were about to miss the best of it,' he continued, still in Leone's voice, picking up a small saw. 'You will stay this time, won't you?' Again, he laughed that infernal laugh.

'Let him go, it's better if he goes. He never takes a holiday, it'll do him good!' These words came from the corpse, which raised itself on its elbows and stared at him with the angry purple face of Commissioner Lepri.

'That's what I told him, chief, believe me,' the Deputy Prosecutor of Lucca, Armando Lupo, said obsequiously.

'He's a fool, a thickhead, a peasant, a loner, he should join us, brothers,' the Contessa Servi asserted loftily, and Anna Giulietti nodded in silent agreement.

The sprightly old woman was laden with jewels, and Ferrara felt guilty because she was wearing his Petra's rings. He ought to arrest her but he was powerless - even his best friend was accusing him. He could hear his voice, calling from the distance.

'Michele, where were you?. . . Where are you?. . . Michele . . . Michele . . .' The imploring voice came ever closer.

'Michele, Michele. Wake up, Michele!' Petra was calling him, shaking him gently, but it was hard to emerge from the nightmare.

He was in their hotel room, and sunlight was flooding in.

He couldn't remember anything about last night, just that he had flung himself onto a deckchair by the seashore. He hadn't been aware of anything when Petra, with the aid of the porter, had lifted him from the chair, helped him up to their room, and put him to bed.

He could clearly smell coffee. He put out his hand and took his wristwatch from the bedside table. It was 8.20. 'My God!' he exclaimed.

'I know, but I couldn't wake you earlier. You didn't sleep much, and when you did you slept badly. You were tossing and turning and moaning in your sleep all night. You didn't settle until about six in the morning. How could I have dared to . . .?'

He jumped out of bed and made as if to go to the bathroom to have a wash, but Petra held him back.

'Let's have breakfast first, before it gets cold.'

The tray on the low table was laid the way they liked it. A tea pot, a coffee pot, a jug of milk, fresh orange juice, fruit, a basket of rolls and brioches, five little glass jars containing five different kinds of jam, and one jar of honey.

Ferrara realised that in spite of everything he was hungry.

As he devoured the food, he told her his nightmare.

'Brrr!' she said, smiling. It was the first time she had smiled since hearing about Massimo. 'That's good!'

'What do you mean?'

'Bad dreams help us to get rid of our feelings. You'll feel better today, you'll see.'

He found that hard to believe, remembering the way Massimo had called to him in the dream, begging for help. But if he was calling him, he thought, somewhat illogically, that meant he was still alive. And strangely this thought did make him feel better.

Any news?' he asked, seeing that Petra had already read the newspapers while he was asleep. She must have had them brought up with the breakfast.

'Unfortunately not. There's the news of Claudia Pizzi, but nothing we don't already know. Lojelo kept his word, your name isn't mentioned.'

'No news is good news,' he caught himself answering.

'You see? You're better already.'

As he washed, Ferrara made plans for the day.

He felt reenergised, and when he was ready the first thing he did was to call Lojelo.

'Thank you for Claudia Pizzi's article, Chief Superintendent. It's a bit worrying. She seemed to be suggesting some kind of Mafia involvement in the area, which I think is unlikely. There was a rumour going round to that effect a few years ago, about some businessman who was said to be money laundering, but then it all died down. But it's a line of inquiry we can't rule out. After all, she was killed -shot with a revolver, in fact.'

A revolver? Not an automatic?'

'The bullet wounds came from a .38 calibre special, and we haven't found any cases . . . not that it's easy in the middle of a wood, of course.'

'It could well be a Mafia weapon. We'll have to check up on Sicilian businesses in the area. I know they don't have to be connected with the Mafia just because they're Sicilian, of course, I'd be the first to admit that. But Claudia Pizzi was on to something, and we owe her that much, I think, don't you? In the meantime, have you managed to find out anything about the quarries?'

'Not yet. Today's Saturday, and the land registry officer is away for the weekend with his family. But he'll be back on Monday and I'm sure I'll get what I need from him then.'

'Good. Anything else new?'

'We're proceeding with the interviews. Her boyfriend, her relatives, friends, whoever can tell us anything about her. This afternoon we're expecting the local news editor of
Il
Tirreno
and two colleagues who worked quite closely with her. Maybe they know something more about this Mafia story'

'Let's hope so. Can I help you with anything?'

'Not for the moment, unless you want to sit in on the interviews,' Lojelo said, then paused almost imperceptibly before adding, 'We'd really like it if you could.'

'I don't know,' Ferrara temporised, not wanting to make Lojelo uncomfortable. 'I may drop by later, but I can't guarantee anything. Please keep me informed, though, if you find out anything. Even the smallest thing.'

'That goes without saying, Chief Superintendent!' Lojelo replied, with what seemed like a touch of relief. Or was it only Ferrara's imagination?

'There are at least three places we need to visit today' he said to Petra as soon as he had put the phone down. 'Simonetta Palladiani's art gallery, which is in Forte dei Marmi. Romano's restaurant, where she had dinner with Massimo on the night of the murder, which is in Viareggio. And the beach establishment he went to, wherever that is. Where should we start?' 'I'd start with the nearest place.'

'The bathing establishment, then . . . But there's a problem . . .' 'Which is?'

'If the Carabinieri find out I'm sticking my nose in, there'll be serious trouble this time. This really is their area.'

'So are Forte and Viareggio, if it comes to that. They're practically one town. We walked from one to the other yesterday, remember? Come on, let's be tourists and look for Massimo to start with. If they were such good friends' -Ferrara noticed that she had avoided using the word 'lovers' -'it's likely he rented a hut in whichever bathing establishment she was a member of, don't you think?'

'Good point. And in Forte and Viareggio?'

'We'll think of something,' Petra replied. She seemed to be taking the initiative, which made him smile. He wondered where she got the energy from. She was going through the same torments as him, like him she had hardly slept in the last few nights, and she'd been up all last night watching over him. She hadn't even had the chance to get rid of her tension and frustration in a nightmare, as far as he knew.