The Dark Valley: A Commissario Soneri Mystery (Commissario Soneri 2) (10 page)

He broke off to take some wine from a glass he kept under the bar, but he had worked himself into a temper. “Montelupo’s going to the dogs. There’s no-one left who’s willing to clear the ditches, to attend to the drains or look after the woodland. Instead of going to gather firewood, they switch on the gas. Do you know what it is? They have too much money and they spend it on things they could get for free, whereas the rest of us,” he continued, sweeping his hand around the room, “we’re not capable of anything any more, and we spend day after day yapping about nothing. That’s our curse, and we’ll die of it.”

“There’s still the Woodsman roaming about on Montelupo.”

Magnani’s face lit up. “He’s the only one who’s got any spunk, but he’s surrounded by that rabble of foreigners. They should all be sent packing.”

“I don’t believe they ever meet up. Neither side is much good at conversation.”

“They might not meet up, but he doesn’t like them just the same. The woods are for working in. They’re not a hiding place.”

“I go searching for mushrooms. That’s not work.”

“Oh yes it is. There are men who earn their living looking for truffles, although this year…” Magnani said, shaking his head.

“All you can find this year are ‘trumpets of death’,” the commissario said.

“Nobody here eats them. They bring bad luck.”

“Talking about deaths,” Soneri said, changing the subject, “did anybody ever find anything about that coffin that turned up on San Martino?”

“No, nobody came forward to claim it. After a while the priest said it was cluttering up the chapel and that it had to be moved somewhere.”

“So what became of it?”

Magnani appeared flustered and unsure of himself. He started to say something but then stopped. Faced with the commissario’s calm but unflinching look, he muttered, “They put Palmiro in it.”

It occurred to Soneri that there might be something more than coincidence at work here, but Magnani started up again: “They took full advantage … a beautiful casket, glossy chestnut wood … it was the daughter-in-law who gave permission, but it seems Paride was in agreement as well.”

The commissario shook his head. The whole story seemed grotesque. Something ugly was unravelling, beneath the appearance of normality.

“It seemed a funny business to me too,” Magnani said, guessing at what was in Soneri’s mind. “But if you think about it, there’s nothing really out of place. There’s a coffin without an owner and nowhere to put it. There’s a corpse which has to be buried. Why not put the two together? There are some people in this village who bought their coffins ten years ago, and in the meantime they use them to store wheat.”

“It all seemed so random,” Soneri said. “What’s so strange is that the facts all line up, like the pearls on a necklace, and in real life that never happens.”

Magnani shrugged. “Come on … when the devil gets to work…”

Soneri shook his head once more to indicate his resolute scepticism, then, as with Baldi, he asked Magnani, “Where can I find the Woodsman?”

Magnani waved his hands about. “Where would you find a buzzard? The skies might be bigger than Montelupo, but it is easier to hide on Montelupo.”

“There must be one or two places where he is more likely to turn up?”

“I’d try the area round Lake Bicchiere, or Malpasso. Or you could try the cabins in Badignana.”

“They’re all quite a way off.”

“He tramps around, and he has his own dens, where occasionally he spends the night. He’s like a wild animal. He’s not afraid of anything. His father once punched some highranking Fascist official to shut him up.”

Magnani spoke of the incident with pride. Evidently the Woodsman was all he himself had never managed to be.

“What’s he like? Physically, I mean.”

“A beast, all one hundred and ten kilos of him. He could kill you with one punch. He’s as solid as a safe.”

“So it would be hard to miss him.”

“He always wears the felt hat of the Alpino regiment, with the feather.”

“Does he ever come here?”

“He leaves it to his daughter to come down to the village. He’s completely antisocial.”

“Ever since Palmiro and Capelli abandoned him. Is that right?” the commissario said, inhaling the smoke from the cigar he had lit while talking.

“Well, a great many things originate there. Before those two got rich, they were all as thick as thieves. Once the Woodsman saved Palmiro’s life, up on Lake Bicchiere. He’d fallen in because he’d failed to notice a crack in the ice, which collapsed under him. The Woodsman stretched out full length on his belly, risking going under himself, and dragged Palmiro to safety by brute force. From that time on, Palmiro made him a present of some money every year, at Christmas, on the anniversary.”

“Even recently? Seeing that things are not going too well?”

“What were a couple of coins to him? And anyway, who says things are not going so well? I’ve heard that the Rodolfis have millions and millions salted away in some fund somewhere.”

“And he could always turn to the villagers,” Soneri said.

Magnani stopped short, as though he had been stung by a wasp. “Not much hope there. You won’t get much from a village of peasants and shopkeepers, and one way or another they all work for the Rodolfis now.”

“Palmiro must have come here,” the commissario said, tentatively.

“This was his bar. He always came here until the other one opened,” Magnani said, with unmistakable resentment.

The door swung open and an old woman came in pushing a wheelchair with a man wrapped in a blanket, the one who
on the night of Palmiro’s disappearance had claimed to be a friend of his. The woman manoeuvred the chair round and positioned the man next to the heater. She lifted away the blanket, folded it neatly and turned to Magnani. “No wine, mind.” She went out without another word, leaving her husband uttering curses behind her.

“Don’t get annoyed, Berto,” said one of the men in the group. “Women rule the roost the world over nowadays.”

The old man, as impassive as a block of wood, said nothing.

“She brings him here every afternoon. That way she gets rid of him for a bit. He’s off his head,” Magnani said.

“Was he really all that friendly with Palmiro?”

“He was more than a friend. He was his faithful retainer. He turned his hand to everything for him – slaughterman, cheese maker, gardener, chauffeur. It wasn’t the same with Capelli and the Woodsman. They treated Palmiro as an equal, but Berto took orders.”

Soneri’s cigar had gone out, and as he relit it he looked around the bar at all those ageing men, a company that could have included his father had he been blessed with only slightly better fortune. A deep weariness took hold of him. There were times and places where he was particularly and painfully susceptible to an awareness of the unstoppable march of time, of its inevitable ending and of the vanity of all things. He rose decisively to his feet and made for the door, meeting the glassy stare of Berto, who with difficulty raised a hand to him in greeting.

Once outside, he rang Angela. She answered in a drowsy voice. “Am I interrupting something? Are you in good company,” he said, trying to sound ironic.

“Yes, of unreadable documents. You sound as though you are trying to be funny, which leads me to think you’re not at your best. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. A mood that comes and goes.”

“Comes and goes, as regularly as a bus service.”

“Listen,” he said, changing the subject. “You know a lawyer called Gennari, don’t you?”

“We were at university together.”

“He’s the Rodolfis’ lawyer.”

“Well done, Commissario! Did you think I didn’t know? I seem to remember telling you.”

“I know. It was just to get the conversation going. The story here is that they are in a liquidity crisis, that they can’t raise the cash to pay back a loan. In other words, they’re on the brink of bankruptcy.”

“You couldn’t resist it, could you! You’ve been dragged into the investigation. So much for the dear old mushrooms.”

“No, you’ve got it all wrong. The story’s very mysterious, but very private. The only problem is that Sante, the boss of the
Scoiattolo
, is worried sick and has asked me to help him out.”

“What’s he got to do with it?”

“Palmiro asked the villagers for what they call ‘nursemaid’ money.”

“What on earth is that?”

“It’s a loan given in the way things used to be done in the old days in the villages. A few pages to jot down the transfer of cash, the interest agreed verbally, a signature and a handshake.”

“And people still do that?”

“You know what it’s like. In these parts, everybody knows everybody else, they trust each other and the Rodolfis are above all possible suspicion.”

“If you were to go about telling people that story, nobody would believe you.”

“It’s a system which has worked for a long time and nothing
has ever happened. Honesty still counts up here,” Soneri said, with a touch of pride.

“Are you sure of that? Things are much the same all over the world, I hear, and we’ve learned the worst vices from each other.”

“This is a complicated story. There are some things I don’t quite get.”

“Gennari’s putting a brave face on it all, but he hasn’t got the whole picture, especially on the financial front.”

“What has he told you?”

“I haven’t had a chance to sit down with him properly, but when I simply mentioned the subject, he was hesitant and gave nothing away. Knowing him as I do, that is not a good sign.”

“So there really is a crisis.”

“Finally he admitted it. He gave me to understand that the outlook is grim, but he hasn’t got to the bottom of it all yet. He says that no-one really understands the accounts, except, perhaps, Paride Rodolfi and those closest to him.”

“Do you think the position can be saved? There’s talk here about some account that could be unfrozen.”

“I don’t know. Talking to Gennari, my sense is that the whole show is going belly up. I’m telling you this based on impressions only. You know how women have a special intuition.”

“It would be a catastrophe for the folk here. They’d be ruined and have no hope of other work.”

“If you want my opinion, that account they’re talking about simply doesn’t exist. It’s a trick to win time, to keep the creditors quiet while they search desperately for funds to paper over the cracks. It’s not the first time the Rodolfis have pulled this stunt, did you know that?”

Soneri mumbled a “no” between his teeth, but once again
he felt himself overwhelmed by a strong emotion – like the one he had felt a short time before in the
Olmo
. The image of the Rodolfi trademark came back into his mind, an image which ever since his boyhood had been a symbol of security and solidity, but which now seemed to represent not only yesterday’s lost world but also today’s threat of destroying people with its collapse.

“Perhaps that’s why the old man was going round collecting money,” Angela said. “I don’t understand even now why he didn’t send his son. After all, it was he who caused the trouble in the first place.”

“He’s scarcely had any contact with the people in the village. He’s seldom seen around the place, and he ponces about posing as a manager. He doesn’t even speak the dialect. He’s more comfortable with English.”

“A typical social climber.”

“Palmiro, on the other hand, remained one of them. He didn’t intimidate them and they trusted him, because he drank wine and his hands were calloused. Do me a favour, try and find out when the company had its last crisis before this one.”

“Anything you say, sir. I’ll need to get my lawyer friend to unbutton.”

“He can do all the unbuttoning he likes, but make sure you remain well buttoned up.”

“Your fingers are not likely to be undoing my buttons any time soon, are they? You haven’t even asked when we’re going to see each other.”

“Mountains make you depressed, you always say.”

“If I’m there too long, but I have no intention of spending all my holidays there.”

“Then come whenever you like. I have a double bed.”

“O.K., Commissario, but don’t start treating me as if I were your assistant, Juvara.”

When he hung up, scents of minestrone were blown towards where he was standing. He glanced at his watch and decided to go back to the
Scoiattolo
. It was dinner time, and the streets were deserted. He walked though the lanes of the old town, but as he went, the sound of footsteps on the gravel in a garden gave him the feeling that, in the shadows of the trees, someone was following him. He spun round in time to see an imposing figure wrapped in a camel-coloured overcoat walking some thirty metres behind him. At first, he paid no heed, but he was quickly convinced that whoever it was had him in their sights. He turned into the piazza, saw the bell tower looming over him and stopped beside the parapet which overlooked the lower valley where the new village slumbered. Its little villas and cabins were laid out in neat lines and right angles as though part of a re-forestation programme. His pursuer stopped too, feigning interest in the landscape which was finally clear of mist. Soneri decided to confront him, but when he drew up close, he discovered that the person following him was a woman. She was wearing a man’s shoes, her hair was cut short, and the rest of her body was covered by the ill-fitting overcoat. She was tall, not particularly pretty but seemingly very sure of herself.

“Are you Commissario Soneri?” she asked.

He nodded, rolling in his fingers the cigar he had just taken from its box. “And who are you?”

“Gualerzi Lorenza,” she said, putting her surname first, as though answering a school roll call. “My father asked me to tell you that he’ll meet you tomorrow at Badignana because he has some things to tell you. He’s sure you’ll know the right place.”

Soneri nodded again. “And who is your father?”

“I took it for granted that everyone knew. In fact in the village they know him only by his nickname.”

The commissario, looking her squarely in the eye, began to suspect the truth. “Almost everyone has a nickname.”