The Puppeteer (19 page)

“Leave me alone, Magagna.”

“He died in 1970. The Argentinians have been slow in sending us any information—very slow. I don’t think that they’re pleased with Italy or the Italians. Perhaps they feel that we’ve let them down in their moment of need.”

Trotti stared at the empty wall in front of him; the cream paint had been smeared by the passage of time and by the movement of people along the hospital corridor. He turned to look at the younger man, but Magagna did not look up from his notes. Magagna said, “His wife died a couple of years later, but the body was repatriated.”

“Leave me, Magagna. Go back to Milan.”

It was then that Magagna took notice of Trotti and of what he was saying. He smiled brightly. “You can’t stay here for the rest of your life.”

“Pioppi needs me.”

“You’ve seen her—she’s asleep.”

“I must stay with her.”

“You’re not doing her any good—nor yourself.” He removed his sunglasses and there was compassion on his face. There was also stubble along his upper lip where he was growing a new mustache. “You’re only hurting yourself, Commissario.”

“What the hell do you want me to do?”

It was still early morning, and beyond the door, in the parking spaces by the trees, doctors were arriving for work. They looked naked without their white laboratory coats.

“Take this.” Magagna handed Trotti a packet of sweets. “It might help you to get a bed in the diabetes ward.”

Trotti shook his head. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I’ve driven down from Milan to see you, Commissario.”

“I phoned America. I left a message saying it was urgent, and still my wife hasn’t phoned.”

“I think,” Magagna said, putting his glasses back on, “that we ought to go and see the girl.”

Trotti’s shoulders were slumped. He sat with his hands hanging between his knees and he stared at his shoes. Further down the corridor, a woman was singing—a cleaning woman, whose voice rose above the clanging of her pails and broom: “Amor, dammi quel fazzolettino.”

“I should be in Monza—but there’s not much point. Ragusa knows that we’ve got all his phones tapped for the simple reason that he’s got friends in Siemens … the telephone company.”

“Siemens?”

“Perhaps we ought to go back to the shop and ask Guerra a few more questions—questions that we should have asked her the first time.”

Trotti looked up.

“You told me that there must be some form of insurance that Maltese took out to protect himself. If he knew anything, he probably told the girl—or entrusted her with evidence.”

Trotti said nothing.

“Unless, of course, she knew he was going to get killed,” Magagna said.

T
ROTTI DID NOT
talk. He sat beside Magagna, his chin on his chest and his shoulders slumped forward. Magagna could not see whether his eyes were closed or whether Trotti was staring out of the window, looking at the fields or the sluggish canal where fishermen held their rods over the polluted water.

Past the Certosa, past Binasco—where Magagna was held up by the blue coach turning into the station. Afterwards, determined to make up for lost time, he sped along the road and before long they were on the outskirts of the city. Suddenly the flat fields became a jungle of new tower blocks, and the morning sky was acrid with fumes. Cars hooted at each other, driven by a magic, manic force.

Milan.

“For God’s sake, stop that whistling.”

Magagna turned, surprised. “I was whistling?”

Trotti did not reply.

At Ventiquattro Maggio, Magagna turned left, almost hit a truck—Reggio Calabria registration and the driver sweating, despite his cotton singlet—and moved through the traffic at speed.

Trotti was gripping the armrest. “Where are we going?”

“To the shop.” He bumped the car across a tramline, took another turn. A woman with a poodle, about to cross the road, gesticulated angrily.

“Women!” Without stopping to catch his breath, Magagna added, “Either she sent him to his death without knowing it—or it was deliberate.”

“Guerra?”

“If—as you say—her brother-in-law knew that you were going to be at Gardesana, it would seem reasonable to assume she told Maltese.” Magagna pulled the car onto the pavement. “The question is, did she know he was going to his death?”

Trotti said nothing. He got out of the car and Magagna soon joined him. Magagna pushed the sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. Guiding Trotti by the arm, he crossed the road.

It was not yet eleven o’clock. Already a hot day. The neon light seemed insignificant.

The bell rang overhead.

“Gentlemen?”

The woman was wearing the same vivid lipstick, but she had changed her jeans. Now she had on a bright pair of canary yellow slacks.

“Pubblica Sicurezza.”

The woman threw her eyes to the ceiling. “We’ve met.”

“Where’s the girl?”

Her eyes watched the two men with ill-concealed hostility.

“Well?” Magagna looked at the shelves, glanced at the display of new and second-hand clothes, the single black and white poster of Totò, the Neapolitan actor, drinking a cup of coffee, his eyes sad, and a burning cigarette between two fingers. Then he looked again at the woman. His face had grown older, more feral. “A few questions that we want to ask her.”

The woman shrugged.

From between the racks of jackets a client emerged. A man in a raincoat. He mumbled “Buongiorno” and left hurriedly, accompanied by the dying tinkle of the overhead bell.

“Strange customers,” Magagna said.

“I didn’t invite you.”

“Where is she?”

“Who?”

“The girl—where is she?”

She looked at Trotti in surprise and raised an eyebrow of plucked hair and paint, “I haven’t seen her.” She gave a sudden, ingratiating smile. Lipstick on her false teeth.

Magagna asked, “Why not?”

“I don’t know—perhaps because she hasn’t been in since you went off with her—perhaps because she’s a lazy bitch. Or perhaps she’s staying out of trouble.” She added, “I am not a relative of hers.”

“Lucky girl.”

Then the woman lost her temper. “Who d’you think you are? I’m a respectable woman and I run a respectable shop. Please leave—your presence here is not good for business.”

“Your presence in Questura will be even more harmful to business, signora.”

Trotti brushed past the woman—she took a step back on her high-heeled sandals—and went to the door at the back of the shop. He turned the handle: it was locked.

“Please open it.”

“Why?” The tone was querulous, with a hint of fear. “I’ve told you, she hasn’t been in. Not since the last time you were here. And anyway, I didn’t want her—I don’t like having flatfeet coming here when I’ve a legitimate business to run. There are criminals, you know, real criminals—why don’t you go and bother them? Leave honest folk to get on with their business. Go and catch criminals and terrorists.”

“Please open the door, signora.”

The woman hesitated, bit her lower lip and as she did so, her jaw swelled with the displaced dentures. She turned and glanced at the front door.

“All you have to do is unlock this door.”

“I haven’t got the key.”

“On Monday, you had it.”

Again the head turned and with her bloodshot eyes, she looked despairingly at the front door. “It’s not me who has the key.”

“Then we’ll have to knock the door down.”

Her face lit up, inspired. “Do you have a warrant?”

Magagna shrugged and turned to Trotti. Trotti said nothing.

She repeated, “Do you have a warrant?”

With his thumb, Trotti gestured towards the closed door. Magagna nodded, but before he could approach it, the woman fell on him.

“No!” she screamed.

He pushed her away. Theatrically she threw her head back; the knees crumpled and she started to fall towards the floor. She released a slight, hissing gasp as her head hit the coarse weave of the jute carpet.

Magagna put his shoulder against the door. Without moving his feet, he swung his body and pushed hard. The lock gave way immediately.

The last time, the room had been almost empty, dry and dusty. Now it was full of parcels—parcels wrapped in brown paper and attached with string.

Magagna produced a penknife and cut at some string; then he ripped at the brown paper.

Magazines—glossy magazines.

“Y
OU CAN
’
T TRUST
women.”

Magagna said, “Why did you marry one?”

“You can’t trust men, either. Magagna, take me home,” Trotti said tensely, “or take me to the station and I’ll catch a train.”

“I think you ought to see the girl.”

“I want to get back to my daughter.”

“Let’s talk to Guerra first.”

Trotti did not reply; he stared at the dingy buildings that followed the via Isonzo. With the sudden arrival of the summer, this part of the city appeared shabby, unprepared for the brightness of the sun. Soot hung in the air.

“I need to get back to Pioppi.”

Magagna said, “Five hundred thousand lire.”

“What?”

“That’s how much the Carabinieri found on Ramoverde.”

“Well?”

“Perhaps he wanted to give it to you, Commissario. Perhaps that’s why Ramoverde went to Gardesana.” Magagna paused for an instant. “Or perhaps the girl gave it to him.”

Trotti looked out of the car window.

“She knew he was going to be killed—and she wanted you to associate him with the robbery at the Banca San Matteo.”

“There’s no connection between the money and the robbery.”

“Other than that’s what the Sardinians were looking for.”

“I don’t understand, Magagna, what makes you think that the Guerra girl wanted Maltese killed. Why, for heaven’s sake? They were living together, weren’t they? It was you that pointed out he pissed down her sink—a sign of intimacy, you’ll agree.”

“Money, Commissario.”

“Explain what you mean.”

Magagna lit a cigarette. “An expensive habit to maintain, heroin. Where could she get the money? She must have known that after the Night of the Tazebao, there was money on Ramoverde’s head.” Magagna gave a thin smile and nudged his glasses. “The Danish magazines? I knew that they’ve been circulating—I didn’t know they were coming out of Senigallia—but I’ve been out of things at Monza. I’ve got you to thank for bringing me back into the city.” He opened the car door—they had parked on the end of viale Lodi, near the traffic lights. “Heaven knows why anybody should want to buy that rubbish.”

“Loneliness.”

“With children, Commissario? That’s sick—for maniacs, not for human beings. For depraved sex maniacs.”

“We’re all maniacs at some time or another. Or d’you think that the perverts who masturbate over those pictures—d’you think they’d be wasting good money—giving away good money to the Mafia—if instead they were able to go home every evening to Ornella Muti?”

“They ought to be castrated.”

Trotti did not reply.

Magagna inhaled on his cigarette and looked disapprovingly at Trotti.

On the other side of the street, a tramp, still wearing the heavy clothes of winter, was rummaging in a garbage can.

“Lonely or not—people like that ought to be castrated.”

They got out of the car and crossed the road.

“Why d’you think she’s at home?”

“Where else can she go, Commissario?”

They went up the stairs, up the flights of flint steps and then walked along the outside balcony that gave on to the grimy courtyard below. The air now smelled of soot and boiled cabbage.

The door was closed and Magagna knocked. He rapped against the wood—a dull hollow sound.

“Doesn’t seem as if she’s there.”

“She’s here, Commissario.”

“How d’you know?”

“I know addicts—eighteen months in Milan has taught me that they don’t move around—just enough to meet their pusher or go to the chemist’s.” He rubbed his chin. “I know she’s there.”

“She could be with friends.”

“Addicts don’t have friends.”

Trotti frowned. “She’s well enough to work—she didn’t look like an addict to me. It hadn’t got to the stage where it was interfering with her life.”

Magagna clicked his tongue. “Looks like my day for knocking doors down.”

“Magagna, take me home.”

The other man held up his hand and gave a brief, placating smile. He threw away the cigarette and Trotti watched it as it swirled down into the courtyard, landing between the lines of washing.

“I don’t want to be party to what you’re intending to do. Not here with people watching us. I’ve no jurisdiction in Milan, Magagna, and knocking down a door without a warrant can get me into trouble.”

“You didn’t mind in the shop.”

Trotti shrugged.

Magagna smiled.

Trotti gestured towards the door. “Are we going to stand around here all day?” He pointed at the three locks that formed a glinting punctuation on the dirty, varnished wood.

Magagna turned and thumped again.

“There’s no one there. Let’s go.” Trotti moved towards the top of the stairs. On the balcony of the building opposite, a woman appeared. Her hands were wet and she was staring at the two men as she took a towel from where it hung on the metal balustrade.

From the other apartments came the sound of life—people eating, radios blaring the midday news. Somewhere, somebody was shouting in a Sicilian dialect.

In the narrow space, Magagna took three steps, turned and charging, his shoulders hunched and his face taut, he hit the edge of the door. The wood scarcely moved.

“I’ll have to kick it down.” His face was red.

“You don’t have a warrant, Magagna—and I’m not staying here—too many people have seen me as it is.”

“Guerra may be dead!”

“And you want to lose your job?” Trotti waved his hand in a gesture of salutation. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

He went downstairs.

L
OST IN THOUGHT
, Trotti was sucking disconsolately on a boiled sweet when Magagna came across the road. He walked fast, opened the driver’s door and slid in behind the wheel.

“She’s dead.”