The Puppeteer (25 page)

“How do you know these things?”

“I’ve lived all my life in this country.” Pergola smiled. “I’ve had ample time and opportunity to learn how blackmail works.”

“Then who, Signor Pergola, in your opinion, murdered Maltese?”

“The actual killer—I don’t know and I doubt if you ever will. But now Novara is dead, too. I read that he was assassinated in Paris.”

“Who was behind the two killings?”

“It could, of course, be Bastia. Maltese and Novara embarrassed him. Worse than that—with all the revelations on the walls of the Banco Milanese.” He gestured. “But once Maltese and Novara had served their purpose—and brought Bastia round to seeing reason—to seeing that he still had to collaborate with Scalfari, neither Scalfari nor Bastia needed them anymore.”

Trotti drank his coffee in two fast gulps; as he drank, his eyes remained on Pergola.

“Some time ago I mentioned to a very old friend—a freemason—that I was disenchanted. Like many people, I had joined the Lodge for professional reasons. I no longer needed the Lodge—and I found the quarrelling and the reactionary politics all rather distasteful.” He paused. “I must assume that my friend was not very discreet.”

“You still haven’t answered my question, Signor Pergola.”

“What question?”

Trotti lowered his cup and placed it on the desk. Then he picked up one of the brioches and ate it; crumbs fell down the front of his jacket.

“You say that you did not know that Ramoverde was a journalist?”

“We didn’t talk about Scalfari and Bastia, if that’s what you mean. That didn’t appear to be what he was interested in.”

“You still haven’t told me what it was that Maltese wanted from you.”

Pergola repressed a sigh of impatience.

“Well?”

“You do know, don’t you, that Belluno was a Venerabile
Maestro?” The banker gave a weary smile. “Maltese wanted to know why the fact that his grandfather had been an important figure in the Lodge of Propaganda Beta was never mentioned during the long trial.”

M
ASERATI SHRUGGED
.

Trotti repeated, “Propaganda Beta.”

“Off-hand, there’s not much I can tell you.”

“What do you know about freemasons?”

Maserati gave a short, irritating laugh and pushed at the sleeves of his white coat. “Wait a minute.” He got up from the stool he was sitting on and walked softly over to the small screen. He began typing; the keyboard chattered with a series of soft, plastic sounds and meaningless words appeared in green on the screen.

“You see?”

Trotti shook his head.

“Over four hundred fifty lodges in Italy. Grande Oriente is the largest. In Rome.”

“And Propaganda Beta?”

Maserati typed “Propaganda Beta” on to the screen. He pressed another key and waited. Then he shook his head. “Nothing.”

Trotti bit his lip. “Not much use, your computer.”

“Learn to ask it the right questions, Commissario.”

Trotti turned to leave but Maserati held up his hand. “Wait, Commissario.”

“What?”

“Ask it the right question and it’ll give you an interesting answer.”

“What?”

“For example, the computer tells me that Uras, the Sardinian, was arrested in 1966 for attempted kidnapping. And that the investigating judge was Giudice Dell’Orto.”

Maserati gave the monitor a tap of proprietorial pride.

“Y
OU KNEW THE
girl in the pizzeria, Commissario?”

The air in the elevator was fetid and Trotti could smell the coffee on Magagna’s breath. He ran a finger along the handle of the engraved sickle. “You’re better without a mustache.”

Magagna put his hand to his upper lip—and then stopped, his hand in mid-air. “Pisanelli’s girl?” He used a rising intonation and Trotti noticed that he had acquired a Milanese lilt to his voice.

Trotti nodded.

Magagna laughed. “Poor old Pisa.”

“Her name is Etta and he wants to marry her.”

“How old is she, for goodness sake? She can’t be much older than seventeen.”

“She’s at the university—specializing in psychiatry.”

Again Magagna laughed, but he closed his mouth as the elevator door opened. They stepped out into the corridor.

Principessa lifted her head.

“Any phone calls, Gino?”

The blind man said, “No.” Then he frowned. “Magagna?”

Magagna grinned. “As sharp-eyed as ever.”

Gino stood up and he moved out from his desk. The two men embraced. “How are you?”

“I mustn’t complain—I’m with Narcotici in Milan. Hard work but interesting.”

“You’ve put on weight.”

“You see everything, Gino.”

The old man tapped the frames of his thick glasses. “You don’t need eyes to see.” He nodded. “At least five kilos. Your wife must be a good cook.”

“Dear old Gino,” Magagna said and laughed. He squeezed the old man’s arm before following Trotti down the corridor. Trotti opened the door and Magagna entered the office, looked around and gave a low whistle. “Hasn’t changed much in eighteen months.”

“You were the last person to tidy it up.” Trotti stepped over a pile of beige dossiers and sat down at his desk. “You shouldn’t have made me drink that wine—it’s given me a headache.”

Magagna lowered himself into the canvas armchair. His eyes went over the desk, the map and the photograph of the president on the wall, the filing cabinets, the cellophane wrappers beside the wastepaper bin. “Just as it always was, Signor Commissario.”

“Why do you want to grow a mustache again?”

“There are times when I miss this place.”

“Nobody made you leave.” Trotti picked up the phone, pressed the plastic button. “Gino, I’ll be wanting to make a few calls.”

“Nobody made me leave—that’s true. But have you tried living on the salary of a brigadiere when you’ve got a wife and child to support? Do you know how much a packet of Muratti costs now?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Then a packet of sweets—do you know how much they cost?” He sighed. “Four years, Commissario—and I was happy here.” He crossed his legs and ran a finger along the short hairs of his growing mustache. “I did some useful work.”

“You wanted to get married.”

“It’s not against the law.”

Trotti looked up. “I never stopped you from getting married, Magagna.”

“But you never allowed me any promotion.”

“Promotion takes time.”

“And four years is a long time.”

“And so you went to Milano.” Trotti placed his hands on the desk. He felt giddy. Perhaps it was because of the wine—synthetic chianti of which he had drunk three glasses. His fingers seemed abnormally long. “That was your decision.”

“We worked well together, didn’t we, Commissario? Your brains and …” Magagna shrugged. “My youthful charm.”

“Perhaps.”

Magagna looked at Trotti; Trotti looked out of the window. The sky was cloudless.

“You know that I would have stayed on.”

Trotti gave no sign of having heard. “What did Dell’Orto say?”

“I told you on the phone. He sent Pisanelli and me on a wild goose chase to find Ramoverde’s mistress—a woman who had worked for him as a secretary. The only trouble is that she’s been dead for the last decade.”

“With me instead of Pisanelli, you’d be getting results.”

“Magagna, you know you’re better off in Milan.” Trotti spoke into the telephone. “Gino?”

Magagna moved forward and between his lips he held an unlit cigarette. His glasses were in his hand.

“Put me through to the Hotel Ambassador.”

“Which hotel?”

“Hotel Ambassador in Milan, Gino.”

Trotti put the handset down and stared through the window. Overhead, the pigeons were cooing. The light started to blink.

“Yes?”

“Hotel Ambassador, Reception. Can I help you?” A woman.

“Pubblica Sicurezza, Commissario Trotti.” He paused. “I should like to speak to Signor Dell’Orto.”

“Kindly wait a moment.”

A series of metallic clicks and someone calling the name Dell’Orto. Muffled laughter.

“Hello?”

A man’s voice. “Signor Dell’Orto is not here.”

“Where is he?”

“Have you tried phoning his home?”

“When did he go out?”

“Go out?”

“Perhaps he’ll be back soon?” Trotti asked.

“Signor Dell’Orto, judge in retirement?” The sound of rustling paper.

“Yes.” Trotti glanced at Magagna who was staring at the telephone.

“Please wait a minute.”

Magagna lit the cigarette.

“Judge Dell’Orto left yesterday morning.”

“He hasn’t been back?”

“He left to go home, Arezzo.”

“Thank you,” Trotti said slowly and he put the receiver down.

He looked at Magagna in silence.

“Somebody has been taking you for a ride, Commissario.”

Trotti said, “Be quiet.” Then he opened the lower drawer of his desk and took out the old leather-bound address book. On the cover, everything was printed in gold-embossed English. There was the logo of the pharmaceutical company. Underneath,
PEARL RIVER, NY
.

Trotti found the number immediately.

“A line, Gino!”

On the other side of the partition, Gino bumped his hand against the wall. Trotti picked up the phone and dialed. The code for Arezzo was long and the lines were busy. Trotti had to compose the number three times before he got through. Then the phone began to ring and Trotti could imagine the sound echoing through the villa.

“Pronto.”

“I should like to speak to Judge Dell’Orto.”

It took Trotti a few seconds to recognize the accent. It was a woman’s voice. From Africa—probably Ethiopia or Somalia. “He’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“He left a couple of weeks ago.”

“Where is the judge?”

“He is not very well. He is depressed. He has to go to Milan.”

“Where in Milan?”

“Pardon?”

“D’you have an address?”

“Yes. It is Villa Felicità, San Polo, Arezzo.”

“An address in Milan,” Trotti almost shouted. “Can you tell me where I can find the judge in Milan?”

“Milan?”

“Yes, yes.” Trotti paused. “Listen, is the signora there?”

“Signora?”

“I would like to speak to Signora Dell’Orto.”

“I am afraid that is not possible. She is no longer here.”

“Where is she?”

“She is dead. She died at Christmas.” The woman paused.

“The judge was very upset.”

Trotti said nothing.

“Hello?”

“Can you tell me where I can contact Signor Dell’Orto in Milan?”

“I am sorry, I do not understand.”

“Did the judge say when he was coming back?”

“Pardon?”

“When will the judge return?”

“Return?” The African voice was anxious. “The house is still dirty. The painters are lazy and they have not yet finished the work.”

“When will the judge return?”

“Perhaps he is with his nephew,” the woman said hopefully.

“With who?”

Her pronunciation was difficult but she spoke slowly. “Signor Giudice said he was going to see his nephew. He teaches in the university, I believe.”

“T
HIS TIME YOU
come with a friend.”

Baldassare gave a slow smile and the lines along his forehead started to crease.

“I suppose he’s going to hold me down while you kick me. Or perhaps he’s going to put electrodes on my testicles.”

“Surprised you’ve got any.”

The smile vanished and Trotti sat down on the chair while Magagna moved to the window. Baldassare let his shoes fall from the desktop; the heels hardly made a noise as they landed on the green linoleum. Then he held out his two hands. “The handcuffs, Commissario.”

Trotti waited.

“Or perhaps you would like to ruin a few more of my books.” He nodded towards the table where the books and the inkstand had been replaced in the same disorder as before.

“Where is your uncle?”

There was surprise in Baldassare’s eyes.

“Your uncle, Signor Professore.”

“I don’t have any uncles.”

“The Giudice Dell’Orto.”

A thin smile. “The uncle of my wife.”

“The person to whom you go crying once the police start asking a few questions.”

He stroked his chin. “I suppose you could call beating me
up, striking me, intimidating my colleague and casting all my books to the floor—I suppose you could call that asking questions. Semantics is not my field. I must refer the problem to my colleagues.”

Magagna said, “Refer it to your lawyer.”

“The parrot talks, I see.”

“Baldassare, let’s be reasonable.”

“Commissario, up until now, it’s you who’s refused to be reasonable.”

“I continue to believe that you’re involved in the death of Maltese. Your cooperation will no doubt help to dispel such beliefs.”

“Ah.” The smile remained, but there was a hint of fear in the dark eyes. “Please tell me how I can be of use.”

“Where is Dell’Orto?”

Baldassare shrugged.

Trotti leaned forward. “Dell’Orto, Professore. Tell me where he is.”

The professor stroked his face. “I suppose this is your way of influencing people and making friends.”

“I’ve no need to make friends with men whose idea of fun is playing with the emotions of impressionable adolescent girls.”

“How is your wonderful daughter, Commissario?”

“Tell me where Dell’Orto is.”

“You must know, Commissario, that there are laws in this country. Laws that even you are bound to respect.”

“Did you know that Dell’Orto was a freemason, Baldassare?”

“I think I must take the advice of the parrot.” He reached towards the cumbersome green telephone. “Perhaps it would be better for us all—and for Dell’Orto—if my lawyer were here.”

“Your lawyer can wait.”

Baldassare shrugged, ran a hand through his unkempt hair and picked up the receiver. Magagna moved away from the window and walked to where the telephone cable joined the wall. He removed the jack from its socket.

“I think, Commissario, that you’re trying to intimidate me. I don’t want to make threats …”

“Good.”

“But I must warn you that despite your position …”