The Revenge of Moriarty (32 page)

He saw a young man who was to arrange for a café proprietor to be badly beaten.

‘Not until after
Pasqua,'
counselled Sanzionare. ‘And I do not want him dead, you understand?'

‘Si, Padre mio.'
He was a handsome lad with strong muscles and shoulders like a statue. ‘There will be no killing.'

Sanzionare smiled and waved him away. He was pleased, as he did not like robbing people of their lives – only when it was unavoidable. For a moment he thought of the confession he would have to make tomorrow. He would confess to theft which would cover a multitude of sins, from robbery to murder – for murder was in reality the theft of life: a mortal sin which would be washed away by the grace of God invested in his priestly servant, and the sincere act of contrition which Sanzionare would make with his penance.

Benno came into the high airy room with a small tray containing a silver coffee pot and cups.

‘Many more?' Sanzionare asked wearily.

‘Two only.
Carabinieri
. Capitano Regalizzo from the Ludovisis and Capitano Meldozzi.'

Sanzionare sighed. ‘We know what Regalizzo requires – a little more olive oil, eh?' He rubbed his right thumb in a circular motion across his fingers. ‘But the other, do we know him?'

Benno shook his head.

‘Let me see Regalizzo. Tell Meldozzi we shall not keep him long.'

Regalizzo was a dandy and his uniform probably cost him the best part of a whole month's salary. He was polite, solicitous concerning Signorina Asconta, and talked of how depressing it was with the prisoners from the Ethiopian campaign now on the streets; and how terrible the prices were. He was sorry, but there were two houses – ‘You know the ones, I think' – which were causing him much trouble. He thought that he might have to close them down.

Sanzionare nodded, opened his desk drawer and paid over the money, as they both knew he would even before the conversation began. The police officer left, all smiles, bows and good wishes.

Sanzionare lit a cigar and sat back to await the other policeman. He was in plain clothes and they had not met before.

‘You are a friend of Capitano Regalizzo perhaps?' asked Sanzionare once they were seated.

‘I know him,' said Arnaldo Meldozzi. ‘In fact, I know him quite well, but I am not here to talk about his problems, but yours, Signore.'

Sanzionare shrugged, lifting his right hand, palm upwards, in a gesture of giving. ‘I did not know I had problems.'

‘They are not serious. At least they can be easily, shall we say, rendered harmless.'

‘Tell me about my problems.'

‘The police in London have been asking about you.'

It was a sudden unnerving blow which Sanzionare felt go through him like a physical pain. ‘In London?'

‘Yes. I have had this letter. Are you familiar with this Inspector Crow?' He passed the document across the desk.

Sanzionare devoured it, his eyes racing over the page.

‘What do you make of this, Capitano?' he asked, rubbing the back of one hand with the other. His palms were wet.

‘I make nothing of anything, Signore. I merely feel that you should know when the police forces of other countries are showing an interest in such a renowned citizen as yourself.'

‘Tell me,' he paused, inspecting his manicured nails as if looking for some defect. ‘Tell me, have you replied to this extraordinary request?'

The policeman smiled. He was young and perhaps, Sanzionare reasoned, ambitious. ‘I have acknowledged its receipt. No more.'

‘And what do you propose to do? He asks for news of any unusual visitors or incidents concerning myself.'

‘I know of nothing to report.' The eyes slid up, briefly holding Sanzionare's then away again. ‘I know of nothing to report. As yet.'

‘Capitano,' he began, as though broaching a difficult subject. ‘What do you require most in life at this moment?'

Capitano Meldozzi nodded. ‘I was hoping that you might ask me that. I have a wife and three children,
Eccellenza
. It is a calamity that befalls most men, I know. My wages are not good. I was wondering, perhaps, if you could put me in the way of some extra form of employment.'

‘It can be arranged,' Sanzionare said wearily, thinking to himself that here was another mouth to feed, or another five mouths to feed and, perhaps, one of the girls giving up her time for nothing once a week. It was ever thus for a peaceful life.

The news concerned him, though. London police asking about him was not a good sign, particularly as he was about to travel to England. Was it wise? He pondered long. Schleifstein and Grisombre would come to him if he called. It would be better not to mention the incident to Adela. He would have to go.

Through Holy Saturday the city seemed to be waiting, poised on the brink of the great Christian festival, bursting with the desire to ring out its bells and join in the cry of ‘Christus Surrexit. Hallelluja'. The day was clear and warm, pleasant, without the terrible overpowering heat which would eventually descend. Luigi Sanzionare prepared for his yearly confession, and then left the house. He had one or two small matters to attend to before making his way to Il Gesù. The tickets to be bought for the journey. A few small purchases to make.

He first saw her at the Spanish Steps around mid-morning. Tall, dark, enchanting in a lemon-coloured gown and broad hat, a sunshade furled and carried with elegance. As he approached, he could almost swear that she stopped talking to her companion and turned her dark eyes upon him. She had that same smouldering quality which Adela had possessed when he had first set eyes on her – a look, not quite of promise, but of possibility. It was a very special sensation that came with the look, and it sent a cold trickle down the back of Sanzionare's neck. The girl, who could not have been much more than twenty-five years old, was with a man almost twice her age, maybe more – in his late fifties or early sixties, Sanzionare considered – a tall, stooping person with short dark hair, gold pince-nez and elaborate manners, most solicitous towards the girl: even fatherly. In some ways the man reminded Sanzionare of the English criminal, Moriarty, but the resemblance was only superficial.

He saw them again at lunchtime. Sitting only a few tables away from him in the trattoria he liked to use off the Cavour, near the Castel San Angelo. She appeared diffident towards the man with her, talking little and picking at her food. Sanzionare was now convinced that her companion was a relative rather than a lover. On several occasions, when his eyes were drawn to her, he found the girl was already looking across the room at him. Each time, she lowered her eyes in a demure manner, and each time the same cold sweat broke out on Sanzionare's neck. As the meal progressed, so the cold turned to a glow, and then heat – a flush spreading downwards.

He looked up again, and the girl was gazing back with what might have been adoration in her eyes. He smiled, inclining his head slightly. For a moment she appeared confused, then she too smiled, lips parted and the look even more obvious than before. It was the sort of visual flattery which Sanzionare enjoyed, a hint that he still had the magnetic power from which his great confidence flowed.

The girl's companion said something, leaning forward over the table, and she answered, fussing with her napkin and smiling in a set fashion, like a bad painting. Shortly afterwards they left the restaurant, but, at the door, the girl paused and threw a quick backward glance in Sanzionare's direction.

An hour later, Luigi Sanzionare, full of piety, entered the sumptuous Baroque church of Il Gesù – mother church of the Society of Jesus – to keep his yearly tryst with God's pardon.

It was cool inside, a hint of smoke from many flickering candles, grouped around nests of prickets set before statues and altars, of which there were many. Whispers, coughs, shuffles and footsteps echoed around the walls, as though intruding on the pent-up prayers of the faithful, stored in the pillars and stones for over three centuries.

Sanzionare breathed in, the scent of lingering incense and drifting smoke pungent in his nostrils – the odour of sanctity. Crossing himself with holy water from the stoop by the door, he genuflected towards the High Altar and joined the kneeling group of penitents near the confessional box on the right hand side of the nave.

Sanzionare was not to know that Father Marc Negratti
SJ
, who should have been hearing confessions from this box, and whose name was in fact displayed outside, had met with an unfortunate minor accident. His superiors did not even know of it. Nor did they know the priest who sat quietly dispensing counsel and absolution at this station.

The priest was soft-voiced and thorough. One could not have known that he was waiting to hear one voice and one only from the penitent's side of the fine wire grille. He listened to the repetitious lists of sins with a slight smile playing around the corners of his mouth, though when any sin of great enormity came whispering into his ear, the priest's head moved very slightly from side to side.

On his lap, where nobody could see, the priest held a pack of playing cards. Without looking down he was silently performing a series of sleights and card changes with great expertise.

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.' Sanzionare pressed his lips close to the grille.

Moriarty smiled inwardly, this was the supreme irony which he had plotted. Moriarty, the most advanced criminal mind in Europe, listening to the devout confession of Italy's most notorious villain. More, giving him absolution and sowing the seeds of the man's decline so that he could raise him again.

Sanzionare had neglected God, failed to pray regularly, lost his temper, used blasphemous and obscene language, cheated, stolen, committed fornication and coveted his neighbour's goods, not to mention his neighbour's wife, after whom he had lusted.

When the list was finished and the penitent had made an act of contrition and begged for forgiveness, Moriarty began to speak quietly.

‘You realize, my son, that your greatest sin is that of neglecting God?'

‘Yes, Father.'

‘But I need to know more of your venial sins.'

Sanzionare frowned. Jesuits sometimes probed. This was not his usual priest.

‘You say that you have stolen. What have you stolen?'

‘Other people's possessions, Father.'

‘In particular?'

‘Money, and things.'

‘Yes. And fornication. How many times have you committed fornication since last Easter?'

This was impossible. ‘I cannot say, Father.'

‘Two or three times? Or many times?'

‘Many times, Father.'

‘The flesh is weak then. You are not married?'

‘No, Father.'

‘You do not indulge in unnatural practices?'

‘No, Father,' almost shocked.

‘The fornication must stop, my son. You should be married. With the strength of the Sacrament of marriage around you, the flesh would be easier to control. Marriage is the answer. You must think seriously about this, for continued fornication will only take you into the flames of eternal damnation. You understand?'

‘Yes, Father.'

He was worried. This priest was taking him nearer to the brink. Marriage? He could never marry Adela. If he married her she would never leave him in peace. She might even intrude into business matters. Eternal damnation though, that was a price indeed.

‘Very well. Is there anything else you have to tell me?'

It was not such a good confession. He had misled the priest over the question of stealing. Would that also negate the absolution? No. He had confessed. He knew what he meant and so would God and the Holy Virgin.

‘For your penance you will say three Paters and three Aves.' Moriarty raised his hand in blessing. ‘Ego te absolvo in nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.' It was the ultimate blasphemy of the Professor's career.

Outside, in the fresh spring sunshine, Sanzionare felt in need of a drink. No, he must take care. He must not put himself in the way of sin before making his communion in the morning. He would walk for a while. Perhaps go to the Borghese Gardens. They had looked beautiful that morning. It would be pleasant there. Benno was behind him, watching, eyes peeled.

Then he saw her again. Just a fleeting glimpse of the lemon-coloured dress and the hat. It is like some kind of paperchase, he thought.

Much troubled by the priest and his advice, Sanzionare walked, turning matters over in his mind. True, he supposed that it was natural for a man like himself to be married, but his appetites had always been so varied. He was as good as married anyway. Adela was always behaving like a wife. She nagged as much as a wife. The girl in the lemon dress. Now what a wife she would make. What a wife indeed. Perhaps, once Easter was over and he was on his way to some new venture in London he would be able to think properly. That was it, he needed to be away from the cloying atmosphere of Rome.

Towards six o'clock, Sanzionare turned into the Via Veneto. A small drink before going back to the house for the evening. Just one to lay the dryness in his throat.

She was sitting at a pavement table at one of the larger cafés, with her male companion, watching the passing parade and taking sips from a tall glass. She saw him at almost the same moment as he caught sight of her. Sanzionare beat back the instincts which flooded into his body and mind, but he could not control the urge to make some sort of advance. The café was crowded, white-aproned waiters almost running between the tables to keep pace with orders, swinging their loaded trays of coffee and drinks high above their heads, performing feats of balancing which would not have been out of place in the circus.

On the pavement people thronged in an almost ritual walking: women, young and old, arm in arm, with each other or their husbands, couples dourly chaperoned, pilgrims from other parts of Europe and as far away as America, young boys eyeing pairs of girls: a happy, self-conscious bustle, full of chatter and colour.