A Dark Song of Blood (12 page)

“Wouldn't your boyfriend – that is, wouldn't he take care of things?”

“Well, aren't you nice. No, it's not likely he would.”

“Oh, right. I forgot, you said he has a wife.”

Francesca merrily tossed her head back. “And you a policeman! Do you believe everything they tell you?” In front of the
stationer's, she got down quickly. Before slamming the car door, she said, “I may not come back tonight,” she said. “Just tell the Maiulis I'm staying at a girlfriend's house.”

At noon, Guidi – getting lost only once – drove to German Army headquarters at the Hotel Flora, with the intent of discussing the unexpected appearance of Merlo's glasses. A cool-faced young woman in uniform informed him that Major Bora was out, and not expected back soon. Guidi thought better than to say he'd seen Bora's Mercedes parked below.

“Would you take a message for the major?” he asked.

“Yes, certainly.”

“Simply write this –
Must find out who got there before us.
”

The young woman gave him a curious look, but jotted down the words. Behind her, Bora's door was open onto a full view of his desk: papers stacked, maps. Something was missing from the array of objects, though Guidi could not say what.

All along Via Veneto, armored cars and nervous, gun-toting patrols discouraged him from staying around until Bora showed up. But had Guidi waited ten minutes more, he'd have seen Bora leave for the
Questura Centrale
, bound to deliver a withering reprimand to Pietro Caruso of the
Polizia Repubblicana
on behalf of German Army Command South.

That evening, the first news the Maiulis related was the radio item of a Canadian airplane that had crashed in the periphery. The second was that Francesca had not shown up. Guidi reassured them about her, and while dinner was being prepared, went to his room to scribble the latest in his notebook. The notes were actually questions. Had Caruso just received Merlo's glasses? If his men had gained early access to Magda's apartment, why had the key not been made available to him? Had the Germans taken it back? What did Merlo's glasses actually prove, other than he'd visited Magda at one time or another?

Bora's help, now that it was needed, couldn't be counted on.
Sure, he was “away from work”. I bet he was in the back room
with his wife. And he got the secretary up front covering for him.
In his jaundiced state of mind, Guidi was more than a little envious of the German, his handsome wife, and to what use “the nights with her” were undoubtedly being put. He compared that to Francesca's lack of interest in him – as if she ought to be interested in him.
But then – she says she has a lover. Does she? Is he the father? Maybe she has no lover at all.
At the moribund glare of the bed lamp, Guidi realized he'd been scribbling Francesca's name all over the page of his notebook. And he recalled, with sudden clarity, that what was missing from Bora's desk was the photograph of his wife.

On his way out of the office, General Westphal said, “
I
'm not telling you anything, Bora. I never waste time advising grown men who tell me they know what they're doing. It's the field marshal who says you're a fool.” He sat with arms crossed, nodding toward a short message on his desk. “Does it read, ‘Tell Martin he's a fool', or not? It's fine with me if you get your head blown off at Anzio. It will look damn good on the second-last page of the Leipzig paper that my aide was killed at the front.”

Bora kept silent, because he did not wish to sound contentious and decrease the likelihood of a transfer.

Westphal suspected it. “You know, most men smash furniture and get drunk when this sort of thing happens to them. You shaved and came back to work. It's no good. When it comes out it's going to be much worse than smashing furniture.”

By now Bora had such control over himself, his own image in the mirror would not betray his thoughts. “I assure the general that nothing will
come out.
And the general is in error if he thinks I want to leave Rome because my wife's here. Her presence is not why I wish to resign my position now. However, had the general given me permission, I would have left last Saturday.”

“I knew better, didn't I.”

“Except that I still wish to be ordered out.”

Westphal gave him a critical look from over his arched nose. “Don't bother the field marshal with your wishes. He's in a foul mood after this morning's mess at Castel Gandolfo, though it works for us. Five hundred dead refugees in the Propaganda Fide villa, and no Germans around to blame for Allied bombs! I'm off for the night, and expect you to have forgotten about reassignment by tomorrow. If you wait long enough, I guarantee that Anzio will come to you.”

Everyone else in the office, even Bora's secretary, had left by the time Dollmann strolled in with an invitation and placed it on the desk.

“An informal get-together at my place, Major, and I dearly hope you'll come. Am I to understand you are, so to speak, back on the market?” When testily Bora said nothing, Dollmann drove the point home. “I just had occasion to escort your charming wife to the train station. Oh, don't worry. She's been taken care of these past days. I even took her dancing a couple of times. Come, come, Major. Before you get hot under the collar, think about it. Better myself than someone else. You can trust
me.
”

“If it's all the same, I'd rather not discuss my wife.”

“Very well.” Dollmann smiled vapidly. “Whenever you feel like it, you know you can. Good Lord, I'm not going to tell you I sympathize. I think you're better off single in Rome.” His face, without warning, hardened into an unkind sneer. “I noticed your car running in idle outside and your driver waiting. You'd be a fool to give in and go to see her off now.”

The nib of Bora's pen bent against the paper, bleeding ink all around. “I wish you'd mind your business, Colonel.”

“You know I won't. Saturday of next week at 1900 hours sharp, undress uniform.” Dollmann flicked his glove in a salute and left the office.

Bora did not look up from his work again until ten at night, when whatever distraction he'd hoped to get from his bureaucratic duties gave way to blank weariness. Disastrously, all that
stayed when everything else was stripped off in clean layers, was the thought of his wife.

By dinner time, Francesca was back. At the table, Professor Maiuli informed everyone that he would soon be giving private lessons. “The name is Rau, Antonio Rau. He's a boy who wishes to hone his Latin skills, Inspector. Only this morning I was thinking how nice it'd be to teach again, in the comfort of my own house, and this worthy woman,” he said, pointing at his crooked little wife, “comes into the room and says, ‘May the angel fly by and say amen.' Well, what do you think? By noon I had a student. Just like that. I tell you, if the Americans had this woman as a mascot, they'd be here already.”

Guidi smiled. “Well, take comfort in the fact that the Germans don't have her either.”

At the other end of the table, Francesca laughed. Her large, hungry mouth was so attractive to him that for a moment Guidi forgot everything else about her, as though that red, laughing receptacle were meant as a message of friendliness toward him.

“I'll tell you something else,” Maiuli went on. “My wife was sitting by the radio, wishing for all these bombings and attempts to end, and the news came this evening that they found a bomb at the Caffè Castellino in Piazza Venezia, and defused it in time. It was supposed to go off at ten o'clock, when German officers frequent it. Knowing their penchant for reprisals, it was a blessing that nothing happened. And all this remarkable hunchback had to do was wish for it.”

Francesca was still smiling. But, quickly as a cloud modifies the light of day, the intensity of her smile was obfuscated. Guidi noticed the change, without passing judgment. He was famished, and the soup steaming in his bowl received most of his attention. Only when Francesca excused herself did he wonder whether Maiuli's words had anything to do with her behavior. Was she thinking that she and Guidi had been at Piazza Venezia earlier today, and could have been caught in
the blast? Was she afraid? After dinner Guidi stayed up to read, in case she should show up again. But Francesca was in bed for good, and he went to his own room eventually.

Hours later, a knock on the door roused Maiuli long after he had gotten his dentures off and pajamas on. There was no electricity, and at the weak twilight of a candle he stumbled down the corridor to the threshold, where the sight of the German uniform made his scanty hair rise. Although he tried to dominate himself, the flame swayed so that medals and silver cord ran glinting streaks before him.

“Inspector Guidi, please,” Bora said.

The extent of Guidi's impatience showed in that he came out of his room buttoning his trousers. “Major Bora, really —”

“Get dressed, Guidi.”

“I'm sure that whatever it is, it can wait until the morning.”

“Get dressed.”

The half-light did not allow for reading of expressions. Guidi could only see that Bora stood with his usual wary stiffness. “Does it have to do with Magda Reiner?”

“Yes, of course. What else? I'm not in the habit of getting people out of bed to chat with them.”

“All right. But I must ask you to wait outside. You scared the wits out of these poor people.” Walking back to his room, Guidi heard the Maiulis' stifled talk behind the thin wall, and caught a glimpse of Francesca's contemptuous white face through a crack in her door. He threw his clothes on and angrily grabbed Merlo's glasses, carelessly shoving them into his new coat's pocket.

At the Hotel d'Italia, the lobby was deserted except for two German officers dozing over their drinks. Guidi, who hardly drank at all, downed two cognacs at the bar before feeling sociable enough to converse about the latest evidence.

“This is what
I
found out, Major, and I hope you have something important to add to it.” It galled him that Bora should seek company tonight, when he'd just spent a week with his
wife and could very well sit cat-faced and calm without touching the liquor in front of him.

“To be honest, I didn't realize you had left a message for me until this evening.” Bora fueled his vexation. “My secretary gave it to me, but I paid no attention.”

“Well, you had other things to do.”

With his thumb, slowly, Bora turned the gold band he wore on the ring finger of his right hand, a small steady gesture that seemed habitual and did not alert Guidi. He said, “I received a packet from Magda's parents, and spoke to them by phone earlier today. I think you should hear what transpired. But first,” Bora took a note out of the cuff of his army tunic, “here is what I scribbled in response to your message.”

Guidi read the slip of paper. “What do you mean,
Not once, but twice was the room searched and cleaned up before we arrived
? How do you know?”

“A copy of the key was made for the head of police on 13 January. The German Security Service had gotten inside on the night of Magda Reiner's death.”

Emboldened by the drinks, Guidi had no desire to agree. “Leaving a pair of eyeglasses behind is not what I'd call ‘cleaning up'. What are you implying, Major?”

“I'm not implying anything. You're the investigator. I'm just a soldier who comes along for the ride.”

Bora's arrogance came through too obliquely for Guidi to respond. He placed the oblong leather case on the counter, saying, “You read this time. See if it is more likely for you or me to track down Merlo's optician.”

Bora glanced at the name embossed on the case. “Sciaba,” he read under his breath, and then, again, “Sciaba,” he said. “Great. Of all the opticians in Rome, he had to use a Jewish one.”

“Well, Major, Rome
is
yours. The man's shop is locked up, and there's no one at his home. No information as to where he is, or went.”

Bora copied down the optician's name. “I'll try, but I make no promises.”

“Did the Reiners tell you anything new?”

“They unwittingly confirmed the image most people seem to have of their daughter – ambitious, somewhat light-headed, frivolous without being mercenary. But as for her being unlikely to brood over unhappy thoughts – that's another story. In the packet they sent me there was a newspaper clipping. Here, you can see it's a notice of army casualties. Magda had apparently taken up with this fellow, who went missing in action on the Greek Front last summer and is presumed dead. Her mother glosses over it, but I gather that at the time Magda thought about, if not attempted, suicide.” Musingly Bora smoothed the article with his fingers. “Her work record shows a three-week medical leave shortly after the fellow's disappearance, no details given. If she had any suicidal thoughts, surely she kept them under wraps, or else she'd have lost security clearance.”

Suddenly free of drowsiness, Guidi's mind was going a thousand miles an hour. “What else was in the packet?”

“Letters and photographs. They're in my office safe.”

“Damn. I was hoping – but why in the safe?”