Big Italy (38 page)

“Good coffee?”

“Something unique and for which I’ll always remain grateful. In your country—”

“Medieval country.”

“In your country I’ve found the warmth of the Italian people. Even in this cold, foggy city of Milan—colder and foggier than London could ever be and a hundred times more polluted—there’s a warmth that’s very special. A smile at the baker’s, a welcoming “buondì” in the bar where nobody’s ever seen you before. The gentle hand of the lady beside you in the tram—and that resigned, cynical love of life so common to you all. You Italians are realistic—but affectionate. Can’t you understand why I needed to have a child in your country?”

“Not sleeping in the same bed couldn’t have been particularly conducive to reproduction.”

“You understand fast, commissario—but that was the whole point. As a human being, I was unbearable. I was unpleasant with my colleagues and my pupils. I was unpleasant with everybody. Even with the maid, bless her heart. But for poor Carlo, it was a thousand times worse. He was there all the time and I couldn’t stand him. Neither the sight nor the smell. I knew it was the drug—it’s a synthetic male hormone and I could feel it transforming my body.”

“Why?”

Mary Coddrington gave a girlish giggle. “Why? Because by temporarily changing my sex, by putting my uterus to sleep, the drugs allowed my body to heal. The growths on the uterus wall—the growths that had already provoked two miscarriages—they could now heal. Heal and disappear. Of course, there was a price to pay. I became a monster. I don’t think I’m an aggressive person by nature, but with the drug I became—for the space of several months—a man.” A snort of amusement. “A man or a monster—it’s probably the same thing.”

“That’s why you lied?”

“For the previous ten days, we’d done nothing but quarrel. There were times when I was violent, quite hysterical. I was supposed to tell those Carabinieri that?”

“The truth shouldn’t hurt.”

“In this backward, medieval country? Even Carlo, who knew what I was taking, didn’t really understand. Even Carlo thought I’d genuinely changed, that I didn’t love him anymore. If he’d gone with another woman at that time, I would have forgiven him. I was loathsome.” The Englishwoman paused, looking around the classroom as if seeing it for the first time. “You know what?”

“Tell me, signora.”

“At the time of sweet Carlo’s death, the sight of him slumped in the seat of that Mercedes—it’s a horrible thing to say, but I swear inside me there was a voice telling me it was better that way. A man’s voice, the deep voice of the testosterone coursing through my blood.” She looked at Trotti. “I stopped the drug that day. Not much point anymore. As I recovered my femininity, I realized I’d lost my one hope in life. Carlo, sweet Carlo, for whom I’d been preparing my body—he was dead, murdered by that evil old woman.”

“A
ND
B
ASSI
?”

“What about him?”

“Another lie, signora.”

She gave an amused, girlish laugh. “I lied?”

Magagna had finally arrived, entering the classroom at the same time as the secretary with a pot of tea. He now sat like a dutiful pupil at one of the desks, dipping the slice of ginger cake into the cup of tea and milk.

“The night Bassi was murdered, people came to his apartment and they were looking for something. They turned everything upside down. They were looking for something that could be slid between the sheets of a paper or behind a photograph. Or between the pages of a book.”

The Englishwoman looked at him in silence. She held the saucer in one hand and Trotti had the impression that the hand trembled.

“Something that these people assumed Bassi had in his possession. And they wanted it back. They wanted it back so badly that they had to silence him for good. With a bullet through the head.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Absolutely nothing, signora. Except that you called Bassi after his departure.”

“I called him?”

“You left a message on the answering machine. A message reminding Bassi he had a rendezvous with you.”

There was silence in the room. Silence other than the sound of Magagna placing the soggy cake in his mouth. He shifted his glasses
up on to the top of his head, no doubt to prevent their misting in the steam of the hot tea.

“Well?”

“Well what, commissario?”

“I believe Bassi was not quite the fool everyone took him to be. I believe he suspected Turellini’s murder was the result of professional jealousies.”

“Carlo didn’t talk about that sort of thing.”

“I don’t believe you, signora. Everybody talks. There comes a time when we all have to let off some pressure. And I’m sure even before you ever took your hormone treatment, Turellini had mentioned his problems to you. After all, his problems would be your problems.”

The woman said nothing.

“I believe Bassi realized you knew a lot more than you pretended. I also believe he’d found out about your strange behavior. Bassi had worked for me. He had a lot of failings—he accepted criticism badly and he was unsure of himself. His lack of self-assurance was one of the reasons for his always having a hand up some woman’s skirt. But Bassi never struck me as being a complete fool. Like me, he’s a peasant. But whereas I’m from the hills, he’s from the plain. You know, it’s not because you don’t straighten your tie and because you wear a suit that you’re a city dweller. In some ways Bassi was slow. But he had the peasant’s cunning. And he had enough time to find out about you.”

She said nothing.

“You gave him something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. But it was you who gave it to him and it was because of the document and the knowledge it contained that Bassi was murdered.”

She had begun to shake her head and the brown-blonde hair.

“I suspect it was a copy of the accounts of the Cisalpina Foundation. Perhaps it was that—probably something that Carlo Turellini had left in his safe.”

“Why should I give anything to Bassi?” Her voice was querulous.

“Because Bassi threatened to tell the Carabinieri about how things had been between you and Turellini for the weeks preceding his murder. You really think the maid didn’t talk? You really think a detective like Bassi, with little else to do with his time—you think he didn’t know about that?”

Silence.

“Bassi’s mistake was to privilege his
cherchez la femme
. Perhaps mistake’s not the right word. Whatever. He wasted a lot of time barking up an entire series of wrong trees. But no sooner had he changed the focus of his inquiry than suddenly everything changed. All hell was let loose. The Palazzo di Giustizia warned him off the case. People started making oblique threats and in frustration he went to
Vissuto
. Which was as wise as signing his own death certificate.”

The trembling of the pale hand had ceased but it now occurred to Trotti that she was not the beautiful woman that he had seen before him only a few minutes before. She was frail, a woman fast approaching middle age and aware of her own failures and frailty.

It was her smile that made her appear young and now Mary Coddrington was no longer smiling.

“No, signora, you have nothing to worry about. You didn’t kill Fabrizio Bassi. I’m not accusing you of that. You gave him a document that was in all probability the direct cause of his death. But even without it, he’d’ve gotten himself killed. Sooner or later, Bassi’d’ve got himself killed because he wouldn’t listen to the people warning him off.”

She took a deep breath. “I have a class in an hour. I would like to go to lunch.” With a white hand on the edge of the desk, she slipped into a standing position.

“You didn’t kill anybody. But you lied to me, signora.”

She said nothing. She scrutinized Trotti’s face while almost imperceptibly she shook her head. It was as if she were searching for something that she could not find. She looked weary. Then she turned away and faced the blackboard.

Trotti spoke to her back. “If you’d told me the truth, perhaps my young colleague wouldn’t have been driven off the road by the same people who murdered Fabrizio Bassi. Perhaps my young colleague wouldn’t now be lying in a hospital bed in a deep coma, with only a cardiograph to prove that he’s still in this world.”

Somebody had written the word
London
on the blackboard.

She was staring at the word, no doubt wishing that she was there. Wishing that she was anywhere except in Milan on a cold winter’s morning.

S
HE CAME TO
the door of the apartment. Her nervous glance went from Trotti to Magagna. She was wearing the same necklace as before over the top of a black cardigan.

“Polizia di Stato,” Magagna announced, smiling while briefly showing his identification.

She nodded unhappily. She took a step backwards. “You’d better come in.”

Trotti and Magagna followed her into the large living room.

“Please be seated.” Signora Lucchi added, “I do hope you’re not going to be long. I’m expecting some friends over.”

Trotti glanced briefly at the modern paintings in their old-fashioned frames.

Signora Lucchi made a movement of her hand to her necklace. “What do you want this time? Commissario Trotti, isn’t it? I thought you’d seen my lawyer.”

“Avvocato Regni offered me employment with you.” Trotti smiled.

“So he informed me.” A corroborating nod of the small, birdlike head. The woman pulled at a long sash and immediately the Filipino majordomo appeared. “Coffee for these gentlemen please, Pablo,” she said, without turning to look at the small man. “You can bring me a glass of Fiuggi mineral water.”

The butler left the room.

“Then you’ve decided to help us identify my ex-husband’s murderer?”

“Why did you engage Signor Bassi, signora?” Trotti asked.

There was a tightening of the lines around her mouth. “You think Signor Bassi’s unfortunate death is in some way connected with the inquiries he’d been carrying out into my ex-husband’s death?”

“Why did you engage him?”

“Avvocato Regni knew the man. Regni seemed to think he was efficient.”

“Very strange, signora. Most people seem to think Bassi was a fool. A womanizer and a fool, best left to divorce work. Far too slow for an important murder inquiry. You yourself told me he was incompetent. Like something in one of those awful American series on
ReteQuattro.
”

She placed one hand on the knee of her pleated skirt. “I see you are entrusted with a murder inquiry.”

Trotti brushed away the sarcasm with a gesture of his hand. “Bassi worked for me. I don’t like seeing colleagues being murdered.”

“I believe he was thrown out of the Polizia di Stato long before he was killed.”

“Yet you employed him.” Trotti gestured with outspread fingers. “Instead of going to one of the agencies here in Milan, you chose a provincial private detective with an inglorious track record.”

“You must consult Avvocato Regni. He makes all these decisions.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded.

“Regni came to my office a few days ago, signora. He was hoping I could help you in a private capacity. Avvocato Regni assured me it was you who wanted to employ me.”

“Really?”

“You employed Bassi because you had no choice. It was your sister-in-law, Carlo Turellini’s sister, who insisted on a parallel inquiry. The police seemed to be getting nowhere and she wanted to know who killed her brother.”

“Understandably.”

“Unfortunately for her, she decided to share the expense of a private detective with you. And you chose Bassi.”

“Why, commissario?”

“You knew about Bassi. Indirectly, most probably, through your husband who was for a long time a friend of Dr. Quarenghi’s. You knew about Bassi’s affair with the Viscontini woman. Mayor
Viscontini and Quarenghi are brothers-in-law. Employing Bassi let you off the hook.”

A quizzical frown. “I don’t think I understand.”

“You didn’t want any inquiry. Why should you? But your sister-in-law insisted and since you were paying your share, you chose somebody incompetent. Incompetent whom you hoped to buy off.”

“Incompetent in what way?”

“Incompetent in that he never asked himself the first question any self-respecting private detective should always ask.”

Her head moved sideways. “Which question?”

“Bassi never wondered why you employed him. He never questioned your motives. Or if indeed he did, he allowed himself to be influenced by the easy money. Good, easy money.”

“Are you accusing me of wanting to influence Signor Bassi’s inquiry? At a time when I was paying his fees?” She gave a chirping laugh. “Is that what you’re saying?”

Trotti looked at her.

“Well?”

“Quite simply I’m saying you murdered Carlo Turellini, Signora Lucchi. You murdered your ex-husband.”

“An interesting theory.”

“Since his sister insisted upon employing a private detective—you had no call to be very frightened by the Carabinieri’s inquiry—you helped her choose the man least likely ever to get to the truth. Of course, you were quite right.”

“Right?” she echoed.

“By the time Bassi was murdered, a bullet through his head, it’d never occurred to him Dr. Turellini had been murdered by his ex-wife. By the very woman who was paying Bassi’s fees.” Trotti glanced at Magagna. “Bassi died as ignorant as he’d lived.”

Signora Lucchi laughed and the butler entered with two cups of coffee, a bottle of mineral water and a plate of biscuits on a silver tray.

T
HE BUTLER BOWED
and left but before he closed the door, the cat entered the room, walking prudently, one paw in front of the other, its surly glance appraising Signora Lucchi’s visitors.

“Bassi spent valuable time looking for a slighted lover. It never occurred to him the slighted lover was the woman employing him.”

“Me?” Signora Lucchi hid a slight shudder. “Mere hypothesis, commissario.”

“After a year of wasting good money on an inquiry you obviously never wanted, you needed to be rid of Bassi. You wanted to put the whole thing behind you. Your sister-in-law couldn’t complain you hadn’t done your best. At last you could decently dismiss Bassi. Which is precisely why the man started worrying.”