Converging Parallels (36 page)

“Renzo is my husband,” she said. Her eyes were still angry.

“And Angellini?”

“Stefano?” Her face softened.

“I saw the photograph at his place. You and him and someone else.”

She nodded. “Sandro—my brother. They used to be friends.”

“Angellini helped you?”

“Stefano will always help me.”

“And so he helped you take Anna from the gardens?”

“He knew nothing about that.” She shook her head. “That was my idea—at least, to talk to Ermagni. When Renzo told me about the taxi and how he had panicked, I knew it was Ermagni. I knew he worked at nights. It had to be him and I had to see him. But then in the gardens, when I caught sight of him—it was
difficult. I didn’t dare. Not after what had happened between us. I wanted to reason with him, ask him to help me—as a friend—but he is so unpredictable and I realized that he might want to get his revenge.” More softly, she added, “I had slapped him in the face, I had told him he was an ignorant peasant. Renzo said that I should talk to him away from school.”

She dropped her cigarette onto the floor and stubbed it out with the heel of her moccasin. “Renzo and I went to the gardens in via Darsena. Ermagni was there. He was sitting on a bench, staring at his daughter. He had a strange look in his eye or perhaps I was imagining things—and then there was the sound of a crash in Corso Garibaldi and he immediately got up and came out of the gardens. He went right past me without even noticing me.”

“Witnesses in the gardens said that Anna went with a man.”

“Renzo was with me. Anna had seen him a couple of times. It was he who called her—she had begun to follow her father and then she saw us. She recognized Renzo and then me.” She shook her head. “It was a stupid thing to do. I can see that now; but I let myself be persuaded by Renzo—and his ideas are always wrong. The typical Italian male who thinks he is Vittorio Gassman and Charles Bronson and Alain Delon all rolled into one; and who needs a woman to help him out when he’s messed everything up. He told me to get into the car with Anna.”

“The red Citroën?”

“Our car—I told you that Stefano had nothing to do with our taking Anna from the gardens.”

“Kidnapping.”

“She came of her own accord. And we didn’t intend to do that, not really. But for the time being, it seemed to be a good way of bringing pressure on Ermagni without having to approach him. Naturally we thought he would understand the reason for her disappearance—he had been the eyewitness to a road accident. The only eyewitness. So we took Anna into the hills.”

“Anna is a relative of yours. Your father told me—Rossi is a distant cousin. You could have approached Rossi—he would have helped you.”

“Perhaps. But it didn’t occur to me. When we went to the gardens, we had no intention of taking Anna. It was done on the spur of the moment. And Ermagni is strange. Renzo said it was better to take Anna with us. Ermagni would know why—but he wouldn’t know who. There was no reason for him to suspect Renzo or me.”

“No reason at all—as he knew nothing about the death of the whore.”

She shrugged. “We didn’t know that.”

“Why did you feed Anna drugs?”

“Anna wanted to come with us. Anna and I—we’ve always got on well.” She tapped the hard wood of a desk. “She sits here at the front. She’s a nice child, serious, kind and helpful. I like her and she likes me. I think she was glad to get away. I don’t think life can have been very easy for her since her mother died. She’s afraid of her father—but I don’t think she’s really fond of her grandparents very much either. They use her, you know. As a weapon against Ermagni.”

“Then why did you drug her?”

“That was at the end—just before we put her back on the bus. It had to look like a kidnapping. A few sleeping pills—that’s all.”

“That’s when you realized you’d made a mistake?” Trotti took a packet of sweets from his pocket and, looking down, unwrapped the stiff cellophane.

“Mistake?”

“That it wasn’t Ermagni who was driving the taxi. It was Pistone who was standing in for Ermagni.”

She shrugged. “We would’ve sent Anna back anyway.” She pushed her hands deeper into her pockets; she was wearing trousers made of black corduroy. “We thought that Ermagni would understand immediately why Anna had disappeared. We didn’t think that he would go to the police.”

“And the article in the
Provincia
? You expected the police to stand by, doing nothing?”

“It was Stefano who suggested that.”

“So he was helping you?”

She waited before looking up at Trotti. “He loves me.”

“And it was his idea to kidnap Anna?” There was a hint of anger in Trotti’s voice. He pushed himself away from the wall.

“No.” She shook her head. “No.” She took a hand from her pocket and tapped at her chest—the dark rings of her nipples just discernible beneath the white blouse. “I phoned him. When we reached my father-in-law’s villa at Tarzi. I phoned Stefano because I needed his help. He laughed when I told him about Anna. He thought it was funny—he said something about Rossi—I don’t think Stefano likes him very much. He told me about the gambling at San Siro. It would look like a kidnapping, Stefano said, a professional job. Rossi would think it was for his money; he’s rich, he owns several villas and a hotel on Lake Maggiore. But Ermagni would understand the real reason.”

“Angellini wanted to get onto the front page of the
Provincia
.”

“He wanted to help me. He’s always helped me. You don’t understand, Commissario. For me Stefano would do anything.”

“The phone call.” Trotti nodded. “The phone call that he got you to make—he made sure that it came in time for printing.”

“So what?” She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

Trotti was suddenly angry. “It matters to me, Signora Perbene. It matters to me.” With a rare gesture of emotion, he tapped at his chest with the side of his hand. “Ermagni is my friend—that may not interest you, but to me it is important. Ermagni is my friend and Anna is my goddaughter. I have a responsibility to both. And your friend Stefano Angellini has deliberately misled me. He has lied to me and he has caused unnecessary suffering. Simply so that he can see his name on the front page of the local newspaper.”

She had taken a step backwards. “He was helping us—helping me.” Beside her, there was a small chair; she lowered herself on to the polished wood. She looked down at her hands and at the fingers stained with nicotine. “He’d always help me. He always has. He …” She hesitated, continuing to stare at her hands; then she turned round, raising her head to look at Trotti. “Stefano and I, we were going to be married, you know. I met him at Sant’Antonio—at an end-of-term ball. He’s not handsome, I know—Renzo is seven times more attractive than Stefano. But
Stefano, Commissario …” Again she stopped, looking into his eyes, looking for some understanding. “Stefano is good.”

Trotti looked away.

“We would have been happy. I would have done everything to make him happy. I didn’t care if he was ill—that wasn’t important, I would have stood by him. I would have stood by him to the end.” She held out her fingers. “I never smoked like this before. When I was with Stefano, I was happy. I didn’t smoke, I didn’t drink; I didn’t feel the need to.”

She had started to cry; she now spoke through her hands. “Everybody wanted us to get married. Mama and Papa. And my brother Sandro, who had been his best friend in college. They have never forgiven Stefano for breaking off the engagement. They probably thought he had another woman and I wasn’t going to tell them any different. If Stefano didn’t want to tell them, I wasn’t going to. He didn’t even want to tell me. A couple of years—that’s what the doctors told him. A couple of years to live.” Her body now shook as she wept.

Trotti placed his hand on her shoulder.

“We should have married. We still love each other.”

Trotti looked down at the hair pulled back from its center parting, at the bowed shoulders. The arrogant mouth, the cold eyes, the refusal of her own Mediterranean beauty—it was all hidden behind the hands held to her face. Tears ran down the side of her palms. Signora Perbene lowered her head.

The rain was still pattering against the window.

Trotti went to the classroom door and turned around. The shoe bags hanging in neat parallels, the poster of the cathedral in Bari, the rain falling against the high windows, the dusty blackboard; he looked around the classroom.

Signora Perbene, her shoulders hunched, was weeping into her hands. She rocked gently back and forward. Sitting on the low chair, her face hidden, she looked like one of her own pupils. With the cardigan pulled over her shoulders, she looked fragile, vulnerable. A little girl.

Trotti closed the door.

T
HE STREETS WERE
empty.

The grey afternoon sunlight was reflected on the damp cobblestones as Trotti walked back into the city center. Even the buses and taxis had disappeared. There were no vehicles and no pedestrians. At several windows, black flags had been placed as a sign of mourning; they flapped damply in the wind. Somewhere a church bell was tolling lugubriously. Trotti looked up but the dome of the cathedral was hidden by a low cloud of drizzle.

All the shops were closed. The blinds had been pulled down and locked. Even the cafés and bars were empty; the chairs and tables stood vacant while raindrops bounced off painted surfaces. A few parasols had been left out and now dripped with rain; water ran down the leaves of the potted plants and along the edges of the cactus.

There were no customers.

In Piazza Vittoria the newspaper kiosk had closed, the metallic blind had been pulled down; only a few posters with Moro’s tired face were visible. They flapped in the breeze.

As Trotti approached Strada Nuova, he heard the sound of a motorcycle and then a vigile urbano in knee boots and white helmet appeared on a large Laverda. Behind him, the machine cast up a thin curve of water and dirt. He slowed down to peer at Trotti from behind his smeared goggles and then sped away down towards the river.

Trotti encountered no one else before arriving at the town hall. He went up the broad steps; nobody at the main entrance. The gate was open. The corridor and the stairs were strangely silent.

Trotti was almost surprised to find the porter still outside the mayor’s office. He was reading a paperback. He did not appear to notice Trotti’s arrival.

“I wish to see the mayor.”

The small man closed the book deliberately and pushed it to the side of the desk before looking up. “He is busy.”

Trotti went to the door and before the midget could stop him, he turned the handle. The porter had jumped up and with a strong grip pulled at his arm. Unceremoniously, Trotti pushed the man away.

The porter tottered backwards and fell, a look of shocked dignity on his small face.

Trotti entered the mayor’s office.

The smile was immediate and appeared sincere. Mariani was speaking softly into the telephone. He looked up and lowered the receiver into its cradle. He stood up.

Trotti closed the door behind him but he did not move; the door handle was cold in his hand. Mariani approached, smiling and holding out his hand.

“So pleased to see you.”

Trotti did not take the proffered hand.

“I have come to inform you that I shall be making out a warrant for the arrest of your son-in-law, Renzo Perbene.”

The mayor’s smile froze; he came closer to Trotti and looked into his eyes, as though not quite certain of Trotti’s sincerity. The smile died slowly.

“Arrest?”

Trotti nodded.

The cat was on the sill, curled up and apparently asleep. Beyond the window, Corso Mazzini was wet and empty. “I wanted to see you first.”

The mayor turned and went back towards his chair. His shoulders had dropped; from behind he looked old and worn. “Thank you,” he said slowly.

“Furthermore,” Trotti continued, in the same, even tone, “I will have to inform the Procuratore della Repubblica of your role in the disappearance of Anna Ermagni.”

The mayor turned around. “I knew nothing.”

“Until I came to tell you about the Citroën car.” Trotti nodded. “Until then, you knew nothing. But then you must have contacted your daughter—and from then on, you have done everything in your power to hinder me in my investigations. Everything, Signor Sindaco—including the use of pressure upon the Questura.”

The mayor lowered himself into his seat behind the trestle table. He folded his hands on the white surface. The mushroom-like lamp hung over his head.

“I had no choice,” he said quietly.

“Interfering with the course of justice.” Trotti pulled up a chair; high-backed, of pale Scandinavian wood and with a seat of thickly woven straw.

“At another time,” the mayor shrugged, his dark jaw to one side, his eyes looking at Trotti, “I would have done my duty—my civic duty as mayor of this city, as its first magistrate. But now—with all the glaring light of the media turned upon us Communists—and upon the so-called compromesso storico. And with the elections only a week away. I had no choice.”

“Your son-in-law killed a woman. Then with the help of your daughter, he deliberately kidnapped Anna Ermagni—a relative of yours.”

“They kidnapped the little girl—I had no idea until you came here. When you mentioned the car, I suspected something and I contacted Renzo. It was him I contacted—not my daughter.” He stopped, looked down at his hands. He shook his head slowly before continuing, “No, Commissario, I don’t approve. And in a different situation, I would have insisted that they go to the police.” The dark cheeks formed lines of disapproval. “But then, Renzo has always been like that. Hot-headed, impetuous—and stupid. She shouldn’t have married him—that was the real mistake. She shouldn’t have married him. Childhood sweethearts—that sort of thing never works. Marriage is more
cynical than that. I sometimes think that she married him to spite me.” He allowed himself a little laugh. “A doctor, the first magistrate of the city—but not, I’m afraid, a very good father. When perhaps, Commissario, that’s what I wanted to be. More than mayor—and even now,” he quickly glanced round the office and its pale furnishings, “I would sacrifice it all for my daughter. For Lella. I didn’t want her to marry him—but what could I do? When she was a child, she had fallen in love with him on holiday—like us, his parents had a villa at Tarzi. Even at that age, he was stupid; but Lella didn’t seem to care. She always said that she was going to marry him. I thought she’d grow out of it—and she did. She went to college and there she met Stefano Angellini. She forgot all about Renzo and believe me, Commissario, her mother and I were pleased. We liked Stefano—I still do. Intelligent, thoughtful—I’m sure he could have made her a good husband. They got engaged—and then almost immediately, she broke the engagement, went back to Renzo and within a couple of months, they were married.” He smiled again, sadly. “I don’t know if you have children.”