Shout in the Dark (40 page)

Laura turned it in her hands to make sure
the writing was on one side only. "
I am concerned that there is a Vatican
plan to stop me getting the bronze head authenticated. I have
therefore decided that if they want it, they will have to look for
the Living among the dead
." She shrugged. "You've already seen this one,
Marco."

"
You didn't tell me Canon Levi was in Paris when he wrote
it."

"
How was I to know it came from Paris?" Laura snapped. "It's
very short and there's no address at the top." She started to skim
through a few. "I've never been allowed to see all these. They're
... well, they're like love letters."

"
Of course they're love letters, Laura my dear. Your father
cared for me, as you well know. There's nothing I'm ashamed of in
there. Find the first letter from Paris." Signora Rossetti turned
to Marco. "My Angelo had gone to Paris to see his friend Claude at
the Louvre, but he worried about Augusto trying to put a stop to
him."

Marco would have loved to ask about the
relationship. "My Angelo" and this pile of letters conveyed
considerably more than an overnight affair. "Augusto? Is that
Monsignor Augusto Giorgio?"

Signora Rossetti nodded. "That's him. He
was plain Father Augusto Giorgio then, but he's a monsignor now so
I believe. Laura's father became very friendly with him, but they
fell out over something. I know it happened almost as soon as
Angelo brought him here to meet me."

Marco waved his hands in an attempt to
halt the chatter. "Angelo Levi went to Paris just before he was
killed. Yes?"

"
Nineteen eighty-two. TV Roma was putting a lot of pressure
on Cardinal Amendola -- all to do with a television program on
relics -- and in the end the Cardinal dropped everything onto my
Angelo and told him to put a stop to TV Roma's interference. So
Angelo wrote to TV Roma, and also to a man called Reinhardt who was
the Papal Representative in England. They were friends a long time
back, and he needed someone to confide in. Then a German phoned
Angelo at work and made threats. That upset him. I think everyone
wanted to know about the relic -- except your Church." The signora
sounded completely out of breath now.

Marco looked up. "Reinhardt? Is that Josef
Reinhardt?"

"
It was a long time ago. Angelo knew the man." The signora's
voice was little more than a gasp.

Marco shook his head. "It can't be
my
Josef Reinhardt. He's not a
Papal Representative."

"
You mean the old priest you're so friendly with at the
Vatican?" asked Laura. "Sounds like the same man to me -- if he's
interested in this relic."

Signora Rossetti was breathing deeply and
noisily. "He told Angelo he hoped to come back from England to work
here in Rome. Something to do with stopping the
fascists."

"
Perhaps it
is
the same
man," agreed Marco. He tried to put the details of the Canon's
relationship out of his mind. "Where's this other
letter?"

"
Is this it?" Laura dug deeply into the tin. "There's a
French stamp on the envelope."

"
Paris has to be important," said Marco. "I wish we'd known
the first letter you showed me was sent from Paris."

Again Laura was defensive. "Mamma, it
would have helped if I'd known."

"
You never asked. You never take any interest in your old
mother until you need her for your work. All day long you work and
forget your Mamma."

Marco had encountered plenty of old
mothers filled with self pity and knew how to deal with this one.
"Laura talks about you such a lot, Signora Rossetti. She was so
excited to be bringing me here to meet you." Not the exact truth,
but Laura
had
been excited
-- perhaps more for the letters than for the opportunity of showing
off her Mamma.

The signora obviously saw through this
attempt to pour oil on the waters. In an unexpectedly cold voice
she said, "Laura will read the letter from Paris, Signor
Marco."

Laura studied the page. "It's long.
There's some private news, and then Papa says,
I am worried that the two
Germans may have followed me to Paris. I still cannot understand
the real purpose behind their approach in Rome, although they
clearly represent the neo-Fascist movement. In the circumstances I
am canceling the visit to my old friend Claude at the Louvre. The
two Germans who phoned me in Rome have offered good money for the
relic. In spite of Augusto being so negative about the provenance,
I now believe it to be genuine. My one wish is that I had pursued
the quest for authentication many years ago. Imagine my excitement
when I came across a bronze bust in the small market near the rue
de Rivoli while walking from my hotel today. I am sure that the
deceit will be forgiven in the circumstances. It will be marvelous
to exchange this bust for the money so badly needed by the Friends
of the Poor. I feel an overwhelming burden to help not only the
Jews, but the disadvantaged of all faiths who suffered under the
heel of the Nazi jackboot in our dear Italy.
"

"
I don't know what to say." Marco waited a suitable time.
"But then I don't pretend to understand what you all went
through."

Signora Rossetti nodded in approval at his
statement. "You are too young, Marco, to know the excessive
brutality of that regime. They dragged us from this building and
marched us all to the Stazione Centrale. I remember being forced
into cattle trucks and taken to Poland, a journey that took days
with no food or water. People were crying and children were
screaming for hours on end. I was the only Rossetti to return. I am
still sad but I feel no bitterness now. I have friends who suffer
still. The money from the modern Nazis would have been a small
recompense for that suffering. Not that I seek revenge, Marco.
Laura's father and I both learned something of forgiveness, even to
our enemies. Do you ever nurture thoughts of revenge?"

"
I..." He hesitated. "I'm still working on that
one."

Signora Rossetti smiled briefly. "Then
keep working on it, Marco. There's more in the letter, I
believe."

Laura said, "He's going to put flowers on
a grave for someone." She looked quickly up at Marco. "The
dead!"

"
Go on."

Laura's hands were shaking.
"
I have
promised to visit the grave of the Giorgio family for Augusto, and
put flowers on it. He is concerned that it has been neglected over
the years.
"

"
And?"

Laura blushed and put the letter face down
on the tablecloth out of his reach. "That's all. The last bit is
too intimate."

"
It's not a lot to go on." Marco tilted his head back and
stared at the ceiling for inspiration. A large crack ran through
the dirty white plaster from wall to wall. This was a dreadful old
apartment in a crumbling building. He remembered what he had read
of the Jewish persecution in Nazi Rome. Saturday October 16 1943,
the day of the big roundup, when these rooms must have been filled
with the cries of terrified families. It started in the darkness of
the early morning, when Signora Rossetti and all her family would
have been asleep. Now the stark walls echoed the memories of the
few surviving inhabitants who had been witness to the
horror.

"
He didn't bring the same bronze head back with him. I know
that for a fact."

Both Laura and Marco looked at the
signora.

Signora Rossetti nodded.
"I think he must have left the
original somewhere in Paris."

"
You're right," agreed Marco. "He left it in a cemetery. He
left it at the Giorgio family grave."

"
There must be a lot of graves in Paris." Laura's initial
excitement was quickly giving way to disappointment.

"
Montmartre."

"
How do you know, Mamma?"

"
I remember him telling me before he went." Signora Rossetti
lifted herself wearily out of the chair and went to the sideboard
where she studied the photographs. "My Angelo called round on the
day he left and we had a good laugh about it. The Giorgios were
called Georges once. That's a French name. He said Augusto
Giorgio's family were all buried in Montmartre. I said that
Montmartre was where the dancers showed their attributes. We
laughed a lot about that."

Marco could see from the light in Signora
Rossetti's face that she had a good sense of fun, albeit fairly
well hidden until now. The mother glanced across anxiously at her
daughter, as though the presence of one had a sobering effect on
the other. Then the signora turned, her eyes firmly on
him.

"
Montmartre. The Moulin Rouge. We laughed so much at the
thought of the stodgy priest coming from a family of
strippers!"

The mother's sense of the ridiculous had
failed to rub off on the daughter. "I'm going to buy a map of
Paris," Laura said abruptly. "This isn't the right time to be
fooling about. You stay here and keep Mamma happy, Marco. You seem
to be as silly as she is. If there's a cemetery shown on the map at
Montmartre, that's where we're going to find the relic."

"
We've upset her now," said Signora Rossetti with a wink as
Laura slammed the door shut. Padding her way over she threw her
arms around him in an enormous hug. His instinct was to draw away
from the large woman, but she held him too firmly. He could smell
alcohol on the old lady's breath, making him turn his head
away.

"
Oh, Marco, I like you. You're not like Laura's other
friends -- you enjoy a little laugh. What a pity you're a priest!"
The words made her burst into giggles of laughter, and if she was
not clinging to him tightly she would have fallen.

"
I'm glad I came. You're fun."

"
I like you, young man. How about we have a little drink
together?"

Marco felt repulsed yet amused by the old
woman. She had lived here since returning after the war. She would
have found many of the adjoining apartments filled with Gentile
faces, replacing the Jewish families who were never coming back
from the terrors of the camps.

He gave the big soft face a kiss. "Just a
small drink." Signora Rossetti might enjoy a drink or two, but she
was not in need of pity.

"
Strippers!" The old signora shook all over with laughter.
"That stuck-up Augusto Giorgio came from a family of
strippers
.
Monsignor Augusto Giorgio. Oh, my, my; I wonder if he still carries
on the family tradition and entertains the nuns!"

Chapter
35

LAURA OFFERED,
somewhat grudgingly, to drive Marco back to his new apartment in
the Piazza di Santa Maria Maggiore. She was obviously still in a
bad mood as she braked violently outside the large front door. Her
driving was as volatile as her temper.

As she hauled up the handbrake, Marco said
coldly, "I can't believe you, Laura. There's no way Riccardo Fermi
is coming with us to Paris."

"
I
found
the letters." Laura glared at him. "I've already phoned Riccardo.
He wants to go with me to Paris. He won't want
you
with us, but if you insist on coming, okay -- but
you
don't
dictate
the terms."

He opened the car door. "I suppose you
know Riccardo's mixed up with the neo-Nazis?"

"
And what about your old priest?" retorted Laura. "Papal
Representative? That man's up to something but you can't see it.
There's a Vatican conspiracy in this. Remember how my father was
afraid of Augusto Giorgio? So don't start telling anyone at the
Vatican about Paris, or they'll stop us going."

He paused with the car door partly open.
"Okay, but I still think Riccardo Fermi was mixed up with the
deaths in Rome."

"
We're journalists, and that's all."

"
I trust Father Josef more than I trust Riccardo." He
thought about it for a moment. "Don't worry, I'm not going to
contact the old priest. I'll go on your terms."

Laura wagged a finger in his face.
"Riccardo will be mad about it, so don't blame me if he doesn't
speak to you. I'm going over there to park while you get your
things. That stupid coach is right behind us and the driver won't
pull round."

The coach driver leaned on his horn.

Laura wound her window down.
"
All right,
all right!
" she screamed
in exasperation.

Marco went inside to pack an overnight bag.
At times there seemed to be two different Lauras.

ALERTED BY THE coach horn, Karl raised
himself in the driving sea
t of the Fiat. He was just in time to see the woman wave to
the
Priester
, a
half-hearted wave, before driving further down the piazza to park.
He slipped discretely from his car and made his way across the
street on foot, keeping in the shelter of the sightseers. A man on
a white scooter squeaked the hooter and swerved expertly. Karl made
an obscene gesture. The man squeaked his hooter again: an act he
probably repeated a hundred times a day.