The Puppeteer (24 page)

“Try to help us.”

“She is with her mother. Maria Campigli is with her mother.”

“Where?”

Old eyes—they looked at Pisanelli and then back at Trotti. “She has been with her mother these last fourteen years. Incurable.” He repeated the word, “Incurable and now Maria is with her mother. And with her grandmother.” With the same hand that held the stick, the old man crossed himself. “God rest her soul.”

T
HE FIRST THING
that Trotti noticed was the eau-de-cologne. It lingered in the air of the corridor, competing with the smell of the coffee from the machine and with the more acrid smell of human sweat.

At least the spilled sugar and the empty paper packets had been swept away.

Trotti entered his office.

Pergola turned and stood up. A hesitant, uncertain smile came to the neatly shaven face. The eyes seemed darker than usual.

“An immense pleasure,” Trotti said and nodded briefly. He sat down behind his desk, automatically opened the drawer to see if there were any sweets. “Please sit down, Signor Direttore.” He gestured to the greasy canvas armchair. “Kindly make yourself feel at home. And perhaps I can offer you something to drink. Some coffee—or perhaps …” He went hurriedly through his pockets. “Or perhaps something to suck on.” He held out a packet of rhubarb-flavoured Charms. “Not Smith Kendon, I’m afraid.”

A tight smile. Pergola shook his head.

“Well?”

“I’ve come to see you, Commissario, because …” He paused and the prominent adam’s apple bobbed unhappily.

“Because you want to confess?”

“Confess?” Pergola put his head to one side, genuinely surprised.

Trotti held up a hand. “Forgive my frivolity.” He glanced at his watch. “Half past eight in the morning—and a beautiful May day. I’m just not used to finding a bank manager of all people in my office.” He gestured around the small office—at the dingy dossiers that he had recently tidied and that were now piled haphazardly at the feet of the radiator, at the photograph of Pertini that looked as if it had been there since Koblet had won the Giro d’Italia. “I’m afraid that for elegance, my office cannot compare with yours at the Banca San Matteo.”

A magnanimous shrug while the eyes watched Trotti carefully.

The pigeons were cooing. The summer heat came through the window and Trotti felt surprisingly relaxed—perhaps the news from the Policlinico, or perhaps the effect of having cycled into work. A few drops of oil and the Ganna was running smoothly, as if it had not spent the last eight months in the garage. “How can I help you, Signor Pergola?”

Hs coughed. “I was not …” A gesture of the hand. “I was not totally frank with you, Commissario.”

“Frank about what?”

“And it is now something that I regret.”

Trotti smiled blandly while his fingers played with the ragged end of the sweet packet.

“When we last met … there were things that I should have mentioned.”

“It’s not too late.”

“I saw yesterday’s paper and I saw the photograph of Maltese.” He nodded. “I wasn’t completely truthful with you, Commissario. I knew Maltese—he came to my office.”

“Ah!”

“He came to see me.”

“When was this?”

“About four months ago.”

“Before the robbery?”

Pergola nodded. “It must have been in January. But you see, I didn’t realize it was him.” Very slightly he raised the padded
shoulders of his narrow suit. “I”m a provincial banker—and I know little about what happens up the road in Milan. To be honest with you, I’m not very interested.”

Trotti frowned.

“When he came to see me, he gave me his name. Not Maltese. He called himself Ramoverde.” Hurriedly, Pergola went on, “How was I to know that he was Maltese? Of course, I had heard of the Ramoverde affair—who hadn’t?—but that was a long time ago. And of course, I didn’t associate the Ramoverde sitting in front of me with the ex-journalist of the
Popolo d’Italia
.”

“Was this before or after the Night of the Tazebao?”

“I checked in my agenda—when you came to see me.” An apologetic smile. “It must’ve been about a week before.”

Trotti nodded. “Afterwards, Maltese disappeared.”

“He said he was writing a book—and that he needed to do some research.”

“What sort of book?”

“About his father, Douglas Ramoverde. He said that the time had come for the truth to be told. People who could have been hurt were now dead, he said, and he felt that there was nothing to be afraid of. The truth needed to be told, if only for his father’s sake.”

“Then he knew who killed Belluno?”

For a moment, Pergola paused to think. He looked small and ill at ease; he was sitting forward on the edge of the chair, his buttocks resting on the wooden frame. “That’s the impression he tried to give me.”

“Did he tell you who it was?”

Pergola replied, “I wouldn’t have wanted to know.”

“If you weren’t interested in the Belluno affair, why did Maltese come and see you?” Trotti raised a shoulder.

The man said nothing, but looked at Trotti with his dark eyes. He bit at his lip.

“What did Maltese want from you, Signor Pergola?”

A deep intake of breath. “I think he wanted information.”

“Be more explicit.”

Pergola looked anxiously about the office. Then he lowered his voice. “He wanted information about a lodge.”

Trotti frowned.

“A masonic lodge, Signor Commissario.”

Trotti sat back in his chair and for a moment, he sucked the sweet. “Ah,” he said.

“Maltese—if that was his real name—”

“His real name was Ramoverde.”

“Ramoverde seemed to believe that I could help him.”

“And could you?”

“He wanted to know about the freemason lodge.” A flitter of a smile; the skin of his face was drawn tight across the high cheekbones. “Ramoverde seemed to believe that his father had been murdered by freemasons.”

“Why?”

“He believed that there had been rivalries.”

“What sort of rivalries?”

Pergola shook his head. “I don’t know. He got very excited and mentioned a lot of names that I’d heard of—and even more that I had never heard of at all. People that he accused of being involved in Belluno’s death. And in his father’s court trial.”

“What sort of people?”

“I can’t remember, Commissario.” Their eyes met. “I wasn’t particularly interested.”

“Then I imagine you threw him out of your office. You told him to be on his way.”

“Not quite.” He rubbed one hand against the sharp crease of his trousers. “I wanted to hear what he had to say.”

“What exactly did Maltese want from you?”

“An introduction.” He no longer looked at Trotti but at his two narrow hands, which he had placed on his knees. “Maltese wanted an introduction to the Lodge because …”

“Because you’re a member?”

Pergola acquiesced with a small nod. “He said it was a case of the son trying to put the record straight over his father’s trial.” Pergola raised his eyes—dark, intelligent eyes.

“How did he know you were a freemason?”

“In the same way, perhaps, that he knew I was no longer interested in the ritual.”

“I see.”

“Commissario, you don’t see because you cannot understand. I was reluctant to tell you the truth when you asked me about Maltese—but I’ve been through the initiation ceremony. I’ve made vows.” A small smile. “Now I’m here and I’m talking about these things openly.”

“Perhaps you are afraid.”

The smile grew larger. “I’m not afraid of the law—if that’s what you mean—because I’ve nothing to be afraid of. I’m a law-abiding citizen—no more, no less. Nor am I afraid of them.”

“Them?”

“The Lodge doesn’t frighten me because I know what it all means—little men pretending to play at the Ku Klux Klan, men who take their wives to church on Sunday and then when they meet among themselves, they talk rubbish about the Great Architect. They’re not genuine masons—they believe in all the childish liturgy as much as you or I do. A front, an organization—that’s all. A form of Mafia, a network of contacts, of preferences.” He smiled sadly.

“How could Maltese have known that you were no longer very keen about being a freemason?”

The bank manager raised his hands, then let them fall back onto the creases of his trousers. “I can’t be sure.”

“Nor do I see any reason for him to want to see you.”

Pergola stood up and for an instant Trotti wondered what the other man intended to do. He watched Pergola as he walked, limping slightly, to the open window and stared out across the terracotta roofs of the city. Then he turned and folded his arms. “I would like something to drink.”

“Coffee?”

He nodded.

Trotti went to the door and shouted, “Brigadiere.” In an instant, a young man in uniform appeared. “Two coffees from over the road. And a couple of brioches.”

The policeman nodded and moved towards the lift. Trotti closed the door.

“You see, Commissario, I liked him.”

“Him?”

“He came to my office and I realized that an introduction was not really what he wanted. He already knew quite a lot about the lodge—for one thing, he knew that I was a member and for another, he knew that I was disenchanted. If he’d really wanted to, he could have got an introduction from somebody else. It was as if he were testing me—or as if he were trying to get something from me without my realizing it. But after a while, we both began to relax. It was then he told me about the book he intended to write.” He looked at Trotti, then looked away. “I think I can guess who killed Maltese.”

“Who?”

“I have your word, Commissario, that this conversation will rest between you and me. I know that I’m dealing with somebody who is honest.”

“You flatter me.”

“Twenty years in banking have made me cynical—forty-five years of living in Italy have made me very cynical. But I trust you. And I know that you’ll respect my trust.”

“You’re afraid of something?”

“I’m not afraid for myself. But there are others to think about.” He paused. “Do you have children?”

Trotti nodded.

“Then you’ll understand. For them, Commissario, not for myself.” He moved back to the canvas chair. “Do I have your word that you’ll respect the secrecy of what I tell you?”

“I must do my duty.”

“By all means do your duty. I merely ask you to treat this conversation as, well … off the record.”

Trotti nodded.

He relaxed then. He sat back and crossed his legs. One hand clasped his ankle—he was wearing white socks. “He was only seventeen when his grandfather was murdered and understandably it came as something of a shock. He was quite fond of the old man—a fondness which his grandfather reciprocated. Then Ramoverde went to prison, there was all the publicity connected with the trial—things which upset him profoundly.”

“Was his father guilty of the murder of Belluno?”

“His father was not a murderer—of that he’d always been certain, even though his father had never discussed the whole business with him openly. Then they left for Argentina. For the boy it was an exile—or an admission of guilt. He saw his father age, start drinking and then die. Later, he returned to Milan where he studied. Then he got his South American job with the
Popolo d’Italia
 … of course, he didn’t tell me which paper, afraid perhaps that I would realize that he was the journalist Maltese.”

There was a discreet knock on the door and the officer entered, carrying a tray. He placed it on the cluttered desk and handed a screw-top cup to Pergola, who thanked him. He bowed slightly and left.

“I made the association with the Tazebao much later.” He tapped the injured leg.

“You know the director of the Banco Milanese?”

“Bastia?” He shook his head. “We don’t gravitate in the same orbits. But like anybody else who reads the newspapers, I know that he is facing considerable difficulties. The night of the Tazebao was merely the last stage in blackmail, when the victim refuses to pay his debts and punishment has to be paid out.”

“Who was blackmailing Bastia?”

“You read the papers, Commissario.”

“Maltese supplied Novara with information for the posters. But who paid Novara? Who was blackmailing Bastia?”

Pergola shrugged. “If you really want the man, you’ll find him in a New York penitentiary—a Sicilian who fled this country for fraud. We Italians are an indulgent people—we have so much dirty linen that we have decided to give up washing it. The Americans, however, see things differently.”

“You mean Scalfari?”

“He’s serving a prison sentence in America. It will probably keep him out of the way for the next twenty years.” Pergola nodded. “Not a very pleasant prospect for a man who has known the ‘palazzo’ all his life, who has manipulated men, controlled them, used them.”

“Scalfari was in his American prison at the time of the Tazebao.”

“Precisely.”

Trotti frowned.

“Scalfari expected favors from Bastia now that he was in jail. He asked Bastia to help him—when in all probability it was Bastia who tipped him off to the American police.”

“And the Tazebao was his revenge?”

“I assume so. Like you, I read the papers.”

“Did Maltese mention Scalfari or Bastia to you?”

“When Maltese came to see me, we didn’t talk about the Banco Milanese. He simply said that he was interested in the Lodge—that’s all. Interested in the Lodge because he felt that directly or indirectly, it was involved in his grandfather’s murder.”

“Then, in your opinion, where did Maltese and Novara get their information on Bastia?”

“Scalfari knew everything—absolutely everything about the dealings of Bastia and the Banco Milanese. And if he knew everything, it was because there had been a time when he had been propping Bastia up with his own money—drug money, money from organized crime, money from illegal building and from prostitution. It was money that he used to put an insignificant Milanese banker in charge of a major bank—a Catholic bank, respected in the financial community and supported by the Vatican. It was precisely what Scalfari needed. A front—and Bastia was precisely the man he needed. Arrogant, cold, provincial—and not very intelligent. Scalfari knew that he would be able to manipulate Bastia just as he chose, get him to do what he wanted him to do. An ambitious little banker—a nonentity of Scalfari’s creation.” Pergola did not try to hide the bitterness that had crept into his voice. “Unfortunately, Scalfari’s creation turned out to be the more cunning of the two—more cunning than Scalfari. For if Bastia is not exactly intelligent, he compensates for that with his overwhelming ambition.” He nodded. “And so to get rid of the old Sicilian, Bastia informed the American police.”