The Puppeteer (27 page)

“I received no message, Agnese.”

“That’s not my fault.”

He raised his eyes to look at the reflection. “So you’re not coming back?”

“Not immediately.”

“And Pioppi?”

“She’s getting better, isn’t she?”

“She needs you.”

“She’s an adult, Piero. She’s over eighteen. She can’t expect me or you to go on holding her hand all the time.”

“Can’t you understand that she’s ill?”

“She was ill—but she’s getting better. You know that if I thought she really needed me, I’d be on the first plane.”

A long pause. Trotti waited while his breathing returned to normal.

“Agnese, listen.”

“She’s a lot better, isn’t she?”

“Listen, Agnese, I want you to tell me the truth. About Leonardelli.”

“Who?”

“Did you tell Judge Dell’Orto about Leonardelli?”

“Piero, what on earth has got into your head? That was a long time ago—several years ago. You phone me up about some stupid policeman from the Questura?”

“Agnese, have you spoken recently to Dell’Orto?”

“Of course.”

“Of course?”

Her laugh was gay. “The poor old thing. He’s been very good to me—and to you, Piero, although I know you’re incapable of gratitude.”

“When did you last speak to him?”

“I often speak to him. He’s very lonely, you know—ever since his wife died. The poor thing, he doesn’t like to mention that. He’s beginning to feel his age.”

“You knew that his wife was dead?”

“Piero, what on earth’s wrong with you? I sometimes wonder how you manage to do your job. You’ve got absolutely no memory. Of course I knew she was dead. So did you. I told you. Don’t you ever listen to what I tell you?”

The eyes in the tinted mirror did not blink.

“The old girl died of cancer. Her weight went down from one hundred kilos to sixty. Genoveffa—she was a sweet thing.”

“Dell’Orto’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“He died this afternoon.”

“My God.”

For a moment neither spoke and the line carried the sounds of static over the Atlantic.

Trotti said, “I suppose you told him about your diplomas.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You told him, didn’t you, that you needed your specialization diplomas?”

Agnese did not hide her indignation. “I told him that it was your job to send them off to me—and that you were never at home—neither you nor Pioppi—to answer the telephone.”

“And you told him that I was going up to Gardesana on Friday morning?”

Now sarcasm. “Was that wrong, Piero? Was it wrong to repeat to an old and good friend what my husband had told me a couple of days earlier? Was I revealing some great secret?”

“Who else did you tell, Agnese?”

“Nobody.”

“Who else did you tell?”

“What’s got into you, Piero? I’m your wife—I’m not a criminal that you’re beating up on the third floor of the Questura. This isn’t an interrogation, you know.”

“Answer my question, Agnese.”

“Piero, I’m going to hang up. They must be wondering why I’m hanging on the phone like this.”

“Did you tell anybody else?”

“I didn’t tell anybody anything. I was merely trying to find you—trying to get you to post off the diplomas—diplomas which I need for my career here in America.”

“Agnese, did you tell Pergola?”

Silence.

“You must tell me—Agnese, it’s very important.”

“Piero, I’m going to hang up. My love to Pioppi,” and before he could say another word, the line had gone dead.

He stepped out of the telephone booth and walked across the thick carpet to the reception desk.

I
F THE
M
OROCCAN
recognized them, he showed no sign. He came out from behind the bar and approached their table. He did not look at either man. Magagna ordered a beer, Trotti a cup of coffee. He nodded, wiped their table and returned to the bar.

“I’m drinking too much coffee,” Trotti said. A pause and then he added, “Maybe she tried the woman at Graffiti.”

“Guerra’s dead.”

Trotti smiled. “The blood on the walls? That took you in, Magagna?”

He raised his shoulders.

“Guerra wants to be left alone. That’s why she moved out of the flat—and that’s why she smeared the walls with blood. Animal blood.”

“Okay, okay.” Magagna leaned forward with his arms on the table. “But why do you have to find Guerra now? When I was looking for her, you weren’t interested.”

“I wasn’t interested because you seemed to think that she was responsible for setting Maltese up.”

“Why not?”

“She’s an addict.”

Trotti looked round the bar, at the posters and the fading photographs. “You think he’ll come in?”

“You don’t know addicts, Commissario. They are capable of
anything—capable of selling their mothers for a few milligrams of joy.”

“And Guerra was a hardened addict?”

“She took injections.” He shrugged. “Not the sort of thing you do just to impress the boys.”

“The scars were recent?”

“I didn’t study them. That’s not what you asked me to do. You’d need Pisanelli for that—he’s the doctor.” Magagna grinned and with his finger and thumb he smoothed the short bristles of his mustache. “We should have arrested Guerra—taken her in and sent her to detox.”

“I don’t work in Milan, Magagna.”

He laughed and tapped his chest. “I should have arrested her.”

“If she’s an addict, she’ll be needing her stuff and she’s not going to move away from her supply source.”

Magagna shrugged and stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking.

The barman brought the drinks.

Trotti looked up. “There is a phone here?”

The Moroccan jerked his hand towards the far room.

“Do you have any tokens?”

He looked at a photograph of Cagliari, 1969/ 70, while from his apron pocket he took out several telephone tokens that he set down on the table. He had dark eyes, yellow skin that was pale in the light of the Bar Orchidea. A scar ran down one cheek. When he turned, Trotti saw that he was wearing narrow black trousers beneath the apron.

Trotti got up and went into the adjacent room. The games of table football had been deserted but a crowd of silent, smoking men stood round a billiard table. A heavy atmosphere. A cloud of spirals that hovered over the brightly lit baize cloth. Four players and a small man sitting in the corner counting notes. He glanced at Trotti and the notes vanished beneath the table.

A large man with a billiard stick moved towards Trotti. He wore a windbreaker that advertised Fernet Branca.

Trotti picked up the telephone and the man turned away.

Two tokens.

“Pronto.”

“Pronto.”

“This is Piero—I’m in Milan.”

“Piero?”

“Trotti.”

“Ah—so at last you phone me.”

“Are you doing anything? Because if you’re not, I could drive up to Sesto and perhaps—if it’s not too late—we could go for a meal.”

“Piero, d’you know what time it is?”

“Are you free?”

“It’s very sweet of you, Piero, but I’m afraid that this evening …” Donatella hesitated. “I’m afraid that I’ve got guests.”

“Guests?”

“Let’s say a friend.”

“I see.”

“But perhaps later in the week, Piero? Another evening?”

“That would be very nice.”

Neither spoke and Trotti turned sideways to glance at the billiard players. At the corner of his eye he saw movement.

“Piero?”

“I’ll be in touch, Donatella,” and hurriedly he put down the receiver.

The man with the Fernet Branca jacket and the billiard cue tried to trip him up. He missed Trotti and raised the cue, as if to hit him over the head. The other men turned. Southern, dark faces, bulging bellies. His path to the door was blocked. Another door behind him leading to the lavatory, perhaps.

Trotti had no time to be scared. He saw the cue coming towards him and he ducked.

He wanted to run but then Magagna was standing by the door, smiling broadly. “PS,” he shouted and pointed the small pistol. With a minimum of effort he caught the dealer by the arm and swung him round in a tight hold.

“Now where’s little Marco going?”

“D
ID YOU SLEEP
well, Commissario?”

Like Magagna, she was from the Abruzzi, but not from the city. She had the strong features of peasant stock. She was also clearly intelligent. A small woman, well dressed and with precise movements. Not exactly beautiful—her nose was too long and the mouth too wide, but attractive because of her smile. And Trotti had noticed her readiness to listen.

The apartment was small and comfortable. The furniture was sober, modern and of good quality. A couple of paintings on the wall and a photograph of d’Annunzio’s pine forest. A television and placed above it, the wedding photograph.

Trotti had been surprised at the number of books on the bookshelves, surprised to see several de Agostini almanacs and an encyclopaedia that looked well used.

“Very well, Signora Magagna.” He smiled. “But you shouldn’t have let me oversleep.” He threw back the coverlet and sat up.

She pulled the curtains open. “I wanted you to make the best use of the facilities,” she said and gave a little laugh. “We’ve been lucky, Commissario. We managed to get an apartment which is near the center and at the same time fairly quiet. And private gardens for the children to play in.”

“You’re planning to have children, signora?”

She put her hand to her belly and smiled.

Through the window he saw the cloudless sky.

“Look,” she said, “while you men were sleeping, I had time to go downstairs and get fresh bread. And fresh brioches. Gabbi told me that you were fond of them.” She gestured towards the kitchen table where she had set out the breakfast things—including napkins. “And fresh honey from home.”

“You are from Pescara, too, signora?”

Bright, lively eyes. She was a lot younger than he had imagined. “A village—on the border with the province of Chieti.” She raised her shoulders. “Just a few houses near the railway-line—but at this time of the year, when the flowers spring up in the meadows and in the distance you can see the Gran Sasso …”

“What ever brought you to Milan?”

“Milan, Commissario? If I had the choice, I would leave this town tomorrow. Noise, dirt and violence—and a corrupting influence on Gabbi.”

“Gabbi?”

“My husband.”

“Why d’you call him that?”

“Because it’s his name.” She laughed. “What do you call him?”

“I rarely call him anything.” Trotti could not help smiling. “And when I do it’s simply Magagna.” He paused. “Gabbi?”

“Gabriele—after d’Annunzio.”

“Yes?”

They turned. Magagna stood in the doorway in pajamas. “How did you find sleeping on the divan?”

Trotti said to Signora Magagna, “I don’t think he looks like a Gabbi.”

The phone rang and Magagna disappeared, taking the call on the bedroom extension.

Trotti got out of bed.

In the kitchen, Signora Magagna poured the coffee. It was good, strong and she had a machine that put froth on the milk. Trotti said, “I’ve always loved breakfast.”

“Then why have you waited a year and a half to come and see us?”

She smiled but he saw that her eyes were watching him
carefully. He also noticed the slight muscular movement at the corner of her lips.

“I’m not often in Milan.”

“Gabbi hoped so much that you would come to the wedding.” She hesitated. “I think he was a bit upset.”

Standing up, Trotti drank some coffee.

“We were both hoping that you would be there. Gabbi has always said that you have been good to him … Commissario, you must try the honey. Acacia from home that my brother brought up to Milan for us. Please try it—and if you like it, I can give you a kilo to take home.” She added softly, “Gabbi has told me about your daughter. You must give her honey—real honey—and you’ll see that she’ll love it. You must take a jar.”

Magagna reappeared in the doorway. “For you, Commissario.”

“What?”

“The telephone—it’s Pisa.”

Trotti put the cup down and went into the hall.

“Pisanelli.” A vase of flowers on the little table—lily of the valley.

“Commissario, at last. Where’ve you been?”

“Mind your own business!”

“Have you been to the Policlinico this morning?”

Fear in the belly. “Why?”

“I’m phoning from the hospital. There’s a woman here—she says she’s been looking for you.”

“Pioppi—how is she?”

Pisanelli laughed on the other end of the line. “Your daughter’s well, Commissario.”

“Then what woman are you talking about?”

“She refuses to give her name.”

“What does she look like?”

Pisanelli lowered his voice. It became hoarser and more sibilant. “Blonde hair, made up, fairly short—one meter sixty-five. Pretty—looks a bit German.”

“And what does she want?”

“She’s got something for you.”

“What?”

Pisanelli mumbled something.

“Stop lisping like an old woman, for God’s sake. What does this woman want?”

“A key, Commissario.”

“I don’t have any keys.”

“She’s got a key to a private safe. At the Banco Milanese. And she says she wants to give it to you in person.”

T
HEY WALKED ALONG
the Galleria Vittorio Emmanuele and from time to time, Signora Magagna took Trotti by the arm. She spoke about her home and asked him questions about Santa Maria in Collina. He enjoyed her company and felt flattered by her attention.

At ten o’clock they stood at the entrance to the Metropolitana and waited for Pisanelli.

Milan, Piazza Duomo.

Before the cathedral—sparkling in the sunshine—tourists fed the pigeons and even at this early hour, there were addicts on the steps, forming huddled, squalid groups of dirty clothes. A lot of them were very young—still adolescents. The two Carabinieri in uniform, walking with their hands behind their backs, took no notice of them; but then, later, the same Carabinieri approached a small man. The man started shouting at the top of his voice and maintaining that he was not a pickpocket. A small boy darted through the crowd and headed for the entrance into the subway. He escaped without being caught.