Converging Parallels (21 page)

“He said it was important.”

“It always is.” Gino sneezed, suddenly and noisily, taking Trotti by surprise.

Principessa rose to her feet, walked to the other side of the desk and sat down. Gino extracted a handkerchief from his pocket.

“A woman phoned, too.” He blew his nose.

“Who?”

“She didn’t say.”

“My wife?” Trotti immediately regretted the hint of hope he had allowed into his voice; but behind the glasses, Gino’s eyes did not move. He snuffled at the large handkerchief. “It didn’t sound like her. Agnese knows me, she would have chatted. This woman hung up.”

“I see,” Trotti said, his voice normal—or so he believed. Still with his hand on Gino’s shoulder, he stood in thought. Then, “And Pisanelli?”

“Gone to bed.” Gino laughed. “He spent most of the night near the Cairoli barracks—surveillance of some sort. Now dell’Orto and di Bono have taken over. Don’t know where they are now but they called in an hour ago from down by the river.”

“What the hell is di Bono doing down there?”

“Commissario Trotti, you mustn’t ask me these questions.”

“You know nothing.” Trotti laughed. “Is that right?”

“I do my job—I don’t ask any questions. I’m too old to understand any of the answers.” From where he was standing, Trotti could see the eyes blinking; the white lashes almost touched the lenses.

“One other thing,” Gino said as Trotti moved away.

“Yes?”

“Capitano Spadano. And he said to phone him.”

“Of course.” Trotti went towards his office. “Thanks, Gino.”

Magagna was smoking, a packet of Marlboro and his feet upon the desk. He was reading the paper but as Trotti entered, the large feet came off the desk and fell heavily to the floor, narrowly missing a pile of folders. Magagna got to his feet.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“You told me to come in this morning.”

“I didn’t tell you to treat this place like a pigsty. This isn’t Pescara.”

“I was looking at the newspaper.” Magagna looked mildly foolish. He raised the
Corriere
.

“I can see you were looking at the newspaper.”

“Have you seen?”

“Seen what?” Trotti asked as he moved to his desk. He took a crumpled piece of paper from the waste paper bin and carefully rubbed the spot where Magagna’s feet had been.

“They’ve got some of the Red Brigades.” He prodded at the front page; the photograph of a young man, handcuffs at his wrists and his crossed arms raised to hide his face from the photographer.

“You believe that?” He sat down. “Give me the paper.”

A vast police operation, concentrating on the capital; several suspects arrested and the discovery of an important cache of arms including Czech machine guns. Satisfaction among the Carabinieri. “You really believe all this?”

Magagna sat down in another armchair and took a cigarette from his pocket. “They are members of the Red Brigades.”

Trotti laughed. “Terrorists. It’s not like that—a swoop on
Rome like a swoop on a gambling den—that we’re going to find Moro.” He clicked his tongue. “Don’t tire your brain. Do something useful; run down and get some coffee. And some doughnuts—I haven’t had breakfast. Do something constructive.”

As soon as Magagna left the office, Trotti picked up the phone and asked Gino to put him through to vehicle registration.

“Pronto.”

Trotti gave the number of the Citroën and the voice of a woman told him to wait ten minutes. Smiling, Trotti put down the phone; then carefully moving a pile of dossiers, marked with black writing 73/8, he opened the sliding drawer to his desk and took out a bottle of grappa. He then sat staring out of the window.

A few birds darted through the air; the street below was quiet and, seen from the rooftops, the city appeared peaceful. From the roof of the Questura, there came the ceaseless cooing of pigeons.

Another hot day. 9:15, seventh of May, 1978.

“At last.”

Magagna set the tray on the desk—two vacuum cups of coffee and two sugary doughnuts, each loosely held in soft tissue paper.

“Grappa?”

Magagna shook his head; his sunglasses were now back in place on his nose. He threw the smoldering filter out of the window and lit another cigarette.

“You ought to give up smoking,” Trotti said as he unscrewed the top of his coffee.

“And get diabetes from your hard-boiled sweets?” He lowered himself into the armchair; he winced slightly as he sipped his coffee.

“Good.”

Trotti ate his doughnut; crumbs fell to his shirtfront.

“You’re not impressed by the Carabinieri’s work yesterday?”

“It’s not that I’m not impressed, I’m cynical.” He sat back in his chair and brushed at the particles of sugar. “I’ve just seen the mayor—and I discover that he is a relative of Rossi’s.”

“You think he’s paid the money?”

“It’s possible—just as it’s possible that the blackmail wasn’t directed at Ermagni or Rossi at all. Perhaps—it’s an idea, only an idea—it wasn’t Ermagni at all who was being blackmailed. The blackmailers, whoever they may be, were possibly trying to get to Mariani.”

“Why?”

Trotti sighed. “You ask stupid questions.” His two hands on the desk moved apart. “I don’t know why but I can think of a thousand possible reasons. The same as Moro. Mariani’s a politician, his is the world of the palazzo with its intrigues and its uncertain alliances. He has got where he has got through favors and support. Perhaps somebody wanted to remind him—indirectly but efficiently—of a favor he has failed to return. He’s a Communist but that doesn’t mean that the path to power is less …”

The phone rang.

“Piero, is that you?” No sooner had he pressed the blinking light and put the receiver to his ear than he recognized her voice. More than anything else—joy, anger and all the other emotions she had caused him to feel—it was relief that flooded through him.

“Agnese?”

“Where have you been? Of course it’s me. I’ve already phoned goodness knows how many times. You’re never there.”

“I’ve been busy.” He made a clumsy, hurried gesture to Magagna, indicating the door.

Magagna got to his feet. “Don’t disappear.” Trotti said, while holding his hand over the mouthpiece. Magagna closed the door quietly.

“Where are you, Agnese? I’m on a case.”

“You always are.”

“Where have you been? I was worried about you. How are you? Pioppi was worried about you.”

“You were both worried, of course you were.” There was no hint of mockery in her voice but he could imagine her face, with the harsh lines at the corner of her mouth and the unflinching eyes. “I hope at least you haven’t forgotten about tonight. It is Sunday.”

“I know it’s Sunday,” he replied.

She paused for a silent sigh. “The opera. Or perhaps you don’t remember. All you can remember is your work; then let me remind you. A month or so ago you booked a couple of tickets for the opera at the Teatro Civico.” Her voice was cold. “
Aida
. Verdi.”

Trotti had forgotten.

“I”ll expect you here at six, Piero. I hope you’ve got something decent to wear,” Agnese said and hung up.

He put the receiver down slowly and noticed with a strange sense of detachment that his hand was trembling. His entire body was trembling. He smiled to himself—a wry, private smile like that of a child proud of his own naughtiness. Twenty years of marriage and she still was able to make him feel inadequate—a fumbling, gauche adolescent. Even when she left him, when she went away for days on end—even then he could not bring himself to hate her. The lover and the loved; she knew that he was weak and she played upon his weakness. If it hadn’t been for Pioppi, he might have left her—no, he would never leave her. He needed her—like a house needed firm foundations.

Only the foundations were not firm—and the ground, unstable and unreliable, did not need the house. He was still smiling with the bitter aftertaste of grappa, coffee and a rhubarb sweet on his tongue when the phone rang again. He started slightly and thought it must be Agnese. But the flashing light told him it was an internal call.

Gino banged on the wooden partition, “Line number three.”

“Trotti.”

“Commissario, this is vehicle registration. You made an enquiry.”

“That’s right.”

“A Milan number—that’s why we’ve been a bit long. But we’ve got it.” The woman’s voice paused and Trotti could imagine her inhaling on a cigarette. “MI 74220?”

“Yes.”

“A Citroën DS, year of first registration 1972, now belonging
to one Signor Angellini, Stefano, resident in Milan, viale Buenos Aires, number three.”

Trotti smiled. “And his profession?”

“It is given as journalist.”

T
HE SAME OLD
man in the dark suit, his legs bowed, stood in the gateway, staring possessively at the rusting bicycle, a wheel missing, that leaned against the zinc letter boxes. His pale eyes glanced vaguely at Trotti without recognition.

Trotti went into the courtyard. More overalls and large pieces of women’s underwear hung from the parallel clothesline. The cat bounded towards him and then, surprised by its own exuberance, backed off and tried to hide behind the grilles of the balustrade. Trotti knocked at the door.

“Stefano Angellini.”

The woman’s dirty grey eyes looked at him with a mixture of disapproval and fear. She pulled at the nylon dressing gown that hung from her narrow shoulders.

“He’s not here.”

Trotti blocked the door with his foot before she could close it. “Let me in, if you don’t want the place surrounded by police.”

“Why don’t you leave him alone?”

Trotti pushed past her and entered the dark hall, along the worn carpet. He went into the small room. The desk lamp threw its feeble light over a pile of books—it was nearly twelve o’clock—and there was the familiar odor of old sweat and bed sheets. The bed had been made and the room was empty.

The woman pushed past him and switched off the light.

“Where is he?” Trotti asked. A syringe lay on the table.

The woman stood beside an old painting that hung from the wall; a fisherman’s boat drawn up on a beach, the darkening waters of a lake and in the background, alpine snow on the mountains. The frame was a dusty gold.

She shook her head vigorously.

“Where is he?”

“You have no right to come in here. Leave me alone.” Her face, a weathered, pale face, marked with the lines of a hard life, was bitter. Disappointed. She added, more softly, “He is a good boy.”

“Who kidnaps little girls.” Trotti spoke tersely and the woman’s pale face grew paler. She began to sway, the narrow shoulders scraping against the dirty wallpaper.

Trotti moved forward to catch her before she fell; with a brusque movement, she regained control and brushed his hand away.

“Anna Ermagni?” A soft whisper.

Trotti nodded. She slumped down into a wooden chair, placed beneath a plaster cast of the Virgin Mary, a dusty infant in her blue arms. “My God.”

“Where is he?”

She wrung her thin hands together, her head bowed.

“Where is he?”

She shook her head.

“Where?”

“The library,” she mumbled.

“What library?”

“Sant’Antonio.” She paused. “Sant’Antonio di Padova.”

T
HE PIAZZA BETWEEN
the psychiatric hospital and the main part of the college had not been closed to traffic; the parked cars—mainly small Fiats, belonging to the students, no doubt, to judge from the rusty state of their bodywork and the rainbows of adhesive advertisements applied to every available centimeter of window—crowded against the scaffolding. Workmen had been cleaning the front of the college; the gaunt carcass of tubing and planks clung to the crumbling, high walls.

Trotti went up the steps and through the small wooden door in the large gate. He found himself in a small room. A man looked up from a desk, half hidden by a grey telephone exchange.

“The library?”

“Who are you?” the man asked, his eyes running with disapproval over Trotti.

“Pubblica Sicurezza.” He flashed the card.

“Up the stairs.”

Trotti went into the shaded courtyard of the college, past the smooth rounded pillars—they stood in pairs—and the walls of painted ochre. Large patches of damp had caused the plaster to fall away; little piles of powder ran along the edge of the wall. A few students went past, including a girl. She was wearing a blue skirt and looked at him smiling, before returning to her conversation with a young man, his hair neatly brushed and highly polished shoes at the bottom of tight jeans. Together they
looked well-dressed and healthy—only a few years older than Pioppi. They were talking about Montale.

He went up the broad stairway; there were several alcoves with the once-white busts of notables staring sightlessly into the gloom of the stairwell; light came from the cloisters and high in the wall, several narrow windows. Badly cracked marble stairs.

The cloisters on the first floor were identical but protected by a low wall. He walked the length of the cloisters, his feet echoing hollowly on the worn tiling; on the other side of the quadrangle, there was a man in black—a priest, no doubt—walking with his hands behind his back and a look of concentration on his thin, pale face.

B
IBLIOTECA
S
ANT
’A
GOSTINO
, the plastic sign read. Trotti turned the heavy handle, the door opened and he went into the creaking silence of the library. A rubberized linoleum floor of a dark, scored green. High ceiling, the plaster now tawdry and rows of high, glass-plated bookcases, withholding old books.

A man sat at the door; he was reading
Topolino
but the humor of the comic seemed to be lost on him; he wore a green sweater and an unsmiling mouth. He looked up at Trotti and then his eyes traveled to the large crucifix on the far wall.

Angellini was there.

Trotti recognized him at once. He was hidden behind a pile of books, many open and stacked haphazardly on the leather surface of the long desk. He was writing—he was left-handed and his arm was held in a clumsy curve. His pink tongue peeped from between his teeth. His glasses lay upside down on the desktop. A wise but fragile bird, balding and in a world of his own.