Death in Tuscany (21 page)

Rita Senesi hadn't phoned. It was time to call her and tell her what had happened.

12

There were so many people in the streets, constantly slowing down the car, that Ferrara asked the driver to let him out in the Via Cavour and walk the rest of the way. He cut through the queue of tourists waiting in line to get into Santa Maria del Fiore, saying,
'Pardon,
excuse me,
bitte, permiso!'
and thinking that he would soon have to learn how to say it in Japanese and perhaps even Chinese, and walked around to the other side of the baptistery like a sailor in a storm-tossed sea of people. Not only were there the crowds to contend with, and the chaos in marked contrast to the harmonious lines of Giotto and Brunelleschi's architecture, there was also the stench from the horseshit deposited by the animals pulling the carriages, a stench made all the worse by the heat.

He crossed the Piazza della Republica to the Via degli Strozzi and he could not resist a glance in passing at Giambologna's grim little devil at the corner of the Via dei Vecchietti. He wondered if that devil, too, felt lost in the middle of all the crowds. Perhaps he was the one who had summoned them, and was now thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.

The building in the Via della Vigna Nuova was as imposing, solid and aristocratic as the street itself - today the heart

and drawing room of the city - one of the two streets, the other being the Via della Vigna Vecchia, which Ludovico de' Medici, lover of good wine and good food, had named after the vines in 1477.

The caretaker, a fat man made haggard by the heat, must have left the jacket of his uniform in his lodge and was idling in shirtsleeves beside the front door, looking vaguely dazed. He didn't even ask for Ferrara's name, just told him which floor to go to.

The lift was a heavy black iron structure which squeaked as it ascended. It smelt of wood, and had an ornate interior, with a small bench upholstered in red velvet. The velvet was frayed, which seemed to Ferrara to complement the slowness with which the lift moved.

A black man in white livery opened the door, and led him into an elegant air-conditioned drawing room. The furniture was antique, some of it English and some of it nineteenth-century Florentine. Big mirrors on the walls displayed the reflected images of old master paintings, mostly landscapes and religious subjects.

'Very punctual, Chief Superintendent, please sit down!' the contessa said in greeting, dismissing the servant with a slight gesture of the hand. He was immediately replaced by a woman in a white starched cap and apron, with olive skin and oriental features, carrying cups, teapot and cakes on a silver tray, which she placed on a large glass table next to the sofa.

'You're just in time!' the contessa continued as the maid poured the pleasantly spicy infusion in the cups and withdrew without a word. 'I hate having tea alone
...
Or perhaps you'd prefer coffee?'

'Tea will do very nicely, thank you, Contessa.'

He remembered her well. She was tiny, angular, and very pale: a pallor her discreet make-up could not quite conceal. Her vaguely blue-tinted hair was perfectly groomed, as if she had just come from the hairdresser. She was wearing a light silk dress and a few discreet jewels which betrayed her elevated rank without shouting it to the rooftops.

'I hope these cakes are to your taste, Chief Superintendent. They're from Sicily'

Her manner was coquettish, and her eyes sparkled.

'Very much so.'

'Please help yourself, Chief Superintendent. It's always a pleasure to be with civilised people, and that happens more and more rarely, don't you find? I go out less and less. I'm sometimes invited to social events, but I find them increasingly boring and pointless. Things aren't the way they used to be. We live in an ugly world, and it'll get worse, take it from someone who went everywhere for as long as I could, when my poor husband was alive. The ugliness is increasing. You're not safe within your own four walls any more, I think you know what I'm referring to . . .'

'Yes, of course.'

'It's a shock, I can tell you that, to discover that strangers have been rummaging among your things, not to mention the damage . . . You don't know how much I miss those folding kidskin fans! They were part of my life, a rare collection, an heirloom, did you know that?'

'Yes, Contessa, you told us when you reported the theft.'

'Of course, it's just that it rankles with me so much
...
By the way, is there any news?'

'Still nothing - but we're working on it. They must be having problems offloading them. We'll get them sooner or later, don't worry'

'Do you think so?'

'With that kind of robbery, unless it's been carried out on commission, the thief usually has a great deal of difficulty selling the stolen goods.'

'Let's hope it's as you say, Chief Superintendent, and that you manage to get them back. I'd be so grateful! But you haven't come here to listen to me grumbling. So tell me, to what do I owe this pleasant visit? Mind you, I think I can guess.'

'I'm sure you can, Contessa. I'd like to continue where my secretary left off.'

'If possible. I think I told him everything, though . . . What a nice young man!'

'Did you know Ugo and Simonetta Palladiani well?'

'Fairly well. We didn't see each other socially, if that's what you mean, but I've been living in this building since I was born and the Palladianis have always been our neighbours.'

'So you knew Ugo when he was born?'

'Practically, yes.'

'What kind of man was he?'

'A tearaway, I'd say. A handsome child who became a handsome but spoilt teenager. Then a handsome adult, but still spoilt! Expensive cars, girls, all that kind of thing.' She chuckled. 'When he was young and when he wasn't so young.'

A rich man's life, in other words. Did they have a lot of money?'

'The family, yes, but when Folco, the father, died, he left them rather badly off. Ugo took over the business, not very successfully. He never lacked for anything, though, I can assure you of that.'

'He seems to have had rather a lot of ups and downs before he started his PR company'

'Not in his social life, though. Endless parties and expensive dinners. And what's PR, anyway? Is that a serious profession? You tell me
..."

Ferrara ignored the remark. 'As far as you know, is his second wife rich?'

'Who, Miss Forte dei Marmi?' the contessa exclaimed immediately, and laughed. 'Come on, Chief Superintendent! A nobody who likes to think she's a somebody. Pretty, yes, he always liked them pretty! But rich, no! The classic cover girl who marries an aging man. Someone without a name . . . Tonelli or something like that, just imagine! A drunken father, a miner or something, over in those parts, where the marble quarries are, you know? No, no, Ugo Palladiani never had a cent from her. Quite the contrary, trust me!'

And yet he miraculously recovered from a serious financial crisis when his clothes business failed.'

Tm sorry, Chief Superintendent, but I couldn't tell you anything about that, apart from the fact that I was as surprised as you are. Someone, I can't remember who, said he must have had help from somebody, but no one ever knew who or why. At least I never did

She did, however, seem an unusually well-informed woman. He wouldn't have used the word 'gossip', only out of respect for her title and age, but he certainly thought it.

Who might know?'

‘I’d tell you if I could, but believe me . . .'

If I don't know, then I don't hold out much hope for you
was the clear message. But that didn't rule out - in fact, it reinforced - the idea that he had been helped by loan sharks.

'Contessa,' he said, standing up, 'I shan't bother you any longer. Thank you for your hospitality.'

'Oh, nonsense. It's been a pleasure. Come back whenever you like. I always like having visitors.'

She rang a little silver bell to summon the maid.

'Jacqueline, show the Chief Superintendent out. Goodbye, give my regards to the Commissioner . . . and don't forget those fans!'

'Don't worry' he said as he walked away.

The same thing he'd said to Rita Senesi.

Back out in the street, Ferrara was hit by the hot wind that was beating down on the city without bringing any relief.

He switched on his mobile. There was a text message from Rizzo, telling him he'd be back in the office the next day.

The only good news he'd had all day. He would delegate the Stella case to Rizzo, and devote himself body and soul to the search for Massimo, which meant to the murder in Marina di Pietrasanta, and he didn't care if it was within the Carabinieri's jurisdiction or not.

He decided to return home.

As he walked in, he heard the sound of a saxophone in the background, and recognised Billie Holiday's recording of 'The Man I Love'. Petra often played Billie Holiday to relax when she had a lot on her mind.

They didn't say much to each other that evening. She only had to look at his face to know that there was no news.

After a cold dinner of ham and cheese, eaten quickly, Ferrara sat down at his desk to have a last look at the Stella file before he passed it on to Rizzo the next day. Keeping himself busy was the only way to exorcise, for however short a time, the spectre of his friend's absence, which hung in the air, making the apartment feel cramped and inhospitable.

He had written a memo headed
For Francesco Rizzo,
summarising the case to date and listing suggestions as to the direction he thought the investigation should take, and was now studying the report on Freemasonry, when his work mobile rang.

'Is that you, Chief Superintendent? I'm sorry to call you so late.'