Liar Moon (2 page)

“Without a shoe, and crazy, too,” he mumbled to himself. “
Marasantissima.
”

Guidi had started pencilling lines on a topographic map tacked to his office wall. In a wide semicircle that began and ended at the river, fanning out from its right bank, he enclosed the stretch of flat countryside they had searched the night before. It seemed much larger when one had to slog across it, he thought.

Past the river, long and narrow fields, now mostly bare, ran to the guerrilla-torn piedmont, home to partisan bands. Guidi knew there were no farmhouses there to offer shelter to a fugitive – only fields, and irrigation canals bordering them and intersecting with deep ditches alongside endless hedgerows. His instinct told him he should continue to search this side of the river. Guidi marked with a dot the place where the shoe had been found, nearly halfway between Lago and Sagràte, where groves of willow trees flanked the county road.

“Let’s give the men a chance to rest until tomorrow,” he told Turco. “Then we’ll see what else can be done. The
carabinieri
assured me they’ll continue the search on their own until sundown.” Guidi nearly laughed saying it, because Turco (who was far from daft, but loved theatrics) stared at the muddy shoe as though he could stare it into giving information.

 

As for Bora, he sighed deeply to conceal his boredom at De Rosa’s narrative. Because the talk gave no sign of ending, “Colonel Habermehl is surely aware that I’m very busy,” Bora interjected at last. “I have no free time.”

In front of him, Habermehl’s letter agreed that it was all a bother, but advised him to please the Verona Fascists. Bora knew the arguments by heart: this was northern Italy, four years into the war, and the Italian allies had become potential enemies. The Americans had landed in Salerno and were inching up the peninsula. Why not please the Verona Fascists, who remained pro-German? Habermehl asked “as a family friend, not out of rank”. But the rank was there, of course, and Bora knew better than to fall for the outward courtesy.

“Look,” he told De Rosa. “If you wish me to get involved in this case, you must supply me with all information gathered by the Italian police and
carabinieri
to date. When did the murder take place?”

De Rosa frowned. “Day before yesterday. Didn’t you read it in the
Arena
? It was the most important piece of news, it took up nearly the whole front page.”

Bora had spent all day Friday at the hospital in Verona, where the surgeon was still extracting shrapnel from his left leg. He’d had neither the time nor the inclination to read the Italian newspapers. “I must not have paid attention,” he said.

Promptly De Rosa pulled out a newspaper clipping, laying it square on the desk in front of Bora.

Bora read. “Here it says that
Camerata
Vittorio Lisi was the victim of a stroke in his country villa.”

“Well.” De Rosa gave him an unamused smile, a grimace really. “You understand that when it comes to a man of Lisi’s fame and valour, the public must be kept from scandals. Lisi was from Verona. All knew him, all loved him.”

“All but one person at least, if he’s been done in.” Bora gave back the clipping, which De Rosa carefully folded again but left on the desk. “What chances are there that it was a political assassination?”

“None, Major Bora. Lisi was not a controversial man. Solid, with a heart of gold.”

“I’m not aware that partisans or political adversaries would be impressed by a Fascist’s golden heart.”

De Rosa’s grimace caused the well-combed caterpillar on his upper lip to tremble. “With all respect, Major, I know the political climate of the region better than you do. I assure you it is
Fascistissimo
.”

Bora was tempted to phone Habermehl with an excuse to avoid the incestuous little world of local politics. His urge might have been visible, because De Rosa spoke up.

“Colonel Habermehl informs me that you have already solved difficult cases.”

“By accident.” Bora minimized the report. “Always by accident.”

“Not according to the colonel. He says you distinguished yourself in the case of a murder in Spain, and of a dead nun in Poland. And in Russia…”

The silvery skulls on De Rosa’s uniform glinted dully. The angry eagle clutching a
fascio
on his chest pocket, and the fanaticism it stood for, was beginning to annoy Bora. He said, “All right. Tell me all that is known about Lisi’s death, and provide me with the dossier as soon as possible.”

“May I at least sit down?” De Rosa asked tartly.

“Sit down.”

 

On that Sunday, Guidi’s mother was shelling peas into a colander set on her knees, rolling them out of their green casing with swift, hooked strokes of the thumb. These were the last peas of the season; it was amazing how they’d managed to ripen despite the cold nights. But how well they went with pasta sauce, and how Sandro liked them!

Near the kitchen door, she could now barely make out the voices of the men talking in the parlour. Her son had a soft voice as it was. Only a few of the words he spoke to the German were comprehensible to her, and as for the German, he was even more controlled in his speech.
Signora
Guidi was curious, but sat shelling peas with the offended dignity of the excluded.

Bora was saying, “No, thank you, I’m in a hurry.”

Having refused to take a seat, he stood rigidly by the set dining-room table, opposite a mirrored credenza. On the credenza sat the black-ribboned photograph of Guidi’s policeman father, with the date 1924 penned at the bottom, preceded by a cross.

“That’s what De Rosa said, Guidi. And although he came under some pretence of secrecy, God knows why, he did not expressly forbid me to talk it over with others, so here I am.”

Compared to Bora’s impeccable German uniform, Guidi grew aware of his shirt-sleeved frumpiness, perhaps because Bora seemed to be appraising him. He could feel the scrutiny of his own unprepossessing lankiness, his melancholy features drawn under the limp, swept-back wave of his sandy hair. Bora, on the other hand, looked like steel and leather and immaculate cuffs.

Perhaps he ought to feel flattered by the visit. “Major,” Guidi said, “is it proven that Lisi’s death was not an accident, first of all?”

“It seems so. His wife’s sports car has a sizeable dent in the front fender. De Rosa is convinced it resulted from her purposely running into Lisi’s wheelchair. As I said, it happened in the grounds of the victim’s country place. Unlikely that he was struck by a passing motorist.”

Absent-mindedly Guidi nodded. From the kitchen wafted the odour of frying onions, so he went to shut the door. “Are they keeping the widow under surveillance?”

“Virtually house arrest.”

“In the country?”

“No, she lives in Verona.” Without stepping forward, Bora handed over a slim folder tied with a rubber band. “These are the notes I took after De Rosa’s visit.”

While Guidi read, Bora took off his cap and placed it under his left arm. Italian officials made little money, he knew. Dated furniture, old school books lovingly arranged on the shelf, a rug brushed threadbare. The punctilious modesty of this room spoke of the ever-losing struggle of the middle class to keep respectable. More importantly, it might speak of Guidi’s honesty.

From the credenza’s mirror, unbidden, the stern clarity of his own eyes met Bora. The finely drawn paleness of the face his wife called handsome looked to him new and hard, as if Russia and pain had killed him and made him into another. He took a step aside to avoid his reflection.

Guidi said, “We’ll need the physician’s report and autopsy.”

“I requested them.”

From where he faced now, Bora noticed how the photograph of Guidi’s father occupied the centre of an embroidered doily, between two vases filled with artificial flowers. A regular home altar, complete with lit taper. Memory of his younger brother’s death hit him squarely (Kursk, only a few months ago, the crash site in the field of sunflowers, blood lining the cockpit), so that Bora moodily looked down.

“When the housemaid came out after hearing the noise, the victim had been thrown several paces from his wheelchair. According to De Rosa, Lisi had only enough strength left in his arm to trace a ‘C’ on the gravel, and
then lost consciousness. He had already slipped into a coma when help came, and was dead in less than twenty-four hours’ time.”

Guidi closed the folder. “I don’t see how this detail particularly relates to his wife.”

“Her name is Clara.”

“Ah. But even then, it all remains circumstantial. Were there problems in the Lisi marriage?”

Bora stared at him. “They were living apart, and their separation had been unfriendly. Apparently there were still occasional violent arguments between them. Naturally the widow denies all accusations, and insists she had nothing to do with the matter, although she was reportedly unable to offer an alibi for the afternoon of the killing. Without an eyewitness, there’s no way of knowing whether she drove to the country on that day or not. Whoever killed Lisi, though, arrived and left again within a few minutes.”

Noise from the kitchen intruded. Guidi stole a look to the door, embarrassed that his mother was banging pots and covers as a not-so-subtle hint that lunch was ready. Bora’s dark army crop moved imperceptibly in that direction.

“Well, Major, I have to think about it—”

Bora interrupted him.

“What do you intend by ‘thinking’? That you haven’t decided whether you’ll collaborate with me, or that you need time before offering me suggestions?”

“I need to think of a plan of action. I’ll phone you at the command post this evening.”

Bora, who had scheduled an anti-partisan night raid and would not be at the post, nevertheless said it was fine.

Over the occasional banging of pots, “We’re agreed, then.” Guidi rushed to say, “What I meant to pass on, Major, is that an escaped convict is at large between Lago and Sagràte.”

Unexpectedly Bora smirked. “Why, thank you. We’ll lock our doors at night.”

“He was diagnosed by Italian army physicians as criminally insane, and carries a marksman Carcano besides.”

“6.5 or 7.35 mm calibre?”

“8 mm.”

Bora frowned. “Ah. Those made for the Russian campaign. They have a brutal recoil. Well, for us it’s just one more bullet to dodge, Guidi.”

“I did my civic duty by informing the German authorities.”

After a particularly syncopated rattle of cooking pots, the kitchen became peaceful again. Guidi breathed easily. “Did De Rosa tell you why they want to keep the murder a secret?”

Bora openly grinned this time. “For the same reason why there are no more suicides in Fascist Italy, and people just happen to stumble on the tracks while there’s an oncoming train. Perhaps there are no murders in Fascist Italy, either. It seems Lisi was of some importance. A
comrade of the first hour
, in Mussolini’s words.” Bora swept his army cap from under his arm and put it on, taking a rigid step toward the door. “Colonel Habermehl recommended my name to the Republican Guard because of what he terms
my part
in solving other small matters. It’s only natural I should contact you, since you are the professional in the field.” He opened the door, through which a field-grey BMW was visible, with driver waiting
at attention. “My apologies to your mother for delaying your holiday meal. Goodbye.”

Guidi waited until the army car left the kerb before calling out to his mother. “He’s gone, Ma.” Because she did not answer, he opened the kitchen door and peered in. “He left.”

His mother had taken her apron off and was wearing her good shoes. “Gone? Why didn’t you ask him to stay for lunch?”

“I thought you didn’t want the likes of him in the house, Ma.”

“Honestly, Sandro! Now God knows what he’s going to think about us Italians, that we didn’t even invite him to lunch.”

 

The shot had been fired from a distance, but even so the shutterless window of the hut had been shattered. Bits and wedges of glass spread a kaleidoscope of reflections as Guidi leaned over to examine them. Through the empty window frame, from inside, one of his men handed him the deformed bullet he’d just pried out of the wall.

It seemed the slug had missed the farmer’s head by a hair’s breath, and only because he’d happened to turn his face away from the raw wind while hauling wood. Now he nervously stood behind Guidi with hands driven deep in his pockets.

“Happened yesterday while I was cutting firewood, Inspector,” he explained. “But I couldn’t walk back three miles to Sagràte to give you the news right away. See, here’s the axe as I left it. I just turn my face a moment, and the bullet flies right past me. First thing I think is,
‘It must be the goddamn Germans,’ because I’ve seen them patrolling the fields for the past week. Quick-like, I throw myself on the ground and wait a good ten minutes before getting up again. No German shows up, and since it’s getting dark, I crawl indoors and wait wide awake until daytime. By this much, Inspector, it missed me! I haven’t been this scared since the Great War.”

Guidi only half-listened. He fingered the bullet he’d slipped into his coat’s pocket, alongside the daily sandwich his mother had stuffed in there. By now the marksman could be anywhere. Unless, of course, he was even now framing his head in the rifle sight from behind a distant hedgerow. Automatically, Guidi hunched his shoulders. It was windy, all right, but dry and without any snow. Trails would be hard to follow.

In order to calculate the direction of the shot, Guidi stood with his back to the hut and faced the pencil-thin poplars studding the edge of the farmland. Down there, Corporal Turco rummaged in the brushwood, bareheaded, with the fatalistic courage of the Sicilian race that centuries of oppression had inured to do what must be done in a near-stolid way.

Guidi sniffed the odourless wind. The army dogs kept at the German command in Lago might come useful, he thought. Since Bora had not offered them, he had to be asked – if he was willing to spare the soldier who went with the dogs.