The Puppeteer (12 page)

“You forget that I’m the little girl’s godfather.”

“You should come and see us more often. Why don’t you come for a meal—come on Sunday and Netta will cook something special.”

Trotti laughed.

“What do you say, Commissario? We’d love to see you.” Then with one hand on the steering wheel, he turned on the roof light and fumbled with a leather wallet. He extracted from it a photograph that he handed to Trotti. “Torre a Mare,” he said.

The white, flat buildings of the countryside around Bari—Trotti could almost smell the tang of the Adriatic and see the sun glinting on the rocky beaches. There was Anna—she had grown taller, had filled out and was already an adolescent. The fringe had disappeared—her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She stood in front of her father and stepmother. Simonetta was holding a baby in her arms.

The driver said with pride, “You know that we called the little boy Piero?”

They turned into via Milan and Trotti closed his eyes. “Piero,” he repeated.

The car stopped.

It was late and there were no lights on in the house.

“You must come in for a drink.”

“Another time, Commissario. Pistone comes on in another half-hour and I’ve got to be back. Netta doesn’t like it when I’m not back on time. But perhaps during the week—or better still, you come and visit us. Bring Pioppi and the signora.”

He helped Trotti out of the car.

“And anyway, I don’t drink now—not outside meals. Haven’t touched anything other than the glass of wine for over three years.”

“Come in for a quick cup of coffee—strong and sweet as you like it.”

“Another time, Commissario.”

Trotti put his hand into his pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

The other man shook his head. “How much do I owe the man who helped me when I needed help?”

T
HE BOOKS OF
urban architecture had been left open on the kitchen table. An empty glass stood in the sink. Trotti picked it up and smelled it. Mineral water.

Through the bedroom door came the regular fall of Pioppi’s breathing. The myopic teddy bear stared down from where he was perched on the top of the wardrobe. The glass eyes were dusty.

Trotti entered his own bedroom and undressed. Then he showered, cleaned his teeth and looked at the jagged edge of the broken tooth the mirror. He gently touched at his bruises; they were still ugly and dark but the pain had considerably lessened.

Commissario Trotti went to bed.

No sound of traffic from the road. No sooner had he closed his eyes than he could feel himself falling asleep. Even the gentle throbbing in his ribs could not keep him awake.

The phone rang.

He awoke with a grunt, and the stiffness returned to his body. It required a considerable physical effort to reach out for the phone. A quarter past three—the hands of the clock took on a thick, luminous glow.

Early evening in New York.

He pulled the telephone towards his ear. “Agnese?”

“Commissario Trotti?”

“Who’s speaking?”

“Commissario Trotti?” It was a voice he had heard somewhere before. “You are an intelligent man.”

“What d’you want?”

“And a happy man. You have got all you want. Please don’t spoil everything.”

The sleep drained from his eyes and from his body. “What do you want?”

“It’s not what I want.” An educated voice, lisping slightly. A voice from the past. “It’s what you want that’s important.”

“What d’you want?” Trotti repeated and he could hear his own stupidity.

“Forget Ramoverde, Trotti—he’s not important. But your job is important. Your job and your family. Forget you ever met Ramoverde. He’s insignificant. And he’s dead.” A friendly voice, giving friendly advice. “Do I make myself understood?”

Trotti was silent.

“Ramoverde is dead.” For an instant the voice laughed. “But for the time being you are still alive.” A friendly, bantering laugh. Then the man hung up.

P
ISANELLI DROVE, HIS
shoulders hunched over the wheel and his eyes squinting against the sunlight.

They went over the bridge, then skirted the center of Piacenza, taking the road up into the hills. After a while, the buildings and factories fell behind them. It was a good road. The apple and cherry trees were in blossom.

“An aerial over there, Commissario.”

They had turned off the main road at Castello Piacentino and after a few kilometers of winding turns, they found the unsurfaced track.

“Park here,” Trotti said.

His ribs hurt less but he was grateful for Pisanelli’s help. Together they walked along the track until they came to a farmhouse. It was pretty, a stone building with brightly painted woodwork and flowerpots set along the ground. Geese fluttered across the open courtyard. Cow dung lay on the ground.

“A place like this that you’ll retire to, Commissario?” Pisanelli had lost his look of harried concentration. Perhaps it was the effect of the clean air of the hills. Amusement formed wrinkles at the edge of his eyes.

“A few years to go before I retire.”

There was a jeep—a Fiat Campagnola—standing near the farmhouse door. Men materialized from the building and the adjacent stables. A horse neighed somewhere. A man—he
was wearing camouflage fatigue and a beret pulled down on one side of his face—came running towards Trotti. He carried a machine gun. His right hand kept the muzzle pointing towards the ground. With the other hand, he saluted.

“Commissario Trotti?” He smiled briefly at Trotti then glanced at Pisanelli.

“Pisanelli,” Trotti said. “He’s here to help me.”

For some reason, Pisanelli blushed. He lowered his face, then fell into step behind Trotti and the man who led them to the door of the farmhouse. He did not knock. He lifted the heavy latch.

“So at last you’ve got here, Trotti.”

Spadano was sitting behind a wooden table. Beside him were two other men in uniform. They looked up, but neither smiled. The air smelled of cigar smoke.

“We’ve located your Sardinians.”

They shook hands hurriedly. The tip of the cigar glowed in the poor light of the farmhouse. Spadano did not introduce the other men. He gestured for Trotti and Pisanelli to sit down. A bottle of red wine stood on the table.

“My Sardinians?”

“Or perhaps you’re not interested in who murdered Maltese. And who beat you up.”

“What’s Maltese got to do with you?” Trotti frowned. “I thought you were in the city, Spadano.”

“And I thought you were going to take a well-deserved rest—but instead you choose to get shot at.” He grinned. He looked alert and his uniform was freshly pressed.

Trotti wondered how long he had been up here in the hills.

“Care for some wine, Trotti?”

Trotti shook his head.

Spadano was still smiling. “You forget that this is a Carabinieri enquiry.”

“This?”

“Maltese was sitting next to you when he was murdered—but Gardesana is under Carabinieri jurisdiction.”

“So nice to see the Carabinieri willing to collaborate with the Pubblica Sicurezza.”

“I’m not collaborating with the Pubblica Sicurezza.” The smile had vanished. “You know what I think of the PS.”

“Then why invite me out on a country excursion?” Trotti added, “To a place where neither you nor I belong. This is Piacenza.”

“Trotti, you and I can work together. I trust you.”

“Work together at what, Capitano?”

“It’s possible that we’re both dealing with the same thing.”

“What?”

“Dealing with organized crime, Trotti. Both you and me—and it would make things a lot easier if we could pool our information.”

Trotti shook his head, not understanding.

“Trotti, you know what I think of a lot of your colleagues. But I’m not always very keen on mine either. And I don’t like the way that some of our own people refuse to share information—particularly when sharing information can mean saving time.” He took the cigar from his mouth. “Their names are Uras and Suergiu. Sardinians. Small-time criminals from Orgosolo in Nuoro province. Shepherds who’ve been driven out of Sardinia by lack of work. They have records for kidnapping in Sardinia. Then robbery with violence on the mainland. Stupid, but tough and reliable. But what’s interesting—”

“And you think you found them?”

“What’s interesting is why they’re involved in the first place. Not planners or organizers. And not marksmen. They’re the sort of people who work with sawn-off rifles—not with guns.”

“So?”

“Sure you don’t care for some wine, Trotti?”

Trotti shook his head.

“And your friend?”

Pisanelli had his eyes on the bottle but Trotti shook his head. “We try not to drink on duty in the PS.”

“Highly commendable.” Spadano poured a thumb’s worth of red wine into his glass and an equal amount into the glasses of the two officers.

He removed the cigar from his mouth while he drank.

“What makes you think that these Sardinians …”

“Suergiu and Uras.”

“What makes you so sure that they were involved in Maltese’s death?”

There came the soft crackle of static from a radio that had been set down near the window. From the aerial socket, a thick cable ran across the floor towards the open window.

Spadano replaced the cigar in his mouth.

“And how did you locate them?”

“You underestimate the Carabinieri, Trotti. Of course, we are unimaginative Southerners—but at least we have the merit of doggedness. We plod away at things. And these days we’ve got computers to help our slow, southern brains. So you won’t be too surprised to learn that it didn’t take Nucleo Investigativo very long to identify the murder weapon.”

“Murder weapon?”

“Which killed Maltese.”

“And?”

“A P38.”

“Which is precisely what I told Capitano Mareschini.”

Spadano held up his palms. “Nobody is criticizing you, Trotti.”

“But is it to state the obvious that you have asked me to drive the sixty kilometers to this place? Or was it to taste the local wine?”

“I want to collaborate—but there are people—Mareschini among others—who feel that your attitude towards us is cavalier.”

“Spadano, a man died in my arms—and I’m still not certain that it was him the killers were aiming at. Forgive me if I get impatient when a captain of the Carabinieri wants to play the amateur detective before he goes into retirement.”

Spadano smiled slightly behind the cigar.

“Where are these Sardinians?”

“Perhaps you ought to have been informed, Trotti—but there again, Nucleo Investigativo knows that you’re no longer involved.” The smile disappeared. “The same gun that was
used to kill Maltese was used in the robbery at the Banca San Matteo.”

For an instant, Trotti was silent. “That doesn’t make sense.”

The door opened.

Spadano turned to face a young man in fatigues. His face was covered with black grease and in one hand he held a walkie-talkie.

“Movement in the house, Capitano.”

“What sort of movement?” Spadano glanced at his watch.

“The door’s been opened.”

“Anyone come out?”

The man shook his head.

Spadano gave Trotti a brief grin, looked again at his watch. “Then I think it’s time we moved in.”

T
HE BUILDING STOOD
at the bottom of the valley.

To either side there were empty fields of pasture which as they rose up the side of the valley became dry bracken and bush.

A Carabiniere in camouflage was lying in the grass. He had a machine gun lined up on the door of the house. Spadano crouched down easily beside him. Pisanelli helped Trotti lower himself onto the grass.

“Keep your head low.”

No movement in the valley.

The house looked deserted, the sort of place where a shepherd could live during the summer months of pasture. Along the roof—tiles that had already begun to cave in, revealing wooden rafters—birds moved backwards and forwards. From time to time, one would fly away, flutter, hover and then return to the point of departure.

Spadano took the man’s walkie-talkie and spoke into it.

A figure ran out from the trees where he had been concealed. He ran fast, doubled over. In his right hand, he carried a lightweight rifle. He headed for the house, reached it midway along the wall, and stopped with his shoulders against the bricks.

He wore a mask that covered his face.

It was late afternoon and the sun was beginning to move behind the hill.

The man was joined by three more Carabinieri. They did not speak to each other but communicated with fast hand signals. Then the first man, moving stealthily, approached the open door. The others went to either side of the open window.

More men ran across the grass.

A thud and Trotti felt a fear in the pit of the stomach. A sound that he recognized, that brought back memories.

Two more dull explosions, then from where they were hiding, Trotti and Pisanelli saw smoke that started to curl out of the window.

Spadano said softly, “Let’s go.”

Trotti tried to run. He followed Spadano and Pisanelli helped him, careful to stay on the left of the machine gunner’s line of fire, should the man decide to pull the trigger.

There was nobody to fire at.

Pisanelli grinned, but there was sweat along his forehead.

By the time the three men reached the building, the action was over.

The Carabinieri had pulled off their masks and they stood, with their rifles pointing at the ground, waiting for orders.

They cast long shadows on the grass.

“Where the hell are they?” Spadano was angry.

One of the men shook his head.

Spadano looked inside the building, pushing at the rotten door.

Eddies of tear gas billowed outwards, caught in the draught and he coughed.

“They must have moved out.”

Spadano gave the man a withering glance and lit a cigar.

Nobody had noticed the man.

He stood on the edge of the field, a man in black trousers that came down as far as his ankles and his muddy, peasant boots. In one hand he held a scythe; with the other he shaded his eyes against the western sun.