The Puppeteer (2 page)

“A new coat of paint, some new chairs—and a new coffee machine.”

“It will lose all its character.”

“Tourists aren’t interested in character.”

A metal-green Mercedes came down the quayside towards the couple. At first, Trotti thought it was a taxi; the windows were tinted a dark grey. The exhaust pipe rattled.

Still holding the woman by the hand, the elderly German stepped backwards to avoid being run over.

The village was coming awake. The mist had vanished and a breeze had come up. In the small port the bare masts had started a rhythmic rocking movement.

“More coffee, Commissario?”

“Still, after all this time—you still call me Commissario?” Trotti shook his head as he held the photograph out for Guerino.

A young man climbed out of the passenger seat of the Mercedes.

The rear propeller of the
Giuseppe Verdi
began churning the water, the hull swung away from the land. Trotti stood up but it was too late. The German woman screamed and Trotti saw the husband turn to look at her in surprise.

The face hidden behind a red scarf. Bent knees, the clasped hands coming up slowly.

A gun, a P38.

Instinctively, Trotti threw himself to the ground. In his hand, he was still holding the photograph. The baby Guerino.

W
URLITZER JUKEBOX
.

Trotti had forgotten about it—an old, chrome-plated machine standing in the corner. He could remember Pioppi as a little girl, pestering him for coins to play her favorite songs: Bobby Solo and Fausto Leali.

His cheek was now pushed hard against the cold metal. Old cigarette stubs lay on the stone floor.

A first explosion—and plaster falling to the ground.

Another shot, then silence. The man had dropped his newspaper and was beside Trotti, behind the tipped-up table. He was crouching. One hand had gone to the waist of his trousers, to the butt of a pistol.

Third explosion.

The woman was still screaming. There was a sound of running feet.

The man did not draw the pistol. His hand was strangely bent, the palm upward. A rasping noise in his throat.

Trotti’s right hand was covered with a widening circle of blood. He moved forwards and peered over the upset table. Coffee had splashed across the floor.

The
Giuseppe Verdi
had cast off and was moving south. Trotti saw the Mercedes going along the lakeside and gathering speed.

Trotti took the man’s gun and he could feel no precise pain
as he climbed to his feet. He fell, got up again and placing his weight on the table, moved unsteadily forward.

Froth at her mouth, the German woman still screamed, her head thrown back. Her husband was trying to quiet her.

Trotti broke into a run.

The Mercedes had reached the end of the Lungolago. Trotti shouted. Red lights flashed as the car braked, took the corner and moved out of Trotti’s line of vision.

Only one road out of Gardesana and the Mercedes would have to take it to get away.

He cut through the cobbled alley. Out of training and getting old. The alley was chill and smelled of cork and old wine. Trotti ran up the incline, leaning forwards, his breath coming with difficulty. He nearly fell when he came out into the main street.

The Mercedes was heading straight for him. Just the brief glimpse of the baker’s boy coming down the hill on his bicycle. No pedestrians, a few cars parked along the via XX Settembre.

The square metallic radiator grill was bearing down on him.

Trotti jumped back into the alley and fell headlong. The side of his head hit the cobbles.

“Are you all right?”

“Look at the number plate.” Trotti clambered to his feet.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Of course I’m bleeding.” Blood ran down the front of his sweater. Trotti looked down and a long, thin string of rheum and blood poured from his mouth.

“You’ve been shot.” The baker’s boy was rooted to the spot. He stood gaping foolishly.

“Get the number.”

“You’ve been shot,” the boy repeated.

Trotti shouted, “Never seen a bleeding nose before?” He began to tremble.

“Get the Carabinieri. Hurry, damn you.”

PC—Piazza. A Piacenza registration.

“Take your bike, will you, and get the Carabinieri.” He took out his wallet. “Look, look—Pubblica Sicurezza. Hurry up.”

A Piacenza number: Trotti had seen the two letters. But not the numbers.

The baker’s boy did not move.

“Hurry!”

Without taking his eyes from Trotti, the boy scrambled on to a heavy bicycle. A few rolls of fresh bread lay scattered on the ground.

“Hurry, damn you.”

The boy stood on the pedal and the bicycle moved away. Looking over his shoulder, he continued to stare at Trotti with gaping mouth.

Trotti walked back to the bar. Blood had started to drip onto his shoes.

“Y
OU KNEW HIM
?”

The office was strangely bare; freshly painted walls, with a discreet crucifix on the far wall, a framed photograph of Pertini, filing cabinets and an immobile electric fan. On the desk, the cup of coffee was growing cold.

“Grappa, Commissario?”

Without waiting for a reply, the Captain produced a label-less bottle from a cupboard. He poured a few drops into the cup. Smiling, he said, “A northern habit.” In the same voice, he repeated his question. “Did you know the victim?” He screwed the cap back on the bottle.

“No.”

“You’d never seen him before?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

In different circumstances, Trotti would have been amused by the man’s slowness.

“But he spoke to you, Commissario.”

“He came into the bar and he said good morning. I merely replied.”

“Ah.” The eyes were very dark and Trotti wondered whether the Carabiniere was as slow as he wished to appear. His name was Mareschini and he spoke with a sluggish, southern accent. A good looking man, still trim and impressive in his dark uniform.
Only a few years from retirement. The white hair was short and brushed back, the firm jaw well-shaven.

“You’ve looked at his documents?”

Trotti frowned. “Documents?”

“His wallet. You’re a policeman, you’re …”

“I had no time to do anything. Your men arrived almost immediately. Very efficient, I must say.”

Mareschini lowered his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.

It was the first time that Trotti had spoken to Mareschini, although he had in the past seen him in the village—drinking white wine at Guerino’s or walking along the Lungolago. They were all the same, the Carabinieri who ended up at Gardesana. A good quiet posting. No crime other than people tipping their garbage into the lake—or the occasional German tourist taking his motor launch beyond the speed limit. An easy job in a quiet village where the well-cut dark uniform could easily impress; a good place to live before returning to the more familiar countryside of Sicily.

“Strange that he should be murdered beside a policeman.” Mareschini smiled slowly.

Trotti shrugged.

“A journalist.” Mareschini looked at Trotti, waiting for his reaction. “A journalist who carried a gun. From his identity card, he would appear to be thirty-seven years old.” A movement of the hands—there were dark hairs running along the edge of the pale skin. “He was thirty-seven years old. Name of Maltese.” He looked up. “Mean anything to you?”

Trotti shook his head and drank the coffee.

“And you’re sure he didn’t speak to you?”

“Have you found the car?”

“A stolen Mercedes.”

“Have you found the man’s vehicle?”

The Carabiniere frowned.

“How do you think this man—Maltese—arrived in Gardesana?” Trotti said.

The policeman nodded. “We’re looking into it, Commissario Trotti—but for the moment, no car has been identified.”

They had let Trotti wash his hands and face, and later a matronly woman—perhaps Mareschini’s wife—had cleaned the caked blood from around his nostrils. The patch of blood on his trousers had dried and turned a sticky black.

“A coincidence, then.” There was irritation in Mareschini’s voice.

“What?” Trotti asked.

“A coincidence that of all the people in Italy, it was beside you—an important and highly respected member of the forces of order, Commissario—that he was shot to death.”

“Yes,” Trotti said. “A coincidence.”

Mareschini stood up, and with his hands behind his back he started pacing backwards and forwards. He kept his eyes on the door. “But perhaps you recognized the man with the gun?”

“No.”

He looked up. “Can you describe him?”

“There were two men—you should ask the tourists from the boat. They were closer, they had a better view.”

“Please describe the murderer, Commissario.”

“Average height, dark hair—and a scarf over his face. That’s all I can remember. I saw the gun—the glint of the sunlight and then the woman began to scream.” He raised his shoulders. “I tried to protect myself.”

“Of course. And how did Maltese react?”

A brief smile. “I didn’t look. I didn’t imagine that it was him they were aiming at.”

Mareschini frowned. “I see.” He rubbed his chin and then came to a halt by the window.

The Carabinieri barracks were new and had been well designed, nestling into the olive groves of the lakeside hills. Through the open window, Trotti saw the descending layers of the rooftops, all a dull terracotta. Beyond them, a hydrofoil was cutting through the water, coming south, leaving a wide, white wake across the lake. Like a wound.

“You believe the assassin was aiming for you, Commissario?”

“I have been fired at before, Capitano. I didn’t stop to ask any questions—at my age, I no longer care to know the answers.
I merely dropped to the ground … and gave myself a bloody nose.”

“The assassin was aiming for you?”

Trotti repressed a sigh. “I don’t know who he was aiming for, but the man, Maltese, was killed with two bullets. One of them must have touched his heart, I think. A professional job, Capitano.” Trotti paused, then added, “He died in my arms.”

“Ah!” Mareschini turned his back on the window and leaned against the sill, the trace of a smile on his lips.

An unimaginative provincial policeman who had probably never seen anything more distressing than a car accident and who was now trying to prove his professionalism. Trying to appear brisk and efficient.

Trotti could feel the dry blood on his trousers.

“And before he died, did this man say anything?”

“Capitano Mareschini, you’ve told me that the Nucleo Investigativo will soon be here from Brescia. I’ve already signed a written statement for you—these are questions that you’ve already asked me. You know the answers. I’m beginning to think that you doubt what I’ve already told you.”

“Commissario, please.” An apologetic movement of the pale hands, and the thin smile. “Please remember that you’re an eyewitness to a killing. A particularly bloody killing—not at all the sort of thing that we’re used to in this little backwater. It’s my duty …”

“The Nucleo Investigativo will be here any minute.”

Mareschini nodded. He took a packet of cigarettes from his tunic pocket and offered it to Trotti, who shook his head. Mareschini carefully lit a cigarette and inhaled the first mouthful of smoke before speaking. “You’re a policeman, Commissario.”

Trotti finished the coffee.

“You’re a policeman and I’m sure you know what it’s like to have a feeling, a sensation that you can’t quite identify but which your experience tells you is important. Something you should take into consideration.”

Trotti’s nod was scarcely perceptible.

“Can I ask you again, Commissario?”

“What?”

“Did Maltese say anything to you? You said he wasn’t dead when you got back to the bar. You held him. You see, I’ve an impression”—again the shrug—“I’ve this impression that you’re withholding something.”

Three bullets. The first had hit the wall. The second had gone through the man’s shoulder. The last had got into his chest, probably the heart. Trotti had seen the blood spurting, spreading further and further across the stones of the terrace. He had seen the face grow pale, he had felt the skin grow cold.

“I’m certain that in your rich experience, you’ve already worked with the Carabinieri. Admittedly here, this is only a small barracks. Not the big city, but …” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes squinted in the blue tobacco smoke.

“I’ve signed my statement. I don’t think I have anything else to add.”

The hydrofoil had lost its speed and was settling down into the blue lake water. In a few seconds it would be alongside the jetty, opposite the Centomiglia.

In a quiet voice, Trotti said, “I arrived just as Guerino brought him a glass of water. He was thirsty—he said he was thirsty but the water ran over his face, he couldn’t drink. We were waiting for the ambulance—people were pushing to see. The German woman was still screaming. And I held him in my arms.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He was afraid of dying—I could see it in his eyes and he gripped my arm. But before he could say anything, the grip weakened.” Trotti looked up at Mareschini and shrugged.

T
ROTTI SHIVERED
.

Night was falling and the electric lamp, in the form of a glass flame, cast its wan light over the War Memorial.

“Goodnight,” Trotti said as he climbed out of the Alfa Romeo. The driver did not reply—perhaps he did not like the Pubblica Sicurezza. Before Trotti had closed the door, the car started on a tight turn, and with the gentle rumble of the exhaust pipe, it disappeared into the via XX Settembre.

The wind had dropped. In the small lakeside port, the boats at anchor scarcely moved; no creaking of hull against hull, the masts were silent. So, too, was the lake, fast losing its somber color as a thin mist rose from the surface.

The Bar Centomiglia was closed. A neon light had been left on and cast a bluish glow over the tables and chairs and over the large stain on the stone slab near the wall.