The Puppeteer (31 page)

“You don’t like Pergola, do you, Commissario?”

“Pergola is a courageous man. He came to see me and he knew that the bullets in his leg had been a warning. A warning from the mafia that calls itself a masonic lodge. He knew that Novara had been killed in Paris and that Maltese was murdered here on the lake. But despite that, he had the courage to come and see me—in the Questura—and tell me what he knew. I can admire that.”

“But you don’t like him.”

Trotti removed the cigarette from his mouth. “It’s not a policeman’s job to like or dislike.”

“You never answer my questions.”

“What d’you want me to say?” Before Magagna could speak, Trotti continued, “The robbery at the Banca San Matteo was just a way of veiling the threat. Pergola realized that—and so did the Sardinians.”

“Sardinians?”

“Uras and Suergiu—the two men who beat me up. They thought I was the journalist who was going to pay them for their confessions. They were in Gardesana and they saw Maltese get killed. That’s why they followed me—they wanted the money that Maltese was going to give them for their confessions.”

“What confessions?”

“They took part in the robbery at the Banca San Matteo—but
when they got only a fraction of the money they’d been promised, they realized they’d been cheated. And they realized that they’d been used. They were working with professional killers—the same gun used on Pergola killed Maltese—and almost killed me.”

“We don’t want to lose you, Commissario.”

Trotti dropped the cigarette stub to the deck and ground it out.

“They knew Dell’Orto and they contacted him.” Trotti shook his head. “This was all in Maltese’s papers.”

The
Giuseppe Verdi
hooted and slowly approached the small port of Sirmione.

“They knew that there was something odd about the shooting and they thought they could make some money. Dell’Orto told Maltese and I can only assume that in addition to paying for the stolen money he must have offered them extra cash. And they probably thought that cash was coming from me.”

“But how did they know that Maltese was driving up to the lake to meet you?”

“Dell’Orto.”

Magagna shook his head.

“Dell’Orto told them. And they saw me with him and then they saw him get killed. They were probably in one of the parked cars along the quayside. And so they felt cheated—and they hoped to retrieve their five hundred thousand lire.”

“And give you a few bruises.”

“And a broken tooth.” He ran his tongue along the jagged edge of the tooth. “But they’ve paid for all that.”

“Paid—or were made to pay.”

“It was a mafia killing.” Trotti smiled. “You know, Spadano phoned me this morning to say I could pick up the Opel.”

“You could drive a car that’s had two corpses in the trunk?”

Trotti shrugged. “They didn’t deserve to die—but to the southern way of thinking, they’d betrayed their word. Omertà. Instead of cutting out their tongues, the killers chopped their hands off. Grisly.”

“And not very easy.”

“You can understand Dell’Orto. He believed in freemasonry.
When he was a young man, it was an alternative to fascism—something in the place of fascist philosophy. Something better in the place of fascism. And then to see Baldassare—an upstart, not a doctor or a lawyer but somebody who had probably bought all his architectural diplomas—to see a man like that taking the P-Beta and transforming it into his own power-base, transforming it into a means of holding some of the best men of this nation to ransom … it shocked and disgusted him. And making use of the mafia, making use of hired killers to do his dirty work—that is what Dell’Orto was fighting against. It’s what he’d been fighting ever since the Gran Maestro had put Baldassare into the P-Beta. Dell’Orto knew that when Maltese was murdered, he was defeated. He knew that there was nothing he could do about Baldassare or the P-Beta.”

“He could have told you the truth.”

“You remember Gracchi, Magagna?”

Magagna ran his finger along the line of his mustache. “Guerra’s old boyfriend? The middle-class terrorist.”

“Middle-class terrorist perhaps, but I remember when we caught him—I think you were with me. We caught him and he started ranting and raving, and accusing us of being in the pay of the fascist state—all that revolutionary stuff. And he seemed to believe it. I found him pathetic. If he’d been my own son, I think I would have slapped him and told him to grow up. But there was something he said—about violence being a trap and that we’re all caught up in it. I couldn’t help thinking about Gracchi when I was reading through Maltese’s notes—his notes on P-Beta and what it had done. How, with his friends, Baldassare had encouraged terrorism, the bombs on the
Italicus
, and the whole philosophy of the strategy of tension.”

“You’re not suggesting that P-Beta has been responsible for the years of violence?”

“P-Beta may not have been the sole cause—but it has its share of responsibility. Forty years ago, Baldassare sought power by dressing up in a black shirt and leading SS columns to the partisans in the Po valley. He learned his lesson. Power in Italy now resides elsewhere. Not in Parliament, not in a democracy but in
the submerged state—and perhaps Gracchi wasn’t so far off the mark when he accused us of being accomplices.” Trotti gave a thin smile. “Unwitting accomplices—but accomplices all the same.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Do?”

“Baldassare directly or indirectly was behind the death of Maltese—what d’you intend to do?” A shrug of the broad shoulders. “A dangerous and powerful man … and you slap him around, accuse him of playing with your daughter and her emotions.”

Trotti said, “Pioppi wanted to bring her urbanistica books with her.”

“What are you going to do, Commissario?”

He said nothing.

“You’re scared?”

“You don’t understand, Magagna. Baldassare uses the mafia—but he’s not a mafioso. He’s not going to have me thrown into the Po just because I tipped his books on to the floor. In his way, I doubt if he could care less—and he’s not going to send some psychopath to do knife-work on my skin.” He shook his head. “Baldassare is not worried about his self-esteem. What he is concerned with is his power—and he knows that there’s nothing that I can do. What can I do? Even if it were possible to prove that he was behind the death of Maltese and the murder of the two Sardinians, what could I hope for? When most of the judges in this country are his collaborators? When they belong to the same secret society, the same P-Beta … or to another secret lodge just like it?”

“Then Maltese died in vain?”

“Everybody dies in vain if there is still the chance of staying alive, of eating food and breathing the air. Of course Maltese failed. He’s dead and he’ll never see this lake again—he’ll never see Garda as you and I and Pioppi are seeing it now—beautiful and timeless.”

For a moment Trotti said nothing. Then he took out the packet of sweets. “But that doesn’t mean that Baldassare is untouchable.”

“Then you plan something?”

Trotti snorted. “Not much that I can do. If Dell’Orto was helpless, what do you expect from me?”

“Then what happens, Commissario?”

“There are other people and they’re going to be jealous of his power. Eventually he’ll have to face up to people who will want him removed. Look at Bastia—Bastia at the Banco Milanese who thought that he was untouchable—who thought that he could sell Scalfari to the American police. But the Night of the Tazebao changed all that—and Bastia was scared, very scared. Who could he turn to for help? There is just one man—the boss of P-Beta. And so Bastia went running to Baldassare, begging him to patch things up between him and Scalfari in his American jail.” Trotti stopped. “You should read what Maltese has to say.”

“What does Maltese have to say, Commissario?”

“Bastia’s days are numbered. He worked his way to the head of one of the country’s most respected banks—and he’s brought it to the edge of collapse. There will be a day of reckoning—and that is inevitable. Perhaps he’ll just quietly disappear—or perhaps he’ll be shot to death—like Novara—in a Paris street. Or perhaps his body will be found hanging in London. But the day of reckoning will come because he overreached himself.”

“And Baldassare?”

“He will go. Perhaps not now and certainly not because of me. Magagna, don’t count on the Pubblica Sicurezza or the Carabinieri or the Finanza to reach Baldassare because we never will. A university professor above all suspicion?—and with so many friends in high places? Don’t count on this puppet Republic ever turning round and doing something about the puppeteer. But there are countries other than Italy, thank God. And if the Americans can arrest Scalfari perhaps in time they can arrest Baldassare. He’ll get more powerful and the Americans won’t like that. Or perhaps the French. Or perhaps the Swiss.” Trotti glanced again at his daughter. Then he said, “In time, Baldassare will go. Just as with the mafia, he’ll be killed or he’ll be edged out. He’ll disappear because ultimately he’s no more than a
symptom—an ulcer on the surface of the Republic. But the disease will remain. The disease will remain because it is in us, it is part of us. We are the disease, Magagna, and the disease is Italy.”

D
USK HAD BEGUN
to fall by the time the
Giuseppe Verdi
sailed round the promontory at Bogliaco and the village of Gardesana came into sight. Olive trees, red tiles, the remaining lemon groves and, rising out of the mist at evening, the village church.

Pioppi had come to sit with them. She now sat with her hands on the rail and her chin propped between her fingers. She was smiling to herself. Trotti was beside her and his body almost touched hers, though she had her back to him.

Magagna had been silent for some time. Then he leaned forward and said, “And Guerra?”

“What about her?”

“There’s still something I don’t understand.” He nudged at the teardrop frames.

“I like the way you think I know all the answers.” Trotti laughed. His temper was improving as he got closer to the village.

“Maltese … why did he stay with her?”

“It was her uncle who sent Maltese to her. Dell’Orto was trying to help her and he must have sent her money from time to time—including the fifty thousand lire bills that so impressed your friend Marco.”

“A faggot.”

“Milan hasn’t made you very tolerant, Magagna.”

“He lied to you a lot. Dell’Orto. For somebody who respected you, he didn’t object to leading you up the garden path.”

Trotti said nothing for a while. Then when he spoke, his voice was soft. “Yes, I think he did respect me. And he didn’t want me to know about his behavior over the Ramoverde affair. It was something that he felt ashamed of. Because even then, twenty years ago, he had lied to me. And that would explain why even after Maltese had been killed, he couldn’t bring himself to tell me the truth.” He raised his hand and touched the small of Pioppi’s curved back. She turned and gave him a brief smile. “He felt that he personally couldn’t tell me anything without revealing his involvement in the Ramoverde affair. He had wanted Maltese to tell me about P-Beta and the shooting at the Banca San Matteo—because he hoped that I’d be able to do something. He didn’t know that the Banca San Matteo dossier had been taken from out of my hands.” Trotti smiled. “Dell’Orto had a blind kind of faith in me.”

“What could you have done?”

“What can I do now? Nothing—there’s nothing I can do about Baldassare and there’s nothing I can do about the P-Beta.”

The boat cut through the water that was now as smooth as glass in the failing evening light.

On the far side of the water, high above Malcesine, Monte Baldo caught the last rays of sunlight, and the runnels along the mountain’s flank were intricate and clear.

In Gardesana, men and women were walking along the Lungolago. There were children playing. And Trotti noticed, standing near the small harbor, the black uniform of two Carabinieri. The
Giuseppe Verdi
let out a mournful hoot as it moved towards the quay. An officer, standing on the deck only a couple of meters away from Pioppi, threw the rope to the Capitano, who caught it and looped it round a bollard. Both men spoke in dialect and Trotti saw the Capitano laugh.

The
Giuseppe Verdi
bumped against the old tires and then a gangway was heaved into place.

Trotti got to his feet and he was helping his daughter towards the gangplank. The Capitano caught sight of Trotti.

Trotti shouted, “Ciao, il marinaio!”

The Capitano replied, “Ciao, il Questurino!” and flashed
his false teeth. He started moving up the gangplank and took hold of Pioppi. He lifted her bodily—although she was several centimeters taller than him—and carried her on to dry land.

Trotti and Magagna came down the plank on to the jetty.

There was shouting.

Gardesana smelled of orange blossom and Trotti smiled happily.

More shouting and he saw Guerino, a cloth over his shoulder and a tray in his hand, hurrying across the road towards him. He was grinning and in his Roman accent, he called out, “Telephone, Commissario, telephone.”

Magagna turned.

“Hurry, Commissario—and I think it’s Agnese.”

Trotti started to run towards the Bar Centomiglia.

“It’s your wife, I think.”

“Where’s she phoning from? Is she phoning from America?”

“America?” Guerino threw up his hand in a gesture of mock exasperation and then he slapped Trotti on the shoulder. “From Malpensa, you mean. She’s at the airport and she wants you to get a taxi for her.”

The juke box had been turned on and, in the gathering dusk, the neon light seemed to illuminate the entire wall. Bobby Solo and Fausto Leali.

Trotti entered the familiar bar. The smell of coffee. He headed towards the telephone booth. He was smiling.

The rear propeller of the
Giuseppe Verdi
began churning the water and the hull swung away from the land.