The Puppeteer (7 page)

A phone call placed by our special correspondent to the Questura has met with the reply “No comment.” Commissario Bagnante was not available
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The dentist of Piacenza remains silent. His lawyer, Avv. Michele (photo, bottom left) maintains that his client is totally extraneous to the events, real or imagined by the Forti couple. Meanwhile, Dott. Ramoverde observes absolute silence in his cell
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Gazette della Svizzera, 10th September 1960

Milan, from our special envoy: Ismaele Belluno was a retired publisher. He had made his fortune in textbooks, and for many years led a peaceful, uneventful life. His two daughters had grown up, married and had raised families
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In his will, the father had bequeathed everything to his two daughters, to be shared fairly between them. Then his wife died and in 1958 he employed a young woman to be the housekeeper of the three villas that he owned. Clearly things took a turn for
the worse when Belluno, now in his late sixties, announced his intention to marry the young woman, Eva Bardizza, nearly forty years his junior
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That there was conflict between the father and his son-in-law, there can be no doubt. On one occasion, the old man was reported to have taken to his bed when Sig. Ramoverde, husband of Matilde Belluno, slapped the young housekeeper for alleged insolence. A few days later after this incident, Belluno summoned his lawyer and made drastic changes in his will; it is believed that he intended to bequeath everything—or nearly everything—to his future wife. Among other things, the Belluno fortune included a sumptuous villa in the city of Piacenza and Villa Laura ninety kilometers away, near Borgo Genovese and the confluence of the Po and the Ticino rivers. A third house in the hills above San Remo is famous throughout Italy for its beautiful gardens
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On 3rd August, Belluno was found murdered in the Villa Laura near Borgo Genovese. He had been battered to death with a blunt instrument and the walls of the building were smeared with his blood. Also murdered was his young wife-to-be; she had been battered and, according to the forensic scientists, drowned in a bath of cold water. As to the assassin, he left no clues concerning his identity; cold-bloodedly he wiped the walls and floors of any trace of fingerprints. The coolness with which the assassin behaved has led the local police to believe that the murderer knew the house—and his victims—intimately
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Three weeks after the dual slaying, the investigating judge arrested Douglas Ramoverde, Belluno’s son-in-law. However, Dr. Ramoverde, a dentist from Piacenza, has an alibi and he has stuck to it consistently. After spending the weekend on the Ligurian coast at the Villa Ca’ degli Ulivi, where his wife, Matilde, and his seventeen-year-old son were passing the month of August, Ramoverde maintains that he took his car, a Fiat 1100, and leaving the Villa Ca’ degli Ulivi at twenty-three hours on the night of the first of August, drove straight back to Piacenza. Unfortunately, he can find no witness to corroborate his version of the facts. Furthermore, from a close analysis of the
vehicle’s odometer and Ramoverde’s own logbook—he noted down when and where he bought petrol—it would appear that instead of driving the 250 kilometers to Piacenza, he in fact covered 285 kilometers on the night of the murder. It is thus quite possible that Ramoverde took a detour north to the River Po and the Villa Laura. One thing is certain: he was within a radius of eighty kilometers of the Villa Laura on the fateful night of 1st August
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But the most damaging piece of evidence against the son-in-law is the testimony of several local inhabitants who have sworn to seeing a two-tone Fiat 1100 identical to Ramoverde’s hidden not more than 200 meters from the Villa Laura both on the night of the murder and on previous evenings. Ramoverde has claimed that such a sighting can only be a coincidence. However, on the afternoon following the murder a man wearing sunglasses paid a garage owner in Piacenza to clean his two-tone Fiat 1100. In cleaning it, the garage owner recognized dry traces of blood
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Douglas Ramoverde has been arrested and awaits trial; such things take a very long time in Italy and it is possible that many months will go by before the alleged assassin goes on trial. In the meantime, by the very bloodiness of its nature, the murder remains a burning subject of conversation for our neighbors beyond the Alps
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T
HE TAXI DRIVER
helped him into the building. Then Trotti leaned against the wall, waiting until the elevator arrived. His ribs still hurt and awkwardly he stepped inside, recognizing the familiar smell of garlic. The hammer and sickle were still there, engraved into the soft surface of the corrugated metal.

The elevator stopped on the third floor and Trotti stepped out.

“Ah, Commissario!” Gino lifted his head. Behind the thick lenses, his sightless eyes seemed to recognize Trotti. “So good to see you.” It was Gino’s joke. “I thought you were still on holiday.”

“Where’s Pisanelli?”

The old man shrugged, “Probably taking time off to visit his nurse friend.” Gino smiled. “Commissario, you were young once.”

“And I knew what it was like to be poor and have no work.”

“You are hard on the young generation.” Gino shrugged. “Pisanelli may seem a little sleepy, a little absent-minded. But he’s got the makings of a good policeman. And the determination.”

Beneath Gino’s desk, Principessa stirred and yawned to reveal bright teeth and a pink tongue. The watery eyes glanced at Trotti without interest and then closed again. Gino laughed and at that moment Trotti realized that Gino was getting old. His face was pale and looked tired.

“Being a policeman is a full-time job. If he wants to have
women, he’s in the wrong profession.” Trotti turned and, walking slowly, went down the familiar corridor. There were scattered packets of sugar around the foot of the coffee machine. Probably the cleaning women had gone on strike again. Spilled sugar caught under the soles of his shoes. Trotti leaned on the door handle and entered his office.

Very untidy.

The files that he had carefully stacked and catalogued a couple of weeks earlier were now in a state of collapse; on the desk there were sheets of typewritten paper and the half circles of spilled coffee. The air was stuffy.

Trotti took off his jacket slowly and then hobbled over to the window. Traffic in Strada Nuova. The morning mist was clearing and the terracotta tiles of the old city were beginning to take on their summer glow. At last, spring had arrived after a long cold winter and a wet April. Within a few days the hot weather would be back, and the still, windless air would hang over the Po valley.

He let the desk take his weight and sat down. Then he picked up the phone. “Gino?”

The voices came simultaneously over the line and through the wooden partition in the wall. “Commissario?”

“You’d better put me through to the Questura in Piacenza.”

Gino laughed. “They’ve been phoning for the last two days.”

“And what did you say?”

“Commissario, I’m paid to know nothing.”

“Thanks, Gino.” Trotti put the phone down and riffled through the top drawer of the desk. He had finished the bottle of grappa before going up to the Lake. Apart from a few sticky sweet wrappers, a few isolated grains of sugar and an old, crumpled football coupon, the drawer was empty.

The red light began to wink.

“Questura, Piacenza.”

“Trotti, Commissario Trotti here.”

“Well?” The voice was unhelpful.

“The Questore—if he’s available and not too busy.”

A series of muffled clicks.

Trotti waited, the phone against his ear, while he looked through the other drawers. Empty.

“Ah, you decided you couldn’t make more use of our hospitality, Commissario?”

“Signor Questore, I felt I had abused your kindness long enough.”

“And that’s why you borrowed an entire suit from the changing rooms of the hospital?”

“I needed to get back home.”

“Of course, Commissario Trotti.”

There followed a long silence.

“I assume, Commissario, that there’s a purpose to this phone call—or perhaps you merely wished to inform me of your state of health.”

“Alive,” Trotti replied. “Thanks largely to the efficiency of your Pronto Soccorso.” He coughed.

“And what can I do for you? What can I do that your colleagues can’t do for you?”

“I should like to know whether my car’s been located yet.”

“This isn’t a lost property office.”

Before Trotti could reply, the line seemed to go dead—not even the sound of a hand over the mouthpiece.

“Seventy-five Opel—registration PV 13379, color mustard yellow?” The Questore’s voice.

“You’ve found it?”

“No—but I’ll let you know as soon as we have.”

“Thank you very much,” Trotti replied, “and I’ll send you the suit of clothes immediately.”

“Most obliged—unless you feel that you still need them. The gardener at the hospital has been complaining and their speedy return would be appreciated, not least by the gardener himself.”

Trotti thought the Questore was going to hang up and removed the hand-piece from his ear.

“Trotti, have you heard from the Nucleo Investigativo?”

“No—I don’t think so.”

“But you know that the money has been identified.”

“What money?”

“The money that was found on your friend Maltese—it’s been identified.”

Trotti felt a coldness in his stomach. “Where does it come from?”

“I think you’d better contact Gardesana. I have the impression that Capitano Mareschini is most anxious to hear from you.”

Without another word, the Questore hung up.

Trotti muttered under his breath; angrily his finger hit the button of the telephone. “Gino, put me through to the Carabinieri in Gardesana.”

“Gardesana?”

“Gardesana del Garda—in the province of Brescia. I’m in a hurry.”

He put the phone down and stared at it testily. Then he got up and, using the desk as support, went to his jacket to see if there were any sweets in the pockets. He was still looking when the red console started blinking.

“Capitano Mareschini?” Trotti leaned his weight against the edge of the table.

“Speaking.”

“Trotti here.”

“Ah!”

“I must apologize for Friday night—I’m afraid I got called back to the city—family matters. And then outside Bergamo—perhaps you’ve heard?—I was attacked by two men.”

“We still await your visit, Commissario. I believe that the Nucleo Investigativo have certain questions—important questions—that they need to ask you.”

“Of course. I’ve only just come in to the Questura—I’ve been in bed. But I’ll phone the NI in Brescia.”

“Do that.” A long silence. “I look forward to seeing you in Gardesana, Commissario.” The voice was cold and the Sicilian accent was more noticeable over the telephone line.

“Capitano Mareschini, I’ve been in touch with Piacenza. I gather that the money on Maltese …”

“Money?”

“I believe it’s been identified.”

“Possibly.” The voice was flat.

“Identified as …?” Trotti let the question hang but there was no reply. Outside in the corridor somebody walked past the office. Trotti recognized Pisanelli’s voice and felt an irrational sense of irritation.

“Would you know in what way it has been identified?”

“No.”

“I see.”

After a while Mareschini added unhelpfully, “You must contact NI in Brescia.”

“I really think we should cooperate, Capitano Mareschini. As officers of the Carabinieri and the PS …”

“Precisely. Are there any other questions, Commissario?”

“No, Capitano.”

“Buongiorno, Commissario.”

Angrily Trotti cut the line, pressed the button and told Gino to put him through to the Nucleo Investigativo in Brescia. “And tell Pisanelli I want him in here fast.”

Trotti waited.

Almost immediately the console began blinking. He picked up the receiver. Click and then a single tone. It continued ringing for over a minute; then somebody answered.

“Carabinieri?”

The voice sounded faintly surprised. “Yes.”

“Put me through to NI.”

“Why?”

“Commissario Trotti phoning. Please hurry.”

“Nucleo Investigativo?”

“It’s about the murder of Maltese at Gardesana.”

“Yes?”

“Please hurry. Give me the investigating officer. This is Trotti of the Pubblica Sicurezza.”

“I’m afraid the investigating officer has gone to lunch.”

“Lunch, Signorina? But it’s not even ten o’clock.”

“Please hold the line.”

There was a knock on the door and Trotti looked up to see Pisanelli enter the office. He was wearing his leather jacket that
was considerably the worse for wear—he had not changed it or had it cleaned in four years. A sheepish grin. Pisanelli seemed to be getting balder by the day. He nodded deferentially and sat down on the canvas armchair.

A man’s voice. “Hello.”

“Commissario Trotti here.”

“When can you come in, Commissario?”

“Come in for what?”

“You were a witness to the Gardesana killing.”

“I made a full statement at the Carabinieri barracks.”

“Other questions that need answering. Can you come in today?”

“Whom am I speaking to?”

“When you arrive at the desk, just ask for Nucleo Investigativo.”

“I believe the money that was in Maltese’s wallet has been identified.”

“A report has been sent out to all Commands.”

“What money, exactly?”

“I’m not in a position to give information over the telephone. Come in and see us today. I think I can give you an appointment.”

In a neutral voice, Trotti said, “I’ll see what I can do.” He put the receiver down.

Pisanelli was leaning back in the chair, studying his fingernails.

Trotti looked at him for a moment. In a soft voice he said, “If you haven’t got anything better to do than your manicure, Pisanelli, go over the road and get some coffee. Real coffee. Pisanelli—nothing from that machine in the corridor. And a couple of packets of sweets.” He ran his tongue along the jagged edge of the broken tooth.