The Villa Triste (50 page)

Pallioti paused. ‘But this is where it gets interesting,’ he said a moment later. ‘Because it taught her something, too. About being dead.’

He leaned forward, picked up the book on the general and put it down.

‘You see,’ he went on, ‘Isabella was an extraordinary woman.’ He glanced up and smiled. ‘Although Caterina was equally extraordinary in her own way. Ordinary people who did extraordinary things. They escaped, by the way,’ he added, ‘the sisters. They got to Milan, where GAP gave them new identities. They kept on fighting. But at the same time, they both kept on thinking about what had happened to Radio Juliet. And how it had happened. Neither of them could let it go. Neither of them could forget. Isabella had her baby, a little boy. And then, in March 1945, Caterina had a chance to take him and go to Naples. Her fiancé, it turned out, was still alive, and he’d arranged to get her out. This part, I admit,’ Pallioti said, ‘I’m not too certain about. I don’t know the details. All I know is that Isabella convinced Caterina to take the baby, and planned to join them later. But something went wrong. I don’t know what. By April 1945, they were both dead. Within days of the liberation they’d fought so hard for. Caterina in a field hospital in Bologna, and Isabella just west of the city, hit by an Allied bomb.’ He looked up at her. ‘Or that’s what everyone believed, anyway.’

Firelight flickered against Signora Grandolo’s face, and rippled the fine soft wool of the shawl. She stood as still as a statue, one hand resting on the mantel.

‘You see, I don’t know which one of them it was,’ Pallioti said. ‘I’m not sure. But one of them survived. She got back here to Florence, somehow, and when she got here, she realized that everyone thought she was dead, and also that being dead might have its advantages. I think she learnt that from what happened to Radio Juliet. So she took another woman’s name, and built a life for herself. But all the while, she remembered.’

He ran his finger along the edge of the book, feeling the sharp edge of its dust jacket.

‘She remembered everything she had talked about with her sister,’ he said. ‘In the prison they were thrown into, and later in the apartment they shared in Milan, about what had happened. About who it could have been who betrayed them. Who was responsible for the deaths of their father and brother, mother and comrades, and the death of the man Isabella loved.’ Pallioti shook his head. ‘I suspect she looked. I suspect she did everything she could to try to work it out. Went through records, searched out people like the Cavicallis – did you know, by the way,’ Pallioti asked, looking up at her, ‘that Signor Cavicalli had a twin? A twin brother. And a little sister. The little girl was just a tot, not more than three or four, when they escaped. It must have been an extraordinary walk. At night. In the snow. In any case’ – he shook his head – ‘she was never able to find anything. The records said all the men from Radio Juliet had been executed. Everyone who had known anything was accounted for. So, although she never forgot, I suspect she might have given up looking. Until one night almost two years ago. During the celebrations for the sixtieth anniversary, when she turned on the television, and saw three dead men. Can you imagine? Right there in front of her, with medals on their chests. Il Corvo, and Beppe, and Massimo.’

The names fell into the room, smooth and fast as stones falling through water. Pallioti was sure he could feel the ripples lapping outwards, into the silence and the night and the snow.

‘After that,’ he said, ‘it was easy.’

A log shifted on the fire, sending up a small shower of sparks. Both of them looked at it. Then Signora Grandolo reached for the poker, bent and pushed the charred piece of wood back into the flames.

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘Well.’ Pallioti shrugged. ‘Finding them wasn’t difficult, once she knew they were alive. There are records everywhere. Organizations like Remember The Fallen, more than willing to help.’

Pallioti watched her back, supple and strong for a woman of her age, as she replaced the poker carefully in the brass bracket, straightened up, and looked at him.

‘What I did wonder, though,’ he said, ‘was why she waited so long. A year and a half. But I think I know.’

He leaned back on the sofa again and looked up at her.

‘You see,’ he said, ‘these sisters, they were terribly brave, rash even, when it came to themselves. But where lives were at stake, other people’s lives, they were very, very careful. In all those ambulance runs, all those trips in 1943 and 1944, they never lost a parcel. They were known for it, among the partisans. So, it was a point of pride. Being careful, not making mistakes. And given her history,’ he went on, ‘I imagine she understood that this one last job had to be perfect, or she wouldn’t be able to finish it. And she wanted that, very badly. After all, she’d been waiting a long time. Decades. So she planned extremely carefully. And that takes time. My guess is that she’d had the gun for some years,’ he added. ‘Sixty, possibly. It was probably a souvenir. As for the salt,’ he said, ‘well, I suspect she’d thought about that for a long time, too. Don’t you think?’

The question hung in the room, unanswered.

‘In that warehouse in Verona, when she lay down on the floor with those women dying around her, I wonder,’ Pallioti said, ‘if that was what she dreamed of? That someday she’d find whoever betrayed Radio Juliet, whoever killed all the people she loved, and get them on their knees, and make them eat their reward?’

He took a deep breath, suddenly confronted with the vision of Giovanni Trantemento’s face, and forced himself on.

‘Roblino, Beppe,’ Pallioti said. ‘I think he was the easiest. The stupidest, the most gullible. A windbag. All she had to do was ring him up and pretend she was the widow of some partisan, or even just interested in his collection of memorabilia. Possibly she just turned up at the door. Women are almost never threatening. No offence, Signora, but especially when they reach a certain age.’

He was not sure, but he thought he saw her smile.

‘Now Trantemento,’ he continued. ‘He was a bit more tricky. He was shy, and very clever. But still, I doubt it was too difficult. The building isn’t hard to get into. Of course,’ he added, ‘he had to be killed first. As I’ve said, Giovanni Trantemento was clever and quite wary, so Roblino’s death might have alerted him. And Roblino needed to be killed quite quickly afterwards, just in case he became alarmed. Strike hard and fast. Use the advantage of surprise.’ Pallioti smiled. ‘That’s how she did it. Il Corvo first, and then Beppe. Which only left Massimo.’

Pallioti waited for a moment. Then he said, ‘He was the most difficult, wasn’t he? Massimo. He had security. The maid was always in the house. No.’ Pallioti shook his head. ‘Massimo certainly wasn’t as easy as the other two. But,’ he added, ‘not insurmountable, either. No problem is insurmountable for someone so determined. And clever. And by that time, of course,’ he added, ‘you had help. Because you had me.’

Pallioti could feel as much as see her eyes on his face, feel the beautiful, deep, cerulean blue of them.

Silence pulsed through the room. Finally, he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

‘It was the only mistake you made,’ he said. ‘Lying to me. Telling me that you didn’t have the complete records for the Villa Triste because they had been destroyed. I can see that you were in a spot – that you were afraid, once I saw those records, from 12 June and 15 June – who had been arrested and who had supposedly been executed – that once I saw that, I would understand, and get to Massimo before you could. So, it was a gamble, wasn’t it? Either you showed me, and potentially deprived yourself of Massimo. Or you lied to me, and hoped I wouldn’t find them. But,’ he smiled, ‘of course I did. As you knew I would. It wasn’t even very difficult. It was just too late. You’d made sure of that, too.’

Signora Grandolo didn’t move. In the light from the fire her shawl, an iridescent blue-green the colour of a peacock’s tail or a dragonfly’s wing, shimmered like water. Pallioti couldn’t read the expression on her face.

‘When you heard from Maria—’ he said. ‘Using her was very clever, by the way,’ he added. ‘I’d like to think you were just a bit concerned, when you read in the paper that I’d been seen at Tran-temento’s building, that I was obviously involved. I imagine you raised the topic, of how dreadful it was, what had happened – and perhaps also wondered aloud if your great-niece Maria’s friend wasn’t the sister of that policeman?’

He shook his head. ‘Saffy wouldn’t have told Maria much, of course,’ he said. ‘She didn’t know anything, and if she did, she would have known better than to mention it to anyone. But it was a useful way of keeping tabs on me, wasn’t it? And at some point, you must have seen how you could positively turn it to your advantage. I’d noticed the enthusiasm before, but not to that degree,’ Pallioti added, raising an eyebrow. ‘What did you have to do?’ he asked. ‘Point out that I was very eligible, that Seraphina would be delightful to be related to? Maria’s desperate to please you, so it can’t have been hard. Although,’ he added, ‘I’m sure you’d have found another way if she’d been uncooperative. Perhaps just offered Remember The Fallen’s services, if I hadn’t been so obliging and delivered myself into your office. In any case,’ he went on, waving aside the problem, the memory of how easily she had made it seem that she was the one being generous, the one doing him a favour.

‘That Sunday,’ he said, ‘when you heard from Maria that I hadn’t come to lunch, you must have worried. You had to find out what was going on. What did you do?’ Pallioti asked. ‘Have Bernardo call you, let you know when I came into Lupo again? Don‘t worry,’ he added. ‘I won’t mention it to him. It’s not his fault. I did enjoy The grappa.’ He looked at her. ‘And the company. Very much. But I also told you all about Massimo, didn’t I? That’s how you knew you’d have to do it fast. That you couldn’t wait, or I’d get there first.’

They studied one another, their eyes meeting across the shadows that flickered from the hearth.

‘Dropping the gun was exactly right,’ Pallioti said. ‘The perfect way to get rid of it. But I should have known you’d know that. And about the powder burns. The gloves. That was clever.’

He thought he saw something move, the echo of a smile, acknowledging the compliment. But the light was so low and it passed across her features so quickly that it was impossible to be sure.

‘Do you want to know how I knew?’ he asked finally. ‘What made me certain?’

He waited for a moment. Then he said, ‘It was the flowers. I talked to the florist this afternoon. Just a chat. She told me that you have standing orders, and that she’s allowed to use whatever she has extra for most of the bouquets. All of them, in fact. Except two. She says you are very, very particular about it. Always have been. There must be two white arrangements. The first is primarily roses, and larger than the rest. You collect it personally, every two weeks. The other is not as extravagant, but you are, if anything, more definite about it. It’s for the Via dei Renai. She knows, because although you always place them yourself, and always on a Monday, once, when your husband was dying, you asked her to do it for you. Five white roses. Only her best. She offered once simply to give you a half dozen for the same price – it makes her bookkeeping easier. But you said no. It had to be five. She thought that was strange,’ Pallioti said. ‘But she didn’t understand, did she?’

He looked up at her.

‘That six would be wrong. That it had to be five. One each – for your mother, your father, your brother, your sister, and Carlo. And that they had to be taken on Monday – because 12 June 1944 was a Monday – to the last place where you were all together.’

If Signora Grandolo blinked, he did not see it. He took a breath.

‘After that, I checked,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t difficult. It never is, when you know what you’re looking for.’

He pulled out of his pocket the piece of paper Guillermo had handed him, unfolded it and placed it on the low table in front of the sofa. She made no effort to reach for it, or look at the words that were written on it.

‘It’s a name. The name you used when you applied for the job at your husband’s bank. That you lived under for the next two years, until you married and became a Grandolo. Ration cards. Identity passes. They were all issued to you. And not to you. Because the woman Cosimo Grandolo married was called Donata Leone.’ He smiled. ‘And the only problem with that,’ he said, ‘as you know, is that Donata Leone died. Of pneumonia. In January 1944.’

He paused.

‘What I don’t know,’ he added, ‘what I suppose I am hoping you might tell me, is whether you knew that because you were with her – because you nursed her, and sat with her, and held her hand? Or because you heard about it from your sister?’

If she was going to say something, he thought, it would be now. He looked at her, at the perfect bones, the extraordinary eyes. The way she stood, the elegant lines of her hands with their two simple rings.

‘I wasn’t sure, at first,’ he said, ‘exactly how you managed not to be recognized. But once you put your mind to it, you managed. And of course,’ he added, remembering what Eleanor Sachs had said earlier, ‘circumstances were with you. We see what we expect to see. And no one expected to see you back here because you were dead. A little hair dye, different clothes. A shorter step. The same thing, more or less, that Isabella did after the shooting at the Pergola. Did you suspect them then?‘

He leaned forward, fixing her with the gaze that had worked so often in interrogation rooms. ‘Was there something strange about it? About their stories? The escape. Was there a smell, something not quite right? Something you never forgot but could never prove? Until you saw them that night on television.’

He didn’t know if he actually expected her to answer. He supposed, in some vastly exaggerated part of his ego, that he did. That age, loneliness, the desire to confess – the desire, if nothing else, to share the story – perhaps even to boast about it, would kick in.

But even as he thought it, he realized he should have known better. With lesser adversaries, it might have happened. Not with this woman.