The Dark Valley: A Commissario Soneri Mystery (Commissario Soneri 2) (18 page)

“An act of revenge,” Soneri said.

“Has it got something to do with the fraud?”

“It belongs to the Monicas.”

Angela gave a start. “The son is another one of Paride’s friends.”

“Feuds new and old are passed on. I’m sorry to say it’s an old custom.”

“Like setting fire to barns.”

“Sooner or later the past falls on top of you.”

“If anything’s going to fall on top of me, I want it to be you,” she said, snuggling close to him.

They returned to the
Scoiattolo,
where Angela smiled at the dull ornaments and plain furniture in a
pensione
where rustic bad taste was the order of the day. Soneri was hard put to it to
convince her of the cleanliness of the bathroom and the sheets, and had to make three separate searches of the bedroom to get rid of spiders, beetles and other insects. He then ruined the effect by informing her that this was the season for bedbugs, awakening a fresh round of alarm. In spite of all this, he was secretly proud of how true he had remained to his country origins in comparison to Angela, who had perhaps never spent one entire day away from the city. Possibly on account of these apprehensions, she fell asleep holding him close and when he awoke in the morning the commissario had various aches and pains caused by that lengthy contact. His thoughts, however, were still where they were the night before.

“The fraud is clear enough,” he announced at breakfast. Sante served them in silence, seemingly intimidated by Angela’s presence. “But the murder of Paride is anything but clear. Neither is Palmiro’s suicide, although he had every reason to kill himself.”

“Revenge, the same as with the barn.”

“Perhaps, but we have to find out what manner of revenge.”

“You’ve always told me that human actions are prompted by very simple motivations: first money, then power or sex. It’s not hard to guess which one it is in this case, is it?”

“That’s what the carabinieri think too.”

“Who wouldn’t? But there’s some personal factor at work here. For you, I mean.”

“There always is, in any investigation. I’ve got to imagine myself into the mind of the murderer, and then the victim. It’s indispensable for me to get under their skin, to relive the state of mind of each one.”

“Have you managed that with Paride?”

“No. There was one sentence spoken by his wife. An unfortunate choice of words about my father.”

“What did she say?”

“That he had been to knock at their door, the same as everybody else.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“No, but it almost makes one an accomplice. Everybody knew and everybody exploited the situation for their own ends. In a certain sense, that’s the whole story.”

“But you knew nothing about it?”

“I was away at college in the city. My father never spoke about his work and I never asked anything about it. We didn’t have deep conversations, although we got on well, especially when we were out hunting or searching for mushrooms. Later the whole family moved to the city. As far as I knew, it was because my mother was unwell and had to be near a hospital. Now what I think is that something must have happened between my father and the Rodolfi family, but I have no idea what.”

“And that’s what’s been bubbling away inside you?”

“No, it’s more than that. I’m afraid Papà was in cahoots with that bunch of swindlers. Or maybe he was one of those who knew everything all along but found it convenient to keep his mouth shut, like the rest of them in this village. Don Bruno told me my father was on good terms with Palmiro. It’s one of those phrases that might mean everything or nothing.”

Angela gave him a look which was both affectionate and reflective. “An investigation for you is like a visit to a shrink.”

“I’ve got to do everything by myself,” were his final words as Angela got into her car.

They went their ways in opposite directions, Angela along the twisting road down the valley and Soneri towards the slopes of Montelupo. Just beyond Boldara, he ran into Volpi coming up from the Croce path, the one which crossed the red jasper rocks over to the west. He had a rifle slung around his neck, leaving his hands free. Soneri kept his eyes on him
until they were face to face. He was wearing corduroy trousers with green, knee-high wellington boots.

“Found any poachers?” Soneri said.

“There’s no shortage of them. They’re not the problem. Hunting has started up again.”

“For the wild boar?”

“If only. For the Woodsman.”

Just at that moment, from near Montelupo they heard men shouting and calling out to their dogs. Dolly, who had followed Soneri, cocked her ears.

“It’s a big hunting party. There must be at least thirty carabinieri scattered through the woods,” Volpi said.

Soneri thought of Bovolenta, who had obviously only been pretending to consult him while going the way he had already decided to go. “They’re going to have a hard time of it with the Woodsman,” he chuckled, realising that his exasperation with the captain had put him on the Woodsman’s side.

“They’re out of their depth,” grunted the gamekeeper with contempt. “They’ll end up injuring themselves or else they’ll get shot if they have the misfortune actually to locate the Woodsman. He doesn’t fool about.”

“He’ll play with them for a day or two, till they get tired. Montelupo is too big for people who don’t know it.”

Once again they heard whistles and once again Dolly bristled.

“Have they got dogs with them?”

“Three or four, but out in the wild there are scents all round them, so they don’t know which one to follow and they go dashing off in all directions,” Volpi said. He pointed to Dolly. “You shouldn’t take dogs out with all this going on.”

“She belongs to the Rodolfis. She was standing watch over Paride when I found her, and since then she’s been following me everywhere.”

“You’re going to have the devil of a job getting rid of her. When hunting dogs attach themselves to a master, they’d get themselves killed rather than leave him.”

“I’ve taken her back to the villa once.”

“They’re all on the run from there now.” Volpi looked through his binoculars in the direction of the woods where the shouting was coming from.

“Did Palmiro still go in for poaching?” Soneri asked when he found Volpi facing at him again.

“Easier to say who didn’t go in for poaching. Palmiro and the Woodsman both come from the Madoni hills and felt they were masters here, in their woods.”

“What was he hunting, the wild boar or roe deer?”

“As far as I know, he preferred to shoot birds. He put them in his polenta, Venetian style. But if some other animal crossed his path…”

“You need a different sort of ammunition.”

“Certainly, but there are rifles equipped for all kinds of charges.”

The voices were drawing closer. Some carabinieri, wearing camouflage, passed them in a treeless clearing. It looked like a wartime scene.

“They asked me to accompany them as their guide, but I told them I hunt poachers and I’m not a policeman,” Volpi said.

“Then what happens to the Woodsman should be your business.”

“That’s not what they had in mind. I’m not a spy.”

“Just as well. It seems everybody in the village supports the Woodsman.”

Volpi shrugged. “That captain can attend to his own affairs. Gualerzi must have had a good reason for doing what he did, if it was him. And so would have many other people.”

They heard whistles again as the dog-handlers tried to rein
in their dogs, but this time the echoes came from higher up, where the terrain was more harsh and rocky.

“They’re going all out,” Soneri said, as he attempted to restrain Dolly.

“They’d be better off holding back and thinking it through. They’re flapping about like grouse. Do you know they’ve staked out his house?”

“They must be hoping to wear him down.”

“That’ll be the day! He’ll have seven or eight refuges dotted about in the woods, and that man can hunt with or without a rifle.”

“You seem to know a lot about him. Is that because of your job?” Soneri said, smiling.

“Laws have to be applied with common sense. Men like the Woodsman or Palmiro Rodolfi were used to going hungry when they were growing up, so poaching was a matter of survival for them. It’s in their blood and they’re too old to change now,” Volpi said.

The conversation was interrupted by a burst of rifle fire, followed by other gunshots.

“Has the battle begun?”

“The wrong kind of weapon,” Volpi said, listening intently.

“Someone must have got a boar.”

“They’ve never gone hungry, but they’re out shooting just the same. You’d be as well to ignore it this time as well.”

“No,” Volpi replied calmly, still listening to the sounds. “They must have gone too close to the den of some female with her young, and she attacked them. They’re a fierce sight when they charge.”

Soneri nodded and turned to continue his ascent towards the mountain bar. His path would take him through the chestnut grove in the direction of Malpasso, but away from the shooting.

“Take care,” the gamekeeper shouted after him.

“I run risks for a living.”

Montelupo looked different to him today. The whistles and shouts in the distance all seemed part of a tension throbbing in the shadows or springing from unseen life in the undergrowth. He hurried on, impelled by an anxiety to which he could give no name. His path took him past the deserted, rubbish-filled huts and out onto the small clearing in front of the bar. The sun had been up for some time, and in areas free of vegetation the rocks felt warm. Baldi was busying himself with the stove, and had placed the heavy beech chairs upside down on the tables. Soneri waved to him and pointed questioningly at the bar-room.

“It’s over for the season. Maybe for good, I’m not sure,” Baldi said.

“You’re on the young side to be thinking about retiring. Your best days are still ahead of you.”

Baldi looked at him doubtfully. “Was it the Woodsman they were firing at this morning?”

“No. They seem to have blundered on a female boar who then charged at them. You could hear the yells.”

“They’ve obviously got the firepower, but they’ve got to hit the right spot to bring down an animal that size.”

Soneri nodded. “Do you think he killed Paride?”

Baldi looked up and held Soneri’s gaze, shaking his white hair. “He’s capable of it, but the whole thing seems strange to me.”

“Maybe he owed him money.”

Baldi lifted up the round lids over the stove, releasing a burst of flame and a cloud of sparks. “It’s possible. He’s not a man who’d peacefully put up with any injustice done to him, but somehow it doesn’t add up.”

The commissario kept his eyes fixed on Baldi, who was
on his feet now and stood facing him, as bulky as a haystack. “It’s more likely he bumped off Palmiro. It was him who collected the cash in the village, while the son dealt with the banks. And then he’d grown up with Palmiro. They were like brothers, Palmiro, the Woodsman and poor Capelli. What a threesome!”

“That might be why he felt betrayed.”

“Well…” was all Baldi could say. “Anyway, what does it matter what I think? The only ones that matter are the carabinieri. It’s them who have to change their minds, isn’t it?”

“That’s true.”

“They’ll never catch him. They don’t know the kind of man they’re dealing with. The Woodsman’s got more cunning than a wildcat. Even the S.S. never managed to trap him, so do you see a handful of carabinieri succeeding? In a couple of days, their teeth’ll start chattering with the cold, they’ll get lost in the mists and they’ll end up whining into their walkie-talkies for someone to come and take them home. The mountain is hard and pitiless. You need a tough hide.”

The wind carried the sound of dogs barking in the distance on Monte Matto and, outside, Dolly started growling. Even Baldi stopped for a moment to listen to the chorus from the hunting pack.

“They’re over at Bragalata. They’ve been moving very fast, so they’ll get tired of it quickly.”

There was only one table without upturned seats, and Baldi sat on top of it. “The one good thing to come out of this is that all those foreigners who used to go up and down to La Spezia have cleared off. They’re afraid of being picked up.”

Baldi got to his feet and took two glasses and a bottle from the bar which now had nothing on it. He poured a measure for himself and one for Soneri. “Your father had a tough hide. He liked the mountains. He applied for a job in the woods, but it
didn’t work out. You needed someone to put in a word for you, so they ended up with people from the Veneto or the South.”

“You needed the party card, or else a letter from the parish priest,” Soneri said.

“And your father was a red, and not only that, a partisan in the Garibaldi brigades.”

“Didn’t the Rodolfis care about these things?”

“They certainly did! They were always hand in glove with the priests. Every sacristy or church in need of restoration could count on their support. It was all bluff, of course. Palmiro was only interested in money, and Paride was even more of a phoney.”

“So how come my father…”

“I’ve never understood that.”

“Paride’s wife gave me to understand that…” The commissario could not go on. Anger gripped him by the throat.

“She’s mad,” Baldi cut in. “She married for money, but the moment she discovered it was all coming crashing down, she went right off her head. And then Palmiro’s death…”

“Did she get on well with him?”

Baldi burst out laughing, his eyes sparkling with malice. “Get on well with him! Everybody for miles around knew she was in his bed. Paride was living up at the Boschi house, leaving Villa del Greppo to her and Palmiro. It was obvious it was going to end up that way. A woman like her needs to feel reassured and protected, and Palmiro gave her all she wanted. In spite of his age, he was still full of vigour. Paride could hardly give her security. He didn’t feel secure in himself.”

“But he knew?”

“Of course he knew, but he didn’t give a damn. When he felt the urge, he’d pick up one of those women available in rich men’s clubs. A quick encounter, no time wasted.”