The Puppeteer (29 page)

S
IGNORA
M
AGAGNA WAS
in the kitchen preparing the midday meal.

Pisanelli had picked up a magazine.

“Well?”

Trotti looked up.

“Can I have a look?” Magagna sat forward on the chair. He held out his hand.

“I haven’t finished yet.”

The dossier was on the settee beside Trotti. Twenty or so typewritten pages that had been stapled together.

“What does Maltese say?”

Trotti shrugged and continued to read:

“Y
OU PHONED ME
in the middle of the night.”

He shrugged. “I hadn’t spoken to you for nearly twenty years.”

“And that’s why you had to threaten me?”

“It was for his sake.”

No longer the woman’s voice. Now Douglas Ramoverde spoke with his slight lisp. The same lisp that Trotti had heard on the telephone.

“The judge?”

“I don’t know if you can understand, Commissario, but in his way, he felt ashamed for what he did.”

Trotti frowned. “When?”

“Of course he was a mason and as soon as I could get to a telephone without being seen, I phoned him.” He held out his hands. “I had helped kill my father-in-law.”

“Dell’Orto helped you twenty years ago?”

Douglas Ramoverde nodded. He was fatter than Trotti remembered him, with a heavy jowl. But there was nothing feminine about his face. The skin was very pale. “My son should have left Italy—and if he’d had any sense, he would have cleared out after he helped Novara. I told him he was risking his life—but he knew that anyway. There are relatives in America, relatives in Argentina, but he wanted to be with the girl. He thought he could help her.” Douglas Ramoverde raised the shoulders of his
tweed jacket and sat back on the settee, crossing his legs. “It was obvious that Bastia—or whoever was behind Bastia—was going to have him killed. And that’s what happened. Giovanni was shot dead—murdered professionally. And it just so happened that you were there with him. But it could have been in Milan, it could have been in Borgo Genovese. Instead it was on Lake Garda.”

“Where he went in the hope of meeting me.”

“You were always very sharp, Commissario.”

“How many years do you think you’re going to spend in jail, Signor Ramoverde?” Trotti asked and he noticed that Magagna smiled.

“An old woman?”

“Old women can go to jail. Some die there.”

Ramoverde shrugged and stroked one of the cats. The back of his hand was devoid of hairs.

“What did your son want to see me for?”

“Dell’Orto knew you were going up to the lake and for some time Giovanni had been saying that he wanted to contact you.”

Trotti frowned. “You discussed these things with your son?”

“Of course I did.”

“Then you saw your son regularly?”

“You could say that.” Ramoverde raised a hand. “After all, he was living here.”

“And not in Milan—not in viale Lodi?”

“Sometimes he would go up to Milan to see the girl—to take her some money or to see if she needed help. Of course, he wanted to stay with her, but he realized it was dangerous to live in Milan.”

“And he lived here?—here in the Villa Laura?”

Ramoverde nodded. “Would you gentlemen care for something to drink? Some coffee perhaps?”

“With grappa, if that’s possible.”

Magagna took out a cigarette and was about to light it.

“Please.”

Magagna looked up.

“My cats don’t like smoke, you know.” Ramoverde turned away and called for the girl, who promptly appeared.

“Coffee for the gentlemen.”

She nodded in silence and disappeared into the kitchen. One of the cats followed her at a distance.

“Traveling between here and Milan was a risk,” Ramoverde said. “I lent him some of my best dresses.”

Trotti smiled.

Magagna moved away from the wall—he had been standing close to the painting of General Diaz. “Which would explain the razor and the shaving cream. Clothes weren’t a problem—but stubble was. Stubble on his face and on his legs.”

“Personally, I always wear long dresses.” Ramoverde smiled. “It’s shaving the backs of my hands that’s a nuisance. That and having to change my clothes whenever there’s somebody at the front door. Fortunately, Sandra keeps most visitors away—she’s a bright girl. Orazio’s granddaughter.”

Magagna continued, “It would also explain why he pissed down the sink.”

“I beg your pardon,” Douglas Ramoverde said primly.

“He wouldn’t have dressed up as a woman each time he had wanted to go and piss—and so he wouldn’t have used the lavatory on the landing.”

Trotti took a sweet from his pocket and was about to unwrap it. He had second thoughts and returned it to the pocket. “I know how Dell’Orto knew about my intention to go to Gardesana.”

Ramoverde nodded.

“But how did Bastia or the men that Bastia sent—how did they know?”

“Through Dell’Orto.”

“He told Baldassare?”

“Don’t be stupid, Commissario. The old judge phoned Lia Guerra from the hotel. He wanted to tell her about Uras …”

“About Uras?”

“The Sardinians had taken part in the Banca San Matteo robbery. They realized that they had been used; that’s why they contacted Dell’Orto. They realized that it was more than just a robbery and they wanted to make some money.”

“By blackmailing?”

“They felt they’d been cheated and they told Dell’Orto they were in possession of some money stolen at the Banca San Matteo. But Dell’Orto was in a hurry. So he phoned Lia Guerra at the shop in Senigallia.” Douglas Ramoverde looked down at his shoes. “That is the only explanation we could find.”

Magagna said, “What explanation?”

Trotti turned to face him. “At the Ambassador the reception takes down the number of all out-going phone calls. And that enabled Baldassare to locate Lia Guerra. He found out she was at the shop—and through her, he got to Maltese.”

“Because of that phone call—he was in a hurry, he wanted to speak to my son, tell him about the Sardinians—Dell’Orto believed that my son’s blood was on his hands. And so—” He shrugged. “And so he decided he didn’t want to live anymore.”

“Dell’Orto would have saved me a lot of time and effort if he had told me the truth.”

“The judge was a good man. A very good man and he had a strict code of ethics. He was a mason—but he was also a judge. And he believed in the Republic—for him it was something sacred.” Ramoverde paused. “He always spoke well of you.”

“He should have told me about the freemasons.”

“You are not devious enough, Commissario. Those are his words. Very fond of you—very fond indeed. He said that you were honest and you were the only person in Lombardy for whom he felt genuine respect. And because you were honest, he said that you would never get very far. As for P-Beta, it wasn’t something that he wanted you involved with.” He raised his hand. “It was Gianni’s idea to bring you the Sardinians’ money. Gianni wanted to show how Baldassare was behind the shooting at the Banca San Matteo. And he would produce the two witnesses of Uras and Suergiu.”

“The judge should have told me the truth if he respected me. I thought we were friends—after all, he came to see me. But he told me lies—nothing but lies.”

“He was your friend, Trotti—he liked you like a son. You and your wife. But there was something that he couldn’t bring himself to admit—not to you.” Ramoverde sighed and was about
to say something more but the girl returned with the coffee. She gave small cups to Trotti and to Magagna; she gave a large cup to Douglas Ramoverde.

“Since his wife’s death, his behavior had become erratic. He turned in on himself, went over his past. There were times when he would phone me here from Arezzo and for forty-five minutes he would go into the details of my trial. It still obsessed him, he still wondered whether he should have behaved as he did. But I know that if I were to have phoned him last week or last month—twenty years on—asking him for his help, he would have behaved no differently.” Ramoverde stopped. A sad smile. “A good man—but Dell’Orto was getting old. There were other times he would call me to tell me about a holiday he’d spent with Genoveffa—his wife—on the Adriatic. Or a trip he’d made to Syria. He’d started to live in the past—it helped him to accept his loneliness. That and his determination to destroy Baldassare, whom he’d never forgiven for debasing P-Beta.”

“He could have told me the truth. Why didn’t he? Or come to that, why didn’t you? Why has everybody lied? Even the Guerra girl.”

Ramoverde raised his cup. “As for Lia Guerra, I don’t think she likes you, Commissario. She still feels that you’re responsible for what happened to her. Even if she can now see her past as a terrorist objectively, that doesn’t mean she loves the police and the Carabinieri. You will always remain a fascist in her eyes.”

Trotti was silent.

“She didn’t want my son to contact you. She never trusted you—and she holds you responsible—directly or indirectly—for my son’s death.”

“Where did she hide when she left viale Lodi?”

Ramoverde shrugged.

Another silence while Trotti nibbled at the edge of his lip. “But why lie? Why did the old man invent the tale of a letter? Not only a waste of time, Ramoverde, but it also put my life in danger.”

“I don’t think your life has ever been in danger, Commissario.”

“Why did Dell’Orto refuse to tell me the truth? Maltese wanted to see me—but Dell’Orto couldn’t bring himself to tell me the truth.”

“My son wanted to talk about Baldassare—and how Baldassare had been to New York to see Scalfari. How Baldassare had seen Scalfari in jail, how they had patched up their disagreements and how they had decided to work together. And my son wanted to tell you about the shooting at the Banca San Matteo. And how Baldassare was behind it. But, you see, for Dell’Orto to talk to you about all that …” He shrugged. “It would have meant explaining things.”

“Things?”

Ramoverde drank more coffee, then put the cup down. “Grappa, you said, Commissario?” A gesture. “I’m afraid there’s no alcohol in the house.”

“Two spoonfuls of sugar will suffice.”

“The same sweet tooth?”

“Dell’Orto sent me on a wild goose chase looking for some dead woman. He lied to me. He was my friend and he lied to me.”

“He lied, Commissario. Because what had happened here—in this villa—had become a point of honor for him. He had acted out of friendship—or if you wish, he had helped a “fratello” … in those days, I was a freemason, too. But Dell’Orto was a man of law, a man of the Republic and he knew that he had made use of his position for my sake. It was something that he had accepted; but it still hurt him. Because it made him realize …” Again Ramoverde shrugged. “It made him realize that in fact there wasn’t really any difference between him and Baldassare. Of course, he had behaved selflessly—what he did he did for my sake. But the fact remained that he had sacrificed his idea of Republican justice for his idea of masonic aid.” He watched Trotti spoon sugar into the cup and then drink the coffee. “Above all else, he did not want you to know that. Not you, Commissario—because you were somebody like him. Somebody special—somebody with the same values. That’s why he killed himself.”