Assignment Milan, page 24
Davini led Massimo through the city to the Porta Romana district. On a short side street, an aging blue sign hung above the entrance of a small shop. Lettered across the sign was the single word ‘Angelo’ and above was a drawing of a nondescript bird.
It was too early for dinner, so the men were not surprised to find no customers inside when they entered. The only occupant was a middle-aged woman wearing a white apron and carrying a stack of soup bowls. She set the bowls on a nearby table and turned to greet the men. “Dinner will be in one hour. Delicious vegetable soup.”
Massimo looked through a doorway into the kitchen area where a man was chopping vegetables. He said to the woman, “We would like to speak with Angelo.”
She said indifferently, “You can find him at the cemetery in Brolo,” then she burst out in hearty laughter and explained, “Angelo was my husband’s father. He owned the trattoria until he died more than twenty years past. In his honor, we keep his name. Everyone in the neighborhood knows Trattoria Angelo. You may speak with my husband, Lucio, if you wish.”
“Perhaps you can help us,” Davini said. “We are looking for a man, one of your customers. The only description we have of him is that one of his fingers is deformed. The tip of his middle finger is missing.”
Recognition flashed in the woman’s eyes. “I know him. His name is Pagatore…at least that’s what he is called. He is here often. Always he comes alone and keeps to himself.”
“Pagatore,” Massimo repeated. He turned to Davini and said, “That’s the name Bruno mentioned,” then to the woman, he asked, “Do you know where we can find Pagatore?”
“He lives above the clothing shop at the end of the street. Has he done something wrong?”
“We need to ask him some questions,” Davini replied.
They thanked the woman and walked to the clothing shop. Inside, a cheerful older man greeted them. “I have some excellent silk tunics in the newest styles.”
Not wanting to waste time in banter, Davini asked directly, “Does a man named Pagatore live in this building?”
The man nodded his head vigorously. “Yes. He has the apartment on the third level.”
Massimo fingered the collar of a light green tunic hanging on a rack. “Maybe later,” he said to the owner as he and Davini left the shop.
They climbed to the third level and listened at the door but heard no sound from within the apartment. “Pagatore! Open the door!” Davini shouted.
They listened again. This time they heard footsteps briefly and then again silence. Davini drove his shoulder into the door, splintering the frame and sending him crashing into the room. Massimo rushed in after him. Across the room, Pagatore leaned against a wall with his arms folded over his chest. Davini bristled, “Why didn’t you open the door?”
Pagatore flashed a self-satisfied grin. “I never open the door to anyone who stands on the landing screaming at me. You might have been a drunk or a thief.” He scanned Davini from head to foot. “Maybe you are a thief. Just because you’re wearing a uniform doesn’t prove anything. You could have bought the tunic in the clothing shop below.”
The veins in Davini’s neck bulged. His voice rose in volume and pitch. “Stop the shit, Pagatore. We know you paid to have the bank clerk killed and the women abducted. Bruno gave us your name.”
Still trying his best to irritate the soldier, Pagatore said, “I never told him to kill anyone. He is a barbaric fool. He can’t blame the killing on me.”
Massimo crossed the room, grabbed Pagatore’s tunic, dragged the paymaster to a chair, and shoved him down into it. “Bruno is in custody, and the women are free,” Massimo snapped. He held out the paper given to Portinari. “This is the note you paid the boy to deliver to the bank manager. The scheme to pressure the Medici bank is finished.”
“Is it?” Pagatore asked defiantly. “I am just a courier. I don’t kill people, and I don’t care about the business of the Medici bank. All I do is deliver messages, the same as the boy who gave you that note.”
“No, you are not like the boy,” Davini growled. “He does not comprehend the meaning of the note. I doubt that he can even read. But you understand when you pay to have people abducted. Abduction is a crime, and abduction of foreigners will draw the attention of the Privy Council.”
“Ah, the Privy Council,” Pagatore scoffed. “Which members of the council? Some of them are among my best customers. They are always in need of people to do the unseemly deeds they cannot do for themselves. Let me get my book, and I can read their names to you.” Pagatore glared at the soldier defiantly. “Do you think any of them are going to prosecute me?” Pagatore spit on the floor.
Davini fell silent while he thought about his options. He could bring Pagatore to the army base for questioning. Interrogations of uncooperative suspects were known to last for days, while the culprit was given little chance to sleep and only moldy bread to eat. Some of Davini’s compatriots resorted to violence to loosen a culprit’s tongue, but he did not subscribe to that brutality.
Massimo stepped forward and offered another approach to Davini. “The victims of his crimes are Florentine citizens, and I am an envoy of the Florentine government. I could take him to Florence and put him on trial there. I doubt that any Florentine magistrates are in his book.”
Davini threw his hands into the air and stepped back. “Yes, that solution is acceptable. Take him away.” Davini turned and began to leave. Massimo pulled Pagatore up from the chair and shoved him toward the door.
“You can’t do this,” Pagatore shouted. “I’m a citizen of Milan. You can’t take me to Florence.” Massimo and Davini ignored the protest. One more push sent Pagatore out of the apartment and onto the stairway landing. “Stop, stop!” His tone had shifted from protest to pleading. “What do you want to know? I’ll tell you.”
Massimo slammed Pagatore against the wall. “Who paid you to arrange the abductions and to deliver the note to the bank manager?”
With Massimo’s hand pressed against his chest, Pagatore struggled to speak, barely managing to say, “He calls himself the Intermediary.”
“Where can we find this Intermediary?” Massimo barked.
“I don’t know. I swear, I don’t know. He comes to the trattoria when he has a job for me. That is the only time I see him.”
“Describe him. What does he look like?” Massimo continued.
“He’s thin. He has bulging eyes and a hooked nose. Something’s wrong with his legs because he shakes when he walks. Every time I’ve seen him, he was wearing a dark gray tunic.”
Massimo looked to Davini, who said, “I don’t know of anyone who fits that description, but I can have the podestà circulate the description among the guardia in Milan.”
Massimo released his hold on Pagatore and said to Davini. “It’s a long ride back to Florence, and I’d rather not have this low-life’s company on the journey. I trust the duchy can find a way to dispense a fitting punishment for him.”
Davini dragged Pagatore back into the apartment. “The book you mentioned. The one with the names of your clients. Where is it? Perhaps you are unaware, but Duke Sforza is eager to eliminate corruption in his government. When he sees the names in your book, your council member clients will be worrying about their own asses. They won’t be concerned about saving yours.”
39
Basilica Sant’Ambrogio, Milan
An old priest hunched over his broom as he cleared leaves from under the portico at the Basilica of Sant’Ambrogio. He swept in short strokes with barely enough force to propel the leaves. “May I help you, Father?” Vittorio said as he reached for the broom that the priest gratefully relinquished. The old one moved aside and watched Vittorio make short work of the task. “Bless you, my son. The Lord will remember your act of kindness.” When Vittorio did not turn to leave, the priest’s lips curled up in a knowing smile. He said, “You are here for a purpose. How may I help you?”
The Medici bank clerk had told Vittorio the name of the woman he had married and the name of the church where they were married. Before confronting the woman and her father, who had demanded that the dowry be returned, Vittorio wanted evidence that the marriage was a fraud. He said, “A woman named Giulia Nardelli was married recently in this basilica. Would it be possible for me to see the marriage record?”
The priest’s eyes narrowed as he processed the unusual request. Marriage records were not private but rarely did anyone ask to see them. “Come with me,” he said without emotion and led Vittorio to an office at the rear of the church. He scanned boxes filling the shelves of a cabinet. “Ah, this one,” he said as he removed one of the boxes and placed it on a table. “These are the records of marriages, baptisms, and deaths for the past three years.” He gestured for Vittorio to come closer. “My eyesight is not good. You may search for the record you seek. The most recent ones are in front.”
Vittorio thumbed through the papers until he found a sheet that listed Giulia Nardelli as the wife and the bank clerk as the husband. He removed the page from the box to view it carefully. Alongside the notation Sacrament of Matrimony was the date given to Vittorio by the clerk. Vittorio read aloud the barely legible signature of the priest who performed the ceremony. “Friar S. Possini. Is Friar Possini a priest in this parish?”
“I do not know a Friar Possini,” the priest replied.
Vittorio carried the paper to a window to avail himself of brighter light. Squinting, he said, “Rossini. It could be Friar Rossini.”
The priest clapped his hands together triumphantly. “Yes, there is a Friar, but he is not here at Sant’Ambrogio.”
“Is it unusual for a priest who is not of this parish to officiate a wedding at the basilica?” Vittorio asked.
“No, not at all. The friar could be a friend or relative of the husband or wife.”
“There is a notation on the sheet,” Vittorio said. “The word is ‘oratory.’”
“The oratory is a small chapel separate from the basilica. Small weddings and baptisms are held there. Many couples prefer to be married in the chapel’s intimate surroundings. I can show you if you wish,” the priest offered.
Vittorio was more interested in the friar’s whereabouts. “Where can I find Friar Rossini? Do you know his parish?” he asked.
“I have never met him, but I have heard that he serves the Lord by praying with the sick at hospitals. Others like him bring the word of God to children at orphanages. Those monks have no parishes.” The priest bowed his head and crossed himself. “Facing constant misery and suffering as they do requires great devotion and deep faith.” He returned his eyes to Vittorio and said, “To find Friar Rossini, you would have to ask at the hospitals.”
Vittorio nodded to acknowledge his understanding, but he felt discouraged because it might take considerable time to find the monk. He returned the paper to the box. Then he casually thumbed through the other records. His eyes widened upon seeing another record dated six months earlier that also listed Giulia Nardelli as the wife. He scanned the page incredulously. It bore the same signature, Friar S. Rossini, but the name of the husband was different.
Vittorio pulled the record from the box and read it aloud. The priest’s jaw dropped open. He crossed himself and blurted, “Madonna, Holy Mother of God.”
“Could this marriage have been annulled?” Vittorio asked.
“No. No. Annulments are granted only under the most extreme circumstances. If the marriage had been annulled, I would know it. There has never been an annulment at Sant’Ambrogio.”
Vittorio read the husband’s name. “Do you know him? Is he a member of this parish?”
“No, he is not one of our parishioners.” The priest paused, then opened his eyes wide. “There is a well-respected family in Milan with that name. The patriarch is an official of the guild of stonemasons. The guild has been very generous with donations to the church.” His brow furrowed as he added, “It is a large family.”
Vittorio returned his attention to the box and continued searching through the records. Slowly he moved back in time: ten months, one year. At sixteen months, the name Giulia Nardelli again looked up at him. He pulled that card and read it. The priest slumped. Vittorio caught the old man before he fell to the floor and guided him to a chair. Vittorio read the signature, S. Rossini. “This is terrible,” the priest moaned. “How could Friar Rossini commit such a sin? He could be excommunicated.”
Vittorio read the name of the husband. With a flash of recognition, the priest said, “Yes, he is one of our parishioners. He makes candles. All the candles in the basilica come from his shop. He became the owner when his father died a few years past.” The priest watched anxiously while Vittorio looked through the remaining records, but further searching revealed no additional sheets with the name Giulia Nardelli.
Vittorio debated whether to search for the friar before approaching Giulia Nardelli. Although there were only two or three hospitals in Milan, monasteries and convents also ministered to the sick. If Friar Rossini also visited those clinics, finding the monk could require a prolonged hunt. Vittorio’s investigative instincts told him it is always better to get as much information as possible before confronting a suspect, so he opted for a compromise: he would inquire at the three hospitals. If those queries proved fruitless, then he would turn his attention to the woman.
As he walked from the basilica to Ca’Grande, Milan’s largest hospital, Vittorio reviewed his experience at the basilica. The three marriage records fueled his suspicion that Giulia Nardelli engaged in fraud. She seduced men who could pay to avoid a scandal. Her father endowed each union with a substantial dowry; then, she convinced her gullible husband to spend the sum on lavish gifts for her. After the money was gone, she abandoned her husband and fled with the gifts. Her father claimed that his daughter had been wronged and demanded that the dowry be repaid. The husbands acceded to the extortion to avoid being painted with accusations of infidelity or impotence. Giulia’s choice of the bank clerk as a target did not fit the scam’s usual pattern. Unlike her other ‘husbands,’ the bank clerk was not wealthy enough to repay the dowry after buying lavish gifts for his bride. The clerk had been selected for a different purpose, and Friar Rossini might know that purpose.
A nun greeted Vittorio when he entered Ca’Grande hospital. In response to his question about Friar Rossini, the nun said, “He comes here for two days every week. Yesterday he spent the entire day praying and giving comfort to those in the ward. His words lift the spirits of the most unfortunate who have no hope. If anyone deserves sainthood, it is Friar Rossini.”
“Do you know where I might find the friar today?” Vittorio asked.
“Today, he is visiting the Ambrosian monastery. Friar Rossini is not an Ambrosian, but he visits sick children being cared for at the monastery. Yesterday he showed me rosary beads that he planned to give to a young girl at the monastery.”
The nun gave Vittorio directions to the Ambrosian monastery. It was a fair distance outside the city, so Vittorio thanked the nun and rushed out into the street, hoping he could reach the infirmary before Friar Rossini departed. As Vittorio passed through the city gate, a farm wagon came up behind him. The driver had sold his goods at the city market and was returning to his farm. Vittorio called to the driver. “The Ambrosian monastery. Might you be going near there?” The driver slowed the wagon and motioned for Vittorio to climb aboard.
When he reached the monastery, a monk led Vittorio to the room where Friar Rossini was talking with a bedridden girl. They were engaged in a conversation that made the girl’s smile overpower her sad eyes. Vittorio stopped outside the room, not wanting to intrude on their privacy. “Friar Rossini will be out soon,” the monk said. “The girl needs her rest.”
Vittorio waited in the corridor until the friar appeared; then he said, “Friar, I wish to speak with you about Giulia Nardelli.” Upon hearing the woman’s name, the monk stiffened, and a vein in his neck pulsed rapidly. “Let us speak outside,” Rossini replied.
They walked to a garden–just a dirt patch at this time of year–behind the monastery. Vittorio introduced himself as a Florentine envoy who was investigating irregularities at the Medici bank. “Records at Sant’Ambrogio basilica show that you married Signora Nardelli to a clerk at the Medici bank. The records also show that you extended the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony to the Nardelli woman three times. I cannot imagine what would make a servant of God commit such a sacrilege.”
The friar’s face turned ashen. He sat on a stone bench, looked up at Vittorio, and spoke with difficulty. “Giulia lives with Domenico, my brother. All his life, since he was a young boy, trouble found Domenico. He always chose fraud and deception over honest work. And now he has ensnared Giulia in his latest scheme.”
“And you?” Vittorio questioned.
“Yes, me too.” Rossini’s voice sputtered, and his words came slowly. “Guilia is not Domenico’s daughter; she is my daughter. When I was a young priest, there was a woman in my parish who…” He paused to reflect. “I lost my way to the temptation of the flesh. Giulia lived with her mother until three years past when her mother died. Domenico said he would provide for Giulia. I knew his generosity would have a price, but I had no choice but to agree; she could not survive on her own.”
“So, your solution was to desecrate the Sacrament of Matrimony and make your own daughter into a bigamist?” Vittorio responded harshly.
“I did not. I could not do such a thing.”
“I saw the records,” Vittorio protested.
“They are just pieces of paper, and yes, I am guilty of signing those papers. But I did not celebrate the sacrament. I performed the ceremonies in Latin, so none of those present could understand. I gave a blessing and asked God’s forgiveness, but I did not marry them.” His body shifted in discomfort at his own rationalization.
