The Salamander, page 23
He hesitated for a moment, took another look at my card, then closed it and handed it back to me. His tone was one degree less frigid.
‘No, I don’t think we’ll need that, Colonel. Now, your business is … ?’
‘Reserved to you and me at this stage, Major. I have to insist on that from the outset.’
‘I understand.’
He fumbled with the papers again, tossing them about like confetti. For me, a man whose life depended on paper, it was a kind of sacrilege.
‘Major, I’m looking for a man. The police want him for attempted murder. We want him because he is a known subversive, and we need to talk to him before anyone else.’
‘And you hope to find him here, Colonel?’
‘There’s a certain logic in the idea that appeals to my people. These new groups of yours constitute a sensitive project, highly political. Your recruiting methods are, shall we say, unorthodox. To put it more bluntly, it has been decided, as a matter of high policy, that even social delinquents are acceptable, provided that they can be retrained to certain essential skills. Correct?’
‘Correct.’
‘Next. The project is secret, the requirements special. A man who wanted to go underground might well present himself for enlistment. If his dossier didn’t look too disastrous, you would accept him.’
‘A question, Colonel. The project is secret. How does your man know about it?’
‘Ah, that’s one of the matters I have to discuss with the General tomorrow night. It doesn’t affect you, Major, but it does affect another officer who has been less than discreet… However, that’s confidential until the General gives clearance. Take it for granted that the man would know and could present himself… Now, we’re not interested in the police side of it at all. But a known subversive, an active Marxist agent, inside this kind of group – well! You do see my point?’
‘Too clearly, Colonel. What’s the name of your man?’
‘Marco Vitucci.’
‘Let’s take a look at the nominal roll.’
‘We’ll come to that in a moment. What other records do you keep on your troops?’
‘Each man has a record card, which contains his personal details and the reports of the training staff.’
‘Photographs?’
‘Each card carries a photograph, a thumbprint and a list of distinguishing marks. These are recorded also on the subject’s identity document, which he carries at all times in addition to his civilian identification.’
‘Good. Now, let’s have a look at the nominal rolls.’
It took him three minutes to find them under the mess on his desk and in his trays. It took only a minute to establish that in a list of four hundred men in two training groups, there was no Marco Vitucci.
‘Well, we do have one other alias.’ I thumbed ostentatiously through my notebook. ‘Here it is – Barone, Turi.’ That landed me among the B’s. There was no Barone either; but I did light on the name, Balbo, Giuseppe, and I pointed it out to the Major.
‘Balbo, eh? Nothing to do with the case, of course. I was just wondering if he’s any relation to General Balbo, who marched with the Duce’
The Major smiled for the first time.
‘I doubt it. But let’s take a look, just for curiosity. Funny if it were though. Balbo was one of the first quadrumvirate of Fascism. We could be the new beginnings… Here you are.’
He opened a filing cabinet, took out a card and handed it to me. I scanned it carefully. The identification was clear. This was the same man I had met with Roditi in the Club Alcibiade. If the thumbprint tallied with the one on the police files, then I had everything I needed. I handed the card back to the Major, who tossed it on to the littered desk, and then half-buried it under the nominal rolls.
‘No connection, I’m afraid. The old General was a Ferrarese. This one comes from Gaeta. Well, it was a pleasant fantasy. That’s all, I think, Major. Painless for you, disappointing for me. Still, we’ll keep trying. I wonder if I could ask you one favour?’
‘Anything, Colonel.’
‘Could I have a cup of coffee?’
‘Certainly’
He yelled for the sergeant, and when there was no answer, he went through the door at a run and I could hear him shouting across the parade-ground. I slipped the Balbo card in my pocket and followed him out.
‘Please, Major, don’t disturb yourself. I’ll be on my way. Just a reminder. This visit is strictly reserved.’
‘Of course, Colonel. Have a good journey.’
He was glad to see me go ; but not half so glad as I was to hear the gates of the stockade slam behind me. The moment I was out of sight of the watch-tower, I stepped hard on the accelerator and drove fast and dangerously all the way to Bergamo. I snatched a plaintive Steffi from the square of the High Town and drove straight back to Milan. The prints on the Balbo card matched those which Steffi had brought from Rome. We made four Xerox copies and locked the original in the safe. Then we rang for Pietro and ordered champagne and a gourmet meal to celebrate this first real rape of the ungodly.
It was one of those jubilant hours that only a professional can understand and share. It was like winning a lottery or having the prettiest girl in the room wilt into your arms. I was the shrewdest fellow in the world, as racy a gambler as ever bet his wife’s virtue on the turn of a card. But – post coitum triste, post vinum capitis dolor! at four in the afternoon, sober but sleepy, we still did not know what to do with the Balbo document. Steffi, who had missed his siesta, summed it up irritably.
‘Ebbene! We now have evidence to put one Giuseppe Balbo in prison for life. You don’t want that. You want him here, in this room, singing like a love-bird, telling you all he knows about Roditi, and the letter-bomb, and the murders in the Via Sicilia. Then you want Roditi here, singing another song about General Leporello. Then, when you’ve copied down the whole melody, what are you going to do with it? Like the Rabbi who played golf on the Sabbath and got a hole-in-one, whom do you tell? And when you tell, who’s going to want to believe you? And, much more important, who’s going to do anything about it? Matucci, little brother, big wooden-head, you have to answer all those questions!’
‘Give me time, Steffi, for God’s sake!’
‘You don’t have time, little brother. Suppose your Major Zenobio has missed the card?’
‘I’m hoping he hasn’t. He’s careless with papers.’
‘Suppose he rings Leporello to check on you.’
‘I’m gambling he won’t.’
‘Gambling, hoping! On a thread like that you could hang yourself.’
‘I know, I know! Let’s take it one step at a time. I want doubt, confusion and panic… What’s the time?’
‘Three thirty. Why?’
‘How far is it to Chiasso?’
‘Less than fifty kilometres. Again, why?’
I grabbed the telephone and dialled Bruno Manzini’s private number. When he came on the line, I told him what I wanted.
‘… A courier, Bruno. I want him now. He’s to drive to Chiasso and post some letters. They have to be delivered in Milan with tomorrow’s mail. And I’d like to see you as soon as possible, here, at the apartment. I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s very urgent.’
Crotchety he might be, but he always ran true to form. The courier would be with me in fifteen minutes. He, himself, would join me at six. Steffi was looking at me as if I were an amiable lunatic. I unlocked the safe, took out the Balbo document, rubbed it clean with a new handkerchief and laid it on the desk. Then, I rang for Paolo and asked him to bring me a pair of his clean white gloves. Finally, Steffi could bear it no longer:
‘So, tell me, Matucci! Or do I just stand here and watch you make like Inspector Maigret?’
‘Step one. We make two fresh copies of the Balbo document. This time without our fingerprints all over the copy-paper. Step two. We clip Balbo’s thumbprint off each copy. Step three. I type two identical notes to accompany the thumbprints. Step four. The said notes and thumbprints are posted to catch tonight’s mail from Southern Switzerland.’
‘And what will be in the notes ?’
‘Two names: Bandinelli, Calvi. A place: Via Sicilia, Rome. And the date on which they died.’
‘And who gets the notes?’
‘Major-General Leporello and Captain Roditi – at their private addresses.’
‘And how long does it take them to run the print through records?’
‘Forty-eight hours at least.’
‘And how long to tie everything back to you through a stolen card?’
‘Another twenty-four. Those are inside limits. We might do better.’
‘Then what, little brother?’
‘Then there is the beautiful scene, Steffi. I think we’ll get Fellini to film it. I, Dante Alighieri Matucci, am standing solitary and noble in the middle of the Olympic Stadium. All the stands are full. All the spectators look exactly like the Director. They all have guns and they’re all pointing at me… What happens after that, I’m not sure.’
‘I’m sure, Matucci. I’m going home to mother.’
‘Oh, no you’re not. Not tonight anyway. At ten o’clock we are going to make a private visit to the apartment of Captain Matteo Roditi. How does that sound?’
‘Like madness, little brother. Like old-fashioned dancing madness!’
Bruno Manzini arrived punctually at six. When he heard of my day’s exploits, he was not amused. He gave me no tolerant elegies either. He was coldly and eloquently angry.
‘… Matucci, you shock me! You do not lack talent. You have vast experience. You have at least a rudimentary sense of politics. So this children’s game you have played today is an incredible and inexcusable folly.’
‘Now, listen, Cavaliere…!’
‘No! You hear me first! You have compromised yourself. You have compromised me. You have set in motion a whole train of events for which we are quite unprepared, and for which we have no time to prepare! Good God, man! Have you learnt nothing? This is high politics. We are talking of revolution, Matucci, barricades in the streets, gunfire and bombs ! Yet, you behave like some fly-brained agent from a comic book! Truly I despair!’
‘I think you despair too quickly, Cavaliere.’
‘Do you, indeed. Then show me half a grain of sense in this crack-brained escapade and I’ll die happy.’
‘Then, here it is. Locked in that safe, there is a document, perhaps the only existing document which can tie Roditi and Leporello to a conspiracy of murder. I procured it by a risky act with awkward consequences, but…’
‘Awkward! Mother of God! Is that what you call it?’
‘… But, Cavaliere, if you don’t take risks in my business, you’re left standing like a clown while people pour buckets of water over your head. Next point, we agreed on a policy of doubt and confusion. I have begun to create it…’
‘Prematurely. Without foresight!’
‘With hindsight then. We are dealing with conjurors, Cavaliere: people who can make files disappear, people who can suborn witnesses and silence politicians and buy perjurers with straw in their shoes – if we give them enough time. I am trying, rightly or wrongly, to deny them time. I’m a fly-brained agent, because I don’t have the luxury to be Lorenzo de’ Medici compassing the downfall of his enemies by slow and princely degrees. I’m the opportunist, because I have to be. You can sit in the Bankers’ Club and plan the campaign. I have to fight the skirmishes and the street-battles, and if I lose those, your campaign is so much scrap-paper!… Eh! This is madness! Let’s drop it!’
He stared at me for a long moment, bleak-faced and hostile; then, he nodded, slowly, as if assenting to some private proposition of his own. Then, he set it down for me.
‘Ebbene ! You are right and I am right, and we are both equally wrong. Let’s start from there and see what we can salvage.’
‘No, Cavaliere. Let’s see what we can build.’
A small reluctant smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.
‘You’re a real wooden-head, Matucci. What am I to do with you?’
‘Wear me, Cavaliere. Like a hairshirt, if you must, but wear me. And give me some advice. We project from the evidence we have in hand. We establish a case that involves Balbo as an assassin, and Roditi and Leporello as conspirators. Where and how do we present our case? And how do we tie the Director into it? You say we’re not prepared. I know we’re not. So I need help against the high men, before they close ranks. Can you give it to me?’
‘It’s the Director who bothers you, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. He’s got a perfect position. He can excuse everything he has done on the grounds that he was infiltrating a conspiracy that threatened the security of the State. He knows so many secrets that everyone’s afraid of him, even his own Minister.’
‘I’m not afraid of him, Dante.’
‘That’s hardly enough. You have to have the lever that will topple him.’
‘We have the lever, my Dante. It’s the fulcrum we need; and you, without knowing, may have provided it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I know you don’t. And that is what makes me angry with you. In the fervour of a crusade, in the heat of a new situation, you slip out of gear. You change from logician to opportunist. You chase the marsh-light and forget the balefires burning on the hills behind you. Remember what happened at the lodge? In Venice? The same thing is happening now. This is why you are vulnerable to such a man as the Director. You have every talent he has, and some he lacks, but you cannot or you will not focus them. So, always until now, you have been a tool of other men’s designs… I’m sorry if I’ve offended you; but I have so much regard for you that I cannot bear what you do to yourself… Let me show you what I mean. When you left my brother’s house on the morning after his death, you left an old servant weeping into his liquor. You had asked him to record telephone calls for you. He did that. You never went back to collect the messages. I did. I went there to see to the wants of an old man who had known my father. Because he was afraid, he told me that he had lied to you. He was not awake when my brother came home from the Chess Club. He was drunk and snoring. He lied because he thought he would be blamed, for not putting on the alarms. They were off when he woke in the morning… No, please don’t interrupt. Let me embarrass you a moment longer. The night after my brother’s funeral, I had his body removed from the vault. An autopsy was performed in the mortuary of a private clinic. My brother did take barbiturates. He probably took quite a large dose, but not enough to kill him. He was killed by an injection of air into the femoral artery. The mark of the syringe was clearly visible under the pubic hair. You see what happened, Dante? You connived with the Director to hush up a suicide. You were made an accomplice in murder.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
For a full minute he said absolutely nothing. His eyes were filmed over like those of a bird, so that he seemed not to be looking at me, but away and beyond into some immeasurable distance. He sat quite rigid, with his fingertips joined and laid against his thin pursed lips. When he spoke, his voice was frosty, remote, like the first chill wind of autumn.
‘To teach you a lesson, Matucci. Trust no one. Not even me. Don’t believe that the old Adam is dead until you’ve screwed down the coffin and seen the grave-digger stamp the last sod on top of him.’
He was right, of course. The old bastard was always right. We Latins are the most logical people in the world. We mistrust our mothers when they give us the teat. The only things we believe happily are unprovable propositions like weeping Madonnas, and flying houses and infallible Popes.
Our visit to Roditi’s apartment began auspiciously. There was a party on the sixth floor; the foyer was busy with guests in evening-dress and the porter had lost count of the arrivals. Steffi and I rode with the party-goers as far as the fifth floor and stepped out on to a deserted landing. We rang the bell of Roditi’s apartment; and, when there was no answer, I used a pick-lock and opened the door in thirty seconds. It was as simple as shelling green peas.
The interior of the apartment was a surprise. I had expected an epicene elegance or perhaps a feminine clutter. I found, instead, a place as aseptic and impersonal as a hotel room. The furniture was Danish modern. The pictures, arranged in a severe symmetry, were all of soldiers in historic costumes. There was a cabinet for drinks and a stereo-player with a collection of popular songs, film-scores and American musicals. The desk was bare, except for a blotting pad of tooled leather and a leather cup full of ball-point pens and freshly-sharpened pencils. The place was spotless and the teak furniture glowed with wax and recent polishing.
We began our search in the kitchen. We found coffee and bread and butter and cheese and a carton of milk. The dining-room was furnished with linen, cutlery and glassware for six persons. Everything was of good quality. None of it distinguished. In the liquor cabinet there was one spare bottle of each drink and perhaps a dozen assorted mineral waters. The books in the salon were innocuous: paperback novels, a few biographies. There was no pornography, no sign of sexy prints or photographs. The drawers of the desk were unlocked. They contained notepaper and envelopes and a few blocks of ruled drafting paper. The bathroom revealed nothing except that the Captain’s toiletries were expensive, though not exotic.
The bedroom was more rewarding. Roditi had ten suits and four uniforms, all made by an expensive tailor. His shirts were handmade and monogrammed. He was prolific in shoes, ties, scarves and costly accessories, He was either a very tidy man, or he had a jewel of a maid, because his drawers were set with mathematical precision and his dressing-table was laid like a show-piece in a store.
In the right-hand drawer of the dressing-table, face-down, was a photograph in a silver frame. It was a portrait, obviously taken by a professional, of a woman in her early thirties, who bore a striking resemblance to Rafael’s Donna Velata in the Pitti Gallery in Florence. There were the same dark eyes, large and lustrous, the same nose, a little large for perfect beauty, the same mouth, soft and enigmatic in repose. Even the hair-style was similar: dark, straight tresses drawn back over her ears and braided behind the head. The photograph was inscribed in a bold, round hand, ‘To my dearest Matteo, for memory and for promise, Elena’.
