He stroked his moustache and skipped the niceties. ‘So, tell me about this cellar.’
‘Nothing to tell, Ettore, they’re on to us.’
‘I know that. How come?’
He spread his arms. ‘No idea. Somebody grassed us up?’
‘Someone who saw you unloading.’
‘Probably.’
‘I don’t think we’ve got too much to worry about. No one has shown up here.’
Pierre lit a cigarette and put down the pack. ‘I don’t think it’s any big deal. I think it’s limited to the Bar Aurora.’
‘That’s what I think too,’ Ettore smiled. ‘And I don’t think you’re telling me everything.’
‘What?’
‘You know very well what.’
Pierre raised his hands over his head, palms facing the front. ‘Ok, ok: the baker on the other side of the street. There’s a girl involved, a long time ago. I thought he’d got over it, but it seems he’s still got it in for me.’
From the silence that followed, Pierre deduced that the ball was in his court again. ‘So Ettore, what do we do now?’
‘What do we do about what?’
‘I’m in the shit, look: I don’t know where I’m going to get hold of all that money.’
‘Ever thought of taking up robbery?’
‘I don’t think I’d be capable of it, but soon I’ll have no other option.’
‘There’s one other alternative. We’re getting a lot of requests in at the moment. Three or four journeys for a converted agricultural petrol company, and the usual trafficking. The petrol guys are about to pull out, but if we had one more mule, we’d be able to accept. What d’you think?’
Smuggling, that’s all I need. So, better accept: better than this. He replied that he would think about it. Then he added, ‘Isn’t four journeys rather a lot? It only took me one to get to Yugoslavia.’
Ettore smiled.
Pierre shook his hand.
Chapter 32
Record of the interrogation of Stefano Zollo, carried out by Police Inspector Pasquale Cinquegrana on 15 June, recorded by officer Francesco Di Gennaro for the exclusive use of Charles Siragusa, US Bureau of Narcotics
‘Mr Zollo, tell us the truth —’
‘One moment, Inspector, you’re starting your questions all over again! My lawyer, Mr Schifanoia, told me that accusations of the murder of somebody or other are without foundation, and that there are new, more serious allegations against me. Will you tell me what’s going on?’
‘All in good time, Mr Zollo. First answer the questions, then you will be informed. May I continue?’
‘I’m only going to answer in the presence of my lawyer.’
‘Mr Zollo, were you in Rome this year?’
‘I told you I didn’t intend —’
‘Have you ever met, in Naples or elsewhere, Signor Ugo Montagna?’
‘Inspector, what the fuck —’
‘Mr Zollo, in your capacity as driver for Mr Luciano, does your work involve drug-dealing?’
‘Listen, Inspector —’
‘No, you listen, Mr Zollo. Your situation is far from brilliant, if I were you I would do my best to cooperate: the accusations of the Chiofano homicide have not been collaborated, it is true, but I am pretty much convinced that you killed the poor man, and if that is the case I promise I will do everything possible to make sure you end up in jail. Furthermore, you are accused of having supplied phoney marquis Ugo Montagna with a large quantity of heroin between February and April 1953. Now, we are well aware that the brains behind this drugs trafficking is your employer, Mr Luciano. You may be sure that we will catch him sooner or later. At the moment, however, we do not have sufficient proof, and we would be very grateful to any reasonable person who, with a view to extricating himself from an unpleasant nuisance, would clarify our ideas about a number of situations.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just find that person and leave me in peace.’
‘I don’t understand what your problem is, Mr Zollo. The ship is sinking: jump into the lifeboat while you still have time, leave the admiral to his fate. After all, you’re just an ordinary seaman.’
‘Your grandfather’s the ordinary seaman. I’ve already told you that I will only answer questions tomorrow, in the presence of my lawyer. I’m only interested in knowing what I’m being accused of. Selling heroin to this man Montagna? Prepare to release me, Inspector.’
Chapter 33
Bologna, 17 June
When he saw her his heart leapt into his mouth.
She was waiting for him on the other side of the street. Black skirt, white blouse and dark glasses.
She looked fantastic. Pierre closed the padlock of the bar shutter and walked towards her.
‘Angela. ’
‘Hi.’
She was running a serious risk in coming here. He didn’t know what to say to her. A simple ‘How are you?’ would have sounded stupid and provocative. How was he to behave?
Fortunately she was the one who spoke.
‘I need to ask you a favour. I don’t know who else I can turn to.’
‘Sure,’ Pierre muttered, ‘shall we go and sit down somewhere?’
He jumped into the dark, landing on wet grass. The sprinklers had just been switched off. The lawn at the Villa Azzurra was always well tended, in the English fashion: so green it looked fake.
Pierre crept over to the wall, staying out of range of the lamps.
The two nightwatchmen were always in their little cage by the entrance. They had an abundance of flasks of coffee, sandwiches and magazines. Every two hours they took a walk through the wards to check that all the lunatics were sound asleep.
There was no other way of getting in. After Ferruccio’s suicide, Montrone had had all the windows barred, and now the lunatics were effectively in a cage. In fact the bars had been there before, but only on certain wards, those for the more seriously ill patients. Fefe’s jump had changed everything. Pierre looked at the building submerged in shadow and shivered. It could have been a jail, or an army barracks.
He crept along the wall to the door and peered round the corner.
One of the nurses was sitting with his head on his folded arms, and Pierre thought he could hear a faint snoring.
The other man was flicking through a newspaper.
Pierre got down on all fours and crept towards the reception desk.
He breathed quietly and moved slowly. A crack in his joints would give him away.
The offices were at the end of the corridor, around the corner. At least six or seven metres to cross without being seen.
Pierre thought about the time when, as a boy, he had hidden from Aunt Iolanda when she wanted to bathe him in the tub. They looked for him everywhere. He had become convinced that if he didn’t look at them, no one would see him. He had lain down in a corner, among the chicken hutches, and lowered his head. Then, motionless, he had waited. An ostrich strategy.
He stretched himself out on the floor and started to creep forwards gently, one centimetre at a time. If his movements were imperceptible, perhaps he wouldn’t distract the watchman’s attention from his paper. If the nurse’s eyes remained fixed on the page, he wouldn’t notice the long mass sliding along the floor.
He continued like that, nose on the linoleum, like an earthworm.
He bent his body to round the corner, without speeding up, twisting himself around and pulling his legs behind him at the last minute.
He had made it.
Incredulous, he got to his feet and walked to the office door.
Lifting it slightly to keep the hinges from squeaking, he opened it just enough to slip inside, and closed it behind him.
He took out his torch and started rummaging through the card index.
Malavas. Malossi. Mambrini. Manaresi.