The Salamander, page 4
‘No, Colonel.’ The head-porter was very definite. ‘You have been misinformed. The General was called from the dining-room, but not to the telephone. A senior member of the Club had asked to speak with him in private. He waited in the card-room. The steward conducted the General to him. They spoke for a few moments, the General returned to his table, the member collected his coat and left the Club. I saw him leave.’
‘And who was this member?’
‘A gentleman from Bologna. The Cavaliere Bruno Manzini. He’s in the Club now. Came in about twenty minutes ago with the Principessa Faubiani.’
‘La Faubiani, eh?’ I permitted myself a small grin of satisfaction. At least I was one up on old Steffi. The head-porter coughed eloquently.
‘Colonel… ?’
‘Could you tell me something about the Cavaliere?’
‘I could, sir, but – with respect – that sort of request should be addressed to the Secretary.’
‘Of course. My compliments on your discretion. Would you give the Cavaliere my card and ask him to spare me a few moments?’
In any company, the Cavaliere Manzini would have been an impressive figure. He must have been nearly seventy years old; his hair was snow-white, brushed back in a lion’s mane over his coat-collar; but his back was straight as a pine, his skin was clear, his eyes bright and humorous. His clothes were modish, his linen immaculate and he carried himself with the air of a man accustomed to deference. He did not offer his hand but announced himself with calm formality.
‘I am Manzini. I understand you wished to see me. May I see your official identification?’
I handed him the document. He read it carefully, passed it back and then sat down.
‘Thank you, Colonel. Now, your question.’
‘You were, I believe, a friend of General Pantaleone?’
‘Not a friend, Colonel, an acquaintance. I had small respect for him, none at all for his politics.’
‘How would you define his politics?’
‘Fascist and opportunist.’
‘And your own?’
‘Are private to myself, Colonel.’
‘On the night before he died, the General dined here with a lady. I understand you had a conversation with him.’
‘I did.’
‘May I know the substance of it?’
‘Certainly. I am the client of an art-dealer in Florence. His name is del Giudice. He had told me that Pantaleone was about to sell the family collection. I was interested in certain items, an Andrea del Sarto and a Bosch. I told Pantaleone I would like to negotiate with him directly. It would save us both money.’
‘And … ?’
‘He said he would think about it and write to me soon.’
‘You didn’t press him for a date?’
‘No. I could always buy through del Giudice. May I know the reason for these inquiries?’
‘At this moment, sir, I am not at liberty to disclose it. Another question. The Pantaleone collection is an old and important one. Why would the General want to disperse it?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘May I ask you to keep this conversation private?’
‘No, you may not! I did not invite it. I gave no prior promise of secrecy. I stand upon my right to discuss it or not, as I please – and with whom I please.’
‘Cavaliere, you know the organization which I represent?’
‘The Service of Defence Information? I know of its existence. I am not familiar with its activities.’
‘You know, at least, that we deal with highly sensitive matters, both political and military.’
‘My dear Colonel, please ! I’m an old man. I lost my milk teeth years ago. I have no taste for spies, provocateurs or those who treat with them. I know that intelligence services can become instruments of tyranny. I know that they tend to corrupt the people who work in them. If you have no more questions, I trust that you will excuse me… Good evening!’
He stalked out of the room, stiff as a grenadier, and I let out a long exhalation of relief. This was a sturdy one for a change, hard to coax, impossible to frighten. He looked you straight in the eye and gave you clean answers crack-crack-crack, knowing that you dared not gainsay him. But there were important questions still open. Why would Pantaleone, with suicide on his mind, engage in the long and tedious business of selling an estate? If he did embark on it, why not complete it? And why promise a letter he knew he would never write?
Boh! It was enough for one day and more than enough. My head was full of cotton wool and my heart full of envy for a seventy-year-old Cavaliere who could afford expensive pets like the Principessa Faubiani. I walked out of the Club into a soft spring rain, prised my car out of the courtyard and drove reluctantly homeward, to a hot dinner, a tepid hour of television and a cold bed afterwards.
In fact, I had a very troubled night. Shortly after ten, a colleague from Milan telephoned with the news that a young Maoist, under questioning in a bomb case, had fallen to his death from the window of the interrogation room. There would be headlines in every morning paper. The Left would swear he had been pushed. The Right would affirm that he had jumped. Either way, they had a martyr on their hands. My colleague was evasive, but when he mentioned the name of the interrogator, I knew the truth. The man was a sadist, a rabid idiot who didn’t care how he got his evidence, or where he made it stick. He also had friends in high places who would spray him with rosewater at any inquiry. This was the kind of madness that bedevilled the whole country and brought the police and the judicial system into disrepute. There would be troops on every street corner for a week and this, too, would heighten the tension and polarize the factions, the one crying tyranny and repression, the other shouting law and order and an end to anarchy. Dio! What a nightmare mess! If I had any sense I should pack my bags and take the next boat to Australia.
At eleven-thirty, Lili Anders telephoned in panic. Her network contact had called and summoned her to a rendezvous at the Osteria dell’Orso. She was due there at midnight. What should she do? I told her to keep the rendezvous, rehearsed her three times in her story and then spent an anxious fifteen minutes trying to regroup my surveillance team.
I was just about to crawl into bed, when the telephone rang again. This time it was Captain Carpi’s shadow. The Captain was drunk and mumbling darkly to a bar-girl at the Tour Hassan. What did I want done about it? For God’s sake ! Let him drink himself silly on bad champagne. The girls at the Tour Hassan wouldn’t leave anyway until four in the morning. After that, if Carpi was still on his feet – or even if he wasn’t – bundle him into a taxi and take him home… Expenses? Have them put the drinks on Carpi’s bill. They’d be padding it anyway. Goodnight and the devil take the pair of you!
At nine-thirty next morning, I sat in conference with a senior official of the Banco di Roma. He was courteous but very firm. There could be no access to the late General’s safe deposit until every juridical requirement was met. He understood perfectly my position. He was sensible that matters of national security were involved. However, they were equally involved in his own case. The bank was a national institution. Public confidence depended on the rigid performance of contracts between banker and client. The law demanded it. The Carabinieri were servants of the law. Besides – he paused before delivering the coup de grâce – the strong box was empty. The General’s lawyer had taken possession of its contents under an existing authority. I acknowledged defeat and went to see the General’s brokers.
The brokers, an affiliate of a large American house, were much more co-operative. They had indeed sold large parcels of stock for the late General. They had remitted the proceeds, under instruction, to the General’s legal representative, Doctor Sergio Bandinelli. So far as they were concerned, the transaction was closed at that point. They had no information as to the ultimate disposition of the funds. They were brokers only. They offered market advice under the normal disclaimers. They bought and sold under instruction. They functioned rigidly within the prevailing laws. End of conference.
Back in my office, I signed an invito requesting Doctor Sergio Bandinelli to wait on me within forty-eight hours. Then I spread the funeral photographs on the desk and settled down to examine them minutely against the accompanying check-list. It was not the names or the personages which interested me so much as the juxtapositions: who was talking to whom, which group seemed the most cohesive and intimate. Sometimes, in a crush like that, public enemies were revealed as secret allies. Sometimes, by a thousand to one chance, one saw a sign given or a message passed from hand to hand. At the end of an hour, I was left with one small surprise.
The surprise was the Cavaliere Manzini, the old autocrat from the Chess Club. He appeared in three shots, once talking to Cardinal Dadone, once with the Minister of Finance and the third time, a little removed from the cemetery vault, standing beside an elderly peasant who was listed as employed at the Villa Pantaleone. For a man who had small respect for Pantaleone, who regarded him as a Fascist and an opportunist, it was a singular gesture. I wondered why he had troubled to make it. I made a telephone call to a colleague in Bologna and asked that a copy of the Cavaliere’s dossier be sent post-haste to Rome. Then I called the laboratory and summoned Stefanelli for a private talk.
Old Steffi was bursting with news, little of it good. First, his wife had told him that the new protector of the Principessa Faubiani was one Bruno Manzini, a Bolognese, richer than any one had a right to be – big enterprises, textiles, electrics, steel, food processing. Eat any pie you liked, Manzini owned a slice of it.
‘I know all that, Steffi.’
‘The hell you do? How?’
I told him at length and in detail. Then I spread the photographs on the desk.
‘Now, tell me, Steffi. What’s he doing at the funeral of a man he disliked and despised?’
‘Easy, my friend. The Club. Members may not like each other; but they don’t insult each other either. You may not like me, but you’ll come to bury me, won’t you? How else can you be sure I’m dead?’
‘Maybe … maybe… What else have you got for me?’
‘The Casaroli Brothers sell rice-paper to wholesalers only; one in each province of Italy. The wholesalers sell to retail printers and stationers. That’s the list of the wholesalers. The retailers will run into hundreds, possibly thousands.’
‘Body of Bacchus! Don’t you have any good news, Steffi?’
‘Solimbene called me from the Consulta Araldica. He’ll have his list ready tomorrow morning. So far, he’s found fifteen surviving families in Italy who use the salamander in their coat-of-arms. Another paper-chase, I’m afraid… Did you read the headlines this morning?’
‘I did.’
‘I’m scared, Colonel. When the police look like gangsters …’
‘Or are made to look like gangsters, Steffi.’
‘Either way, there’s trouble ahead. They had two thousand Carabinieri on the streets of Milan this morning. And there’s another thousand on extra duty in Rome; to say nothing of Turin and down south in Reggio. Right now, we’ve got the country clamped down tight – but we’re not curing anything, we’re not reorganizing anything.’
‘It’s not our job, Steffi. We’re an arm of government – but we’re not the Government itself.’
‘We don’t have a Government, friend. We have parties, factions, warring interests; and the man in the street doesn’t know where to turn. Who represents the Government to him? A cop who walks away from a traffic jam ; some little clerk in the pensions office who slams a window in his face. If things don’t change soon, our man in the street is going to start shouting for a leader … a new Duce!’
‘And who would that be, Steffi? Go on, toss me names! Pantaleone’s dead. He’s off stage. Who enters next – and from where – left, right or centre? That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
‘And when you do?’
‘Say it, Steffi …’
‘You buried an embarrassing corpse yesterday – under orders. Suppose you stumble on another embarrassment, a live one this time – a man in our own service for example. Suppose you’re ordered then to close the file and keep your mouth shut. What will you do? Tell me honestly, friend to friend.’
‘Steffi, I’m damned if I know. Old Manzini was right. This trade corrupts people. I know it’s corrupted me; I don’t like to ask how much.’
‘You may have to ask very soon, Colonel. Look! Last night in Milan a suspect under questioning jumped or was pushed from a window. He’s dead now. He can’t be brought to trial. Nobody else can, either. You and I are guardians of public security. What do we do? What does the whole service do? We absolve ourselves. Why? Because we can put ten, twenty thousand armed men in the streets to keep the people cowed and stifle the questions. Who are the real rulers of Milan at this very moment? The Government? Hell! We are – the Carabinieri and our colleagues of the police. That’s a tempting blue-print, you know. Terribly tempting. We don’t have to offer bread and circuses any more; just public order, peace in the streets and the buses running on time. I told you I’m scared. Now I’ll tell you why. I’m a Jew, Colonel. You didn’t know that? Well, here and now, it doesn’t pay to advertise the fact. I live over behind the synagogue in the old Ghetto. In the synagogue we’ve got a list of names, three hundred men, eight hundred women and children. They were shipped out of Rome to Auschwitz on the Black Sabbath of 1943. After the war, fifteen came back. Fourteen men and a woman. Do you know why I joined the service? So that I’d know in advance if it were ever going to happen again… How old are you, Colonel?’
‘Forty-two. Why?’
‘You were a boy when it happened. But every time I see an election poster now, I get nightmares. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.’
‘You haven’t, Steffi. I’m glad you told me. Now, why don’t you go play with your microscope, eh?’
When the old man had gone, I sat a long time staring at the littered desk, the photographs, the memoranda, the tapes recorded last night in the Osteria del Orso. Suddenly, it all seemed irrelevant, trivial to the point of absurdity. What was at issue was not politics, not power-games and the sordid ploys of espionage, but myself, Dante Alighieri Matucci, who I was, what I believed and what price I would accept for my soul – if indeed I had one.
To be a servant of the State was easy. The State was like God. You couldn’t define it. Therefore, you didn’t have to ask questions about it. You didn’t even have to believe that it existed. You had only to act as if you did. This was the difference between the Anglo-Saxons and the Mediterraneans. For the Anglo-Saxon, the State was the people. Parliament was its voice. The bureaucracy was its executive. For the Latin, the State was the res publica – the public thing had little, if anything, to do with people. The Latin, therefore, was always in an attitude of defence against the State, of opposition to its directives, of compromise with its exactions. The policeman was not his servant, but the factor of his master. In England they called their bureaucrats ‘public servants’. In Italy they were ‘funzionari’, functionaries of the impersonal State.
But I, Dante Alighieri Matucci, was a person – or hoped I was. How much of me did the State own? How far could it legitimately direct me? To toss a living man out of a window? To shoot a rioter? To stifle a citizen with papers so that he couldn’t even piss without a permit? And then there was the other side of the coin: fifty million people locked in a narrow peninsula, poor in resources, rich only in sap and energy, turbulent in spirit, easy prey to demagogues and agitators. How did you stop them tearing each other to pieces if you didn’t break a few heads from time to time? It was all too easy to live underground like a mole nibbling at the roots of other people’s lives, never caring to stick your dirty snout into the sunlight….
I was still chewing on that sour thought when the boys from the surveillance team presented themselves to report on Lili Anders. Their tapes of the night-club meeting were almost unintelligible. I wanted to know why.
‘No time to plant anything effective, Colonel. A crowded night-club, haphazard table placement, half-an-hour’s notice … no chance. Anyway, they only stayed half an hour. We followed them back to Anders’ apartment. The contact dropped her there and drove off. Giorgio followed him. I stayed to get a report from the lady.’
‘Who was the contact?’
‘Picchio … the woodpecker.’
‘What did sweet Lili have to say for herself?’
‘I’ve got it here: Woodpecker asked what the General died of? She replied a heart attack. Had she known he was sick? No, but he did have occasional chest pains that he called indigestion.’
‘Good for Lili. Go on.’
‘Who brought her the news? A Colonel of Carabinieri. What was his name? Matucci. Why a full Colonel? She didn’t know. She’d been wondering. How long had he stayed? Twenty minutes, half-an-hour. She’d been upset. The Colonel had been kind. Had he asked any significant questions? Only about Pantaleone’s movements and contacts on the night of his death. She had told him the truth, there was nothing to hide. Woodpecker asked who were the General’s heirs. She didn’t know. She had never seen his will. Did she know the General’s lawyer? Yes. Was she friendly with him? Reasonably. Then she was ordered to cultivate his acquaintance and if possible his friendship; and find out all the things she could about the General’s estate. Had she ever met a Major-General Leporello?’
‘He’s one of ours, for God’s sake.’
‘It shook me a little, too, Colonel.’
‘What did Lili say?’
‘She’d never met him. Had the General ever spoken of him? No. At least not that she remembered. What would her next assignment be? Sit tight, concentrate on the lawyer, await further contact and instructions… Fade out, fine. That’s it, Colonel… And, by the way, I didn’t get to bed until three in the morning.’
