what?”
“Get this old man anywhere near a television camera or a microphone or a journalist’s note pad and the entire Questura starts trembling. An earthquake worse than Belice.”
“So far
Chi l’ha visto
? seems to have had no effect. Several phone calls from the South—but no real leads.”
“Nice meeting you.” Trotti stood up and held out his hand. “I sincerely wish you the best of luck in your search. Your father’s a charming man.”
“He was your friend, commissario.”
Trotti nodded his head. “Very fond of him.”
“He was your friend, Commissario Trotti, and when you needed him, Papa did several favors for you.”
Trotti went to the door and opened it. “Signor Pavesi’s probably taken your mother on a surprise honeymoon to Prague.” He started tying a loose knot in his scarf.
“He did you several favors.”
A moment’s hesitation before Trotti replied. “I owe your father nothing, Signorina Pavesi.” He faced the pretty young woman. He smiled at her but there was no amusement in his dark eyes. “Piero Trotti’s a functionary of the Republic. He neither gives favors nor asks for them. I wish you both a pleasant day. Arrivederci.”
12: Virginity
H E SMILED TO himself grimly, imagining Pioppi scolding him for not wearing his glasses.
Trotti always had difficulty remembering numbers. Now his cold fingers fumbled with the piece of paper that he held at arm’s length. He had to dial three times before he got through to the Caserma San Siro.
“Magagna?”
“You’re not in the Questura, commissario?”
“Phoning from the Bar Duomo. What was it you wanted to tell me?”
“You don’t trust the telephones in the Questura?”
“It’s not the telephones.”
“What don’t you trust?”
“At my age, Magagna, I don’t trust anyone.”
“A professional hazard?”
“You can only trust people as long as their interests coincide with yours.”
“You don’t have much faith in human nature.”
“What was it you wanted, Magagna? I’m meeting an attractive young woman in a few minutes.”
“Her interests coincide with yours?”
Trotti laughed. “She’s not a transvestite, if that’s what you mean.”
“And now you’re laughing?”
“First time since the Rome Olympics, Magagna.”
“You still interested in the Turellini thing?”
Trotti hesitated, looking into the cracked mirror. “I never said I was interested in Turellini.”
“Last night you said Bassi wanted your help.”
“Well?” Trotti was standing by the old Bakelite telephone at the far end of the bar, beside the empty beer crates. It was the proprietor’s personal phone, which he allowed Trotti to use. As a personal favor.
“You interested or not, commissario?”
“Depends on what you’re going to tell me.”
“Precisely nothing.”
“That’s why you asked me to phone you?”
“You read the article in
Vissuto
?”
“Over a cup of chamomile, Magagna. I fell asleep before I got to the end.”
“Bassi’s not making any friends here in Milan. Understandably, he’s been trying to get his hands on the Turellini dossier from the Pubblico Ministero.”
“Who’s got it?”
“Both Polizia and Carabinieri were involved in the initial inquiries, under the direction of the Sostituto Procuratore.”
“Who?”
“Abete.” Magagna paused.
“Go on.”
“Seems Abete’s decided to shelve the dossier.”
“Why?”
“It’s over—Abete doesn’t want anybody looking into it. Cold storage. Deep freeze.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning your guess is as good as mine.”
Trotti lowered his voice. “According to
Vissuto
, Bassi received a court order.”
“I made several phone calls earlier this morning—contacts in the Arma and at Giustizia. After twelve months the thing is still on Abete’s desk in the Milan Palazzo di Giustizia. Apparently Abete’s quite happy letting dust gather on the dossier.”
“Why, Magagna?”
“I also spoke to Durano.”
“Durano in via dei
“Get this old man anywhere near a television camera or a microphone or a journalist’s note pad and the entire Questura starts trembling. An earthquake worse than Belice.”
“So far
Chi l’ha visto
? seems to have had no effect. Several phone calls from the South—but no real leads.”
“Nice meeting you.” Trotti stood up and held out his hand. “I sincerely wish you the best of luck in your search. Your father’s a charming man.”
“He was your friend, commissario.”
Trotti nodded his head. “Very fond of him.”
“He was your friend, Commissario Trotti, and when you needed him, Papa did several favors for you.”
Trotti went to the door and opened it. “Signor Pavesi’s probably taken your mother on a surprise honeymoon to Prague.” He started tying a loose knot in his scarf.
“He did you several favors.”
A moment’s hesitation before Trotti replied. “I owe your father nothing, Signorina Pavesi.” He faced the pretty young woman. He smiled at her but there was no amusement in his dark eyes. “Piero Trotti’s a functionary of the Republic. He neither gives favors nor asks for them. I wish you both a pleasant day. Arrivederci.”
12: Virginity
H E SMILED TO himself grimly, imagining Pioppi scolding him for not wearing his glasses.
Trotti always had difficulty remembering numbers. Now his cold fingers fumbled with the piece of paper that he held at arm’s length. He had to dial three times before he got through to the Caserma San Siro.
“Magagna?”
“You’re not in the Questura, commissario?”
“Phoning from the Bar Duomo. What was it you wanted to tell me?”
“You don’t trust the telephones in the Questura?”
“It’s not the telephones.”
“What don’t you trust?”
“At my age, Magagna, I don’t trust anyone.”
“A professional hazard?”
“You can only trust people as long as their interests coincide with yours.”
“You don’t have much faith in human nature.”
“What was it you wanted, Magagna? I’m meeting an attractive young woman in a few minutes.”
“Her interests coincide with yours?”
Trotti laughed. “She’s not a transvestite, if that’s what you mean.”
“And now you’re laughing?”
“First time since the Rome Olympics, Magagna.”
“You still interested in the Turellini thing?”
Trotti hesitated, looking into the cracked mirror. “I never said I was interested in Turellini.”
“Last night you said Bassi wanted your help.”
“Well?” Trotti was standing by the old Bakelite telephone at the far end of the bar, beside the empty beer crates. It was the proprietor’s personal phone, which he allowed Trotti to use. As a personal favor.
“You interested or not, commissario?”
“Depends on what you’re going to tell me.”
“Precisely nothing.”
“That’s why you asked me to phone you?”
“You read the article in
Vissuto
?”
“Over a cup of chamomile, Magagna. I fell asleep before I got to the end.”
“Bassi’s not making any friends here in Milan. Understandably, he’s been trying to get his hands on the Turellini dossier from the Pubblico Ministero.”
“Who’s got it?”
“Both Polizia and Carabinieri were involved in the initial inquiries, under the direction of the Sostituto Procuratore.”
“Who?”
“Abete.” Magagna paused.
“Go on.”
“Seems Abete’s decided to shelve the dossier.”
“Why?”
“It’s over—Abete doesn’t want anybody looking into it. Cold storage. Deep freeze.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning your guess is as good as mine.”
Trotti lowered his voice. “According to
Vissuto
, Bassi received a court order.”
“I made several phone calls earlier this morning—contacts in the Arma and at Giustizia. After twelve months the thing is still on Abete’s desk in the Milan Palazzo di Giustizia. Apparently Abete’s quite happy letting dust gather on the dossier.”
“Why, Magagna?”
“I also spoke to Durano.”
“Durano in via dei
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