Cosi Fan Tutti - 5 (17 page)

the scooter, and at the same moment a grip like pliers

closed on his rump in an agonizing pinch.

He whirled around indignantly, but the offender had

already melded back into the juvenile collective, which was on the move again, streaking away across the piazza into the ambient bassi, there to dissolve without trace in the porous tenements and alleyways. With a shrug of resignation, Zen turned back to settle accounts with the beggar,

but he too had vanished. He was about to continue on his way when the noise of a revving engine attracted his attention, and there was the beggar, inexplicably clinging to the

pillion of the scooter with both hands as the machine roared off around the corner and disappeared. It was only then that Zen realized that something else had gone - his wallet.

The uniformed policeman cradling a machine-gun outside

the Questura denied having seen anything with a

massive shrug which suggested that such incidents were

very common, principally the fault of the victim, and in any case too trivial to warrant his attention. Zen proceeded to pull rank, thus at least giving himself the satisfaction of seeing the man cringe, only to realize that one of the items in the missing wallet was his police identification card.

More serious consequences of this loss soon became

apparent. Without any tangible proof that Zen was who he said he was, the guard on duty at the rear of the entrance hall refused to admit him to the upper reaches of the

building, which were strictly reserved for high-ranking servants of the Italian public and hence off bounds to the public itself. Matters were not helped by the fact that the only form of identification remaining to Zen was the small box of printed cards identifying him as Alfonso Zembla.

‘But I’m here on official business!’ he protested to the guard. ‘They’ve been trying to get hold of me all night.

Let me phone through and they’ll confirm it.’

As if bestowing an immense favour, the guard waved

negligently at the internal phone at his elbow. Zen got through to the operator and was connected to Vice-Que

store Piscopo’s office. The deputy police chief was not available herself, but an underling confirmed that no one could be admitted to the official presence without suitable identification.

‘But this is ridiculous!’ spluttered Zen.

‘It has perhaps escaped your attention that a new terrorist group is operating in this city and has already

claimed three victims,’ the voice replied icily. ‘AH agencies are on triple-red alert as per a ministerial communique. There are no exceptions/

Under the patronizing gaze of the guard, Zen replaced

the phone and retreated to the centre of the cavernous

entrance hall to consider his next step. He had been very careful to have no contact whatsoever with the Questura since his arrival in Naples, and as a result there was no one in the building who knew him by sight and could vouch

for him. He could get Caputo to come downtown, but that would leave no one to cover for him down at the port, and, besides, with the Questura on triple-red status following the Strade Pulite attacks, it was by no means certain that the mere word of an underling like Caputo would be

enough to convince the authorities that Zen was indeed

worthy of admission to the inner sanctum of power.

He was still debating these and other possibilities when a presence made itself felt at his elbow.

‘Having problems, dutto?

The speaker was slim, slight and dapper, and might

have been aged anywhere from forty to sixty. He was

wearing an odd collection of items, each showing signs of long use and careful maintenance: an antique three-piece grey suit, a wrinkled white shirt buttoned tight at the collar, a green V-neck pullover and a camel-hair overcoat

mottled by age or damp and worn unbuttoned. The man’s

hands were covered by white cotton gloves. The left carried an old but immaculately blocked felt hat, the right a

small ivory case. One gloved finger flicked up the silver lid, revealing a stack of business cards. With a resigned sigh, Zen took one. The inscription, elegantly printed in relief, read ‘Professore Gennaro Esposito: Magician,

Astrologer, Clairvoyant’.

‘I don’t believe in magic,’ said Zen.

The ivory box snapped shut and vanished.

‘That’s just to present myself/ Professor Esposito replied calmly. ‘I’ve virtually retired from practice, anyway. The competition is fierce these days, and if you don’t advertize on television no one takes you seriously. But that’s neither here nor there. The question is, what can I do for you?’

Zen gave the man a sour look.

‘Not a damn thing, unless you can magically spirit me

up to the fourth floor.’

‘To see whom?’

‘The Questore’s acting deputy. A certain Piscopo.’

The professorial eyes rolled impressively.

‘Ah!’

Zen nodded.

‘Impossible, even for retired magicians.’

A wave of the splayed gloves.

‘We’re in Naples, duttd. Everything is improbable, but

nothing is impossible. Even the price is not exorbitant. I can offer you two options. The first, at thirty thousand, will take about an hour, give or take, depending who’s on duty today. Or if you decide to go for the express service, I can have you there faster than you could walk up the stairs. That costs fifty thou, but it’s worth the extra.’

Zen smiled wearily.

‘I’m sure it is. Unfortunately I can’t take advantage.

The reason I’m cooling my heels here in the first place is that my wallet just got stolen, along with my identification card and all the cash I had on me.’

The man studied Zen with renewed interest.

‘You’re a policeman, duttd? In that case, I can offer you the professional discount. Five per cent off the normal service fee, ten off the express.’

“I still haven’t got it.’

‘No problem.’

The gloved fingers darted out, grazed Zen’s wrist and

vanished again with his watch.

‘With your permission, duttd, I’ll keep this for security.’

The man turned away, melting into the crowds of people

entering and leaving and queuing and jostling all

around. Zen stood there, looking helplessly about him.

First his wallet, now his watch. It was time to leave while his shirt was still on his back. But he seemed powerless to move. Despite his sarcasm about the professor’s magical powers, it was almost as if a spell had been cast upon him.

‘This way, dutto?”

He turned round. Professor Esposito was beckoning to

him from the checkpoint at the back of the hall where Zen had been refused entrance earlier. He made his way

through the throng towards the impassive guard, who

gave no sign of ever having seen him before. His guide

led him to a set of three elevators and inserted a key into the right-hand one. The doors slid open.

‘The Questore’s private elevator,’ Esposito whispered

conspiratorially, ushering Zen inside. ‘Goes direct to the top floor. Like I said, you’ll be there quicker than climbing the stairs!’

La sorte incolpa

‘No, that’s not the problem. It’s that you’re unlucky.’

The speaker - a woman, judging by the pitch of her

voice - was in police uniform. She was smoking a small

cigar and wearing dark glasses. The large room was dim, the shutters closed.

‘Anyone can be unlucky,’ Zen replied.

Vice-Questore Piscopo rapped her cigar, unloading a

neat package of ash into a steel ashtray on her desk.

‘Once, yes,’ she replied. ‘Several times, even. But there is a logic in this, as in everything else. Occasions do not contradict the rule. Statistically, you have proved to be unlucky.’

She lifted a paper from the file in front of her.

There’s a pattern here, dottore, which I recognized long before hearing of your latest problem - I refer to your allowing your wallet to be stolen. Apattern which none the less might have enabled me, in a certain sense, to predict it.’

A pause.

‘In Milan, you wrongfully arrest a man for the Tondelli murder and twenty years later he tries to kill you after his release from prison. In Rome, you single-handedly

“solve” the Moro kidnapping, unfortunately too late to

save the victim. Same thing two years later, in Perugia, with the Miletti family. In Sardinia, you concoct a convenient solution to the Burolo murders to satisfy your contacts at Palazzo Sisti - who then disappear from the

political spectrum within a year or so. As if to demonstrate the degree of your incompetence, you then go on to

make absurd allegations against a leading regional politician, now mayor of Venice and a close ally of our own

minister. And now this.’

Zen said nothing. In the ten minutes since he had been

admitted to the room, Vice-Questore Piscopo had said

nothing relating to the case in hand. It had been, he now realized, a mistake to mention the theft of his wallet. He did so by way of excusing his failure to appear earlier, but it merely made him look incompetent and helpless, and

confirmed the thesis which the authorities had apparently formulated as regards his record in general. When

Piscopo finally got around to mentioning the incident of the night before, her interpretation was fully in accord with the line already established.

‘On the basis of our investigation, we can rule out the possibility of a planned attack. The killers aboard the stolen municipal vehicle were unaware of the presence of the patrol car carrying your men until the traffic accident, in itself completely unpredictable, occurred.’

Zen gazed at the reflective lenses.

‘Who were they?’ he asked.

‘The gunmen?’

Another gesture indicating that this case had already

been filed away in a capacious category labelled weird

STUFF THAT HAPPENS WHEN AURELIO ZEN IS AROUND.

‘According to witnesses, there were anywhere from four

to eight men aboard the refuse truck. All were dressed in blue overalls, like regular municipal employees, but we have questioned all the personnel concerned with this

work and are satisfied that they are not involved. The truck itself went missing from the municipal depot two months ago.’

The Questore’s deputy puffed on her cigar.

‘Which leaves the question of what your men were

doing there in the first place.’

Zen felt himself stiffen up. The woman’s uniform, an

unusual affectation in one of so elevated a rank, left him feeling as naked as he had been when Valeria came into

the room that morning.

‘Three days ago,’ he began laboriously, ‘a stabbing

occurred in the port…’

“I am only too aware of that, dottorel We have been subjected to the most insistent pressure for a solution ever

since.’

Zen nodded, as though she had acknowledged a

shared bond.

‘Yesterday the prisoner - who was still unidentified and who refused to make a statement of any sort - complained of severe abdominal pains. I summoned a doctor…’

‘You were on duty?’

The question was laden with ironic emphasis.

‘Naturally. The gravity of the case clearly demanded

that I set aside all other matters and devote myself to finding a solution without regard to personal comfort or to

bureaucratic norms.’

‘And yet we have been trying without success to contact you for over forty-eight hours now. Your subordinates

certainly did a masterly job of covering for you, but

I must say that we all had the impression that you took a distinctly - how shall I say? - relaxed view of your duties.’

‘Unfortunately my home telephone line is temporarily

out of action,’ Zen replied. “I called SIP, but you know what it’s like trying to get any emergency work done at the weekend.’

‘So the prisoner complained of abdominal pains and

you summoned a doctor.’

‘Exactly’

‘A police doctor?’

Zen hesitated fractionally.

“There was none available. And since it was clear that

the prisoner was in considerable pain, and given the

importance of this case, I summoned a civilian doctor

who was able to come immediately. He confirmed that

the prisoner was suffering from gastro-intestinal complications and required urgent medical attention. He signed

a medical report to this effect, a copy of which I will forward in due course. I immediately authorized the release

of the prisoner into the custody of two of my most experienced officers, with orders to convey him to hospital and

remain at his bedside until the necessary medical intervention had been completed. It was while they were carrying

out these duties that the attack took place.’

Vice-Questore Piscopo nodded and smoked, smoked

and nodded.

‘So not only do we still know nothing about the principal suspect and material witness in a case with enormous

international repercussions, but the individual

himself has escaped from custody’

She opened her hands in mock appeal.

‘What would you call that, dottore, if not bad luck?’

‘A carefully planned and ruthlessly executed ambush,’

Zen replied, ‘designed specifically to free the prisoner before he could be made to talk.’

Piscopo snorted contemptuously.

‘Why would anyone bother to set up an ambush for

some knife-wielding thug?’

Now it was Zen’s turn to express ironic surprise.

“I didn’t realize that you had succeeded in identifying him, dottoressa. And if he has a criminal record, as you suggest, it is very odd that we have received no positive response to our request for fingerprint and photographic identification.’

‘Of course I haven’t identified him. I was merely…’

‘There is however another possibility,’ Zen went on,

‘which would explain both the ambush and the lack of