The Puppeteer Read Free

matronly woman—perhaps Mareschini’s wife—had cleaned the caked blood from around his nostrils. The patch of blood on his trousers had dried and turned a sticky black.
    “A coincidence, then.” There was irritation in Mareschini’s voice.
    “What?” Trotti asked.
    “A coincidence that of all the people in Italy, it was beside you—an important and highly respected member of the forces of order, Commissario—that he was shot to death.”
    “Yes,” Trotti said. “A coincidence.”
    Mareschini stood up, and with his hands behind his back he started pacing backwards and forwards. He kept his eyes on the door. “But perhaps you recognized the man with the gun?”
    “No.”
    He looked up. “Can you describe him?”
    “There were two men—you should ask the tourists from the boat. They were closer, they had a better view.”
    “Please describe the murderer, Commissario.”
    “Average height, dark hair—and a scarf over his face. That’s all I can remember. I saw the gun—the glint of the sunlight and then the woman began to scream.” He raised his shoulders. “I tried to protect myself.”
    “Of course. And how did Maltese react?”
    A brief smile. “I didn’t look. I didn’t imagine that it was him they were aiming at.”
    Mareschini frowned. “I see.” He rubbed his chin and then came to a halt by the window.
    The Carabinieri barracks were new and had been well designed, nestling into the olive groves of the lakeside hills. Through the open window, Trotti saw the descending layers of the rooftops, all a dull terracotta. Beyond them, a hydrofoil was cutting through the water, coming south, leaving a wide, white wake across the lake. Like a wound.
    “You believe the assassin was aiming for you, Commissario?”
    “I have been fired at before, Capitano. I didn’t stop to ask any questions—at my age, I no longer care to know the answers.I merely dropped to the ground … and gave myself a bloody nose.”
    “The assassin was aiming for you?”
    Trotti repressed a sigh. “I don’t know who he was aiming for, but the man, Maltese, was killed with two bullets. One of them must have touched his heart, I think. A professional job, Capitano.” Trotti paused, then added, “He died in my arms.”
    “Ah!” Mareschini turned his back on the window and leaned against the sill, the trace of a smile on his lips.
    An unimaginative provincial policeman who had probably never seen anything more distressing than a car accident and who was now trying to prove his professionalism. Trying to appear brisk and efficient.
    Trotti could feel the dry blood on his trousers.
    “And before he died, did this man say anything?”
    “Capitano Mareschini, you’ve told me that the Nucleo Investigativo will soon be here from Brescia. I’ve already signed a written statement for you—these are questions that you’ve already asked me. You know the answers. I’m beginning to think that you doubt what I’ve already told you.”
    “Commissario, please.” An apologetic movement of the pale hands, and the thin smile. “Please remember that you’re an eyewitness to a killing. A particularly bloody killing—not at all the sort of thing that we’re used to in this little backwater. It’s my duty …”
    “The Nucleo Investigativo will be here any minute.”
    Mareschini nodded. He took a packet of cigarettes from his tunic pocket and offered it to Trotti, who shook his head. Mareschini carefully lit a cigarette and inhaled the first mouthful of smoke before speaking. “You’re a policeman, Commissario.”
    Trotti finished the coffee.
    “You’re a policeman and I’m sure you know what it’s like to have a feeling, a sensation that you can’t quite identify but which your experience tells you is important. Something you should take into consideration.”
    Trotti’s nod was scarcely perceptible.
    “Can I ask you again, Commissario?”

    “What?”
    “Did Maltese say anything to you? You said he wasn’t dead