The Puppeteer Read Free Page A

when you got back to the bar. You held him. You see, I’ve an impression”—again the shrug—“I’ve this impression that you’re withholding something.”
    Three bullets. The first had hit the wall. The second had gone through the man’s shoulder. The last had got into his chest, probably the heart. Trotti had seen the blood spurting, spreading further and further across the stones of the terrace. He had seen the face grow pale, he had felt the skin grow cold.
    “I’m certain that in your rich experience, you’ve already worked with the Carabinieri. Admittedly here, this is only a small barracks. Not the big city, but …” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes squinted in the blue tobacco smoke.
    “I’ve signed my statement. I don’t think I have anything else to add.”
    The hydrofoil had lost its speed and was settling down into the blue lake water. In a few seconds it would be alongside the jetty, opposite the Centomiglia.
    In a quiet voice, Trotti said, “I arrived just as Guerino brought him a glass of water. He was thirsty—he said he was thirsty but the water ran over his face, he couldn’t drink. We were waiting for the ambulance—people were pushing to see. The German woman was still screaming. And I held him in my arms.”
    “Did he say anything?”
    “He was afraid of dying—I could see it in his eyes and he gripped my arm. But before he could say anything, the grip weakened.” Trotti looked up at Mareschini and shrugged.

4: Villa Ondina
    T ROTTI SHIVERED .
    Night was falling and the electric lamp, in the form of a glass flame, cast its wan light over the War Memorial.
    “Goodnight,” Trotti said as he climbed out of the Alfa Romeo. The driver did not reply—perhaps he did not like the Pubblica Sicurezza. Before Trotti had closed the door, the car started on a tight turn, and with the gentle rumble of the exhaust pipe, it disappeared into the via XX Settembre.
    The wind had dropped. In the small lakeside port, the boats at anchor scarcely moved; no creaking of hull against hull, the masts were silent. So, too, was the lake, fast losing its somber color as a thin mist rose from the surface.
    The Bar Centomiglia was closed. A neon light had been left on and cast a bluish glow over the tables and chairs and over the large stain on the stone slab near the wall.
    Rope had been tied from chair to chair to prevent access. Guerino had taken in the tablecloths and the bar looked empty. Trotti wondered why Guerino had not washed the bloodstain away.
    A sole Carabiniere stood there. He was smoking and his rifle was slung from his shoulder. From under the peaked cap, his eyes followed Trotti.
    The Opel was where he had left it in the morning. Trotti unlocked it—his head ached from too much coffee, and the back of his throat was sore—and turned on the engine.
    A slight deflection of the barrel and it would have been his blood smeared across the ground.
    He drove to the Villa Ondina. The Opel ran silently along the viale Rimembranza, while the head beams moved along the smooth tarmac between the cypress trees. He drove past Mussolini’s villa, now hidden behind a copse of trees.
    A day wasted and then Mareschini had said, “Can you stay in Gardesana for couple of days?” With a sly smile, he had rubbed at his chin and, not even looking at Trotti, had added, “Nucleo Investigativo seem to have been held up in Brescia. They’ll be here tomorrow.”
    At the Villa Ondina, Trotti climbed out and pushed open the iron gates. The stiffness of his bloodstained trousers pulled against the hairs on his legs. He took the Opel down the gravel drive and parked in front of the main door. The plastic Madonna was alight. The door was unlocked and he let himself in.
    Trotti turned on all the lights.
    The interior, still warm from a day of spring sunshine, smelled of floor polish and moth balls, and Trotti realized it was his first visit to the Villa Ondina since the previous summer. He turned on the