Some Bitter Taste (16 page)

‘Of course you’re right,’ the prosecutor said. He interrupted himself to take out one of his small cigars, caught the captain’s eye, and put it away again, conscious of the polished floor, the elegant rugs, the gleaming rubber plant, the mote-free air, so unlike his own habitat. ‘Keeping them separate is of the essence. But I can only do it by keeping them inside—there’s evidence enough for that—and letting him go.’

‘He’ll send them a lawyer.’

‘Yes. Yes, all right. He’ll send them a lawyer. Give me evidence for an arrest warrant, otherwise all I can give you is a search warrant. How do you
know
they didn’t find what they were after? That it’s not in his apartment?’

Why did people spend so much time talking? Where was the use in finding words to explain why and how? There’d be time for all that in court. Words were lawyers’ business. He gazed hopefully at Captain Maestrangelo, needing to be let off, needing to be let loose. The deluge had washed away every trace of blood, yes, but downstairs there were two men in the cells, sweating with fear. It wasn’t their first time inside, but even so, they were car thieves and though probably up for any scam going, they were not hired killers. That was what they were thinking about now, down there in the claustrophobic heat, one to a cell so they couldn’t even talk. He’d been too late for the blood; he couldn’t lose more time now.

He edged nearer to the door and mumbled some excuse or other, watching their faces. They were letting him go.

‘I’ve a feeling I should prepare that warrant. What do you think?’

That was the prosecutor’s voice behind him. Did he mean a search warrant? No, no … that wouldn’t do at all, no. The two men downstairs would tell him. A couple of hours with the shaved chap. A couple of hours of near silence, most likely. Then the weaker one. Falaschi, with the greasy tail of hair. His had been the voice that made that weak threat, heard from outside Rinaldi’s door, ‘We’ll take you down with us.’

His mother, that was the key. ‘He’s all I’ve got now. How am I going to manage?’ Falaschi had to be saved from a prison sentence and the marshal was going to save him. It took little more than an hour and a half. If Giusti, his shaven head gleaming even in the poor artificial light of the windowless cell, could be used against the weaker Falaschi, Rinaldi’s not being arrested was the best possible weapon against Giusti. The marshal got everything they knew and arrived home in good time for lunch. He had an appetite, too.

Teresa said, ’You look pleased with yourself.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well? Is it a secret?’

‘No, no … Just something I was a bit worried about that turned out all right. Do we have to have
pasta cortal
I don’t fancy it today.’

Teresa spun the lid back on the jar and took a fresh packet of spaghetti out of the cupboard. T suppose you’ll tell me all about it sometime.’

‘What?’

‘Probably halfway through some film on the television.’

‘What film?’

‘Salva, you’re standing in the middle of the kitchen again.’

He stopped her in her tracks and hugged her. Then he went over, reminded by something she’d just said, and switched the little TV on for the two o’clock local news on channel three.

‘Boys! Come to the table!’ She tossed the spaghetti into the boiling water.

‘And switch that infernal machine off.’ added the marshal, adjusting the volume of the television. The Rossis had been eating spaghetti and watching the news on channel two when he’d called there on his way home. The chair between them had been pushed back, the pasta half eaten.

‘She’s so embarrassed. We tried to explain to her that what she did was just childish and that it had nothing to do with … what happened. That is true, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it’s true.’

‘She wants to apologise to you for causing a fuss. She’s mortified about it because she likes you. Would you mind? She’d be too shy in front of us.’

Lisa was sitting on her bed. Her face was flushed and a little tearful even now.

‘You won’t need to tell anybody else what I did, will you?’

‘Nobody at all. You kept our secret, didn’t you? We’ll keep this one, too. Just forget about it. It’s not important. Now, your pasta’s getting cold. Come on.’ As they went he had given her a kindly stroke on the head.

‘Dad?
Dad!
I’m talking to you! Mum, he never listens.’

‘He is listening.’

‘I am listening.’

‘Well, if we shouldn’t have the computer on at mealtimes, why can you have the telly on?’

‘Because …’

‘Because what?’

‘Because until you’re an adult you do what you’re told.’

‘Oh, Dad!’

‘Totò, behave yourself,’ intervened Teresa, but she gave her husband a look that brought him to his senses.

‘Eat up and we’ll have a game together before I go back to work.’

‘Good,’ said Toto, wriggling his wiry little body in the chair and stabbing at an imaginary keyboard with his fork. ‘I’ll win.’

‘Sit still,’ said his mother sharply.

Afterwards, as they went to the boys’ bedroom, Giovanni murmured, ‘Dad?’

‘What, son?’

‘Can we have a game by ourselves one day so that I can win?’

‘Yes, we can, right now. The first game’s between us two and the winner plays Toto.’

After five minutes, four of which were spent in useless explanations, he was free to have his coffee with Teresa.

Eight

T
he ‘informal chat’ which Rinaldi agreed to return for in the afternoon—no point in disturbing his lunch hour, as the prosecutor said, performing in the role of dinner-party acquaintance—was almost as brief as the computer game. It couldn’t be brief enough for Rinaldi, that was clear, and the reason was the marshal. It was his custom on these occasions to park himself somewhere in the background, leaving those better qualified than he was to do the talking. The effect of this was usually that the suspect or witness soon forgot his existence and he was better able to observe and read the signs. It wasn’t so this time. With only the captain and the prosecutor, Rinaldi would have done well. The ‘we men of the world’, ‘we men of sophistication and culture’ stuff. He didn’t know what they’d found on the tip and was still fairly confident. But as he talked, too much and just a little too fast, his eyes flickered towards the marshal, who today felt he was about as invisible as a large black ticking bomb.

Rinaldi said the things they expected him to say, that the porters were strong and reliable with statuary and other antiquities, that he knew nothing else about them and had no other dealings with them. He admitted, with exaggerated emphasis, to employing them on the black market and then relaxed, with even more exaggerated sighs and chuckles of relief after having ‘confessed’ the only thing he had on his conscience.

Then the prosecutor stood up and begged his pardon for the interruption of his busy day and the captain stood up, too, and thanked him. The marshal, by the door, was silent. Rinaldi had to walk towards him to leave and he was afraid to. Over his head, the marshal sensed rather than saw the other two raise their eyebrows and smile almost in unison. Was he doing something ridiculous? He was, he was watching Rinaldi’s dishonest face with such concentration that he was absentmindedly blocking his way and the little talk must be over without his having listened to a word of it. He excused himself and opened the door. ‘Please …’ He stood back, aware of Rinaldi’s fear of passing him, knowing the man was hard put not to walk on tiptoe. Just as Rinaldi set foot in the corridor, the marshal shook himself out of his stupor of concentration and remembered to ask, ‘Would you mind telling me—we’re having a bit of trouble finding out who owned the victim’s flat—who owns yours? And the shop. I think somebody mentioned you owned the place yourself, is that right?’

Rinaldi turned. T have the usufruct of my flat and the shop.’

‘But not of the rest of the building?’

‘No.’

The marshal thought for a bit. He saw beads of sweat appear on Rinaldi’s temples and roll down the side of his face.

‘It’s very hot, isn’t it? Even after the rain. Like a Turkish bath. How long have you had the usufruct?’

‘Two years or so. I’d rented the place since the fifties. When the owner died he provided for me …’

‘Oh, good, good …’

‘What’s good about it?’ The other two men came up to the door and Rinaldi looked past the marshal at them as if he hoped they might save him. They were silent.

‘It’s good,’ the marshal said, ‘because you can tell us who this owner was and if he owned the rest of the building. Was it this … now what was his name?’ If only he had a memory for names and facts instead of just pictures and smells. He shouldn’t have opened his mouth if all he could do was to make a fool of himself. His superiors had been so cool and intelligent, given nothing away, and here he was annoying the fellow, keeping him standing there, sweat rolling off him.

‘Roth,’ said the prosecutor. ‘Jacob Roth. That was the name the building was last registered under.’

‘Ah yes.’ The marshal was relieved. ‘Jacob Roth.’

The name hung in the air. Rinaldi was red in the face. His eyes glazed over with fear and he looked as though he were holding himself to the spot by willpower.

‘If he provided for you in his will, I suppose he was a relation or at least a friend.’

‘Do spare us a few more minutes, Rinaldi,’ said the prosecutor, maintaining their fake familiarity. ‘This could be such a help. We’d be grateful.’

Again Rinaldi had to negotiate the space around the marshal, whose gaze followed him and remained fixed on him, making the back of his neck redden as he talked. He talked because he had no choice but, in the marshal’s opinion, there were moments in his narrative when he turned back from one path to venture onto another, sometimes even rejecting two before choosing a third. The captain sent for a carabiniere to make notes and they all settled down in silence to listen to the unwilling storyteller. Despite what the marshal afterwards called his ‘twisting and wriggling’, Rinaldi couldn’t avoid giving them some solid facts.

Jacob Roth was the son of Samuel Roth, a Jew from the East End of London who dealt in paintings and antiquities and whose business travels brought him, among other places, to Florence, where he dealt with the owners of the little shop in Sdrucciolo de’ Pitti. He married the daughter of these people, Naomi, and took her back to London with him. There, their only son, Jacob, was born. Business and family contacts were interrupted by the First World War and Naomi’s parents died in the flu epidemic immediately afterwards. The young couple moved to Florence and took over the shop. Young Jacob grew up in Florence among the world’s finest paintings. He was a talented painter himself and would have liked to study at the Liceo Artistico but shopkeepers’ sons didn’t get further than elementary school in those days. Jacob started working for his father at the age of twelve. For a while he used his painting skills to touch up the pictures in the shop but at fifteen he threw away his paintbrushes. He refused to be an amateur but dedicated himself to the business. He and his father developed a European network which flourished in the late twenties. Young and inexperienced though he was, Jacob’s aesthetic sense and flair for business turned what had been little more than a bric-a-brac shop that occasionally turned up a decent painting into the fine art and antiquities business still successful today. Samuel and Naomi gradually bought up the rest of the building. Jacob travelled from Florence to London as his father had done before him, where their best clients were, whilst Samuel dealt from home with other European capitals. Then came the Second World War. In 1943 Samuel and Naomi were deported and they died in Auschwitz. After the war, Jacob returned to Florence but he decided to leave the business and eventually Rinaldi took over. Jacob set up a trust before he died, under the terms of which Rinaldi had the usufruct of his shop and first-floor apartment.

Every so often, during this account, Rinaldi’s glance moved from the captain’s face to the prosecutor’s, gauging their reaction, trying, by adopting a confidential tone and putting in unnecessary details, to maintain the fiction that his only thought was to be useful to them. He was careful to avoid the marshal’s stare.

When he stopped, there was a moment’s silence. The prosecutor thanked him.

‘You’ve been a great help. Quite cleared up the mystery. There are just two things …’

A lot more than two, the marshal thought, watching the flush of fear return to Rinaldi’s face.

‘Two things … these European contacts you mentioned, would they include Prague?’

‘Well, of course, I’m only going on what I was told. Bit before my time but I think so, yes.’

‘So the contacts could have included Sara Hirsch’s mother, for example. Jacob perhaps gave her, too, the usufruct of her flat under the terms of the trust.’

‘I suppose it’s possible but I really don’t know. I wasn’t in his confidence to that extent. I can only tell you with certainty about things which concern me personally’

‘Of course. It was just a thought since we found no rent book. And the other thing was—now, what was the other thing I wanted to ask?—ah, yes. The mystery of mysteries. Where is Jacob Roth now?’

‘He’s dead of course! I’ve already said so!’

“Yes,
yes, quite. But even when we are dead our earthly remains must be somewhere, mustn’t they? Did he die in Florence?’

‘He might have done.’

‘Lost contact, over the years, had you? With his having retired from the business, I suppose you saw less of each other.’

‘That’s right. It’s only natural.’

‘Perfecdy natural. But he didn’t forget you at the end. You must have appreciated that. Did you go to his funeral?’

It seemed an innocuous enough question but the man was struck dumb and you could see by his eye movements how he was sifting through possible truths and lies for an answer.

‘Was it so long ago that you don’t remember? After a certain age one has to go to so many funerals—a colleague of mine died only last week, fifty-three, heart attack—reminds us of our own mortality. Perhaps if you give yourself a moment … cast your mind back … you might remember.’