Free The Puppeteer by Timothy Williams Page A

among the journalists. Maltese went into hiding. He was scared because he knew that his life was in danger.”

17: Pergola
    B ANCA S AN M ATTEO had once been a convent. The low ceiling of crossed arches was now white, but in places there were the remnants of a mural—cherubim and saints—forming irregular clouds of pastel color against the whitewash.
    Trotti walked slowly, leaning on Pisanelli’s supportive arm.
    They reached the Foreign Exchange desk— SERVIZIO ESTERO —and a tall man looked up from his typewriter. Pisanelli lifted the folding board in the counter.
    The bank clerk had the hangdog look of a cartoon animal. His eyes quickly returned to the keyboard.
    Trotti said, “Knock.”
    Pisanelli did as he was told. He tapped on the walnut door then, without waiting for a reply, turned the handle. Trotti stepped past him.
    It did not look like a bank manager’s office. It could have been a modern living room out of the pages of
Casa Italia
or
Vogue
. A low table, a rug, leather armchairs and tubular bookcases. Books that were leather-bound, neat and untouched. On the desk a telephone that appeared unhindered by wires.
    A plain wooden crucifix was attached to the wall.
    “A pleasant surprise.” Pergola was smoking. He stubbed out the cigarette and came towards Trotti. “Always a pleasure to see you, Commissario.” He held out his hand.
    Pergola limped.
    A well-dressed man, he wore a grey suit with a waistcoat that emphasized the narrowness of his body. The white shirt was new and spotless; the wine-dark tie had been knotted expertly. The bank manager was a small man with sloping shoulders and short hair. He wore discreet cologne. The grey eyes registered the bruising on Trotti’s face. “Please be seated.” He gestured to the armchairs. “But I thought you were on holiday, Commissario. I thought the Pubblica Sicurezza …”
    On one wall there was a long mural photograph. It showed the city—the river, the old houses along the banks of the Po and, rising above the rooftops, the familiar dome of the cathedral.
    The photograph must have been taken in Borgo Genovese.
    Pisanelli helped Trotti to sit down.
    Pergola smiled. “I see that I am not alone in being temporarily handicapped.” His smile was sympathetic.
    Trotti said, “The result of a misunderstanding,” and shrugged.
    “Can I offer you something to drink? Or perhaps, Commissario …” He turned to a walnut cabinet. He took small steps, hesitating to put his weight on his left leg. He opened the cabinet and took out a tin. “English boiled sweets.” He gave Trotti a large smile. “I think I know your vice, Commissario. Smith Kendon Travel Sweets.”
    Trotti took one of the sweets. “One of my vices.”
    Pergola carefully pulled at the crease of his trousers before sitting down on an armchair facing Trotti.
    “How’s your knee, Signor Pergola?”
    “I’m lucky still to have a knee. A few centimeters lower and I would have lost it.” The bland smile remained in place. “So what brings you here, Commissario? I really wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.” He allowed just a hint of firmness into his voice. “Can I assume that there have been developments in your enquiries?”
    “Signor Pergola, you know that I’m no longer involved. The dossier is now in the capable hands of the Guardia di Finanza.”
    Pergola nodded. His face was small and calm but the eyes were restless, moving from Trotti to Pisanelli and back. A shy but intelligent man. “The Guardia di Finanza,” he repeated, as if he had never heard the words before.
    “I think, Signor Pergola—despite the administrative reorganization—I think that we can help each other. There are some things that I should like to ask you.” Trotti allowed the boiled sweet to click against his teeth. “I’m not convinced that you’ve always been frank with me.”
    The ground glass window let in the white morning light and the sound of traffic along the Corso. In the office there was