Read Online A Dark Song of Blood by Ben Pastor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ben Pastor
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stopped by a German patrol while he drove past the Mint, and despite his documents the intolerant gendarmes had dragged him out of the car before allowing him to continue.
Pompilia pouted with open hands held up to her face. “See how pale I am? I almost passed out. When you’re all nerves, it’s a constant struggle just to keep your sanity.”
29 JANUARY 1944
Bora and Guidi didn’t meet again until late on Saturday, in front of the Hotel d’Italia, only a street-length away from Guidi’s Pubblica Sicurezza office, at the other end of Via Rasella. The hotel faced the imposing gate of Villa Barberini, its scrolling metalwork appearing out of the dark and fading quickly as the dimmed headlights of passing German vehicles struck it.
“Let’s go to my room,” Bora said. “I was able to trace one of Magda’s colleagues – you might be interested in what she had to say.”
Minutes later, taking advantage of the fact that power was on, Guidi took notes on the narrow desk by Bora’s window. A photo of his wife – it was the same woman whose portrait the major had at work, in any case – sat on the desk, with a small snapshot of a German pilot tucked in one corner and a dried edelweiss on the other side.
“Wouldn’t she tell you whom Magda was afraid of, Major?”
“She doesn’t know. What’s for sure is that Magda didn’t want friends over, and no longer asked for rides from the embassy. She was drinking more, and ‘acting strange’, whatever that means. You understand, my informant is the girl who was reassigned after the famous party. She says that everyone was drunk, their kissing was just a lark, and Magda got to keep her job because she had a boyfriend in the SS.”
“Any idea who that might be?”
“Not yet. But I can tell you who else lives at her address.”
Guidi flipped through his notebook. “Ground floor, a retired soprano, deaf and senile, never goes out. Third floor, three German officers, no longer there. Correct?”
“Correct. The officers are elsewhere now,” (Bora meant Anzio, Guidi knew) “but they have an alibi and witnesses. They were celebrating at their place, one floor down from Magda’s apartment. The rest of the building is untenanted and used for storage by the embassy.”
“Well, whoever had a key to her apartment searched it professionally before we got there. I doubt it was the killer, so – whether they were destroying evidence or merely removing potentially embarrassing clues, the investigation has been impaired from the start. Magda dated Merlo, she dated an SS, she was afraid of somebody. As of today, Merlo is the only one we can place near her house on the night she died, and I must tell you, Major Bora, that the chief of police is convinced of his guilt.”
“Maybe the chief of police is right. Or maybe he doesn’t like Merlo. I hear that unlike his corrupt colleagues at Braschi Palace, Merlo is true blue when it comes to graft.”
For some time, neither of them spoke. Bora sat in the armchair at the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed on his wife’s photograph. Following his stare, Guidi, too, observed the image again. An athletic blonde with a discontented air, elegantly coiffed, holding a dog by the leash on some smart city street.
“Her name is Benedikta,” Bora said.
“Very handsome.”
“She is, thank you. I haven’t seen her in a year.” Bora fumbled with cigarettes and lighter, with uncharacteristic clumsiness. “She’ll be here on Thursday, with a Red Cross train.” As you surely know , his stepfather had wired, your wife is coming on the third. Why he should have known was more than Bora could tell. He put a cigarette in his mouth, in what Guidi was beginning to recognize as an antidote for embarrassment, or shyness. “Care to smoke?”
“Yes, please.”
“Good. Here. I do, too.” With a quick puff of smoke Bora started his cigarette. “You know, I could have been transferred to a German hospital, back in September, but I
Pompilia pouted with open hands held up to her face. “See how pale I am? I almost passed out. When you’re all nerves, it’s a constant struggle just to keep your sanity.”
29 JANUARY 1944
Bora and Guidi didn’t meet again until late on Saturday, in front of the Hotel d’Italia, only a street-length away from Guidi’s Pubblica Sicurezza office, at the other end of Via Rasella. The hotel faced the imposing gate of Villa Barberini, its scrolling metalwork appearing out of the dark and fading quickly as the dimmed headlights of passing German vehicles struck it.
“Let’s go to my room,” Bora said. “I was able to trace one of Magda’s colleagues – you might be interested in what she had to say.”
Minutes later, taking advantage of the fact that power was on, Guidi took notes on the narrow desk by Bora’s window. A photo of his wife – it was the same woman whose portrait the major had at work, in any case – sat on the desk, with a small snapshot of a German pilot tucked in one corner and a dried edelweiss on the other side.
“Wouldn’t she tell you whom Magda was afraid of, Major?”
“She doesn’t know. What’s for sure is that Magda didn’t want friends over, and no longer asked for rides from the embassy. She was drinking more, and ‘acting strange’, whatever that means. You understand, my informant is the girl who was reassigned after the famous party. She says that everyone was drunk, their kissing was just a lark, and Magda got to keep her job because she had a boyfriend in the SS.”
“Any idea who that might be?”
“Not yet. But I can tell you who else lives at her address.”
Guidi flipped through his notebook. “Ground floor, a retired soprano, deaf and senile, never goes out. Third floor, three German officers, no longer there. Correct?”
“Correct. The officers are elsewhere now,” (Bora meant Anzio, Guidi knew) “but they have an alibi and witnesses. They were celebrating at their place, one floor down from Magda’s apartment. The rest of the building is untenanted and used for storage by the embassy.”
“Well, whoever had a key to her apartment searched it professionally before we got there. I doubt it was the killer, so – whether they were destroying evidence or merely removing potentially embarrassing clues, the investigation has been impaired from the start. Magda dated Merlo, she dated an SS, she was afraid of somebody. As of today, Merlo is the only one we can place near her house on the night she died, and I must tell you, Major Bora, that the chief of police is convinced of his guilt.”
“Maybe the chief of police is right. Or maybe he doesn’t like Merlo. I hear that unlike his corrupt colleagues at Braschi Palace, Merlo is true blue when it comes to graft.”
For some time, neither of them spoke. Bora sat in the armchair at the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed on his wife’s photograph. Following his stare, Guidi, too, observed the image again. An athletic blonde with a discontented air, elegantly coiffed, holding a dog by the leash on some smart city street.
“Her name is Benedikta,” Bora said.
“Very handsome.”
“She is, thank you. I haven’t seen her in a year.” Bora fumbled with cigarettes and lighter, with uncharacteristic clumsiness. “She’ll be here on Thursday, with a Red Cross train.” As you surely know , his stepfather had wired, your wife is coming on the third. Why he should have known was more than Bora could tell. He put a cigarette in his mouth, in what Guidi was beginning to recognize as an antidote for embarrassment, or shyness. “Care to smoke?”
“Yes, please.”
“Good. Here. I do, too.” With a quick puff of smoke Bora started his cigarette. “You know, I could have been transferred to a German hospital, back in September, but I
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