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began blinking. He picked up the receiver. Click and then a single tone. It continued ringing for over a minute; then somebody answered.
    “Carabinieri?”
    The voice sounded faintly surprised. “Yes.”
    “Put me through to NI.”
    “Why?”
    “Commissario Trotti phoning. Please hurry.”
    “Nucleo Investigativo?”
    “It’s about the murder of Maltese at Gardesana.”
    “Yes?”
    “Please hurry. Give me the investigating officer. This is Trotti of the Pubblica Sicurezza.”
    “I’m afraid the investigating officer has gone to lunch.”
    “Lunch, Signorina? But it’s not even ten o’clock.”
    “Please hold the line.”
    There was a knock on the door and Trotti looked up to see Pisanelli enter the office. He was wearing his leather jacket thatwas considerably the worse for wear—he had not changed it or had it cleaned in four years. A sheepish grin. Pisanelli seemed to be getting balder by the day. He nodded deferentially and sat down on the canvas armchair.
    A man’s voice. “Hello.”
    “Commissario Trotti here.”
    “When can you come in, Commissario?”
    “Come in for what?”
    “You were a witness to the Gardesana killing.”
    “I made a full statement at the Carabinieri barracks.”
    “Other questions that need answering. Can you come in today?”
    “Whom am I speaking to?”
    “When you arrive at the desk, just ask for Nucleo Investigativo.”
    “I believe the money that was in Maltese’s wallet has been identified.”
    “A report has been sent out to all Commands.”
    “What money, exactly?”
    “I’m not in a position to give information over the telephone. Come in and see us today. I think I can give you an appointment.”
    In a neutral voice, Trotti said, “I’ll see what I can do.” He put the receiver down.
    Pisanelli was leaning back in the chair, studying his fingernails.
    Trotti looked at him for a moment. In a soft voice he said, “If you haven’t got anything better to do than your manicure, Pisanelli, go over the road and get some coffee. Real coffee. Pisanelli—nothing from that machine in the corridor. And a couple of packets of sweets.” He ran his tongue along the jagged edge of the broken tooth.
    “You look a bit battered, Commissario.”
    Trotti picked up the phone. “Last call, Gino. This time the Carabinieri. Here, in the city. See if you can get me Spadano at Caserma Bixio.” In the same breath he said to Pisanelli, “You needn’t worry about my health. Get some coffee—and worry about your prospects with the Pubblica Sicurezza.”
    “Spadano called this morning, Commissario.”
    “What?”
    “Spadano called this morning,” Pisanelli repeated.
    “Called who?”
    “He wanted to speak to you.” Pisanelli smiled foolishly. “I was here so I took the message.”
    Trotti put the receiver down slowly.
    Pisanelli looked at his nails. “It was about the money.”
    “For Christ’s sake, Pisanelli—what did Spadano say?”
    “Look—I took the call down.” He pointed to a scrawled note that had got partially hidden beneath the blotter on Trotti’s cluttered table. “Maltese.”
    “What about it?”
    “The numbers correspond with the stolen money—the money taken at the time of the hold-up.”
    “Hold-up? What hold-up?”
    “Here.” Pisanelli nodded his domed head. “In the city. At the Banca San Matteo.”
    The light was blinking.
    Trotti picked up the phone. “Yes.”
    “Capitano Spadano.”

16: Banco Milanese
    “N OTHING ON THE girl?”
    Magagna had been smoking and over the telephone line his voice rasped in Trotti’s ear. “Sentenced and then reprieved. But for the moment, I’ve got nothing on her. I’ve put out a trace. Let’s hope the Carabinieri don’t associate Lia Guerra with the Maltese killing.” He paused. “What happened to the photograph?”
    “I took it.”
    Magagna clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “Where is it now?”
    “No idea.”
    “What d’you mean, no idea?”
    “It was a photograph that we had