Zen shrugged wearily.
‘Do it,’ he said.
The German went to the end of the room and leaned out. Taking hold of the metal clothesline strung across the alley, he jerked it hard three times, so that it clanked in its socket at the other side. After a moment, the shutters on the house across the road opened and a man’s head appeared.
‘Buona sera, Pippo,’ said Genzler. ‘Yes, wasn’t it? No, no damage here. And you? The statue fell? Well, I’m sure the mayor can get a grant from his friends in the regional government to have it put back up again. He’s very good at that sort of thing. Listen, I happen to know of someone who wishes to talk to Don Gaspa, and I am informed that the Don is equally anxious to talk to him. The person’s name is Aurelio Zen. Do you think you could make enquiries and… He’ll be out here in the street, in about five minutes. Very good, we’ll expect them soon.’
He closed the shutters and turned to Zen.
‘They’re on their way. Have you a gun?’
Zen shook his head.
‘Good,’ said Genzler. ‘I’ll see you to the door.’
‘I can find my own way.’
‘No, I’ll accompany you.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Herr Genzler.’
‘It’s not a question of kindness. Like this, they will know that I know that you are in their hands. So if they kill you, they will have to kill me too. As I said, I can’t guarantee anything, but it may improve your chances of survival.’
Zen stared at him.
‘But you don’t even know me! Why would you risk your life like that?’
Genzler’s gaze was an abyss of pride and anguish.
‘Because I am a German officer,’ he said.
Zen pondered the implications of this statement until his thoughts were cut short by the sound of several cars outside. Then came the knock at the door.
This time he was blindfolded: a thick band of fabric over the eyes, taped to his forehead and cheeks. He tried to make himself believe that this was reassuring.
They drove for about twenty minutes along roads which reared up and down and roiled about without sense or reason. No one spoke. There were at least three of them with him in the car, the ones who had come to the door and taken him away. No one had said anything then, either, even when the German had extended his hand and said, ‘Buona notte, dottore.’ They didn’t seem interested. Zen was just a piece of merchandise which they had to deliver, like those plastic-wrapped packages transferred from the plane to the van on the strip of motorway where he had landed, many hours ago.
At last the car made one final lurch to the right and came to a halt. There was a brief exchange in dialect, then Zen was shoved out of the car and hustled across a paved surface, up a set of steps, where he stumbled twice, and into a building. It smelt musty and disused. His escort marched him along a bare board floor, turned him to the left, positioned him and told him to sit down. Oddly, he was more afraid of doing this blindfolded than of anything else that had happened so far, perhaps because of some memory of a childhood prank where the chair is removed at the last moment and you land on your silly bottom, hurt and humiliated.
But these people were not playing such games. He touched down on a chair to which his ankles and wrists were immediately bound with what felt like nylon cord. The men then withdrew, leaving Zen alone in the room.
It was perhaps half an hour later that he heard the car pull up outside. Being unable to see seemed to have disoriented him to a point where it was difficult to judge time. Cut off from external distractions, however, the rest of his brain had been working much more efficiently than usual. By the time the clomping of footsteps on the wooden floor announced the return of his captors, he had reviewed everything he knew or could infer about what had happened in the past weeks.
He had also decided how to handle the interrogation which he was about to undergo. He would be respectful, and demand respect in return. ‘Don’t grovel,’ Gilberto had told him. Grovelling to these people, even though he was totally in their power, would be fatal. If they were planning to kill him, no amount of pleading would stop them. But if they came to despise him, they might well kill him anyway, out of sheer contempt.
The broken rhythm of footsteps came to a stop near and in front of him. It was as if the room had suddenly become smaller. There were at least six of them, Zen estimated. Silence fell. He sensed that someone was inspecting him, sizing him up, gauging whom he had to deal with.
‘So, Signor Zen, why did you kill our friend Spada?’
Zen noted the epithet signore, itself a form of insult in Sicily, implying as it did that the person concerned had no right to a title of more weight.
‘Why did you kill my daughter, Don Gaspare?’ he replied.
‘We didn’t.’
‘Well, that makes us quits, because I didn’t kill Spada.’
There was a brief sardonic laugh.
‘Spada’s brother-in-law is the caretaker at that museum. He lives in an apartment which is part of the building. When he got home later that evening, he noticed a window open on the first floor. When he went to investigate, he found Spada lying on the floor, his hands bound behind him. He had been strangled. That was at ten o’clock. He had been dead approximately two hours. You had an appointment to meet Spada there at eight o’clock. I understand that you’re a policeman, Signor Zen. What conclusion would you draw from these facts?’
The voice was deep, the accent strong, the man perhaps about fifty.
‘Is that all that Spada’s brother discovered?’ demanded Zen.
‘Isn’t it enough?’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘There was some damage to some of the exhibits, and the opened window.’
Zen deliberately paused before replying.
‘You asked what conclusion I would draw from what you’ve just told me, Don Gaspare. The answer is that I would have come to the same conclusion as you, if I hadn’t been assured by an eye-witness that another man had also been killed in the museum that evening.’
Several men laughed this time, even more sardonically.
‘I’m afraid we’re not in a position to call this eye-witness of yours, Signor Zen, even supposing that he existed.’
‘You don’t need to call him. And he does exist. He’s sitting in front of you.’
‘So you admit you were there.’
‘Certainly I was there. But so were two other men. One of them was strangling Spada when I surprised them. He drew a gun and I shot him dead. His partner escaped through the window. Evidently he returned later, turned off the burglar alarm which I had tripped, and removed his accomplice’s body’
Another laugh, slightly less assured this time.
‘Why should we believe this?’
‘Don Gaspare, Spada was strangled by a professional. Not the clumsy two-handed grip you see at the movies, but with one hand gripping the windpipe and the other pressed into the back of the neck. It’s hard work. Look at my hands. I’m a bureaucrat, I work at a desk. Spada was strong, vigorous and at least ten years younger than me. There’s no way I could have strangled him like that, still less tied him up before.’
A dense silence formed.
‘So you’re saying that another clan killed Spada? Who, the Corleonesi?’
‘They didn’t kill Spada. And I don’t think they killed Tonino either.’
The blow came first as an outrageous surprise. It was only when he hit the floor that Zen began to feel pain, and to taste the dense salty blood in his mouth. Hands picked him up with the chair he was bound to and set him upright again.
‘Don’t you dare mention my son’s name again!’ the voice said, very close to Zen’s face now.
Zen spat some bloody saliva on the floor and took a few deep breaths.
