‘You know about that?’
‘It will save a lot of time if you just assume that we know everything. Now answer my question! Why did you go to such extraordinary lengths — breaking into a confessional in St Peter’s, setting up a shortwave radio link — just so as to smear an organization whose existence you now say you didn’t believe in?’
‘I never intended to smear anyone…’
‘Well you certainly succeeded! The Ministry of the Interior even opened a file on us. Fortunately one of our men was able to have it suppressed, but the effect could have been incalculable. For the last time, why?’
Falcone looked up at the pistol in the man’s right hand. It was now pointing directly towards him. With absolute clarity, he realized that he was going to die — and by his own gun, or rather his father’s.
‘It was just a bluff!’ he cried. ‘We suspected that the police knew more than they were officially admitting. The idea was to convince the officer in charge that Ruspanti’s death was not a criminal matter but a political one, and that the guilty party might include anyone and everyone from his own boss to the President of the Republic.’
The papal mask nodded like an obscene parody of a priest hearing confession.
‘But who is this “we”? And why should you care what line the police were taking?’
‘I meant the Falcone family. Ruspanti was a distant cousin of ours, and we were worried that…’
A harsh cackle from the lips of the plastic pope cut him off.
‘Oh come, now! You had rather more reason to worry about than the family connection, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Then let me fill you in. Friday last week, you and Marco Zeppegno murdered Ludovico Ruspanti by throwing him from the upper gallery in St Peter’s…’
‘We didn’t throw him!’
Too late, he realized the trap he had fallen into.
‘Quite right,’ the intruder continued gloatingly. ‘You lashed him to the railings with a length of fishing twine fastened in such a way that once he regained consciousness, his own struggles precipitated him to his death. Four days later, you electrocuted Giovanni Grimaldi in his shower…’
‘I had nothing to do with that!’
The cry was spontaneous, an affirmation of an innocence he really felt. Although it had been he who had connected the electric cable to the mains and listened to the dying man’s screams, the elimination of Grimaldi had served only Zeppegno’s interests. The photocopy of the transcript he had been shown on the Monday afternoon confirmed that there was nothing to compromise him, particularly since Grimaldi had obviously been totally taken in by his female clothing — even to the extent of doing a half-hearted number on him!
To be honest, it might have been that which sealed the Vigilanza man’s fate. He’d been shocked to find himself the object of that kind of attention, just because he’d put on a skirt and blouse. Of course this merely confirmed what he’d claimed all along — fixed categories were an illusion, you were what you appeared to be — but it was one thing to theorize about such things, quite another to see a man eye you up and down in that smug, knowing way. There was nothing remotely sexual about his cross-dressing. It was just an extension of the possibilities open to him, that was all, a blurring of distinctions he had already proclaimed meaningless. He would even more happily have dressed as a child, if that had been possible.
But Giovanni Grimaldi had made the mistake of making sexual advances to him, so when Marco had said they were going to have to move, he had agreed, even though he himself was not at risk. The telephone call from Ludovico to Ariana which had originally forced him to intervene was recorded in the transcript, but Ludo was still being careful at that point, and he had said nothing that would make any sense to an outsider. But by the eve of his death, Ruspanti had thrown caution to the winds, and Zeppegno’s name appeared in black and white. If the police got hold of it, they’d beat the truth out of Marco in no time at all. That was another reason why he’d decided to play along at the time, and later too, negotiating by phone from the lobby of the hotel in the middle of a party to celebrate the publication of his new book. It was only then that he realized that his own interests would be better served by killing Zeppegno himself.
‘I had nothing to do with that!’ he repeated.
The intruder seemed at first to understand.
‘“You are what you wear.” I didn’t realize you took your own slogan so seriously! Very well then, Zeppegno’s accomplice wasn’t you but a woman of similar build and bone structure. Oddly enough, yesterday yet another young woman — clearly no relation, because she was wearing brown instead of black — pushed Marco Zeppegno out of a train in the middle of the Apennine tunnel. Quite an eventful week they’ve had, these girls, whoever they may be.’
Raimondo Falcone had once watched a pig gutted, out at the villa where Carmela used to live. The beast was suspended by its hind trotters from a hook. The knife was plunged in below the pink puckered anus and tugged down like the tag of a zipper, opening the animal’s belly, releasing its heavy load of innards. The plastic pope’s words had a similar effect on him now. The man had not exaggerated. He did know everything.
Well, not every thing. He knew about Ruspanti and Grimaldi. He even knew about Zeppegno. But that was only the wrapping on the real secret, the key to all the others and the reason why he had originally suggested to Zeppegno that they pool forces and pay a visit to the Prince in Rome. Ironically enough, it was Ruspanti himself who had brought Falcone and Zeppegno together in the first place, when he learned that his cousin had abandoned the derelict family mansion to mad Ariana and moved into a smart new apartment block which also happened to house one of the former clients of his currency export business. At first the Prince merely asked Falcone to pass on his demands and menaces to Marco Zeppegno, who could in turn relay them to the other men under investigation by Antonia Simonelli. When Raimondo balked, his cousin reminded him that it was in his own interests to see the affair settled quietly. A major scandal would reflect badly on everyone in the family, especially a young designer at such a delicate stage of his career, just starting to rise in the world, but still within reach of jealous rivals who would seize on any excuse to burst the bubble of his success.
At the time Falcone had understood this as an observation, not a threat, and had agreed to act as go-between. Zeppegno, for his part, refused to be drawn on the specific commitments Ruspanti wanted, claiming that he needed more time, and that dramatic interventions by influential people were just around the corner. To Falcone he was less diplomatic, perhaps hoping that some echo of this might get back to the Prince. ‘It was a business arrangement. He did the job, we paid him well. If the bastard’s in the shit now, let him look after himself. I’ve got problems of my own without adding conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.’ Raimondo took little interest in the matter one way or the other until the day Ruspanti dropped an oblique reference to Ariana’s dolls. A few days later he mentioned the dolls again, this time referring to their ‘extraordinarily inventive’ costumes. In a panic, Falcone hung up. When the phone rang again, he did not answer it. He did not answer it for the next week, but when he dropped in to pick up a consignment of costumes from Ariana, she told him about Ludovico’s story about meeting a reporter who was interested in writing an article about her and her dolls. The implication was clear. If his demands were not met, Ruspanti would reveal to the world that Falco was a fake, a pretentious posturer who had deceived everyone by cynically exploiting the talents of the traumatized sibling he kept locked up at home.
It was then he decided that his cousin must die. Ruspanti had in fact seriously miscalculated. Not for a moment did Falcone think of agreeing to the Prince’s demands, which now ran to private planes to smuggle him out of the country and secret hideouts in Switzerland or Austria where he could lie low until the affair blew over. It was not just his commercial success that was at stake, but his very self! He was no longer Falcone, but Falco. If Falco were to be revealed as a void, an illusion, then what would become of him? As long as Ludovico Ruspanti remained alive, Falco’s existence had hung in the balance.