Joseph Kanon - Alibi

“But not everyone is. Whoever killed him isn’t.”

“Not a partisan,” she said slowly.

“No. And if I find him,” I said, nodding at the file, “then you’re back in business. So it’s worth a chance.”

She had leaned forward, her whole body listening. “Back in business?”

“Well, there’s always somebody else, isn’t there? Always. But nothing ever came out. Then all of a sudden you’re investigating Gianni-you know something, you’re getting close. So if you were the somebody else, it might be a good time to get rid of Gianni,” I said, rushing now, believing it myself, the way it should have happened.

“Another collaborator.”

“Who set up the raid.” I opened my palm, an offering. “Your trial.” And then, before she could say anything, “Could you get me a list of everyone you talked to, who knew you were doing this?”

Because there had to be someone who knew about Gianni, who could tell me.

“Besides you and Lieutenant Sullivan?”

“Everyone. At the hospital, whoever you talked to. It had to be someone who knew this was happening, that you were opening the case.”

“But they might have talked to others.”

“I know. We’ll follow it as far as we can.”

“Oh, we. I told you-”

“ I. You just work on the Germans. I’ll take care of that,” I said, reaching over for the file.

“You know I can’t. It’s Allied property.”

“Joe would do it for me.”

“And me? When they ask me?”

“Files get lost. Misplaced. Even the Germans lost files,” I said. “It happens. And then they turn up again. You want to know what happened too, don’t you?” She raised her hand, letting the file slide away, then pushed up her sleeve and scratched the white skin on her arm. “We both want to know.” I kept looking at her as I pulled the folder toward me.

“And you’re going to do this all by yourself? One man. Talk to all these people, in Italian. How? I can’t take the time.”

“I know. We made a deal. Just work the German side.”

“But you can’t-”

I glanced over her shoulder again. The one man he could trust. Not even an idea, an impulse, grabbing at anything, unable to stop now, the eddy in control. “Yes, I can. I’m going to get the police to help.”

We had to pass Cavallini’s table to leave the dining room, so there was no avoiding a meeting. He sprang up when we got near, as if he’d been waiting.

“Ah, Signora Soriano. They said you would be here.” He took her hand. Waiting for Rosa, not me.

“You know each other?” I said.

“Who said I would be here?”

“I telephoned your office.”

“Ah, looking for the Communists,” she said, pointing to the paper in front of him, mischievous. “You know I can’t help you with that. I don’t know any.”

“No one does,” Cavallini said, smiling back. “Sometimes, you know, I think we make them up.”

Rosa looked at him. “Sometimes you do. But they’re useful, no?” She nodded to the paper.

“Some coffee? You can join me?” He offered a seat.

“No, it’s impossible. I’m late. If I’d known-it’s important? You came here to see me?”

“I don’t like to interrupt,” he said, motioning toward the table where we’d been.

“What is it?” Rosa said, direct.

“Not the Communists,” he said, picking up the paper. “The victim. You have so much information about our Venetian citizens. I thought perhaps-you know, we have to look everywhere in a murder case.”

“Ha, so this is your help?” she said to me. “ Come due gocce d’acqua. What’s the English? Not drops of water-peas.”

“Two peas in a pod,” I said, not really following.

“Both of you, so interested in Maglione,” she said to Cavallini, then pointed her thumb at me. “Talk to him. You know I’m not allowed. Only if Lieutenant Sullivan-”

“But you can tell me-is there a file?”

She kept her eyes on him, away from the folder in the newspaper under my arm.

“A murder case, signora.”

“All right. I’ll look,” she said evenly. “But now I should go. You’re finished with me?”

“It’s not an interrogation,” Cavallini said, smiling.

“There’s a difference, with police?” she said, but pleasantly, easing her way out. “I’ll call you,” she said to me. “Good luck.” This with a move of her eyes to Cavallini.

“So you know the famous Rosa,” Cavallini said as she left.

“She works for a friend of mine. Why famous?”

“During the war, in the resistance. Brave, like a man. The Germans never got her. A Communist, you know.”

“She says not.”

He shrugged. “They all say not. So, why good luck? The peas in a pod?”

“We both asked her about Gianni.”

“Ah,” he said, noncommittal.

“Look, you said on San Michele that I could help. Maybe I can. This is what I did in Germany, with her boss. The army’s not going to talk to you-they like to keep things to themselves. But he’ll talk to me. I can find out what they have.”

“So there is a file.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

But maybe he already knew. “Because I asked them to start one.”

He looked at me for a moment, then at the waiter gathering up cups. “I must get back. But it’s so nice today. Perhaps you’d walk with me? Part of the way?”

Outside, we stopped in front of San Moise, the rococo stone dark with grit even in the bright sun.

“You asked for this investigation?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know?” I said, probing.

“Your mother mentioned something,” he said casually. Known all along. Take nothing for granted.

“Then you also know why.”

He nodded. “The incident with Signorina Grassini, I think. Several have mentioned this.” Why? I felt warm, a rush of blood. Had he been asking about her? Running through his checklist, rumors and times I left the hotel and who had seen what? But the engagement party had been bound to come up. It had happened. And so had the ball, when we’d spent the evening with him, having our pictures taken. Just move the party off his checklist, away from Claudia. “An embarrassment for you.”

“And for her now,” I said, starting to walk, the narrow calle feeling suddenly like a tightrope. Keep your balance and don’t look down. “You know, when something terrible happens, you look for someone to blame. Anybody. And Gianni was there when they were taken. You don’t always think, you just-then later you realize it’s a mistake. You can’t blame someone personally. Of course, Gianni was nice about it. I suppose for my sake. So they made a truce.” The same word he’d used when he lied to me on the fondamenta, maybe a word that was always a lie. “In the end they were both relieved, I think.”

“But you asked your friend-Lieutenant Sullivan? — to investigate him.”

“I wanted to reassure her that Gianni was all right. That she’d made a mistake.”

“And did it? Reassure her?”

“Yes,” I said, looking at him, “because I didn’t tell her what they found.”

He was quiet for a minute, thinking, then stopped. We were near the turnoff for Harry’s, standing next to one of the stores. Shoes and handbags and cashmere, with Harry’s at the end of the calle, my mother’s Venice.

“But you want to tell me?” he said, a question, not a request, his eyes slightly apprehensive. I remembered the broad smile that first night at Harry’s, pleased to see Gianni.

“Yes. But only you. It wouldn’t be fair to his daughter. To my mother, for that matter. Nobody has to know. Not yet. They’re only suggestions. Not proof, suggestions.”

“What suggestions?” he said calmly.

“That he was working with the Germans. That he betrayed partisans.”