Page 13 of Daughter of Genoa
Still smarting, I went to my room and got my false identity card out of my bag. When I returned, Teglio waved me back into my seat and held out his hand for the card. I gave it to him and he opened it.
‘Oh, dear, I thought so.’ He shook his head. ‘Yes, this is a classic case. The wrong paper, the hastily re-stuck photograph – though whoever made this did a nice job of trimming off the old stamps – and this new stamp here, the one from Troia. What a good thing we found you before anyone else could. Now, compare it to this example.’
He reached into an inner pocket and brought out another identity card, which he handed to me. A real-looking card, nothing like my poor, shabby forged one. It belonged to a man called Giovanni Episcopo who was born in 1910 in Caltanissetta, in free Sicily. It seemed in every respect authentic, and it even had a stamp on it from Caltanissetta questura.
‘I can get hold of the right paper,’ Teglio said as I inspected it. ‘I can get the forms printed. I can get stamps cut, I can even manage new photographs if those are needed, but what I cannot do is apply the imprimatur.’ His finger traced the round, embossed police stamp that covered part of Giovanni Episcopo’s photograph. ‘That can only be done by somebody with access to the right equipment.’
I looked at him. ‘Is itreal?’
Teglio smiled. ‘The partisans fight on their front, signora Ricci, and I fight on mine.’
‘Then I want to help you,’ I said.
His smile grew wider, warmer. ‘Does that mean you’re no longer horrified by my past choice of flying mates?’
‘No, I am. I’ll never understand that. But this… this is wonderful.’ I reluctantly closed the card and handed it back to him; he tucked it safely away again. ‘Do you make many of these?’
‘As many as I can manage, and as quickly as I can. There’s a great demand for them, and not only in Genoa. I get requests from all over North Italy – and each and every one is urgent, because the situation is urgent. So an extra pair of skilled hands can be of significant use; if you’re prepared to take up forgery, that is.’
Take up forgery. The words thrilled me. Finally, someone was offering me a real task to do: something new and skilful, something worthwhile. ‘There’s nothing I’d rather do,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m the thankful one. Here.’ Teglio slid the book-shaped parcel towards me. I’d quite forgotten about it, and now it tantalised me again.
‘May I?’ I was already undoing the string.
‘Please do.’
I pulled away the brown-paper wrapping and found a battered paperback: an Italian edition ofThe Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, published in 1898 in Rome. And although I knew that everything Silvia had said was true – that Teglio was a habitual flirt, that his charm was all part of the game he had to play – I couldn’t help but feel touched. He had remembered that I liked Conan Doyle, and he had brought me this.
‘Thank you,’ I said again. ‘Thank you so much. I love these stories.’
‘I do, too. I read them over and over as a boy – that was my father’s copy, in fact. But we’re getting away from the point,’ he said. ‘Turn toThe Speckled Band, if you would.’
I did as instructed and found a folded piece of paper tucked in between the pages. It contained a list of names, each with the standard information – marital status, date of birth, distinguishing features – and an address in Caltanissetta.
‘I thought you might start off by filling this batch in by hand,’ Teglio explained, ‘since your work on Bernardo’s ledger was so beautifully done. Silvia and Bernardo will print the cards tonight, and I shall ask Father Vittorio to come around tomorrow and show you the ropes. He’s rather a good forger – I’ve had occasion to call on him before. I haven’t told any of them what I found out about you, by the way, and I shan’t tell them. Need-to-know applies here, too. It works rather well in this case, because the three of them are truly decent people, but we all inhabit quite different worlds. In other circumstances, our paths would most likely never have crossed. I don’t even know Father Vittorio’s last name.’
‘But didn’t you check him out, too?’
‘I didn’t have to. He came to me from an absolutely unimpeachable source. If I don’t have to know, then there’s no sense in asking. So I go on calling him Father Vittorio, as if we’ve known one another for years, and he goes on calling me Mr X. It’s extraordinary how the social niceties are thrown into disorder at a time like this.’
‘I suppose it’s more like having code names,’ I said, and he nodded.
‘Yes, that’s exactly what it is. I end up on the most informal terms with intensely respectable people, simply because we must deal with one another and keep it all as quiet as possible.’
‘Then you really ought to call me Marta, since we’re going to be working together now. Father Vittorio calls me Marta,’ I added.
‘Oh, well. If he can, then I most certainly can, too.’ He stood, and on impulse I held out my hand for him to shake. His grasp was firm, his skin warm and dry. ‘Marta, thank you for helping me.’
‘It’s my pleasure, Mr X. I’m glad to do it.’
‘Then we are of one mind, at least on this. Out of interest,’ he said, ‘do you happen to have your original papers, in your legal name? I mean to say, have you managed to keep them?’
‘Oh.’ I thought of my real identity card, which I’d kept taped into a secret place in my beloved roll-top desk. ‘No. They were in the old house when… Is it a problem?’
‘Not at all,’ Teglio said. ‘Mere curiosity. Forget I asked.’ He opened the door to the hallway, knocking smartly on the doorframe, before I could ask any further questions. ‘Silvia, we’re ready for you now.’
‘On my way!’ There were hurried footsteps and then Silvia appeared. She looked expectantly from me to Teglio and then back again. ‘Well?’
