A low ringing sound came from Garini's jacket. “I'm sorry.” He pulled out the phone and answered the call. “Is that you, Commissario?” The female voice was loud enough to be heard by them all.
“Yes.”
“It's Angela Pulo. Someone ransacked my apartment.” Her voice trembled. “Everything has been torn apart. It's a mess.”
He got up while he was still speaking. “Are you hurt?”
“No, no. I wasn't in the house. I just returned home.”
“Do you know what's missing?”
“No. I haven't started looking yet. I thought I would call you right away, before I do anything else.”
“Good thinking. I'll be there in a second.” He hung up, bent forward, and looked at Fabbiola. “Promise me one thing: No more traps for the murderer.”
Fabbiola pulled a moue. “It didn't work anyway.”
He turned to Carlina. “I'll call you.” His hand cradled her head, and he pulled her to him and brushed his lips across hers. “Take care of yourself, will you?”
Carlina nodded, too dazed to reply. When he was gone, it felt as if the atmosphere around her had become cooler.
Fabbiola patted the bulk in front of her. “He's such an abrupt man. I wonder what you see in him.”
Carlina looked at her mother's wig and suppressed a sigh. “He's normal. That's a nice change, you see.”
Half an hour later, Garini stood in the middle of the Pulos' living room and looked at the chaos. All pictures had been torn from the walls, the drawers were pulled out, and their contents were spilled onto the floor. Broken glass crunched beneath his feet as he went into the kitchen. Signora Pulo was on her knees, lifting up broken pieces of crockery.
“It looks as if they were searching for something.”
“No doubt about that.” She gave a sniff. “But on top of that, it looks as if they were hell-bent on destroying everything.”
“In that case, they would also have broken the furniture.” Garini pointed at the unscathed chairs.
She sighed and shook her head. “Well, I can't say it makes much of a difference.” With a groan, she got up and placed a hand on her back. “If only I knew what they were looking for. Maybe one of the blackmailers is afraid that his secret will come out now. I bet they thought Giorgio had made a sort of diary with their secrets.”
“Did he?”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “Giorgio had a phenomenal memory. I once thought it was impressive.” She lifted a cup without a handle. “That was my favorite cup.” Her mouth trembled. The red lipstick had crept into the deep lines around her mouth.
“I'm sorry.” Garini wished words weren't so useless. “Other than that, you can't imagine what they might have been after?”
“No.” Signora Pulo shrugged. “It must be linked to the murder. We never had any problems with theft in this area before.”
“However, the victims of blackmail are usually not likely to come forward once the blackmailer has been removed. Instead, they're relieved and make sure they stay in the background.”
“This one didn't.” Signora Pulo looked around. “If only I knew what they wanted. If they have got it, I'll be left at peace now, and I can finally get on with my life. But what if they come back?”
There was a knock on the open door, and a man all dressed in black rolled in. Due to his immense girth, it looked for an instant as if he would get stuck in the door frame, but with a slight and surprising agile twist of his hips, he squiggled through. He didn't have a single hair on his shiny dome of a head and mopped it with a checkered handkerchief. “Signora Pulo! What a catastrophe! Are you all right?”
Signora Pulo straightened her back. “I'm fine, thank you.” Her tone was cold. “The police are already here. This is the Commissario from the Police, Stefano Garini.” She nodded toward the rotund man. “Signor Atta is my neighbor, Commissario. He lives in the apartment opposite.”
Garini lifted an eyebrow. Apparently, there was not much love lost between them. “Did you notice anything unusual this afternoon or early evening, Signor Atta?”
The short man drew himself up and mopped his head again. “Did I see anything unusual? Madonna, yes, I did. I wouldn't have thought that it might be important, but I noticed several strange things this afternoon.”
Signora Pulo rolled her eyes. “I'll get on with my cleaning.” She turned her back on the two of them, picked up a dented espresso maker made of aluminum and pushed it back into a cupboard.
Garini pulled out his tape recorder. “May I tape your statement, Signor Atta?”
“But certainly, certainly, Commissario.” The man puffed out his chest.
“First, there was a small boy who kicked his ball onto my balcony. He rang the bell and asked me to give it back to him. I did so, after I had given him a good piece of my mind. He was lucky, none of my flowers were crushed. That was around four o'clock.”
“At four o'clock, I was still at home.” Signora Pulo interjected.
“Ah.” Signor Atta frowned. “When did you leave, then?”
“Four thirty.”
“All right.” He nodded. “At four thirty-seven exactly--” He interrupted himself and gave Garini a little smile. “I know this because my favorite afternoon show starts at four forty-five, and I didn't want to miss the beginning. It's called The House on Abbey Square, do you know it, Commissario?”
Stefano suppressed a sigh and shook his head.
“Well, never mind, but you should watch it one day. It's worth it. Where was I?”
“At four thirty-seven exactly.”
“Ah, yes.” The round man rocked back on his heels. “At this moment, the door bell rang again, and a man appeared who wanted to collect money for the poor children in Africa. I sent him away with a flea in his ear. I know where all that money goes, and the poor children in Africa never see it, oh, no!”
Garini glanced at his watch. He knew this type of witness. He would go on and on about a zillion unimportant details, feeling better every second, never noticing that his audience were trying hard to keep their minds from wandering. No wonder Signora Pulo had decided to continue with her cleaning. How he wished he could be with Carlina. Her lips had felt so soft. God, how he missed her, the scent of her skin . . . If only her stupid family loyalty hadn't caused that breach between them. With difficulty, he concentrated on Signor Atta again, who had already progressed to another afternoon visitor.
“. . . and then, he walked downstairs, I only saw his back, you see, because I had opened the door a minute too late, wanting to take the trash out, and he was already past it, and such a slim back it was, so fragile, as if it couldn't hurt a fly, but I thought to myself that he sort of walked funny, as if he had something to hide.”
Garini interrupted him “Tell me more about this slim man. Have you seen him before?”
Signora Pula snorted. “No doubt it was just that pimply fifteen year old from the third floor.”
Signor Atta gave her a chagrined look. “I don't think so.” He sighed and changed the subject. “I would never have dreamed that someone could vandalize the apartment of the dear Pulos while I'm right next to them, I mean, the apartment of our dear Signora Pulo, Signor Pulo being murdered in cold blood, in broad daylight! I really don't know what this world is coming to!”
“Quite.” Garini was glad that the machine had recorded it all. It would fill his next report nicely and Cervi would have an apoplexy. Perfect. He thanked the overzealous Signor Atta and ushered him out of the door, then returned to the kitchen.
Signora Pulo rolled her eyes. “I'd never have thought that this curious little so-and-so would ever come in useful.”
Garini refrained from comment.
She put her hands on her hips. “I'm not feeling safe here anymore.”
“I can understand that.” Garini looked at her. “Do you know someone with whom you can stay for the time being?”
She pressed her wilted lips together. “Yes, I think so. I'll have to call
her. She's a good friend, and she lives around the corner, so I can come back during the day to clear up this mess.”
“Just make sure you're never on your own,” Garini said. “As long as we don't know what they are looking for and if they have found it, you have to take care.”
“Don't worry, Commissario.” Her voice was grim. “I can take care of myself. I always have.”
II
“Listen to this,” Emma leaned back on the toilet seat in Fabbiola's bathroom and crossed her legs. Her expensive nylons shimmered in the weak afternoon light.
Carlina bent over the bath tub and wiped a wet strand of hair from her brow. “I thought you wanted to help us wash the corn.” With distaste, she saw a black beetle crawling out of the tub, away from the inundated corn. The wet grain gave off a strange smell.
“I said I would join,” Emma corrected. “Which I did. Now I'm here, and I'm entertaining you by reading the newspaper to you, so you won't be bored out of your skull.” Her gaze fell onto the black beetle that had now managed to climb over the rim of the tub. “Eeeh!” She shrieked so loud that Carlina winced. “Lucio!”
Her husband hurried through the door. “What happened?”
“Vermin!” Emma pointed her immaculate fingernail at the black beetle.
“Surprise, surprise,” Carlina said. “We're up to our elbows in vermin, Emma, in case you haven't noticed.”
“And corn.” Fabbiola rushed through the door like a general who was checking the morale of his troops. “Expensive, valuable corn. Corn that would save many children in Africa from starving.”
Emma rolled her eyes.
Lucio took a step forward and flicked the beetle back into the water. “I admit I don't find this funny.”
“Who does?” Carlina said under her breath and stirred the corn with a long, wooden spoon. She shook herself when she saw two more beetles swimming away. “This is disgusting.”
“But think of the good it will do!” Fabbiola beamed at her. “Think of all the wonderful bread!”
As one, Emma, Lucio, and Carlina averted their faces.
“How are the others doing?” Carlina asked to get over the awkward moment.
“We're done,” Ernesto's voice came from the door. His red hair stood up as if he had been in a strong wind. Next to him, his friend Rafaele peered around the corner. “You'd better hurry if you don't want to break up our chain of work.”
“You're done already?” Fabbiola frowned. “Are you sure you've spread all the bedsheets in the living room in the right way and have distributed the corn evenly? If it's not well spread out, it'll mold.”
Ernesto sighed. “Don't worry. Maria is evening them out with a spatula. She's still at it, together with Simonetta.”
Fabbiola rushed from the bathroom to check.
“I say.” Emma rattled her newspaper. “Does nobody want to hear what I have to say?”
“No.” Her brother grinned at her. “But that shouldn't be new to you.”
She gave him a scathing glance. “I wasn't talking to you.”
“Let's hear it.” Carlina added more water and stirred the corn yet another time.
Emma lifted her voice to be heard above the gushing sound of the water. “The police are asking for your cooperation. If anybody recognizes the knife in the picture, please contact your nearest police station.”
“Wicked.” Ernesto came into the room to peer over Emma's shoulder. “Is that it? It looks like a dagger out of Arabian Nights, but it's so tiny. I guess it was used to kill the newspaperman, wasn't it, Carlina?”
“I don't know,” Carlina said. “As I've told you before, I'm not in the confidence of the Commissario.”
“But Fabbiola said you were having a romantic dinner last night.” Ernesto gave his cousin a worried look. “She said you were making it up.”
The romantic dinner was bread in the company of my disguised mother, and then Garini rushed off. Carlina nodded. “Yeah, but even if we make it up, which, by the way, is no concern of yours, I still wouldn't be told all the police secrets.”
Ernesto shrugged. “Sorry.”
Carlina was sorry she had snapped at him. She was fond of her cousin and liked his uncomplicated way which was in stark contrast to his two sisters Annalisa and Emma.
“Of course this is the knife that was used to kill the newspaperman.” Emma folded the newspaper and used its tip to kick another beetle back into the tub. “We know that Valentino was killed with Mama's knife, so that one is accounted for. It's only logical that this is the other murder weapon.”
“Are you in here, Carlina?” Maria appeared in the bathroom door next to Rafaele. “There's a man at the front door. He wants to talk to you.”
Carlina straightened and dried off her hands on a limp towel. “Do you know who it is?”
“No.” Maria shook her head. “He didn't want to say his name.” Her eyes widened. “Is he dangerous, do you think?”
Carlina noticed that Maria was paler than usual. She hesitated. “I shouldn't think so. I mean, it would be pretty stupid to walk in here and ring the front doorbell if you want to harm someone.”
“I think I'll just go with you,” Lucio said.
“Me too.” Ernesto joined in.
“And me.” Rafaele nodded in his slow way.
Carlina smiled at them and left the bathroom first. Then she did a double-take. The wooden floor boards were completely covered with white blankets and wet corn. The smell became overpowering. Carlina started to breathe through her mouth.
A small trail at the side had been left uncovered, and she turned her back to the wall and sidled along it like a crab until she reached the door. Lucio, Ernesto, and Rafaele were right behind her.
Chapter 11
I
“Orfeo!” Carlina stared at her old school friend. “I've not seen you for years!”
The tiny man on the landing shuffled his feet. “Hi, Carlina.” He stood on tiptoe and peered over her shoulder. “Is . . . is there a party?” His voice faltered, and he flinched as if he had hurt himself.
Carlina looked over her shoulder.
Lucio, Ernesto, and Rafaele had built a wall behind her, shoulder to shoulder, all with arms crossed over their chests. Their brows were pulled together, low over their eyes, and their mouths were pressed into one thin line.
Carlina grinned. It looks as if they rehearsed this. “Oh, no. These are my bodyguards.”
Orfeo cringed. “Bodyguards? Why?”
“Just a joke,” Carlina said.
“How did you get into the house?” Lucio cut in.
“I . . .” Orfeo started to stammer. “An elderly man let me in. He said I should go up, that I would find Carlina on the third floor, at her mother's apartment. I think it was your Uncle Teo, Carlina. Is that a problem?”
“Uncle Teo really should be more careful,” Ernesto said.
Rafaele nodded. “Can't let everybody into the house. Who knows what might happen. Simonetta will scream again.”
Orfeo looked as if he already regretted coming.
“Why are you here?” Lucio thrust his chin forward.
“I . . . I wanted to talk to Carlina.”
“You're doing so now.” Rafaele pointed out.
Orfeo threw a wild look over his shoulder, down the stairs, as if making sure that his way of retreat was still unblocked.
Carlina frowned. Orfeo had always been a shy guy. Due to his tiny stature, he had never been popular at sports, and being shy, he had never been at the center of attention, but she had liked him, and they had become friends over time. Not close friends, though, and they had drifted apart after he had taken over the bric-a-brac store from his father, working long hours, just like she did. “Let's go up to my place,” she said. “We can talk there.”
“Remember what happened in your apartment the last time.” Ernesto's voice was full of foreboding.
Orfeo's eyes widened. “Why? What?”
“That's where the banker was killed.” Rafa
ele dropped a heavy hand on Orfeo's shoulder. “So no silly business, you hear us?”
“Will you please stop this?” Carlina wanted to shake the boys. She could tell that underneath their stern exterior, they were having a whale of a time, but listening to them, you might think they had killed Valentino with a flick of the wrist just because he dared to approach Carlina in the wrong way.
Lucio shook his head. “I don't think it's a good idea to talk to him by yourself, Carlina.”
Carlina's patience was wearing thin. “Listen, you three. I appreciate your concern and help, but it's not necessary at the moment. Orfeo is an old friend.”
“They say most murders are done within the closest circle of family and friends.” Rafaele shook his head like a sad beagle.
“Then I have more to fear from you than from him.” Carlina grabbed Orfeo's sleeve and dragged him upstairs. Over her shoulder, she said, “You can stand guard in front of my door if that would make you feel better. I'll leave it open.”
She pulled Orfeo into her apartment and pointed at the armchair with the leopard print blanket. “Sit down,” she said. “Do you want something to drink?”
“No, thank you.” Orfeo looked around with the expression of a chased rabbit. “Was . . . was your cousin really killed here?”
Carlina bit her lips. “Yes.” She dropped onto the sofa and faced Orfeo. “What did you come to tell me?”
Her school friend threw a nervous look at the door that was slightly ajar and lowered his voice. “Did you know that my mother and your aunt go to the same hairdresser?”
Carlina blinked. A feeling of having strayed into an obscure dream gripped her. “Is that why you came?”
Orfeo frowned. “Of course not. It's just that my mother told me you were going out with the Commissario who's in charge of the banker's murder.”
I used to go out with him. Sadness filled her. She didn't want to go into that. “Yes?”
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