Inspector Cataldo's Criminal Summer

by Luigi Guicciardi

  He pulls up in Piazza Marconi, near the ice-cream kiosk. He switches off the engine. The only real proof is psychological, not material, a police officer had once said to him. For years he had believed this to be the voice of experience, but then he had discovered by chance that it came from a detective novel. But he continued to believe it, at least in part. And perhaps it was true now. Such a difficult, complicated case. A real mix too: burning passion, cool anger and sheer rancour. And hatred and envy and ambition. And then the hot summer back then, relentless, and the cold of a winter many years ago – these things came back to him. The fears, the remorse. What was that evocative phrase he had once heard and liked? Ah yes… past guilt casts long shadows. Shadows that reach the present, right up to where we are now. He chases these thoughts away, starts up the engine again. Because when we ask ourselves too many questions, we get nowhere. He looks at his watch – it is almost suppertime, but he is not hungry. And so he decides… if he is quick he will make it there, because it is nearby. Even though he has not been feeling in such good shape, as though he has the flu coming on.

  The old town, the part on the hill. The convent in Via Di Vittorio. The car park is almost empty, everything is in shadow. He wonders if perhaps he has stayed late to study, whether he will find him there. He does not even put the car alarm on so as not to waste time.

  He sees it straight away, as soon as he gets out. It is not in the public car park. It is parked on the right, almost up against the convent wall from which bunches of white caper flowers hang. Two wheels on the road and two on the pavement. It must have been there for some time, he says to himself, must have arrived when the car park was still full. He shakes his head, careful now, as though waiting for a revelation. Because he would never have imagined he would come across it here – the dark blue Mercedes 280S.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Conscience

  He opens the door slowly, as though worried he might disturb someone. But neither of them hear him, not even Don Lodi who is actually facing him, his head slightly bowed, listening to the other man as though hearing his confession. They are talking in low voices, more quietly than is natural, even though they are on their own. Then, when he is already in the room, Marchisio hears him and turns round. Don Lodi looks up too.

  He moves closer in silence, and they both watch him without saying anything. There is a sort of reserve in the air, as though his presence – feared or undesired – is an intrusion into a private relationship. They sit there, motionless, until he pulls up a chair and sits down, his hands on the table.

  ‘Good evening, Signori. Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘Not in the least, Inspector. You are always welcome,’ says Don Lodi, the perfect host. The other man has not said anything yet.

  ‘I only ask because I didn’t let you know I was coming…’

  ‘Not at all,’ he repeats, ‘I’m sure you have good reason. Well…’ and he hesitates now, ‘should I introduce you?’

  ‘No need,’ says Marchisio, ‘we already know each other.’ And after a moment, he says to Cataldo, ‘Are you surprised?’

  ‘A bit, yes.’

  ‘And why?’

  ‘I didn’t realize you knew each other.’

  ‘We met this afternoon,’ says Don Lodi. ‘A recent acquaintance… but would you like something to drink? An aperitif? The fridge is over there…’

  ‘No, thank you.’ He looks at his watch, it is already seven thirty. ‘I won’t stay long.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  The priest is cordial, but it is cordiality without warmth… distant. Marchisio on the other hand is the same as ever, just less pale because he has been in the sun a bit. It is obvious that Cataldo has interrupted something.

  ‘Is it too much for me to ask what you were talking about?’ says Cataldo suddenly.

  The younger man shrugs his shoulders as though brushing the matter off or trying to avoid the question. But the priest speaks up: ‘He came looking for me.’ He turns to Marchisio and adds, ‘You can tell him, if you want.’

  ‘Alright.’ He thinks for a moment, then begins: ‘Zoboli was in that car, that night, the night that changed my life. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘You told me.’

  ‘And Don Lodi knew him well, everyone says that. As a student, as a person… and he’d been with Don Lodi just a few hours before…’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I came here to beg him to tell me if he’s learned anything over the years… at confession or through their friendship, whatever… anything regarding the second man or woman who was in that damned car…’

  ‘Begged him to tell you…’

  ‘Yes, to tell me. Because all I want is the truth.’

  Cataldo looks at his nails. ‘And the answer?’

  ‘There has been no answer, because that’s when you arrived.’

  Of course, it could be the truth. It fits with Marchisio’s impulsive ingenuousness. But there remains something undefined hanging in the air, something vague, like a sort of unexpressed understanding, tacit comprehension, that renders their relationship ambiguous. And Cataldo cannot manage to wipe out that first impression, the impression that Marchisio was at confession.

  ‘What about you, Inspector,’ Don Lodi butts in, trying to be funny, ‘do you have any questions for me? I must warn you that the library is about to close…’

  ‘No, I don’t. Don’t worry.’

  ‘So…’

  ‘So why am I here?’ He decides to go along with the game, to respond in the ironic tone. ‘Well… since in this library…’ and he looks around ‘… even though it’s a very nice library… since you don’t have a television, I thought I’d come and bring you the latest news.’

  ‘Bad news, I imagine.’

  ‘Why, Don Lodi?’

  ‘If you’re the messenger…’

  ‘You’re right.’ Cataldo looks serious now, the joke is over. ‘It’s a terrible piece of news. Haven’t you heard?’

  Both gesture no. In the end Marchisio says: ‘A death?’

  ‘Yes, another one.’ And then he adds, ‘Carlo Zanetti.’

  Marchisio is impassive, he does not react. But Don Lodi blurts out: ‘Zanetti? Zanetti… dead?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, and in the silence that follows he adds, ‘… two shots to the chest. Took place in his office, this afternoon. They’re doing the post-mortem now, urgent procedure. The bullets… you understand…’

  No one speaks now. Cataldo gets up, feels the tiredness in his legs, even more than before. But his brain is still working.

  ‘Another of your pupils, Professor. And another one who was at that famous degree celebration… that damned supper, we should say…’ He looks at Marchisio now. ‘You used that word…’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, just now. But that’s not the point. The point is Guiglia’s going to resemble Chicago at this rate. Ever since you arrived.’

  ‘It’s not my fault.’

  ‘We shall see.’ Then he becomes sombre, speaks quietly. ‘That’s three now. Three dead men in four days.’ He looks at Don Lodi. ‘I’m thinking of Nunzio, poor soul. Did you know him?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ says Marchisio. ‘How could I?’

  ‘I only knew him by sight,’ murmurs the priest. ‘But I hadn’t seen him for a long time.’

  ‘A long time?’

  ‘More than a year. But I remember him. A tall man… grey hair and a wart on his nose… poor man, yes.’

  ‘I didn’t know him,’ repeats Marchisio, almost as though he is afraid no one will believe him.

  ‘An absurd crime, as well as terrible,’ continues the priest. ‘I read about it in the Carlino. But the fact he was killed in the tourist office with a paperweight from the office itself does show that it wasn’t a premeditated murder.’ He pauses before adding, ‘Doesn’t it?’

  Cataldo encourages him. ‘Go on.’

  ‘If that’s true, the murder might well have been the result of an argume
nt… yes, a sudden explosion of rage after an argument.’

  But Cataldo smiles.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘You’re forgetting the time, Don Athos. He was killed ten minutes after he opened the library, and the opening was unscheduled. I found him on the floor and the murderer must have left the building just a minute or two before I arrived. See what I mean? They didn’t have time to argue. No… that wasn’t the motive.’

  Don Lodi says nothing, he seems disappointed.

  ‘And there’s more.’ He coughs, turns to face Don Lodi. ‘The killer left no trace of himself. He acted quickly, struck immediately, as soon as he entered and he made sure he didn’t step in the blood on the floor. And that wasn’t easy… there was blood everywhere. And he took no money from the dead man’s pockets.’ He coughs again. ‘You see? Just think about it.’

  Don Lodi scratches his cheek as he thinks. Then he gives in.

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I think we can exclude the idea of an argument, and even the idea of someone deranged – a drug addict, a madman and so on. The killer was so precise, so self-controlled, it makes me think quite differently. This was studied carefully beforehand.’

  ‘Premeditated murder?’

  ‘Exactly. Even if the weapon used makes us think the opposite. But the paperweight, if you think about it, tells us something. The killer knew the library and the objects in it. As well as the librarian, of course…’

  ‘Yes. A premeditated crime, there’s no doubt,’ continues Cataldo after a while, without speaking to anyone in particular. ‘But it’s not a perfect crime. No. There’s no such thing as the perfect crime.’

  ‘That’s debatable, Inspector,’ says Don Lodi, very interested. Marchisio agrees, nodding his head. ‘All crimes that remain unsolved are perfect crimes.’

  ‘No.’ And he looks sternly into his eyes.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because the laws of human nature prove you wrong. You see, Don Athos, a killer’s salvation is tied to an apparent lack of motive, and an alibi, of course… but even if he suffers no guilt, no remorse, just imagine the torment knowing that a single error can give him away, that if he contradicts just one of his words, or if one of his gestures gives something away… if he talks in his sleep… But let’s get back to Zanetti.’

  Silence returns to the room. Cataldo runs through the ideas in his mind as he walks around the table, then he makes up his mind and speaks: ‘It’s possible Zanetti was driving the car that night. Zoboli and Zanetti together. They’re both dead.’ He turns to Marchisio, suddenly, ‘What would you say if that’s how things were? What sort of justice has been meted out?’

  ‘Justice would have been served twice, Inspector,’ says the priest. ‘Human justice and divine justice. Sometimes death exposes God’s judgement on life.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’

  He makes a gesture with his hand, as though chasing away something that is not there. ‘It doesn’t matter. I meant that only God knows what is right and only He can look into the hearts of men, and judge them. That’s what I was telling him earlier,’ and he gestures towards Marchisio, who starts a little in surprise. ‘We are men and we have no right to do this.’

  ‘I don’t agree with you. Crime always requires judgement, a sentence. Here and now, whatever the motive. God comes later.’

  ‘Don’t you think that…’

  ‘No. Let’s be realistic, please. Revenge isn’t justice.’

  A shadow of surprise seems to pass over the priest’s eyes, almost disappointed that he finds no understanding from Cataldo. But he says nothing. He takes off his glasses, sighs deeply, then he puts them back on, almost as though the gesture were a nervous tic. Cataldo turns to the other man.

  ‘It’s your turn now. Where were you this afternoon, between one and three o’clock?’

  Marchisio is calm, precise, almost as if he has been expecting this. ‘I had lunch in the hotel. But between midday and half past one, I think. I finished at a quarter to two at the latest.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I went to my room, to rest.’

  ‘You didn’t go out to carry on with your investigation?’

  He does not smile. ‘No. It was too hot.’

  ‘But that’s the second time this has happened.’

  ‘That what has happened?’

  ‘That you don’t have an alibi. The same thing happened with Zoboli…’

  ‘I remember.’

  Silence, again. And Cataldo thinks it is as though they are all breathing quietly, so as not to break the silence. He turns his back on them, walks towards a window and looks out. He wants to open it even though it is cool in the room. He is just doing this when Marchisio speaks.

  ‘I’m going back home tomorrow.’

  Two faces turn to him – concerned, confused. But it is Cataldo who asks, ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow. I just have to collect some photographs I’ve had developed in Modena.’

  ‘What photos?’

  He does not answer. ‘Or do I have to stay here?’

  ‘What do you think?’ A pause. ‘Are you involved in these crimes somehow?’

  And Marchisio looks at Cataldo in the great silence that has developed. Then he says, slowly, ‘We’re all involved, Inspector. In all the crimes in the world.’

  ‘That’s not an answer!’ He loses his patience, raises his voice. ‘Those are just fine words. Or maybe a line from a TV cop show.’

  ‘It’s not my fault if you don’t like it.’ It is odd that there is no irony in his voice. ‘But I don’t know what else to say. Really.’

  So Cataldo puts his chair back in its place and stands, his hands on the back of it. After a while he takes his leave of the priest with a nod, then looks at Marchisio for some time, undecided. In the end he asks him the last question, even though he knows it is pointless.

  ‘Tell me one thing at least. Just one. Is everything cleared up now?’

  His voice is calm, peaceful. And the eyes that look back at him seem sincere.

  ‘No one can ever fully clear his conscience.’

  But what is conscience? thinks Cataldo a few minutes later as he is leaving. Nothing more than a polite name, someone said once, for superstition. Which in its turn is a euphemism for fear.

  He is perturbed as he gets into his car. And as he drives his worry grows, like an autumn shadow. Because he knows well that there is always, in every case, a difficult moment in which ambiguity, the stumbling block of appearances, people’s reticence, make solving the mystery seem more complicated, if not impossible. And this is one of those moments.

  What was Marchisio doing there? Did he already know Don Lodi? Because in the end, when you go looking for a priest you do it out of penitence, out of remorse, or out of faith that gives hope. Was that what was going on? And why now, why throughout this case, has he been left with the feeling that something is escaping him? Something he felt clearly today… but what is it? And who is it? And why does he still have two or three sentences in his head that he cannot make sense of? His own impatience takes him by surprise in the very moment in which he recognizes it. He is on edge, yes. He is even angry with himself. Perhaps it is the heat, perhaps he really is worn out. He concentrates on the road now because he is at a crossroads and he has to turn.

  Three dead men in four days, he had just said that. Including Nunzio, the unluckiest of them all, killed when he was just moments away from being safe. He feels anxious, but he knows he cannot afford to be. And it does not make sense to talk of a lack of luck, which is just a way of consoling ourselves for a lack of efficiency. He has to remain calm, that is all there is to it. He has to rationalize the tension, the anxiety. Time is not slipping away – he has done everything he could do up to now.

  So, if Marchisio has nothing more to do in Guiglia, and if Zoboli and Zanetti really were the culprits that night back in 1980, then yes, it is clear how Zanetti found the money to buy
into Tecnodomus. And not just that, it is also clear that Marchisio understood all this too, and so, out of revenge… he knows all the rest.

  Yes, everything makes sense now. Or almost everything. Because if this idea is correct, if the two of them really were together in the car, well… looking back over the whole enquiry, it is clear someone has been lying to him. And now he knows exactly who it is. He just hopes she is at home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Two women

  ‘So you were driving that night?’ Cataldo looks at her, almost mockingly.

  She lifts her head on hearing the question. She is sitting in an armchair, her face inexpressive and an obstinate turn to her lips, together with a vague anxiety in her eyes. She nods, without speaking. And he thinks to himself that there really is something admirable in her tenacity. So he waits for a second before continuing, emphasizing every single word: ‘What time did you say you left with him?’

  Her expression does not change, but her eyes widen: ‘At eleven o’clock.’

  ‘And you went home?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘That’s not true,’ he replies, firmly.

  ‘What did you say?’

  She looks down and looks agitated while she becomes more rigid, pulling in her elbows as her breathing speeds up involuntarily.

  ‘God knows you’re lying.’

  She lifts her head with a start. The blood has left her face and her rosy cheeks look like unnatural marks on her pale skin.

  ‘How dare you…’

  But he blocks her reaction simply by lifting his hand. Miriam understands now and she begins to relax.

  ‘What makes you think that I…?’ she starts to ask, without conviction. Her voice is colourless now, but Cataldo understands the tone, the question.

  ‘Because I know.’

  It is the end of the waiting, of the deceit. The words that follow will be the truth.

  ‘No, you’re right.’ She blows her nose, without crying. ‘There’s something I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Giulio wasn’t with you?’