The Disappearance of Signora Giulia

by Piero Chiara

  ‘I can see it all. Accusations, counter-accusations, then the sudden fury, maybe after her heartless confession. His hands on her neck… he loses his mind for a moment… and seconds later her limp body falls to the ground. He’s momentarily terrified, he’s confused – and then he comes to, with the lucid rationality of a legal man, an expert in crime and evidence.

  ‘Through the cellar – so as not to cross the internal courtyard – and into the park, dragging the cadaver behind him – or rather, carrying it in his arms… I’ve thought about this journey so often, always wondering where it ended up. And lately I’ve walked the park so many times, looking for a grave – I’ve even brought a trained dog along. But Signora Giulia was lying underneath a stone, with its edges sunk into the ground and grass clumps carefully rearranged over it all. Who could have dreamt of this cistern!

  ‘So the lawyer went out through the cellar into the park, reached the coach house, removed the clumps of grass, opened the manhole, which he knew about, and threw the corpse into the void. Then he went back to the house and faked her escape. He packed her bags with some linens and a few clothes, filling the overnight case with jewellery and other small items. One of the cases was too large and wouldn’t go through the manhole. So he took a smaller one, leaving the other in his wife’s room. After having thrown the suitcases into the cistern he closed it up again, stuck the grass clumps around it in the right places and went back into the house.

  ‘All of it had to have happened between midday and one, after Teresa had gone home. And here the account tallies, because Teresa said that she was in the lawyer’s house that morning to clean as usual, just as always. But Signora Giulia sent her back, telling her to return at eleven. At eleven, when she returned, she hurried to finish in half an hour since she didn’t have to prepare lunch on Thursdays: Signora Giulia, who was leaving by the two o’clock train, set the table herself and at twenty to two went off, leaving everything in a mess.

  ‘Teresa came back at two, cleared the table, washed up and worked with the other maid who always came at around two since Signora Giulia liked to be alone in the house in the morning. All went perfectly: between midday and one. At two-thirty he was with me, reporting the drama. He’d been waiting from one-thirty: time to get himself together. He told me he hadn’t even eaten. I’m sure he hadn’t!’ And with that, Sciancalepre got up.

  ‘Let’s go there,’ he said. ‘We’ll stop first to pick up a doctor, the magistrate and a registrar, and we’ll identify the body. The rest will take care of itself.’

  Just in case, he sent a sergeant and officer Pulito to watch the lawyer’s office and house, with orders not to lose sight of him if he left the house and to stop him if he got into a car. Then he set off for the magistrates’ court with Fumagalli.

  The magistrate, having been filled in, in turn phoned the public prosecutor’s office and asked for advice. He was told to go ahead and apprehend Esengrini as soon as the body had been identified.

  Just as the group was leaving the magistrates’ court to head for the villa, Esengrini came through the door, Sciancalepre’s two men some distance behind him. He calmly went to look at the papers on a case set for the next day. It wasn’t a dramatic encounter. Fumagalli, who wasn’t speaking to his father-in-law, had gone on ahead.

  ‘Where are you off to? Some crime scene?’

  The magistrate cut him off. ‘Sir, you’re coming too. We’re going to your daughter’s villa to look into something that concerns you.’

  The lawyer looked at his son-in-law, who’d stopped with his back to the group. He looked at the Commissario, who’d lowered his head. He put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Have you found something?’ he asked in a hushed voice.

  ‘Yes,’ the Commissario answered, ‘something crucial.’

  Meanwhile, the sergeant and Pulito had approached, and Esengrini realized that he’d been followed from his office door. Without another word, he set out with the group beside the Commissario. No one, seeing them go by, could have imagined what was going on.

  There was hardly anyone about. It was a Thursday. Another of Signora Giulia’s Thursdays.

  When they arrived at the entrance in via Lamberti, Esengrini was let in second, after the magistrate. Emilia was in the house but she didn’t know anything was up; no one had told her yet about the find. The squad went down the flight of stairs and into the park as far as the coach house. They arrived in the clearing, where Demetrio and the two builders were standing at some distance from the closed-up manhole, waiting.

  The magistrate asked for it to be opened. More lamps were brought and the Commissario produced a torch from under his overcoat and gave it to Pulito, ordering him to climb into the well and bring out the two suitcases.

  It was a long and difficult operation. Esengrini stood by stiffly, looking down into the opening. He indicated recognition of the suitcases with a nod. The suitcases were placed side by side and opened. One was stuffed with crumpled linens and slimy, wet clothing. The overnight case contained just two small purses: one was empty and in the other there was a lipstick, a rusted compact, a tissue, some keys, a pair of gloves and a wallet which was opened in order to take out the bit of cash that was in it: six thousand lire in total. There were also a few cards in it, a photo of Emilia, an identity card, a little notebook. Everything was soaked with water and mud, and coated in coffee-coloured mould.

  After a thorough examination of the suitcases, the Commissario entered the cistern. The magistrate lay down on some newspapers spread over the ground around the opening and put his head into the void. He could see a dark form illuminated by the torch, apparently floating on a veil of black water.

  After an hour’s work the body was brought up and laid out on the ground with the help of the two builders. They had to use a canvas, because the limbs were falling off.

  Fumagalli had gone up to the house to stop his wife – who might have become suspicious or been told something by Teresa – from coming into the park and being confronted by the scene. He’d also telephoned a photographer at the magistrate’s request, and shortly afterwards there were photos of everything, especially the cadaver.

  There was no doubt about its identity. Esengrini was the first to say: ‘It’s her.’

  Her face, once so pale, had turned honey-coloured and transparent. Her undamaged hair spread over the ground, and from between the trees a ray of sun threw over it a warm reflection, so that it might almost have been confused with the dry, crumpled leaves spread across the lawn.

  Her clothes were faded and practically moulded to her body, like those of a statue. The graceful, lively figure of Signora Giulia was no longer recognizable in that form. Stretched out along the ground, she looked like a dressed-up skeleton. A pool of putrefaction, which the paving stones couldn’t soak up, slowly formed around her. Her hair alone seemed immune to transformation; it was loose in a way no one there had ever seen apart from her husband. Her head seemed like that of a young girl, and except for the empty eye sockets strongly recalled her daughter’s face around the cheekbones and forehead. When they moved her, a thick, dark liquid flowed out of the sockets. Her golden wedding band was removed from her ring finger. Inside the circle, the date of her wedding was still legible.

  The corpse was taken to the morgue for an autopsy, and in order to get it out, the gate on the country road was opened. The old key hanging on the nail in the coach house still worked. The van arrived, and Signora Giulia made her last journey.

  The magistrate, the registrar, the Commissario and Pulito remained, along with Esengrini and the two officers. There wasn’t much joking in the conversation that followed.

  ‘Esengrini,’ said the magistrate, ‘I’ve telephoned the court and informed them fully. They suggest a provisional arrest. I don’t know what to say to you: you’ll defend yourself. Sciancalepre will accompany you to the cells. Let’s go out by the gate – that way we’ll avoid onlookers.’

  Sciancalepre felt no need to speak. He stood beside the la
wyer, head bowed. Then, leaving the magistrate at the end of the pathway, he went the short distance to the cells with his prisoner. The guard let them through, as on so many other occasions, thinking that they needed to speak to someone inside.

  Instead, his mouth agape, he had to welcome the lawyer himself amongst his guests.

  His orders carried out, Sciancalepre went straight home. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t thinking about his spaghetti at that hour. His head whirled with a jumble of thoughts and problems. The jewellery hadn’t been found, either in the suitcases or at the bottom of the cistern, even though it had been thoroughly searched.

  In the records, there was an inventory of the jewellery Signora Giulia had taken with her. Esengrini himself had reconstructed the list: four diamond rings, three pairs of earrings, a strand of pearls, a diamond necklace, two pins set with precious stones, a watch and two bracelets also set with diamonds.

  Sciancalepre could recall the jewellery by heart. He’d seen it who knows how many times on the poor woman. Where had all that stuff gone? He thought about making a detailed search of the lawyer’s house and office and felt some hope. And suddenly it occurred to him that neither he nor the magistrate had charged Esengrini with the crime of homicide; and that Esengrini hadn’t made the slightest admission of being the perpetrator of the crime. He’d attended the identification of the corpse as an interested bystander, but had never shown any sign of confusion.

  At table he gave his wife the news. The plate she’d been holding fell to the floor.

  ‘How was Signora Giulia?’ she asked.

  ‘Falling apart, poor thing – it was indescribable! Those empty sockets… Only her hair was untouched. At least there was no smell. She was all shrivelled up…’

  For the time being, Esengrini’s arrest was a simple matter of police custody. But that afternoon Sciancalepre decided to complete his report with an explicit charge for the murder of Giulia Zaccagni-Lamberti and of the attempted murder of Carlo Fumagalli. He went to the public prosecutor’s office to deliver his report in person, stopped by police headquarters to accept the chief’s congratulations and then went back home.

  Two days later the public prosecutor, having notified Esengrini of the two charges against him and the warrant for his arrest, went to M—— for the questioning. At the old district prison of M——, built one hundred years before by the Austrians, Esengrini was brought into the little room reserved for judges and lawyers – without tie, shoelaces or belt. And yet his natural distinction was in no way diminished. On the contrary, an air of being both offended and annoyed heightened the pitch of his words and the looks he gave.

  The magistrate prepared to hear a full confession. But first he waited for the court clerk to take down all the accused’s personal details as required by the State. The official was about to write ‘married with issue’ when Esengrini firmly corrected him. ‘Widower’, he said, his arched brows underscoring the word.

  When the court clerk had finished writing the usual phrase, ‘The accused, charged with crimes as specified in the warrant for arrest, responds’, the prosecutor said courteously: ‘You dictate it, Esengrini.’

  Esengrini agreed with a nod and began to dictate.

  ‘I deny having committed the first crime charged against me at A, of having somehow taken part, or of having caused others to commit it. I deny having committed the crime listed in the second charge at B.’

  He then asked the clerk for a pen to sign with.

  ‘Just a minute!’ the magistrate exclaimed. ‘What do you mean, you deny it?’

  ‘I deny it.’

  ‘Then I have some questions to put to you.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘How do you explain the fact that the cadaver’s been in your villa for three years?’

  ‘I’m not explaining anything,’ the detainee concluded. ‘For the time being it’s not up to me to explain. It’s up to you to demonstrate that I killed my wife and that it was my shadow armed with the club. If I have to, I will appeal during the course of the inquiry. It’s only now that I’ve learnt that there was an attempted murder in the park the other night. Now I understand why Sciancalepre arrived at my house at one in the morning with such a face. I must reflect, sir; I’ve got to collect my thoughts. For the moment I can tell you only that I am innocent.’

  In truth, the prosecution still lacked evidence. Sciancalepre’s reconstruction was based on nothing but supposition – it was reasonably logical, but that wasn’t proof. The only fruit of the painstaking search of the lawyer’s home and office for the jewellery was the confiscated club. Two safe-deposit boxes at the bank had been inspected with similar results: nothing.

  Sciancalepre worked on an hour-by-hour reconstruction of the morning of the crime, and Esengrini was questioned for a second time. He explained that he had come back to the house at noon and found it in the same state as that in which the Commissario had found it two hours later. Teresa confirmed that she had been sent away from the house at nine by Signora Giulia; that she’d come back at eleven and had heard the signora in her room. She’d gone away for sure at eleven-thirty and returned only at two, when the signora was no longer there. But the door had been closed.

  SEVEN

  While the investigators scoured Rome for Luciano Barsanti, Esengrini put in a request for his own confrontation with Barsanti. The appeal was granted, and a few days after their face-to-face, he was able to set down a few facts:

  that Barsanti had received the famous letter exactly four days before the crime;

  that Barsanti did not remember having shredded or destroyed it, but in any case he hadn’t saved it and couldn’t put his hand on it;

  that Barsanti had sold his furniture from the flat on viale Premuda to a shopkeeper in via Fiori Chiari, four or five days after receiving the letter;

  that he’d moved to Rome the next day;

  that in one of his first letters to Signora Giulia he had told her about having at last found an apartment at viale Premuda, n. XY;

  that he had signed some of his letters with his Christian name, and others with both Christian name and surname.

  After the meeting Esengrini went back to his cell, asked for paper, pen and ink, and made another appeal to the authorities. He requested an inspection of his office and a search for the Molinari file: S.I.R.C.E. In the folder a sealed yellow envelope would be found with ‘Molinari Accounts: supporting documentation’ written on it. The envelope was to be opened by the investigators, who would find in it conclusive proof in the form of the famous letter received by Barsanti.

  The magistrate couldn’t understand where Esengrini was going with this or how the letter had come into his possession. He had the feeling that he was playing a game of chess with the ablest of adversaries, to whose moves he had to submit from the moment he failed to prevent them.

  He went to the lawyer’s office, found the file and the large yellow envelope inside it, and opened it seated at Esengrini’s desk. Inside, he discovered two letters in their envelopes, one of them typewritten on the Esengrini office letterhead with the old address in via Lamberti and addressed to Luciano Barsanti, viale Premuda, n. XY. He read:

  M——, 15 May 1955.

  Dear Sir,

  I am aware of your arrangement with my wife Giulia. I have no intention of causing a scandal and I advise you to put an end to the situation. Should you fail to do so I will pursue the matter with the utmost rigour. I rely on your good sense and alert you to the fact that I am prepared to take action that would see you in jail. Don’t mention this letter to my wife: it would only be perpetuating the betrayal.

  It was signed by Esengrini.

  The magistrate was stymied. How could the letter have come into Esengrini’s hands? He found the explanation in the other letter. It was in an envelope with the letterhead of another lawyer, Attilio Panelli of Milan, via Marsiglia, n. XX, and was worded precisely as follows:

  Milan, 20 May 1957.

  Dear Colleague
,

  The enclosed letter with your address on it was found in the drawer of one of the items of furniture in the forced sale of effects during the course of proceedings against one Antonio Nanni and the sale of effects previously seized from said Nanni, trading in used furniture from the warehouse in via Fiori Chiari, n. XX. As the letter concerns neither the accused nor my client, I thought it best to return it to you, thereby preventing matters relating to your private life from coming to the attention of strangers.

  Cordially,

  Attilio Panelli

  So, the magistrate reasoned, Barsanti had forgotten the letter at the back of a drawer. The furniture, sold by the rag-and-bone man of via Fiori Chiari, had ended up at auction and the letter, falling into the hands of the lawyer Panelli had, with the delicacy of a colleague, been returned to sender.

  But of what interest was it to Esengrini to produce it now? Hadn’t he always denied having written it? The letter appeared to have been sent from M—— on a Saturday, and to have arrived in Milan on the following Monday. Three days later, on Thursday, Signora Giulia had disappeared. Barsanti’s statement regarding his encounter with the lawyer corresponded with the truth.

  An idea began to take shape in the magistrate’s mind: that Esengrini was tightening the grip around Barsanti. At any rate, he’d set things up for an arrest.

  While the young man, arrested in Rome, was travelling under escort towards the prison in M——, Esengrini, informed of the discovery of the yellow envelope, made another surprising request. It was his method when defending and the public prosecutor had seen it in action at other times. Begrudgingly, he had to pass the proceedings to the examining judge, presenting the case as rather complex and, as such, requesting a formal investigation.