She found him sitting right there, in her bedroom: the same room he had entered to listen to the sound of Romualdo’s door closing. For much of the evening that had ensued, holding a book in her hands but without reading it, she had tried to understand something of the effect that it had had on her to see that man among her things, so deeply ensconced in her life.
She ought to have felt violated, she thought to herself. How dare that stranger, that unknown person? What was he doing there? How dare he lack respect to her like that? Was it perhaps her poverty, the misery of her surroundings, that had tempted him to presume so shamelessly?
Then she had been forced to admit that Ricciardi was there at her request. She had summoned him, asking him and even begging him to look into Romualdo’s case. What might seem like an intrusion was actually only a way of testing whether she, Bianca, was a reliable witness or a silly little woman who lived on illusions.
It was this, she understood, that truly offended her. The thought that Ricciardi might consider her delusional, so deranged by her desire to see her husband found innocent that she might be willing to come up with a lie.
The commissario’s eyes were completely uninterested in her personal privacy, that much was immediately clear to her. He only wanted to understand whether that sound could be clearly heard from her bedroom. And yet that wasn’t what upset her. It wasn’t because of that thought that now, as she tossed and turned uneasily in that September night, she dreamt she was looking at that same man, sitting in the chair in front of the vanity table, his legs crossed, his arms clasped in front of his face, and his eyes glittering in the dark, focused right on her.
Dreams, she would have told herself if she’d had the strength to be honest with herself, are shameless, my dear Bianca. Dreams have no decorum, they feel no need to remain confined within the bounds of custom. Dreams are alive and true and they sink their roots into your desires.
Bianca would have asked herself, if she’d had the nerve to look herself in the face in her waking hours, how long it had been since she’d made love. And how long it had been since she’d felt a man’s hands on her body. And how long it had been since she’d felt the urgent need of it.
She would have asked herself how real was that image of icy confidence, good manners, and reserve that she projected of herslf. And whether she still remembered how much fun it was to laugh and breathe deep the perfume of flowers, and how good it was to kiss.
Because that is exactly what her dream meant, the dream that she wouldn’t even remember the next day, except for a vague, inexplicable sense of disquiet that would stick with her for hours. The dream of two green eyes scrutinizing deep inside of her, brought by the sweet-smelling September air that came in through the cracked-open window.
Nothing could be better than the air of September, to tousle dreams and unsettle emotions. Nothing could be better than the air of September, to call into question all certainties.
Nothing could be better.
And nothing could be worse.
XV
When Maione appeared in the doorway of Ricciardi’s office with the usual tray of ersatz coffee, the commissario was already reading the copies of the crime reports filled out in the brigadier’s large, neat handwriting.
“Commissa’, have you seen the work I did? And after all, I didn’t feel it was right to drag Antonelli into it, after what you said, so I took care of it myself. You’ll find word for word everything that was written in the file. That De Blasio is an idiot, but he takes care of details, which is our good luck.”
Ricciardi nodded.
“Yes, it was all done impeccably. But it’s evident that Roccaspina’s confession interrupted all investigative activity. Now the problem is how to go about reconstructing, four months later, exactly what actually happened.”
Maione set down the tray and tipped the Neapolitan double espresso pot, pouring a cupful of the boiling hot brew.
“Then let me understand something, Commissa’. Are we going to look into it anyway, this murder? Do we believe the contessa? I have to say you looked a little mistrustful to me, actually.”
Ricciardi raised his eyes and looked at him.
“I went to her home. I checked out the plausibility of her claims and I took a look around. It’s possible, indeed it’s probable that what the contessa claims is true: if her husband had gone out, she would have heard him. What’s more, the economic conditions of the Roccaspinas are truly desperate, they’ve even had to sell their furniture. And therefore I can’t understand why the count would have murdered someone who could have helped him out by lending him more money.”
Maione poured some ersatz coffee for himself, too, in a glass cup. The slightly chipped demitasse with a mismatched saucer was for the commissario.
“In his confession, Count Romualdo explains that he had requested certain extensions on his payments and that Piro had refused that request. De Blasio also noted that Piro’s wife reported another argument that took place the day before, with shouting that could be heard outside of the study.”
Ricciardi drank a sip and then grimaced in disgust.
“God, this ersatz coffee is disgusting. It just gets worse and worse, how can that be?”
Maione snickered.
“No, Commissa’, it’s not that it’s worse, it’s just that you forget. The memory tries to help the stomach and it immediately cancels the flavor. It’s been proven. And just think that Mistrangelo, down at the complaints desk, is proud of the ersatz coffee that he makes. He says: Brigadie’, this morning it’s pure nectar! You’ll see, the commissario is going to lick his chops!”
Ricciardi shook his head, disconsolately.
“I’m not sure I even know what chops are, and I’m certainly not going to lick them. In any case, coming back to us: we’re going to have to work differently than we usually do, since we won’t be able to rely on fresh evidence. And we’ll have to work with discretion, because if anyone complains to our superiors, Garzo is going to tell us to stand down.”
Maione lifted his cap to scratch his head, the way he did whenever he was feeling doubtful.
“That’s true, he’ll blow his top if he discovers that we’re digging into an investigation that’s already been declared closed. And we’ll need to work very very carefully, because it’s the world of high society and Garzo, as we know very well, aspires unsuccessfully to make friends with the powerful. For that matter, we’re going to have to question at least someone, aren’t we?”
Ricciardi stood up, setting the demitasse down on the tray with a sense of relief.
“In fact, this is going to be risky business. Therefore, you’ll do me the favor of forgetting all about this matter, and let me take care of it on my own. There’s no reason for both of us to run risks, and after all, you know that when it comes to me, Garzo is very cautious, while with you he can afford to play the tough guy.”
Maione laughed.
“Commissa’, you know very well that I only take orders from you if what you tell me to do concerns my job. Concerning my own free time, though, I’ll do as I like. So forget about the idea of keeping me out of this thing, if you please. I intend to investigate right alongside of you, and since if I do it all on my own I’m as likely as not to screw things up, then you might as well go ahead and give me the necessary instructions.”
Ricciardi thought it over, then sadly shook his head.
“You know, Maione, you’re exactly like this ersatz coffee: terrible, but necessary. All right then, your help will be extremely useful to me. But let’s make a deal. I’ll deal with the aristocrats all on my own, that way no one can lodge any complaints about you. You can give me some help gathering the other information. All right?”
Maione threw his arms wide.
“Commissa’, I can’t make any promises. Let’s just say that I’ll follow your suggestions, but I’m going to have to k
eep an eye on you all the same, otherwise you’re liable to get yourself into trouble. Well, what am I supposed to do then? What’s our next move?”
Ricciardi tapped his finger on the copies of the police reports.
“Now then: I’ve already gone to see Modo, and he confirms everything written in these reports. The interesting thing is that the murder weapon cannot have been a knife, but must have been an object without a blade, such as a metal punch.”
Maione looked as if were about to fall asleep, the way he always did when he was concentrating.
“But in his confession, the count said that he couldn’t remember what he used to kill the lawyer, so it’s entirely possible that he picked up, I don’t know, a fountain pen with a golden nib like those people use, or else some pointy piece of bric-a-brac. I remember clearly, he said exactly that, right? I copied it last night.”
“Yes, that’s what he said. But here, in the list of objects found on the desk, there’s no paper knife, but there are not one but two pens. I’ve never seen a paper knife without a blade.”
Maione shrugged.
“All right then, Commissa’. The murder weapon can’t be found. But that’s not enough to solve the problem of the confession.”
Ricciardi went on, pacing back and forth as he spoke.
“And then there’s another thing that I can’t quite figure out. The wound. The blow was struck to the right side of the victim’s throat, and the count, as his wife confirmed, is right-handed.”
Maione sat there like a Buddha, his hands clasped across his belly and his eyes half-closed. You would have expected him to begin snoring any minute now.
“In that case, standing face-to-face, the murderer would have had to use his left hand to strike the lawyer on the right. So? When you’re angry, you don’t stop to check which hand you’re using. And to strike a blow, you don’t need all that much precision, Commissa’. Maybe his right hand was busy holding something.”
The role of devil’s advocate always fell to Maione; when it came to the task of reconstructing what had happened, he was very skillful at dismantling theories, and Ricciardi was happy to give him full credit for that. A skill that had always proved very useful.
“Fair enough, but what are we going to say about the timing and the modality of the murder? No one saw a thing, no one heard a thing. It was hot out, the windows were open, and given the location, it’s even possible there were people out and about. How can it be that there wasn’t so much as a shred of an eyewitness?”
“Commissa’, maybe there were witnesses, but there was no need to go out looking for them, because the guilty party turned himself in of his own volition. And after all, what difference does it make?”
“What do you mean?”
Maione explained.
“Someone had to have killed the lawyer, am I right? Let’s just say that, as her ladyship the contessa says, her husband had nothing to do with it and for some reason of his own—and I’d certainly like to know what reason someone might have to want to spend the rest of his life in prison—he’s chosen to accuse himself of the murder. Whoever it might be, whoever killed the man, we’d be presented with the same problems that we’re facing if it was the count, no?”
“I understand what you’re trying to say. But we aren’t the count’s lawyers, so that means we don’t have to find a scapegoat in order to proclaim his innocence. We just have to understand what really happened, and that’s all. Then, if it emerges that it really was the count and that her ladyship simply didn’t hear him when he went out, in any case, we’ll have done what we were supposed to do.”
Maione hadn’t moved a muscle.
“There’s something else I wonder about, though,” he murmured.
“Which is?”
The brigadier heaved a faint sigh.
“Someone comes to see me to ask for an extension on some payment. We quarrel, I raise my voice, people hear us. I refuse to give the extension. That same person comes back in the night, half-drunk and probably even more desperate than the day before. What new wrinkle could there be? Why would I let him in? And this time there’s no argument, because no one heard a thing. For him to have an outburst of anger and kill me, I must have done something to make him mad, no? But no, nothing, absolute silence. And apparently, everything in the room was neat as a pin. That’s the thing I find a little strange.”
Ricciardi nodded in conviction.
“Exactly! And I’ll tell you that it even strikes me as absurd, given the count’s personality, which, as I recall from when I met him, is highly emotional in nature. In other words, it just doesn’t add up.”
Maione shook his head.
“No. Something doesn’t add up. All right, then, Commissa’, how do we proceed?”
“I’m just waiting for the contessa’s housekeeper to come tell me when and where I can meet her husband’s lawyer. He may have some more information, perhaps he can give us some details about what his client claims. You, in the meantime, do your best to gather some information about the count’s life: if he had other relationships, what interactions he had with the victim . . . In other words, you’re going to have to . . . ”
Maione sighed again, a longer sigh this time.
“Yes, I know what I have to do. Take a long, steep walk up to San Nicola da Tolentino, hoping that no one sees me.”
XVI
For the tenth time since he’d opened the shop that morning, swinging open the heavy wooden shutters, Cavalier Giulio Colombo peered toward the front door. He was expecting Enrica.
Work had never been a burden to him. A businessman, the son and grandson of businessmen, he knew very well that he had to conform to an ethics consisting of a few essential principles, and the first of those was absolute reliability. His clients, and especially the women who frequented his shop, needed to know that starting at a given hour, they could depend on his presence behind the walnut counter, at the center of the spacious interior surrounded by high shelves upon which the finest goods were displayed. Everything had to be neat and clean and sweet smelling, the interior had to give an impression of freshness, honesty, and prompt attention. He demanded of himself, and therefore by right also of those who worked with him, a courtesy shot through with good humor that must never falter or crack, even when it became necessary to serve Baroness Raspigliosi, the old harridan who would invariably force him to get down dozens of hats and pairs of gloves, only to murmur, in her voice rendered hoarse with tobacco smoke, and with her pestilential halitosis: Yes, thanks, I’ll think it over.
This matter of deference and courtesy in the shop was an issue to which he gave his utmost attention, and it often turned into a source of contention with his son-in-law Marco, the husband of his second-born daughter Susanna. A reputable young man who’d been working with him for years, good-hearted, smiling, and tireless, but liable to argue. More than once he’d been forced to weigh in to prevent Marco from assuming an attitude with some of his more indecisive customers that might easily be interpreted as impatient. He had pointed it out to him and on a couple of occasions he had even been forced to upbraid him, though naturally in a whispered aside to keep from undermining the authority that, as a member of the family, Marco wielded over the other two salesclerks, young women. If he wished to inherit Giulio’s position, Giulio had made it very clear, then he would have to learn to behave like a perfect gentleman. Otherwise, Giulio would be quite capable of making other arrangements.
There was no sign of Enrica. In the meanwhile, punctual as a tax bill and every bit as welcome, none other than Baroness Raspigliosi entered the shop, accompanied by her housemaid. This time, the housemaid was a heavyset, red-cheeked young woman, squeezed into a black-and-white smock that had undoubtedly been purchased for a person of much smaller size. Understandably. The baroness’s servants all came with an unconscious sell-by date dictated by their threshold for abuse and mistreat
ment, a date that was proportional to their state of financial need.
Concealing a sigh, the cavalier smiled at the old hag.
“My dear Baroness, what a magnificent appearance you have this morning. How can we serve you?”
The magnificent appearance consisted of a faint but unmistakable black fuzz on a wrinkled face, a hooked nose upon which a hairy wart enjoyed pride of place, a chin that rivaled the aforementioned nose in its attempt to break free of the face, and a body that was substantially larger in width than in height.
The woman grunted.
“Gloves. Today I want to see a pair of gloves. What color do I want?”
It was one of the baroness’s finest qualities. She would never say what she wanted, she always let you try to guess. Giulio took off his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief, putting on a show of calmly weighing his answer.
“Now then: we’re heading into winter, so I wouldn’t look at anything that’s too light, but at the same time I wouldn’t want to have you spend money on something you’re not going to use for too long, after all, next year you might find yourself with a pair of gloves that have gone out of fashion. What do you think of these? They’re genuine chamois leather, soft and warm but not heavy.”
Raspigliosi emitted a sound that could have just as easily been a belch as a grunt of agreement.
“Mhm. This idiot of a housemaid is incapable of washing anything without ruining it, I ought to kick her out the door and down the stairs, only it breaks my heart because back home in her village they’re all starving. So nothing very expensive, Cavalie’.”
The young woman’s cheeks turned even pinker. Giulio shot her a quick glance of understanding, which she ignored, continuing to stare vacantly straight ahead. Perhaps, Colombo mused, she was lucky and simply didn’t understand.
As he was preparing to answer, shifting his attention to the merchandise, Enrica’s tall figure appeared in the rectangle of the door.
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