A day at the beach, Ricciardi thought sorrowfully. They look alike, they must have been brothers.
He thought of the father of those two children, wherever he might be right then, that is, of course, if the man hadn’t already grieved himself to death. Whether the man might not still be awaiting him somewhere, dangling from a rope, or his back broken by a leap off a bridge. He wondered whether the man’s heart had been crushed by regret for not having been there, on the beach, to save his sons.
He shook himself out of his reverie and went in, passing under the coquettish little arch in front of the yacht club. It seemed as if he’d entered another world. Around the perfectly designed and cared for flowerbeds elegant couples promenaded, in morning dress; gentlemen sat on the benches, white hats on their heads, their newspapers spread open for reading, and every so often they’d mop the perspiration from their brows with gleaming white handkerchiefs; waiters in livery moved discreetly from spot to spot, distributing cocktails and espressos.
Ricciardi felt out of place, and very happy to feel that way.
Less than an hour earlier, an officer had ushered the old woman who had first admitted him to the Roccaspina home into his office. Without a word, continuing to eye him with mistrust just as she had the first time they’d met, she had given him a folded note and then turned to go without so much as a goodbye. The note read, in a handsome flowing script: “Golden Oar Yacht Club. Counselor Attilio Moscato. Eleven o’clock.” Not a word of greeting or regards, not a hint of explanation or accompaniment. Ricciardi smiled briefly. The contessa knew how to go straight to the point, whatever the circumstance.
He looked around and, even before he had a chance to wonder how he would be able to recognize the man he was looking for, his problem was solved by a gentleman in a panama hat and a white jacket who was waving a handkerchief in his direction from a table on the terrace, overlooking the sea. When he walked over to him, the man stood up and extended his hand.
“You must be Commissario Ricciardi. I’m Counselor Moscato, at your service. Attilio Moscato.”
Ricciardi gripped the extended hand.
The lawyer was a man in his early forties, with fine facial features, white, regular teeth, and a carefully groomed little mustache. A red flower in his buttonhole and a gold chain leading to the watch in his waistcoat pocket completed the elegance of his attire. He pointed the commissario to a chair at his table, which was strategically located in the shade of the overhang. Just a few dozen yards offshore, a number of pleasure boats rode lazily at dockside, with sailors here and there carefully polishing their decks.
“Please, take a seat. In the mornings here, it’s a race to grab tables in the shade, don’t be surprised; it’s a jungle. What can I get for you? An espresso, a bite to eat? Is it too early for a drop of liquor, what do you say?”
Ricciardi shook his head.
“An espresso would be perfect, thanks. And thank you as well for the time you’re willing to give me.”
The lawyer studied Ricciardi for a moment, as if trying to judge whether he might not be pulling his leg, then he decided that he wasn’t and smiled as he gestured to a waiter. When the man came over, he ordered an espresso for his guest, and a sfogliatella pastry for himself.
“What can I tell you, the salt air always makes me a little peckish. Well then, so you’ve met Bianca. A remarkable woman, don’t you think? Lovely, one of the prettiest in our circle. But also a bit sad, a touch serious. Not always an easy person to be around, in other words.”
The commissario wasn’t there to gossip, and he decided to make that clear.
“Counselor, I asked the contessa if she’d arrange for me to meet with you. As you are no doubt aware, she is convinced that her husband has been wrongly accused of Ludovico Piro’s murder, that it wasn’t him. The contessa declares that the count was at home all night, that he never left the building. What do you think of that?”
Moscato ran his eyes over the boats, continuing to sip the tea that he’d been drinking when Ricciardi first arrived.
“Bah, Commissa’, what can I tell you: Bianca has maintained this version of the facts from the very outset, but in the face of a detailed confession that has never been retracted, without any factual contradictions, and expressed in full mental lucidity, there was nothing that could be done. And there’s very little that can be done now. If you ask me, you’re wasting your time.”
Ricciardi wasn’t willing to be given lessons on how best to employ his time.
“Still, I’d like to understand a little more about this case, even though the investigation, as you no doubt know, has been closed. Have you known the count long?”
“Why, certainly, since high school days. Who, if not a fond, close personal friend, would have taken on the burden of the defense with the certain prospect of having to eat the legal costs as well? I love him, that miserable wretch. And I care for Bianca, too, whom I’ve known since she was a young girl, because her mother and my mother played canasta together. But that doesn’t mean that I believe in Romualdo’s innocence myself.”
“What kind of a person is he?”
“Eh, Romualdo . . . I actually ought to tell you what kind of a person he was, and who he’s turned into since. He was a cheerful young man, bighearted, funny to be around: he was always laughing, always joking around. An important family, very important. An ancient family. His father was one of the most important figures of his generation. He had a future ahead of him, Romualdo did. He took his law degree just like me, but he never practiced: he was too busy gobbling up his entire fortune.”
“Did he have any vices?”
“He didn’t have ‘any vices.’ He only ever had one vice. Romualdo is a gambler. He’s always been a gambler, but in the end it turned into an obsession. First it was the horses, then the lottery, and finally cards. Then all three put together. He ran through an immense fortune, believe me; and he dragged Bianca down into ruin with him, draining her fortune as well. A tragedy.”
Ricciardi insisted.
“Nothing else? I don’t know: luxury, women . . . ”
A look of wonder appeared on Moscato’s face.
“Women? Certainly not. He was practically engaged to Bianca as a boy, one of those things that, I’m not saying it was arranged by the families, but certainly encouraged, and for that matter, they were two very good names. Romualdo was a well-read, elegant young man, and you’ve seen her, when she was at all in a good mood, she was a ray of sunshine. No, it wasn’t other women. Just that one demon. But that was more than enough, believe me. It devoured him, that demon. An inextingushable disease.”
“And his relations with Piro? When did the two of them meet, and how?”
The lawyer heaved a lengthy sigh. An enormous seagull, perched on a mooring bollard, let out a brief cry.
“You see, Commissario, this is a very small world. Just a few dozen people, maybe a hundred in all. We all go to the same schools, we all frequent the same drawing rooms at the same time of day, we all attend the same theaters. It’s as if the city were a train, and we populated a single car of that train without ever leaving it. Every so often it happens that there is a moment, perhaps certain years, when for various reasons the door to the compartment swings open, someone gets off, and someone else comes aboard.”
He stopped as if he had said, with false nonchalance, something extremely important. He took a bite of his pastry, chewed, swallowed, and then cleaned off his mustache with a napkin. Ricciardi waited patiently for him to go on.
“Ludovico Piro was a social climber. A good-for-nothing who took advantage of those in this club who, for one reason or another, had slid into ruin, and believe me when I tell you that there are a great number of people here like that. You see them? Look at them carefully. They smile, they stroll to and fro, they dress to a fault, they vacation at the beach in winter and in the mountains in summer, but many of t
hem haven’t a penny to their names, and they simply don’t know how to do without the style in which they have lived since they were born. Piro was a moneylender. He would get the money from various religious institutions that he administered, and with the interest that he demanded everyone made a profit, he more than anyone else. Romualdo, poor man, had fallen into his net and had no idea how to escape. And that’s why he killed him.”
“Then you’re convinced it was him? That Roccaspina murdered Piro?”
Moscato looked at him, baffled.
“Commissario . . . why else would he have confessed?”
Ricciardi said nothing for quite a while, as he thought. Apparently, he was the only person Bianca had been able to convince.
Then he said: “Counselor, I’d like to meet with your client. I’d need to talk with him for a while, and most important of all, look him in the eyes. Do you think you can arrange that?”
Moscato appeared to be surprised by that request.
“Why . . . I imagine so. You could come in with me, maybe we could say that you’re one of my assistants. I would guess that the fact that the investigation is closed prevents you from requesting a pass from police headquarters.”
Ricciardi agreed.
“Certainly, that’s right. All I need is to be in his presence, and I don’t mind if you’re there too. I just want to ask him a few questions, and check that off my list.”
“All right. I was planning to go see him anyway, in part just to bring him a little comfort, poor man. Unfortunately, in terms of mounting an effective defense, there isn’t a great deal to be done. If your client confesses, there’s not much a poor lawyer has left in terms of legal maneuvering, don’t you agree?”
Ricciardi stood up.
“I thank you, Counselor. If anything else occurs to you, please, let me know. Otherwise, if you’ll allow me, I’ll take care of matters. I believe that the contessa has every right to free herself of this doubt that has been tormenting her.”
Moscato smiled sadly.
“There are times when having a doubt helps, Commissario. A person can stave off ideas that are difficult to accept. Who knows, maybe you won’t be helping poor Bianca, if you rid her of her doubt. Have a good day.”
And he returned his attention to the seagull perched motionless on the bollard.
Outside, in the sunlight, only the two drowned brothers remained, still embracing. Ricciardi heard them murmuring, but he didn’t turn to look at them.
XIX
Just like every other blessed time, Maione began to curse Bambinella around the time he reached the next-to-last curve in the staircase that led to the apartment house on Via San Nicola da Tolentino.
He felt sure that that freak of nature had chosen to live at the top of such a steep climb for the single purpose of causing his death, without the use of weapons, but with the apparently normal cause of a simple heart attack; also because every time that he was obliged to go there, for a complex of absurd climatic circumstances, there was always also an infernal heat wave that combined sadistically with his heavy uniform to drench him head-to-foot in sweat.
There was also a further component to his unease, and it was purely psychological in nature. His labored breath, the abundant sweat, his trembling legs, the increasingly painful and slow climb up the steep incline were all factors that reminded him of his age, his obesity, and how little exercise he customarily got. Three things that quickly KO’d any flicker of a potential good mood.
That is why the Maione who prepared to scale the last flight of steps, the flight that led up to Bambinella’s garret apartment, was as usual in a foul temper and disinclined to conversation. And it certainly did nothing to improve his mood that he had crossed paths with a young man descending that same staircase without looking where he was going, but instead inveighing loudly toward the upper stories behind him. The young man, who was whipping around the landing while cursing, ran headfirst into Maione, giving the brigadier a violent head-butt straight to the solar plexus, depriving him of the already scanty supply of oxygen remaining in his lungs.
Massaging his head and bending down to pick up his fallen cap, the young man spoke to the indistinct mass he’d just plowed into.
“Damn you, and damn your eyes! What the hell, why don’t you look where you’re going when you climb the stairs? I’ve got a good mind to get out my knife and . . . ”
After regaining a minimum of heartbeat, Maione wearily extended a hand in the half-light and grabbed the youth by the neck, lifting him a good four inches off the ground. The young man, caught off guard, stared bug-eyed and realized that he was staring at a gigantic policeman who looked completely ready and willing to take his head off his shoulders in a single bite, and he began to whimper.
When Maione set him back on the ground, deciding, for the moment, to ignore his impulse to mete out summary justice, the young man coughed in terror and started to babble.
“Oh, Brigadie’, for-forgive me, I . . . And how could I possibly know that I was going to come face-to-face with you of all people that . . . it’s that stinking faggot who won’t take customers anymore, and it took me so long to scrape together the money . . . but he wouldn’t even open the door for me, and so . . . but don’t you worry, he’s bound to show you the proper respect, please, be my guest, go right ahead on up! You know the way, don’t you?”
Maione, when confronted with the young man’s unmistakable allusion, was sorely tempted to reverse on appeal the acquittal for the head-butt and transform it into an unequivocal death sentence, to be inflicted in the form of straight-armed smacks.
“Oh!” he wheezed. “How dare you? I’m not here for . . . I don’t engage in any of that filth, is that clear?”
A look of disconcerted astonishment appeared on the young man’s face.
“Ah, no? Then why are you here, if you don’t mind my asking?”
For an instant the question caught the brigadier off guard.
“Why, me? Why, I . . . Why, what the hell is it to you, eh? I’m here on police work! Do you know that I can throw you in prison, directly?”
The young man snickered, in complicity.
“Sure, sure, you’re here on police work . . . I know the kind of work you’re talking about! And you’re quite right, Brigadie’, that Bambinella is unequaled on earth, when it comes to certain things. Which is why I was so upset when he wouldn’t let me in! Tell the truth, for instance, when he starts to . . . ”
Sadly for him, he was never able to complete the vivid description of his favorite specialty, because by this point Maione had recovered the strength necessary once again to lift the young man bodily and deliver a swift, sharp kick that launched him six feet through the air.
The kid hadn’t hit the ground yet when, legs windmilling, he had already taken to his heels. But not before turning and yelling: “Have a good time, Brigadie’!”
When he reached Bambinella’s front door, Maione was emitting a low growl, like a revved engine. He gave a couple of loud kicks to the door, which—unusually—was locked tight. From behind the door came the deep and modulated voice he knew all too well.
“Francu’, you just have to accept it: I told you that I’m not taking in customers anymore, and that’s that. You’d better go, or you’ll soon regret it.”
Maione roared.
“Bambine’, open up immediately, otherwise I’ll knock down the door and I’ll drag you by your hair all the way to police headquarters, as God is my witness!”
The echo hadn’t yet died out before the door flew open, revealing Bambinella who was the very picture of astonishment.
“O-o-oh, Brigadie’, so it’s you! Why, what a surprise! Excuse me, it’s just that the kid who lives at the end of the alley and who usually alerts me is sick, and the one who was supposed to take his place is always late. Please be patient, and come on in! Why, what is it, are you an
gry? Now I’ll fix you a cup of ersatz coffee that will set you up, and the way the coffee I make sets you up, there’s nothing else that will set you up quite so good and solid.”
Maione entered, mopping his brow.
“Bambine’, let’s not get started with the dirty puns, because today is the day I’m ready to throw you out the window, that way for once you’ll understand just how long the climb is to get all the way up here. But do you mind telling me the reason for this locked door?”
The strange individual stepped into the cone of light pouring in through the window. The impression of a tall and slightly angular woman was canceled by details that had remained hidden in the shadows. Decidedly feminine features, like the large, liquid eyes, the carefully painted fingernails, and the black hair tied back into a flowing ponytail mixed in an unsettling way with the masculine traits, such as the halo of hairs on the arms and chest, partially hidden beneath the flowered nightgown, the shadow of whiskers on the face, and the broad, strong shoulders. The heavy makeup was a further source of bewilderment, as was the voice, low in tone but sweet and contrived. The feet, long and gnarly, were slipped into a pair of oriental-style slippers.
Maione looked the femminiello up and down, from head to feet and back again, and threw his arms wide.
“Madonna, Bambine’, what a mess you are. And to think that that idiot of a young thug downstairs I gave a kick in the rear to was even sorry he hadn’t been able to get in here.”
Bambinella snickered.
“Eh, Brigadie’, you always say the same things. As if we didn’t all know that the world around there’s a simple rule of the market: those who dismiss the quality of the product are secretly itching to buy. Ah, did you meet Francuccio? Mamma mia, how relentless he is! He really has fallen head over heels, poor boy. It was a good thing you gave him a good hard kick, I’d almost be tempted to hire you as a bouncer to keep people out of my house.”
Glass Souls Page 13
