The Murdered Banker

by Augusto De Angelis

  “Ah. Has Harrington managed to perfect his theory?”

  Ever more vacuous and triumphant, the detective answered, “Just a few points, sir—and to reach this outcome I did nothing but observe. They moved everything, but as one knows, something can escape notice! For example, on the floor in the parlour, under an armchair, I found this…”

  De Vincenzi took the stub and examined it. Then, lifting his head, he let out a little whistle. He looked at Harrington. Poor thing, he thought to himself, at least we can let him have this satisfaction.

  Aloud he said, “The other half of a ticket for a seat at La Scala.”

  “Number 34H. On the right. Yesterday’s date,” the detective remarked triumphantly. A keen joy was depicted on his tiny, gnarled face, which shone so brightly as to eclipse the beams from the huge diamond on his cravat for just a moment.

  The count intervened in a frosty voice. “Aurigi’s seat.”

  De Vincenzi turned towards Marchionni with a smile. “I know very well that you are not mistaken in saying that it was Aurigi’s seat.”

  “Of course I’m not mistaken! During the first act, before coming to our box, Aurigi was in that seat and I remember very well which row it was.”

  “Of course, but of course,” said De Vincenzi. “So we can say this is proof… proof that Aurigi came in here after having been to the theatre.”

  “Here, in his own house, and in that parlour,” Harrington emphasized.

  “Right,” De Vincenzi murmured, pensive.

  After a short silence, he turned to the detective. “So, Harrington, explain your theory to me.”

  “Oh! I don’t believe I’m revealing any great thing when I say that—”

  He’d adopted the pose of an orator, and was about to get his own back when the telephone rang in the entrance hall.

  “Allow me,” De Vincenzi said, and quickly made for the other side of the room.

  He picked up the receiver and a short time later could be heard to speak.

  “Hello… Yes… It’s me, commendatore… Oh, for now, nothing… I’ll be with you by midday and I’ll report to you then… No, not so easily… of course! I won’t make statements of any kind to the press. Oh, they’ve already brought you the results of the examination?… Yes, thank you… What did you say?… In the purchase ledger? Under yesterday’s date… Curious… I mean that it’s curious and incredible. I’ll explain later, commendatore. Goodbye.”

  He put down the receiver and stood for a moment looking into space. So? Certainly what the chief of police had told him was deeply troubling. He had to stay in the hallway for a moment since he did not want to reveal the level of his disturbance to the other two.

  Finally, he returned to the dining room.

  “So, we were saying,” he spoke hurriedly. “Actually it was you, Harrington, who were ready to explain your theory. And?”

  Harrington resumed his pose.

  “I was saying that the clues and the evidence… deduction and common sense… the entire picture of the crime… the timings… the motives… the psychology of the people involved… everything serves to demonstrate that the killer is one person and could only be Aurigi.”

  De Vincenzi sat down, looking at and listening to Harrington with ostentatious interest.

  “Yes,” he said, interrupting him. “Therefore, Aurigi would have made an appointment with Garlini in his own house… he’d have come here from the theatre… and he’d have met the banker here… and he’d have killed him… Is that it?”

  Harrington didn’t notice the sarcasm in the inspector’s words, and he emphatically exclaimed: “By Jove!”

  “And in your view, the motive for the crime—what would that be?” the inspector asked calmly.

  The other man lifted his shoulders sympathetically. “The money! In a couple of days, Aurigi would have had to pay Garlini—note this—several hundred thousand lire, which he didn’t have.”

  “Do you think so?” De Vincenzi asked sarcastically.

  “But I know this myself,” the count interrupted. “I don’t think so, I know it!”

  De Vincenzi got up and said with perfect courtesy, “Allow me to tell you, Count, that you are mistaken, as we all were. The person on the phone two minutes ago was the chief of police. And he informed me that the most important discovery made by the experts was in the ledgers of the Garlini Bank.”

  He looked the two men in the face, pausing meaningfully.

  “Aurigi,” he continued, enunciating with care, “owed Garlini exactly five hundred and forty-three thousand lire.”

  “You see!” the count yelled triumphantly.

  “I see,” the inspector replied patiently. “But in Garlini’s books it appears that, as of yesterday, that money was deposited.”

  “No!” and “That’s impossible!” the count and Harrington exclaimed simultaneously. Their shock was so great that it had to be sincere.

  Slowly, De Vincenzi drew the folded piece of paper from his pocket. He opened it and began to pore over it.

  The other two watched him, profoundly amazed.

  After a long pause, De Vincenzi said, “It’s just possible, Count, that when I searched the clothes Garlini was wearing, I found this receipt. I’ll read it to you: I accept the sum of five hundred and forty-three thousand lire from Signor Giannetto Aurigi as the full amount to settle the negative balance in his share dealing carried over to the end of this December.” He held out the receipt to the count. “See? Stamps and signature. Everything in order.”

  Now the count was shocked.

  “And you say,” he stuttered, “that this receipt…”

  “Precisely. This receipt was found in the pocket of Garlini’s evening jacket.” He paused for a moment and then added, pointing to the right breast pocket: “In this breast pocket…”

  “In that pocket? No, it wasn’t there!” the count exclaimed with an involuntary shudder.

  De Vincenzi immediately replied, “In fact, not in that pocket. It was in another… But Count Marchionni, how did you know it wasn’t there?”

  The count was furious.

  Shocked, Harrington took a step backwards, in an effort to separate himself from his client.

  An anxious silence hung over the room.

  9

  I Killed Him!

  Not one of the four men in the room moved. De Vincenzi stood calm and serene, his hands in his pockets, watching the count unobtrusively.

  He wished he could disregard the importance of the count’s outburst. He wanted to strip the incident down, lay everything in a straight line. He didn’t want to give undue weight to Marchionni’s unconscious outburst, even though it revealed a deeply vulnerable, injured side to one of the drama’s chief protagonists.

  Marchionni calmed down instantly, almost as if he’d understood the inspector’s thoughts. He kept still, displaying not the slightest emotion, not even breathing more rapidly. He appeared to be waiting, like De Vincenzi, for the facts to explain themselves.

  Harrington was the most affected of all. His dazzling diamond had stolen the light from his eyes, which had gone dull, and all of the cunning had seeped from his now colourless face. He moved away from Marchionni, as though he wanted to distance himself from the affair. It was as if he accepted that the whole thing was getting the better of him, was much bigger than he was, and he had lost all desire to investigate it.

  The last to arrive was the servant, Giacomo Macchi. He’d been on the sidelines until then, somehow removed by dint of his function. He stared at the ground, clearly more embarrassed than surprised or shocked by events that had begun with a death and now posed real danger, like a stick of dynamite.

  De Vincenzi silently ran through the facts, trying to get his bearings with the urgency of a captain who fears a storm. There wasn’t time for him to take out the sextant and make precise calculations. He had to go chiefly by intuition. It was through intuition—and almost unconsciously—that he’d drawn Marchionni into the trap, and when he h
ad deliberately lied, stating that the receipt was found on the body in the breast pocket, not even De Vincenzi himself knew the value of that lie. It had unexpectedly borne fruit, but was it worth anything? Was it possible that the count had killed Garlini? Yes, it was possible. But one would need to find all the other missing elements of the case.

  De Vincenzi was thinking, and he wanted simultaneously to ban himself from thinking. He really wished he could proceed unconsciously, like a dowser. He was looking for a killer, and he had to find him with a magic wand.

  The silence continued to hang over those four stationary men. It was no longer an anxious silence, but almost cataleptic. Stagnant.

  Was it possible to break through that turbid atmosphere? To leave and breathe fresh air again? How could one move in it?

  Of course, it was chance that intervened as always, like a stone tossed into a pond.

  The doorbell rang again—nervously—and they all jumped. Everyone unconsciously breathed a sigh of relief.

  But the relief was short-lived.

  All four were gripped by a further wave of anxiety. What sort of surprise, what new shock would come through the door when it was opened by the duty officer in the entrance hall?

  The person who came in was a woman. She walked straight past the officer and into the dining room, not at all surprised to find all those men there, staring at her in amazement.

  She was very beautiful and terribly young. Truly elegant, she held a golden purse in her gloved hands as she pulled her fur coat over her breast.

  De Vincenzi looked at her, eyes wide, hardly able to breathe.

  The woman in the photograph! The young blond man’s girlfriend!

  And yet she was also—he had no doubt—Giannetto Aurigi’s fiancée.

  The plot was leaping ahead, flashing like lightning.

  This was the engagement ring. The top floor of the house—the neat and tidy attic—was about to be married to the second floor—Aurigi’s bachelor apartment—where a body had been found.

  The new link popped into De Vincenzi’s head unexpectedly, and suggested a disturbing web of mysterious and hidden facts.

  He was deeply shocked, and troubled by a nagging worry. That man under observation in the adjoining room, the man he’d had to declare under arrest—was he, therefore, not only innocent, but victim of an even greater misfortune, of which he was as yet unaware? One that was about to deliver a terrible, deep new blow? Or did he know about it, and did the entire plot hinge on his knowing it?

  It wasn’t possible! Giannetto didn’t even know Remigio Altieri by name.

  To think that a drama involving only three people—the fatal triangle, the magic circle of lovers’ betrayal—might have repercussions on a fourth, who appeared to have no connection whatsoever apart from with one of them, and then only a financial one!

  De Vincenzi had to struggle furiously to avoid showing his confusion.

  Marchionni was the first to speak. At his daughter’s entrance, the older man had jumped up and his face had gone livid.

  “Why have you come here, Maria Giovanna?” he asked. His voice was hoarse and trembled with suppressed anxiety rather than anger.

  The daughter looked straight at her father, somewhat astonished by the question.

  “Why does it surprise you, Papa? I’m Giannetto Aurigi’s fiancée.”

  The count’s eyes shot sparks. “You are no longer his fiancée and you do not belong here. Go back home!”

  “You are mistaken, Papa.” And her voice remained clear and harmonious enough to convince one that she had forgotten what she knew. “Even if Giannetto had killed someone, I would not abandon him. But he hasn’t killed anyone, and I know it.”

  “Keep quiet! You’re mad, Maria Giovanna!”

  This time his voice was brimming with rage. It was obvious that Marchionni could barely restrain himself from running up to his daughter and shutting her mouth with his own hand.

  He turned to De Vincenzi with anguish in his voice, almost imploring, “Don’t you listen to her! Don’t listen to her! She doesn’t know what she’s saying!”

  De Vincenzi watched him.

  Slowly, and with the same simplicity, Maria Giovanna affirmed: “No. It wasn’t Aurigi who killed Garlini. It was me!”

  With those words, the drama was contained between the two: father and daughter. De Vincenzi had disappeared, along with the others who didn’t figure in the drama. No one existed apart from the elderly gentleman, trembling with anger and horror, and his beautiful young girl. She was only slightly pale, but her lips were too bright, like an open wound in that pallor.

  “Crazy! Crazy! Why are you lying? To save him?”

  He wrung his hands convulsively. Still facing De Vincenzi, he begged, “Don’t believe her! None of this makes any sense! My daughter wasn’t here last night! She’s lying to save him.”

  The young girl stepped forward determinedly.

  She stated a truth she knew to be incontestable. “I was here! So why are you lying, Papa? In order to condemn him?”

  The others were shocked.

  Now the knife had really entered the wound, turned in it, and lacerated it.

  The count had collapsed onto the sofa as if someone had clubbed him. He breathed with difficulty, his face in his hands.

  Everyone was silent.

  At that instant, the pendulum clock on the mantelpiece took the floor, slowly striking the hours, one after another.

  De Vincenzi was startled by the sound. He stared at the clock and his eyes lit up as if in revelation. His lips moved silently, counting the hours.

  As though he’d suggested it, the others followed the sound and did the same. Even the count had raised his head.

  The clock struck eleven, then went quiet.

  To conclude matters, De Vincenzi took out his own watch and looked at it as if he were doing a sum or putting a full stop after a sentence.

  “It’s ten,” he said.

  At that point the count, too, stood up. The others were surprised. Giacomo stepped back towards the door, but then stopped and went back to his previous position. The only person not to notice what was happening was Harrington.

  The inspector seemed to have been relieved of a weight that had hampered his actions up to that point. He moved with newfound ease; everything he did was now simple, spontaneous and natural.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said placidly, “I believe each of you, for different reasons, needs a bit of rest. One can’t ask of one’s nerves more than they can bear, or one risks stretching them to snapping point.”

  He turned his gaze on each face in turn and continued.

  “The atmosphere in this room has reached white heat—a bad temperature for keeping one’s brain working and a clear head. I myself fear that the very rhythm of your pulses is influencing my judgement. You’ll understand, therefore, if I ask you to leave me alone with my thoughts. I must organize them and master them. All right?”

  No one spoke. As if fearing that someone might break the silence, the inspector quickly added, “Thank you. I see you understand me. So…”

  He looked around and addressed the count first.

  “Count Marchionni, I wonder, would you go to this room.”

  And he pushed him towards the door of the parlour.

  Marchionni had recovered his cool—along with his haughtiness. “What conclusion are you expecting to reach? I hope, considering how hot it’s become, that your brain has helped to keep you from placing too much weight on my daughter’s words of madness!”

  “Of course,” answered De Vincenzi, still gently pushing him towards the parlour. “You can be sure of that. I am, of course, not meant to heed anyone’s words… Now more than ever, I feel that in any relationship with our fellow human beings, when indisputable proof is lacking… and indisputable proof does not exist, or hardly exists… only when alone can one evaluate an individual’s worth. Do make yourself comfortable and wait in there.”

  When he reached
the door, the count turned round.

  “Does that mean you are detaining me?”

  “Oh no. It means I’m asking you to stay here for a little while yet.”

  “Don’t you worry about the consequences of liberty?”

  “Liberty?” said De Vincenzi, truly amazed. “The meaning of the word is elastic.”

  “You believe so?”

  And the sarcasm in that question stung like a lash. But De Vincenzi wasn’t having it.

  Marchionni shrugged. “Go ahead, in any case.” And he disappeared into the parlour.

  The inspector closed the door and turned to face the others. Harrington was nearest to him, and De Vincenzi pointed to the entrance:

  “Harrington, I don’t believe you have anything more to do here. See you later.”

  Harrington overcame his embarrassment enough to say, “I don’t intend to occupy myself further with this matter, Inspector. Someone else can let the chief constable know that it was made impossible for me to act—”

  De Vincenzi interrupted him almost violently.

  “No, Harrington! I’ll take care of the matter myself now, but you’ll get involved if I want you to be. In any case, I’d ask you to come to my office at three this afternoon. Goodbye.”

  And he accompanied Harrington to the door himself. He waited for him to leave and to start going downstairs before turning to the officer still waiting in the entrance hall.

  “Follow him. There’s no reason for it, but I want to teach him a lesson…”

  The officer went off to follow the detective and De Vincenzi closed the door.

  On his way back to the dining room he saw Giacomo heading for his own room, and he blocked his way.

  “And where are you going?”

  “I thought you didn’t need me either.”

  “As it happens, I don’t, but the house needs you and before long I will too. Go in there and don’t do anything besides your work. Behave as if nothing has happened.”

  The servant shook his head. “I don’t think it will be easy.”