He spoke rapidly, as if to empty his entire being, to bare his soul through confession. And then he stopped speaking, completely worn down.
De Vincenzi slowly turned towards Maria Giovanna and then towards the count. They were silent. Amazed, they had heard Giannetto out with horrified astonishment painted all over their faces.
They looked at De Vincenzi, fearing he was about to make a frightening accusation. If Giannetto wasn’t the killer, who was it? Then Maria Giovanna’s father turned to study her. She didn’t dare look at him.
With the same slowness, De Vincenzi now twisted round to look at the pendulum clock.
“You saw the time there on that clock, which was showing half past midnight, while it was actually eleven-thirty. In the same way that it’s now a quarter past ten and the clock shows an hour later. Yes, that’s how it is.”
He swiftly changed tack, and his voice changed too, as if he didn’t want the others to grasp the mystery of the clock that was running an hour fast.
“And you, why did you come here? What did you have in mind?” he asked the Contessina Marchionni.
It was time for confessions.
The nerves of those three people were exposed, and as taut as the strings on a violin. Not one of them could have kept quiet, or lied.
Maria Giovanna spoke. “I found myself in this house yesterday afternoon while Aurigi was meeting with my father. I heard everything: that Aurigi was ruined, that he’d have to repay an enormous sum that night. I realized that our ruin would accompany Aurigi’s. My father’s words to Giannetto were clear to me. He, too, was at desperation point. His only hope, I knew, lay in my marriage… and I had unexpectedly learnt that Aurigi was ruined! So I left. I took a taxi and I went to see Garlini.”
Aurigi’s bellow was desperate.
“No!”
“Yes,” the young woman answered, and she continued quietly. “Garlini had been courting me for some time. I thought he was a gentleman, believed he was really in love with me. I hoped to have some influence on him and instead I discovered—Oh!”
A deep shiver ran through Maria Giovanna. She covered her face with her hands, murmuring, “How disgusting!”
But she collected herself straightaway and, uncovering her face, she spoke coldly and with incredible bitterness.
“His look spoke louder than his words. He told me that Aurigi had promised to repay him that night, but he didn’t believe he would. He was determined to ruin him. He had offered him very high credit precisely so that he’d be left with no escape route. He knew that sooner or later I would have to come to him and yield to him if I wanted to save myself from scandal. He had me watch him write the repayment down in his accounts book, as if Aurigi had made it already. He said to me, ‘Well, if he doesn’t pay me tonight, Contessina, you will! I’ll wait until eleven at my house tomorrow. If you don’t come, I’ll ruin Aurigi.’ He prepared a receipt for Giannetto, sneering, ‘Here’s the receipt. I’m giving it to you, not to him.’”
Maria Giovanna fell silent, exhausted.
There was a long pause.
Giannetto had fallen back into his chair and was staring into space.
Maria Giovanna’s father was suffering, and suffering so intensely that his eyes seemed nearly crazed with pain.
Gently, De Vincenzi asked, “And then? And then you went to the hospital, is that right, Contessina?”
“Yes, but how did you know?”
“You are pursuing a nursing course at the Red Cross. You went to the hospital pharmacy and you took the phial of prussic acid.”
“Yes!” shouted Maria Giovanna, interrupting him. “I could not have survived the shame. And I had to save my family from ruin! Giannetto… Giannetto had gambled on my father’s behalf as well, and my father couldn’t pay. It’s the truth, and I learnt it yesterday afternoon while I was hiding just there, in that room, while Giannetto and my father were arguing. It’s the truth, and Aurigi has even now been generous to the point of continuing to conceal it.”
De Vincenzi turned to the count.
“Is it the truth?”
With obvious effort but in a clear voice, Marchionni answered, “Yes, it’s the truth.”
“So last night,” the inspector began again straightaway, facing Maria Giovanna, “when you learnt that Aurigi was ready to kill in order to save you and your father, you came here to prevent it and… to succumb to Garlini?”
“Yes. And I would have killed myself afterwards.”
“But instead?”
Clearly struggling to control herself, the young woman continued.
“I arrived after midnight. I couldn’t get away before then because I had to go through the farce of visiting another box at the theatre to see some friends so my father and mother wouldn’t know. And I found Garlini dead.”
“The door was open?” asked De Vincenzi.
“The main entrance down below was open, and the one to this apartment was half open. I came in… and there inside, in the parlour… the body.”
She covered her face with her hands, overcome by horror.
But the inspector would not give her a break.
“And you immediately fled?”
“I was so frightened,” Maria Giovanna continued, taking her hands from her face. “And my remorse was horrendous—for having arrived too late, for having been unable to prevent the frightful act! I could not bear the strain. When I heard someone come in—there, through that door—an insane fear came over me. I escaped, through there, at the back, into the bathroom. It was dark, I tripped over the chairs, my purse fell out of my hand—that’s how I must have lost the phial. And I stayed in there, shocked, holding my breath, until—”
She hesitated. Stopped speaking.
Count Marchionni continued. “Until I turned on the light and saw her there and helped her up and took her home. There you have it! Now you know everything. Even that I was here last night, that I knew about Aurigi’s appointment and also, naturally, about my daughter. That I, too, could have killed Garlini and did not. I did not kill him. Do you understand, Inspector?”
After a silence, the count’s voice was heard again. This time he was sarcastic.
“So now that you know everything, if it wasn’t one of us who killed him, who was it?”
12
Darkness
And in fact, now that the three principal protagonists in this dismal sequence of events had been eliminated, the darkness was thicker than ever.
If not one of those three—that is, Giannetto, Maria Giovanna or Count Marchionni—then who?
The inspector had not responded to the count’s question. But he felt in himself that those three had surely told the truth, and that would be worth less than nothing if it were not corroborated by evidence.
My personal conviction is worthless if I don’t succeed in finding the person guilty of murder, De Vincenzi thought, and he said to himself anxiously, I must find him immediately, before the investigating magistrate comes back and acts. In these few rooms there is enough evidence against Maria Giovanna and her father to justify the immediate arrest of all three of them, certainly to condemn them all as well. If the affair goes to the investigating magistrate, I can’t do anything, because my intuition and my psychological impressions will have no weight. They’ll be caught in a machine that will grind them up. Since I know they’re innocent of the crime, I must attempt the impossible to save them!
Yet none of these reflections was keeping him from fumbling around in the dark in trying to solve the murder of Garlini.
The clock that ran an hour ahead had been the first glimmer of light for him. But it hadn’t served only to convince him of the innocence of those three. If the clock had been put forward by an hour, it was undoubtedly connected with the crime. Whoever had taken the trouble to move the hands forward must have had a clear objective.
De Vincenzi had understood that from the beginning, and what’s more, he’d realized it couldn’t have been Giannetto, or Maria Giovanna,
or her father.
If it had been committed by one of those three, the crime could only have been one of passion: hate, and the unleashing of someone’s bloodlust. Someone with their back to the wall, confronted with ruin.
If Giannetto were the killer, the crime might have been premeditated, or certainly a desperate act. It would have been strange for him to have killed Garlini in his own house. This was precisely what had perplexed the inspector from the beginning. It could have happened that way, and yet the rest of Giannetto’s confession had confirmed that he had wanted Garlini to come to his own house so that he could kill him somewhere else—and he was then forced by circumstances to change his plan and to rush things.
In any event, it was inexplicable in each case that the clock’s hands should have been put forward.
Maria Giovanna or the elderly count could have killed Garlini for more complex but nevertheless similar motives. Now De Vincenzi had it from the mouths of these two unfortunate people that at least one of them had had it in mind to eliminate the man—and then he or she had been confronted with the accomplished deed.
That man, the father, would almost certainly have been capable of carrying out his intentions; but then surely the crime would have been framed differently, and the clues and trails would have spoken for themselves.
Above all, the clue of the pendulum clock would not have existed, because it couldn’t have. How could the count have put the hands forward by an hour, and why would he have done so?
That was it! This objection was enough to make an intelligent and observant man such as De Vincenzi immediately eliminate those three figures from the picture. But it was not yet enough to indicate the killer, and even less to constitute such dazzling proof as to lift all suspicion from the suspects.
De Vincenzi pondered all this with detachment, turning it over in his mind, and his face reflected the effort of his brain.
The three people surrounding him were full of anxiety, since they could guess what was passing through the inspector’s head.
Both Maria Giovanna and Marchionni had to face the fact—new to them—of Giannetto’s innocence. When they’d found Garlini’s body in Aurigi’s house, they’d both told themselves that the killer could be only one person.
Maria Giovanna still had the sound of Giannetto’s raised voice in her ears, and as for the count, he knew Aurigi’s desperation all too well to doubt that it had been he. All the more so since he carried that same desperation in his own heart, and it had brought him the same terrible consequences.
But now they had learnt that Giannetto hadn’t killed anyone. And they had immediately said to themselves that with Giannetto out of the picture, suspicion would logically fall on them.
Marchionni’s concern to justify his own and his daughter’s presence in the house just before the crime had already pushed him into hiring the services of a private detective, someone who would follow the investigation and discover the culprit, the person considered to be the true author of the crime.
Marchionni was afraid. Not for himself, but for his daughter. As for Maria Giovanna, she was simply shocked. She couldn’t think of anything other than the complete ruin of her life—and about Remigio, who was lost to her for ever.
As for Giannetto, the third actor in the drama, he had to add the terrible pain of Maria Giovanna’s revelation to all the anguish of the day and the horrendous torments of the previous night, when he’d believed Garlini wouldn’t come to his house and that his own ruin was inevitable. He was now stretched out in the armchair he had sat down in, his body unmoving, his eyes staring ahead at nothing.
He had loved Maria Giovanna. He had perhaps loved her poorly, in the way of a man who wants to live freely and independently, who is secure in himself and accustomed to using women solely for pleasure or to gratify his senses: the aesthetic as well as the rougher, more instinctual one.
But there was no doubt that he’d harboured great tenderness for her and had been ready to kill Garlini to save her, above all, from ruin.
And all at once he’d learnt that she did not love him. That she’d never loved him.
A horrible feeling of emptiness engulfed him. In his mouth was the bitter taste of a cruel pain. His lips were set firmer and deeper, as if he were grimacing.
The silence persisted for several moments.
Marchionni’s sarcastic utterance had effectively raised a barrier in front of each of them. If not one of those three, then who had it been?
De Vincenzi shook himself.
“It’s necessary to act now. And only I can do so,” he said in a firm voice.
He looked each of them in the face, adding, “There’s nothing else for you to do. My personal conviction has no value. I believe in the statements you’ve offered, but that won’t stop the investigating magistrate from proceeding against you. If he doesn’t find the real culprit, not one of you three has much hope of getting out of this.”
Aurigi interrupted him, and the sneer on his lips was accentuated by a frightening smile.
“Well, if you’re worried about me, you can save yourself the trouble. Nothing has any further importance for me.”
He threw a quick glance at Maria Giovanna and concluded, “No, I mean it. I’m not interested in anything that happens to me!”
De Vincenzi understood him perfectly well, but he had to react, and he did so somewhat violently.
“Ah, my dear friend, you’re not the only one in this. There’s Signorina Maria Giovanna, who is just as compromised as you are. There’s her father. And above all, there’s an interest in human justice, which I believe in and which I must uphold this time.”
He paused for a moment before adding coldly, “Personal tragedies can sometimes become a luxury one cannot allow. I must solve this problem and I have no time to lose. I must ask that you, as well as the others, apply yourself to helping me. And Giannetto, you’ll do it.”
Aurigi had been listening. He gestured vaguely.
“Well?” he asked diffidently.
“Well, I want to try to solve the problem before this evening. I may not succeed. But then chance, which I believe in, may help me.”
He made for the door at the back of the room and pulled it open.
Giacomo was in the hallway, apparently intent on dusting the furniture.
The inspector pretended not to notice him and went to the telephone.
He called the king’s prosecutor and fell into conversation with the investigating magistrate. He knew him only by name and by sight.
As for the investigating magistrate, he had no idea who De Vincenzi was—or affected not to know, displaying all the studied indifference with which investigating magistrates treat police officers. He immediately informed De Vincenzi that he would return to the scene of the crime within the hour.
De Vincenzi had to employ all his powers of persuasion to get him to agree to postpone the visit until four. “At that hour,” he promised, “I’ll have news.”
The other man was incredulous. “What sort of news? The way things appeared this morning, it’s all so clear and simple that I can’t imagine what news you could have in store for me.”
De Vincenzi didn’t want to commit himself, but the investigating magistrate insisted on having some formal assurance.
“It’s not possible for me to explain by phone, sir,” he concluded with some impatience. “I’m only asking you to give me a free hand until four.”
The investigating magistrate, although unenthusiastic, postponed the search and the questioning, “but only to appease you”.
De Vincenzi’s face was dark as he put down the receiver.
The man would certainly never excuse error or delay. He had his mind properly made up and it was easy to guess what he thought: he must have had the warrant ready for Aurigi’s arrest.
He turned and saw the bent back of the servant, who was busier than ever dusting the chest. He stared at him briefly before rapidly returning to the drawing room.
The oth
ers were waiting for him. Maria Giovanna and Count Marchionni were clearly worried.
Giannetto barely lifted his head when De Vincenzi entered. His was a look of tired discouragement. The look of an injured dog who watches his master getting all worked up about his care, knowing perfectly well that the effort is wasted. At least they might let me die in peace, it said. The inspector understood his pain and avoided his eyes.
“I need a few hours by myself,” he said. “It’s necessary for me to be able to do things my own way. Count, you can go back home with your daughter. I ask you to come back here again, to this house, at three-thirty.”
The count bowed. “Do you think you’ll manage to find the killer?”
“I hope so,” the inspector answered.
Maria Giovanna followed her father, who was walking towards the door. But when she got to the threshold of the drawing room, she quickly turned back.
“Will you promise not to tell him anything?” she whispered with a pang.
“I promise you I won’t tell him anything he doesn’t need to know,” De Vincenzi responded evasively.
He pushed her gently towards the door and warned her when she got there, “Don’t even try to see him until four. My officers will keep you away.”
The young woman descended the stairs, her head drooping as though crushed by an enormous weight.
“You stay here,” De Vincenzi said to Giannetto. “I’ll have to leave an officer in the house, of course.”
The Murdered Banker Page 12
