The Murdered Banker

by Augusto De Angelis

  He heard steps nearing the hallway door… he heard the door squeak slowly on its hinges… he detected the slight click of the lock springing shut.

  He let out a sigh of relief and spoke quietly.

  “But the reality is this, sir: that a killer never signs his own crime.” He continued triumphantly. “No, sir, a killer never signs his own crime, although sometimes he signs his own confession. And our killer has confessed!”

  The investigating magistrate jerked in such a way that this time his glasses fell to the table. His myopic eyes screwed up, he leant towards the inspector.

  “Ah! He’s confessed! Is that what you said? But a few moments ago, you were saying—”

  “He had not confessed a few minutes ago! He is confessing this very instant with his escape.”

  “Escape?” the investigating magistrate shouted. He stood up. “But what are you saying?” He looked around, actually frightened. Not one of those in the room with him had moved.

  “Who’s escaping?”

  Simply, as if he were pointing out the most natural and obvious thing, the inspector answered: “Giacomo Macchi, the servant. The killer.”

  The investigating magistrate looked at him, stupefied.

  “But he’s the one who opened the door to me. Or at least I thought it was he, since the man who opened the door had the air of a servant. How do you know he’s escaped?”

  “I saw him going—in this mirror.”

  De Vincenzi pointed to the mirror on the wall in which one could see the door in the entrance hall.

  “Ah! By Jove! So you watched him leave and didn’t even move? Why are you now waiting to have him followed?”

  “I’m waiting till he’s gone some way. For him to try to hide. For him to sign his confession clearly and conclusively. I had no other means of getting him to confess than giving him the chance to flee. He’s a clever rascal, but he’s fallen for the trap I prepared for him. He won’t go far, you can be sure of it.”

  He looked at the investigating magistrate, who was unable to recover his earlier mood, and smiled before gently touching his arm.

  “Sit down, sir, I’d ask you please to sit down again.”

  As if overpowered by De Vincenzi’s calm assurance, the investigating magistrate sat. De Vincenzi stood in front of him and continued.

  “So. Excellent. Now that I have your attention, I’ll tell you how Giacomo Macchi killed Garlini.”

  He paused and avoided looking around, knowing that behind him were three souls in pain, and that even now his words could bring them no relief, because their tragedy was within, and not just that of a crime committed by someone else. He continued.

  “What is a crime, sir, when it’s not a crime of passion? It’s a work of art! A work perversely and criminally artistic. And when I say a work of art, I mean that there’s an element of fantasy, simple and concise in form, its constituent elements balanced, logical and coherent, clear and harmonious, vibrant and direct. So, nothing about the way this crime was conceived and executed could be considered more artistic… Listen to me, sir! Look at the background: a confusion of material and passionate interests means that at least two people want to kill a third. One of these two, reduced to extreme desperation, says to himself and perhaps to others: ‘I’m clearly ruined—so I’ll kill him’ and makes an appointment with a third, the victim, in his own house, at midnight—that is, in this house, and for last night. That appointment and the desperate state of the person of whom we speak—we’re talking here about Giannetto Aurigi, sir—are noted by his servant, Giacomo Macchi. That man is a criminal who’s had many scores to settle with the law. He is sly, even genial. He knows his master has reached the point at which he might very well commit a crime, and he thinks he can prevent it, retaining every advantage for himself and ensuring that all suspicion falls on Aurigi. Are you following me, sir? So what does he do? He does this. He knows his master never carries a watch and, taking advantage of such knowledge—which may seem insignificant but is in fact crucial—he lies low after having set the clock in this room one hour ahead. He thinks: if Aurigi comes back first and looks at the clock, he’ll tell himself he’s missed the appointment, and Garlini won’t be back. The killer leaves things to chance. And chance favours him, seeing to it that Aurigi goes out again, so the coast is clear. This is exactly what happened, sir. Do you understand now?”

  Slowly and calmly, De Vincenzi continued to sketch his reconstruction of the crime.

  EPILOGUE

  About two months after the twenty-four hours that saw the unfolding of the tragic events just narrated, Inspector De Vincenzi, head of the flying squad at San Fedele, was in his office.

  It was ten at night on Mardi Gras, and the carefree city spread itself out in front of San Fedele, through the streets, piazzas and public meeting places. The carnival period was proving markedly longer than in other years.

  Shut up in his squalid room with the stained, cigar- and cigarette-burnt table, the worn-out armchairs, the shiny black telephone, De Vincenzi appeared to be reading a newspaper. Under a paper he kept spread out on the desk was an open book.

  He was staring idly, a strange smile flickering across his face.

  Once more he saw a neat room, sparsely furnished with some rather valuable antiques, coming off a corridor that led to the servants’ quarters on the top floor. A young blond man with clear, loyal eyes, a wide, bright forehead, who invited him in with simple and unaffected courtesy.

  Make yourself comfortable… I thought you would be back soon. And so? Have you found out?

  The agitated youth had begun to sob loudly.

  Poor young man, to be sure, thought De Vincenzi. His hours of anguish were over, but he’d experienced months, even years of pain. Finally, however, he was happy. That morning in March, actually on Mardi Gras, he’d married Maria Giovanna.

  Actually, he—De Vincenzi—deserved a bit of credit for their happiness. Not only for having saved Maria Giovanna from being ruined by an ugly crime, and for lifting all suspicion from Giannetto Aurigi, but also because on the evening of the day he’d finished his conference with the investigating magistrate and had had the killer arrested—he’d not been able to get very far with his escape, followed as he was by Sergeant Cruni—De Vincenzi had had a long conversation with Count Marchionni.

  A difficult conversation.

  The elderly gentleman had known nothing about his daughter’s love for Altieri. His wife had not dared reveal it to him. At first he’d flown off the handle, but he got through the awful ordeal, and his daughter with him, since for him to maintain an opposition that rigid would have brought nothing but more pain.

  He’d given his consent, which for him meant renouncing all hope of a wealthy marriage for Maria Giovanna, and the dream of reconstructing his own fortunes with money from some hypothetical son-in-law.

  He’d sold the palazzo, and after paying all his creditors, he had a little income left from some land in Comasco, and he’d retired there to live as a country gentleman with his wife and daughter.

  Now Maria Giovanna was married.

  Remigio Altieri had started working as an editor on a newspaper. The young man was clever, willing and respectable. He’d make his way.

  They were happy.

  They’d sent him a wedding invitation on white card, in the middle of which could be read only the names of the spouses. It was a simple wedding, almost secret, since the elderly count had dreamt of something quite other, and had not managed completely to renounce his dreams. Maria Giovanna had written in her own hand: To our good friend and saviour in affectionate acknowledgement.

  The two were now set.

  De Vincenzi smiled.

  Every human drama, however terrible it may be, ends with signs of new life, with rebirth. Isn’t it death, perhaps, which seeds life? Even the cypress is an evergreen.

  Pondering all this, De Vincenzi dwelt almost obstinately on the memory of the two young people, imagining to himself their hard-won happin
ess, seeing them before him. He did not want to think about his childhood friend, the sad hero of the drama.

  Giannetto Aurigi had closed up his apartment on via Monforte, sold all his furniture and gone away, leaving the apartment empty.

  But where?

  De Vincenzi didn’t know, and it troubled him.

  It had been a tough blow for Aurigi. The sort of pain that breaks one’s heart irreparably and reveals a nasty, previously unknown side to human existence. It was all the worse for Giannetto since he had not himself been aware of just how deeply he loved his fiancée.

  De Vincenzi had looked for him everywhere, and had had searches carried out. Perhaps he had gone abroad, who knows where, and De Vincenzi would have no further news.

  Or maybe he’d see him in a few years. Changed: older, of course, but back to himself. He’d appear before him a little chubby, heavier, and he’d say with a smile, ‘Who remembers that now, my friend! The world is as full as you like of all sorts of beautiful women, all of them ready for love.’

  As long as he hadn’t abandoned himself to a life of abject morals and degrading orgies with women…

  Just then someone knocked on the door. De Vincenzi felt a twinge of impatience, but straightaway he thought: this will help to distract me.

  With a movement he’d never forgotten, one that recalled the actions of students at the unexpected approach of their profs, he swept his book from the table into the drawer and said, “Come in!”

  Giannetto Aurigi appeared in the doorway.

  “Ah,” said De Vincenzi, hardly able to believe his eyes, “you! And where have you been?” Giannetto’s face was serious, but he seemed calm and serene.

  He approached slowly, without answering. He put his hat and walking stick on a chair and sat down across from his friend, who’d got up to look him over.

  “I’ve come to say goodbye, my friend. You know very well that I would never go away without saying something to you. I practically owe you my life! I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “But you haven’t already gone away?!” De Vincenzi asked with comic surprise. “Where have you been the last two months?”

  “In Milan,” Aurigi replied. “But I didn’t want to see anyone. I’ve been through a miserable time. I could have disappeared for ever. I felt I’d gone out of my mind. My life had no meaning any more. I asked myself: why don’t you end it all? So you can understand that with that sort of thing running through my head, I really had no desire to get out and about, to see friends or talk to anyone.”

  De Vincenzi listened.

  Giannetto spoke in a calm voice. He was weighing up his words of desperation, reflecting on them. They seemed a long way from him, and didn’t belong to him any more. It was apparent that he’d left that state of mind behind, and could describe it now precisely because it was no longer his.

  “Well?” asked the inspector after a silence. “What now?”

  “Oh,” said Giannetto. He smiled. “It’s over now. I’m leaving tomorrow. Know where I’m going?”

  The other man shrugged.

  “I’m going to Abyssinia. You’ll remember that I’m a gunnery lieutenant—just like you, as it happens. We had our war together. Well, I proposed a return to active service in the colony, and I was welcomed. So I’ll sail from Genoa tomorrow.”

  He stood up and held out his hand to De Vincenzi.

  “Goodbye, my tried and trusted friend. I hope you won’t have reason to regret having saved me from a bad situation.”

  They embraced.

  When Giannetto was gone, De Vincenzi realized there were tears in his eyes.

  In 1929, when the Italian publisher Mondadori launched their popular series of crime and thriller titles (clad in the yellow jackets that would later give their name to the wider giallo tradition of Italian books and films) there were no Italian authors on the list. Many thought that Italy was inherently infertile ground for the thriller genre, with one critic claiming that a detective novel set in such a sleepy Mediterranean country was an “absurd hypothesis”. Augusto De Angelis strongly disagreed. He saw crime fiction as the natural product of his fraught and violent times: “The detective novel is the fruit – the red, bloodied fruit of our age.”

  The question had a political significance too – the Marxist Antonio Gramsci was fascinated by the phenomenon of crime fiction, and saw in its unifying popularity a potential catalyst for revolutionary change. Benito Mussolini and his Fascist regime were also interested in the genre, although their attitude towards it was confused – on the one hand they approved of the triumph of the forces of order over degeneracy and chaos that most thriller plots involved; on the other hand they were wary of representations of their Italian homeland as anything less than a harmonious idyll.

  This is the background against which Augusto De Angelis’s The Murdered Banker appeared in 1935, the first of 20 novels starring Inspector De Vincenzi to be published over the next eight years. This period saw the peak of the British Golden Age puzzle mystery tradition, and the rise of the American hardboiled genre. However, De Angelis created a style all his own, with a detective who is more complex than the British “thinking machine” typified by Sherlock Holmes, but more sensitive than the tough-guy American private eye.

  His originality won De Angelis great popularity, and a reputation as the father of the Italian mystery novel. Unfortunately, it also attracted the attention of the Fascist authorities, who censored De Angelis’s work. After writing a number of anti-Fascist articles, De Angelis was finally arrested in 1943. Although he was released three months later, he was soon beaten up by a Fascist thug and died from his injuries in 1944.

  So, where do you go from here?

  If you want to follow De Vincenzi as he investigates a series of macabre murders in a seedy boarding house, track down De Angelis’s gloriously Gothic The Hotel of the Three Roses.

  If you fancy a real work-out for your little grey cells, take a look at Soji Shimada’s legendary locked-room mystery, The Tokyo Zodiac Murders.

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  You Were Never Really Here

  Augusto De Angelis

  The Murdered Banker

  The Mystery of the Three Orchids

  The Hotel of the Three Roses

  María Angélica Bosco

  Death Going Down

  Piero Chiara

  The Disappearance of Signora Giulia

  Frédéric Dard

  The Switch

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  The Wicked Go to Hell

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  Clinch

  Alexander Lernet-Holenia

  I Was Jack Mortimer

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  Vertigo

  She Who Was No More

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  The Tokyo Zodiac Murders

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