Roman Count Down

by David P. Wagner

  Lady luck was sitting on my shoulder this evening. I surprised even myself with my prowess, but it was assisted by the plethora of fortunate card combinations that frequently were sent my way by the dealer. A round of drinks was expected after such success, and I did not disappoint my companions.

  So the count had a good night. The bar, as Rick had found after getting the address from Gonzalo, was in the general neighborhood of the streets research. Significant? Probably not. Rick turned the pages of the journal, reading the count’s observations on what he had seen, read, and eaten during each day. Most of it was mundane, making him wonder why the count would consider it important enough to put to paper. Who did he think would read this stuff? Perhaps that question wasn’t important; keeping a journal was simply something nobility did, even obscure Roman nobility. As he got closer to the fateful day, Rick found himself skimming, but two weeks before the count’s demise, an entry jumped out.

  This project has brought me the utmost satisfaction, but today I am most disturbed. It was certainly expected, when I began this journey into the past, that examples of Roman skullduggery would emerge from my research. But my assumption was that anything I unearthed of that nature would be relatively benign or from decades past. If my suspicions are correct, that does not, in one instance at least, appear to be the case.

  Bingo. Rick copied it into his notes and read on, but was disappointed to find nothing more referencing the count’s suspicions. Perhaps, after tantalizing his future reader—if indeed he expected someone to read the journal someday—the man didn’t want to write more until he had reached a conclusion himself. Rick went back to the notes and tried to pinpoint what streets the count had been prowling the week of his journal entry, and narrowed it down to two. Then he went back to the journal and re-read entries for the weeks previous to the mention of the skullduggery. In doing so he saw a name that he hadn’t noticed before. The count had lunched with someone named Girolamo, and Rick had focused on the descriptions of the food and wine when he’d read it the first time. Who was Girolamo?

  He leaned back in the chair, which was surprisingly comfortable, and clasped his hands behind his head. Outside the small window he could see one wispy cloud floating over the ruins in the direction of the Campidoglio and Rome’s city hall. He had finished reading the count’s notes and journal, and now had a sense of the man that he would try to describe to his uncle. Snobbish? Certainly, but in contrast, he enjoyed his game of cards in what had to be a neighborhood bar where the clientele would not be composed of nobility. The interest in history was stereotypically noblesse oblige, but he could have done worse things with his time. If he talked the way he wrote, his speech would have been affected, and undoubtedly include a British upper-class accent when he spoke English. The image Rick conjured up of Count Umberto Zimbardi was a man of hefty girth who wore vests and oxblood oxfords with his tweed suits, and was thinning on top. He looked around the study to see if there were any photographs of the deceased to see if he had guessed correctly, but found only framed pictures of ships and that one pigeon.

  He was going to press the butler button but stopped himself, getting up from the desk after arranging the papers neatly on its surface. Folding his notes and putting them in his pocket, he walked to the stairs and descended to the hallway below. He was almost to the doorway when he heard the voice of Countess Zimbardi. She had heard his boots on the uncarpeted hallway floor.

  “Have you finished, young man? It certainly took you long enough.”

  Rick looked into the living room but did not enter. She was sitting in a chair that must have been her regular reading place, since a floor lamp stood next to it and an open book, spine up, lay on the table under it. She eyed him over the half-glasses. There was no invitation to sit down, or even to enter the room. He stood at the doorway and noticed that she was dressed differently than when he arrived. The knit dress had been replaced by an almost florescent silk skirt and dark blouse, and in place of the sensible shoes were a pair with heels that were anything but sensible for walking around the city. A blush of pink highlighted her cheeks, along with a lipstick color more appropriate for a young princess than an aging countess. The woman had somewhere to go and Rick was keeping her from it.

  “Yes, Countess, I’ve gone through all the notes from his project and also his journal.”

  “Well?”

  “Nothing jumped out to me as significant, but I will tell Commissario Fontana what I’ve read and he will decide. Perhaps the most important information concerns where the count was doing his research in those final weeks. It was in the Ponte section of the city.”

  “Which is nowhere near where he was killed.”

  “That may be, but I’m sure the police will want to check every possibility.”

  She made a circular motion with her hand. “Yes, like they have done already. Well, you go and report to your policeman. As if it will help.” She picked up her book and adjusted her glasses as if he had disappeared.

  Rick started toward the door but turned after one step. “Countess, in your husband’s journal he mentions someone named Girolamo. Can you tell me who he is? The commissario will ask.”

  The question got her attention. She closed the book and placed it on her lap while giving Rick a stony stare. “I don’t see how Girolamo could be of interest to him,” she said quickly. After adjusting the hem of her skirt to cover her knee, she took a breath and spoke more deliberately. “Girolamo Syms-Mulford was the count’s closest friend. They knew each other since they were in school together in England. He is a very distinguished historian. I don’t think he would be of any help in the case.”

  That would be for Piero to decide, Rick thought. “Thank you, Countess.” He waited for a reply, and when none came, he walked to the door and let himself out, glad he was done with Countess Zimbardi.

  When he crossed Via Arenula a few minutes later he was still thinking about the countess’ reaction to the mention of Girolamo Syms-Mulford. From the name alone he could guess that the man was of dual nationality, just like the count. A distinguished historian, she had said. Perhaps Girolamo shared the count’s interest in the history of Roman streets and the friends had talked about it. He stopped in front of the faded frescoes of Palazzo Spada and pulled out his cell phone. The number was answered on the third ring.

  “Good afternoon, Riccardo. I hope you are calling to tell me about some dramatic revelation gleaned from your afternoon reading of the count’s papers.”

  “No smoking gun, Zio, not even a warm one. But there may be someone to interview who might shed light on the count’s final days.” He told Piero about Girolamo Syms-Mulford, had to repeat the name twice and then spell it out so his uncle could write it down.

  “I’ll run the name, but I agree that it is someone to talk to. Since the man may be more British than Italian, you should be the one to do the interview.”

  “Me?” It was a question he had been asking frequently.

  “Why not? I’m busy with another case, and I suspect he’s not the kind of person who would open up to Sergeant Lamponi. You can gain his confidence by speaking English.”

  His uncle had a point about Carmella. A moped sped by Rick with a high whine, so he waited to reply. “I’d be glad to do it.”

  “Va bene. When we locate him we’ll call ahead to say a police representative will be doing the interview.”

  This was getting interesting. He was becoming a cop without being a cop. “I was thinking about something else, Zio. I’m close to the bar where the count used to play cards. This might be a good time to drop in. Some of the men he knew might be there at this hour.”

  There was no immediate reply and Rick thought he might have gone too far. Just when it was getting interesting. Finally his uncle spoke.

  “Sorry, someone stuck his head in the door. Yes, that sounds like a good idea.”

  “How can I get them to ta
lk, since I’m not with the police?”

  “You’ll figure something out.”

  Chapter Five

  The Bar Il Tuffo was squeezed between two ancient buildings a few blocks from where the count had been doing his research. The street was typical of downtown Rome, luxurious residences on the upper floors, seedy businesses at the ground level, and a general aura of decadence. It was just what the rich residents preferred—keep opulence inside the walls. Darkness had set in, and Rick could see the highly decorated ceilings of the higher floors where curtains had not yet been drawn. Like all streets in the downtown, this one had no sidewalk, and he walked down the center, moving aside for the occasional passing car. The pavement had begun to wear down in spots, exposing rectangular bricks that had been put down centuries earlier to cover older stone. Rome was a city of layers.

  It was also a city of small, stuffy bars where working people had their coffee in the morning and male pensioners gathered in the afternoons and evenings to gossip and play cards. It occurred to Rick that there could be a municipal ordinance that required such an establishment when a neighborhood reached a specified number of inhabitants. Il Tuffo certainly fit the criteria. The windows were small and looked like they hadn’t been washed in months. The glass door was plastered with announcements of concerts, art exhibits, and other events taking place in the area, most of them already past. Rick pushed it open and entered. There could not have been a more obvious contrast to the opulent residence of Count Zimbardi.

  Smoking had been banned in such places for years, but one would not guess it after seeing the dingy walls and ceiling. The single room was the size of the count’s study, though larger in cubic feet, thanks to high ceilings. Cobwebs hanging from two fans indicated they had not been used, or cleaned, in some time. A plain wood bar ran the length of the wall on Rick’s left, and on the right were four tables. By most measures for such institutions, the place was packed. Two tables of the four lining the right side of the long room were full, and several men stood at the bar. The men at the tables displayed graying or pink heads, a good sign that he might encounter the count’s cronies. Those at the bar were younger, but not by much. Everyone was dressed in drab browns and blacks, clothing that was in style decades earlier, though for their generation it was still in fashion.

  The sole sartorial exception was one guy at the bar who looked like he’d just stepped off the stage of a vaudeville revue. He sported light gray slacks, a red blazer, and a pink tie that looked even brighter than it was thanks to a contrasting black shirt. Complementing the outfit was a pair of wrap-around sunglasses, hardly a necessity in the dim atmosphere of the establishment. Rick looked at the man in amazement before thinking that he looked vaguely familiar. The man looked at Rick and gave him a slight bow.

  “Signor Montoya, what brings you to Il Tuffo?”

  “Gonzalo?”

  Another bow. “It is I.”

  “But you look…different.”

  Gonzalo spread his hands in an Italian gesture typically translated as “What can I say?”

  “What can I say?” he said. “It’s my day off, and after dressing in that black butler suit all week, I always need a bit of a change.”

  “Okay.” Rick was unable to come up with anything more profound.

  “Are you simply in need of a coffee, Signor Montoya, or is there something more to your appearance here?” Rick could not see his eyes, thanks to the dark glasses, but the edges of his mouth turned up slightly, indicating some level of mirth.

  “Well, I—”

  “You are working with the police. I assume that’s why you’ve turned up in Il Tuffo. Am I wrong?”

  “You are correct, Gonzalo. This place could be a trove of useful insights into the behavior of the count, so when you told me about it I decided to drop by. Your presence here is an extra bonus, since we don’t get to chat at the palazzo. Can I buy you something to drink?”

  He signaled to the woman behind the bar, who lumbered over to them. Rick wondered if she got her job so that the wives of the pensioners would not have an excuse to nag at their husbands for spending too much time at Il Tuffo. She wiped her hands on a dirty rag as she waited for the order.

  “Thank you, Signor Montoya, I’ll just have another arranciata. I don’t drink alcohol.”

  Rick ordered Gonzalo’s orange drink and an espresso for himself.

  “I must ask you about the count. Do you have any thoughts about why he was killed?”

  Gonzalo poured the rest of his drink from can to glass. “I’ve thought a great deal about that, Signor Montoya, and have come to no firm conclusion. The circumstances of his death were strange, to say the least.”

  Another can of orange soda arrived along with Rick’s coffee.

  “In what way?”

  “Why was he on that bridge at that time of night? It was very peculiar behavior for the count. He went out by himself frequently, mainly to play cards with his friends.” He glanced at one of the two tables. “But why he was crossing Tiburina Island that night is to me a mystery.”

  Rick looked at the bottles behind the bar as he took his first, and last, sip of coffee, and a thought occurred to him. “Did the count ever…?”

  “He didn’t hate wine, if that’s what you’re getting at. Nor did he turn down the occasional spirit. Despite his ties with England, he liked Jack Daniels bourbon, from your part of the world, Signor Montoya.”

  Rick was tempted to point out that Jack Daniels was in fact not a bourbon but a sour mash whiskey, the error being a pet peeve of his, but he let it go in the interest of keeping Gonzalo on his side in the investigation. The man could be very helpful, no matter how he dressed.

  Rick turned his attention back to the card tables. “Do you think any of these men knew the count?”

  “I’m sure of it. Let me introduce you.” He looked down at Rick’s cowboy boots. “I’ll make up something to give you cover.”

  Gonzalo took his glass, still half full, and walked with Rick to the tables. There was a lull in the action, the players studying their cards and emitting noncommittal grunts. The butler coughed to get their attention. It worked for three of the men, who looked up with wary curiosity.

  “Looking sharp tonight, Gonzalo.”

  The comment elicited chuckles from the others, but Gonzalo ignored it.

  “Signori, I present to you Signor Montoya, a distant relative of Count Zimbardi, visiting from America.”

  Both tables went silent and Rick wondered if this had been a good idea to pose as a relative. The count could have left them all with a bad taste in their collective mouths, a parting insult or debt unpaid. “I’ll cover the pot tomorrow,” he might have said, and then ended up on the bridge that night, leaving his card-playing cronies in the lurch. They stared at Rick with solemn faces and he started planning his escape route. The door wasn’t that far, and given their ages, he knew he was quicker than any of them.

  The one who had commented on Gonzalo’s attire got to his feet, walked to Rick, and wrapped him in a warm hug. One by one the others rose and did the same, each mumbling something during the embrace. “One of the greats.” “We still miss him.” “A true gentleman.” On it went until they had all offered condolences. Then, abandoning their cards, they silently pulled chairs up to the table for Rick and Gonzalo to join them.

  “They’re waiting for you to buy a round,” Gonzalo whispered in Rick’s ear when they’d sat down. “It’s what they miss most about the count.”

  Rick dutifully waved his finger in a circle at the barmaid who had been watching the scene. She gave him a toothy grin and started pouring.

  “We didn’t know the count had any relatives in America,” said the man sitting close to Rick. He was studying Rick’s footwear.

  “Maybe he doesn’t speak Italian, Tino,” said another.

  “I do speak Italian,” Rick responded,
eliciting murmurs of approval from the group. “I was hoping you could tell me more about the count. Did he come here often?”

  The tray arrived and its small glasses were distributed to the gathering. Wishes of good health followed, and the first man, who seemed to have an unstated leadership role in the group, answered.

  “The count was a regular, all right. Not every night, of course, but you could find him here most of the time. Which didn’t speak well of the countess.” He chuckled and then realized what he’d said. “I didn’t mean any disrespect to her, of course.”

  “None taken,” Rick assured. “He liked playing cards, it appeared.”

  A man whose few strands of gray hair were combed carefully over his bald spot spoke, his voice creaky. “The count didn’t just like cards, he loved them. Gambling was his passion, and not just with cards.”

  “So I understand,” Rick said, hoping that the acknowledgement would encourage them to open up about the subject. It did.

  Comb-over turned to the group. “Do you remember that time when he bet Sandro that the next person to walk into the bar would order a grappa?” They nodded in unison, lost in the sweet nostalgia of the memory.

  They all started taking turns telling Rick about the count.

  “Many days he was the last one to leave. Gilda had to throw him out.” Everyone looked at the barmaid, who was busy moving dirt around on the counter.

  “They should have set up a cot for him in the back room.”

  “When he wasn’t here, he was at the track.”

  The de facto leader held up his hand. “Ragazzi, we shouldn’t be recounting such things about the count to his relative, distant as he might be.”