Ricciardi went out first, while Maione fastened the cuffs on Nespoli’s wrists. The crowd that had gathered outside the dressing room suddenly fell silent. The theater director made his way through, accompanied by the stage manager: the little Duke was so agitated that he appeared cyanotic.
“This is too much, far, far too much! To come in through the side door during the performance, sneak on to the stage, even! And then into a dressing room! Will you get it through your heads, once and for all, that this is a theater? One of the nation’s greatest?”
While the Duke pirouetted around, unable to pause even to catch his breath, Ricciardi noticed that the murmuring of the assorted crowd of clowns, colombinas, harlequins and wagoners had again gone silent. Turning towards the dressing room, he saw Nespoli come out, followed by Maione. The man’s gaze remained proud, confident and challenging; the people closest to him stepped back, instinctively. Nespoli looked around, just once: and that was when it happened.
The Commissario noticed that for an instant, one brief, single moment, Nespoli’s eyes changed. It was so sudden and fleeting that he doubted whether he had actually seen it; but accustomed as he was to gauging people’s emotions from their eyes, he couldn’t have been mistaken.
In that one instant, Nespoli’s face had become tender and sad, submissive and despairing. The strong, scornful baritone was gone, giving way to a forlorn young man who was nonetheless willing to give up his own life for love. It was an expression of extreme sacrifice.
Ricciardi recalled that, some years before, he had dealt with the murder of a woman by her husband, whom she had wanted to leave for a lover: the man had killed himself, after killing her, with two shots of his army officer’s pistol. The Commissario could still recall the murderer’s image: half his skull had been blown away by the shot. The one remaining eye, however, had precisely the same expression as it shed desperate tears. Giving one’s life for love. The image kept saying, “For you, my love, for you,” while the brain still sizzled from the heat of the gunpowder.
Ricciardi immediately looked around at the crowd, to figure out who the singer had searched out with his eyes. He knew that the key to it all was there, in that look: the real motive for Vezzi’s murder, and Nespoli’s own perdition. He glanced around and, at first, as the theater director went on sputtering and protesting, he could see no possible recipient of such a look. Then, unexpectedly, he recognized the mirror image of the baritone’s eyes. While the singer’s eyes were submissive, adoring and quivering with sacrifice, their counterpart was almost menacing: be careful not to give yourself away, they said, make sure you keep up that pose.
The moment passed, leaving the Commissario confused. This new element, which he did not intend to underestimate, once again changed the perspective and radically so. And yet they had a confession, a full confession, which he couldn’t overlook.
Nespoli’s appearance had had the incidental, though not negligible, effect of silencing the theater director for a moment. But only for a moment.
“But . . . but . . . is this what it seems? Have you arrested the guilty party? Oh, but then I must take it all back! My congratulations! Not that I ever for a moment doubted that justice would triumph, nevertheless this last . . . raid of yours would have led me to take matters up with your superiors again or, if necessary, with Rome, to resolve the issue. But now, of course, if it should turn out that you really found your man . . . ”
Ricciardi, his voice loud enough to be heard throughout the area said: “Yes, Duke. That’s exactly right. We have arrested the perpetrator, so it would seem.”
Everyone had something to say about Ricciardi’s announcement and for a moment there was a babel of confused voices. Only one person, whom the Commissario was watching, did not raise her eyes.
XXIX
When he caught up with Maione outside the theater, they headed for the Questura. The procedure was irregular, because for safety reasons they should have been accompanied by at least two policemen. However, the man under arrest had such a quiet, submissive attitude that there seemed no danger of being shot in the head. A few hundred yards further on, they ran into Luise, the young reporter from Il Mattino, who was out of breath.
“Commissario, hello . . . I was notified by phone . . . who is the man you’ve arrested? Can you tell me, this time?”
Ricciardi took pity on the young man whom he had treated badly at their first meeting, and didn’t want to send him away empty-handed.
“It’s one of the singers from Cavalleria Rusticana, his name is Michele Nespoli. He’s a suspect.”
Nespoli, who had kept his eyes lowered until then, looked up and said scornfully: “What hotshots these cops are! They always catch the offender. Especially when they have an informer.”
Maione placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Speak only when you’re questioned.”
Luise tried to ask something about the circumstances of the arrest, but the three men quickly walked away.
Once the detainment procedures were completed and Nespoli had been taken to a holding cell in the Questura, Ricciardi said goodnight to Maione.
“Don’t arrange for the transfer to Poggioreale yet. Tomorrow I want to talk to him one more time.”
“Something isn’t clear to you, huh, Commissa’? I realized it from the questions you asked and by the way you looked at him. Still, he confessed.”
“Yes, he confessed. But tomorrow I want to talk to him again. Goodnight.”
On his way back home, the Commissario went over the sequence of events.
The look, first of all: with handcuffs on his wrists, Nespoli had looked at a person whom Ricciardi would never have expected. The randomness of the act: was it possible for an individual—even one with a disposition as quick-tempered as that of the baritone—to react in such an extreme way, over a simple comment? The timing: was it possible for someone singing in an opera to leave the stage, kill a man, escape through a window, come back in, go up to the fourth floor, switch his shoes, come back down and go onstage to sing—all in just ten minutes, without having planned it? The method: was it possible for a single punch—which moreover had raised the doctor’s doubts about its limited effects—to knock a person down so violently as to shatter a heavy mirror and cause him to bleed to death? Possible, of course; he had seen even stranger circumstances. But unlikely, very unlikely. Finally, the Incident: the tears streaming down Vezzi’s face. You don’t cry during a fight over such senseless reasons.
So then, Ricciardi thought, Nespoli was covering for someone. But who? And why? The woman he had looked at? Was she perhaps cognizant of events, or even an accomplice? And how could he get to the truth, at this point? Did Nespoli have a clear idea of what he was letting himself in for? Besides his career, irreparably ruined, the singer would lose his freedom for many, many years. Even if it wasn’t intentional, Vezzi’s murder was heinous and had become a focal point for the press and for the powers in Rome. The judges, Ricciardi was well aware, were always eager to please the regime, and the tenor had been their favourite darling. The Commissario was willing to bet that the sentence would be exemplary.
It was around eleven o’clock by the time he got home. His tata Rosa, her conscience silenced by the evening snack she had left him, had gone to bed, as evidenced by the deep snoring coming from her room. Ricciardi retired to his room and changed out of his clothes. Just to be sure, he went to the window, opened the curtains, and looked at the window across from him.
Enrica sat sewing by the tenuous light of the lamp. Having set aside her trousseau, she wanted to finish a summer garment for her little nephew who would soon be one year old. It was to be her birthday gift to him. She loved her sister’s son very much, and she often wondered if she would love a son of her own that much, or even more, if she were ever to have one. She sighed and instinctively glanced outside. When she saw that the curtains of the window across the way wer
e open at such an odd hour, she started imperceptibly.
Examining the embroidery she had completed on the front of the garment she smiled to herself, thinking that her parents were right: ever since she was a child they had been telling her that she was pig-headed. She reached out for the scissors, there on the table.
Across the windswept street, in the darkness of his room, Ricciardi watched Enrica sew. As always, he imagined that sooner or later he would talk to her and tell her how seeing her embroider made him feel at peace. He would ask her to embroider for him and she would smile, tilt her head to the side and say yes, in that voice that he had never heard; and he would sit there and watch her.
Meanwhile, across the way, her work was done. Enrica put down her embroidery, lifted the scissors from the table with her right hand, passed them to her left and snipped the end of the thread.
And Ricciardi saw it all clearly.
The ribbon with the scissors, which were missing; someone who worked with her left hand; the significance of what the doctor had said two days before; the smock that was too big. And, most importantly, he understood that look that had lasted just a moment.
He also thought, looking across the street, that a momentary look can mean a great deal: it can mean everything.
He had just hung up his coat in the office, when Vice Questore Garzo rushed in like a fury; behind him, extremely agitated, came Ponte, his clerk.
“Ricciardi, is what I heard this morning true? That you’ve arrested a suspect in the Vezzi homicide? Is it true?”
Ricciardi closed the armoire door, sighed and turned to his superior.
“Yes, it’s true. Last night.”
Garzo was beside himself: red blotches had appeared on his usually smiling, composed face, his tie was loosened and his hair looked rumpled.
“And why wasn’t I notified? I told you clearly, more than once, that any developments, no matter how minimal, were to be reported to me at once. And you arrest the perpetrator without informing me? If it weren’t for my friend, the managing editor at Il Mattino, who phoned me this morning to congratulate me, I wouldn’t have known anything about it! Who am I? Nobody?”
Ricciardi looked at him coldly, his hands in his pockets.
‘You are in my office shouting and I don’t think that’s the proper way to ask me for information. I couldn’t have informed you yesterday, because it was eleven o’clock at night and you had been gone for over two hours. What’s more, the man is a suspect, not a perpetrator. I communicate with you the way I should communicate, that is through official channels. What your friends tell you doesn’t interest me.”
He had spoken softly, almost in a whisper, and the contrast with Garzo’s yelling was enormous. Just outside the door, Ponte lowered his head as if he had taken a punch. Maione, who had come running, smiled broadly, covering his grin with one hand while holding the newspaper in the other.
Garzo stood there as if embalmed. He blinked two or three times and finally took a deep breath. He looked around and seemed surprised to find himself in Ricciardi’s office. When he spoke again, his tone seemed subdued, but there was a fierce quaver in his voice.
“Of course . . . of course. I apologize. Forgive me, Ricciardi. Well then . . . can you kindly tell me something about the arrest you made yesterday so I can report to the Questore? You know, so he won’t find himself unprepared when they call from Rome.”
He was almost spelling it out, containing his anger. Ricciardi even felt some pity for him.
“Yes, of course. So then: certain elements that emerged from the investigation made us focus our suspicions on Michele Nespoli, a professional singer, a baritone, at the Royal Theater of San Carlo. When interrogated at the scene by myself and Brigadier Maione, to whom most of the credit for the arrest is due, he confessed to the crime. But several other elements must be verified in order to consider the theory of potential accomplices or motives not currently known to us. For this reason, I would not issue any official statements at the present time.”
Garzo opened and closed his mouth: what popped into Ricciardi’s mind was an image of a big codfish in a suit and tie. When he was able to speak again, he said: “I’m not sure I understand. Didn’t you tell me that this Nespoli confessed to killing Vezzi?”
“Yes, but—”
Garzo held up a hand.
“No! No buts! If we have a confession, and we have one, I don’t see any reason for uncertainty. I ask you to understand, once and for all: it’s one thing to discover the killer two days after the murder, another thing to go on investigating after a confession. If you continue investigating despite having a confession in hand, it means that the solution came out of the blue without us uncovering it and, therefore, there’s no merit to solving the case. Now, I believe I am expressing the Questore’s opinion by decidedly choosing the first theory, that Nespoli acted alone. And so, my dear Ricciardi, on the one hand,”—and here he indicated the number one by gripping the thumb of his left hand with the index finger and thumb of his right—“I offer you my most heartfelt congratulations for your brilliant work in solving the case; on the other,”—and with the same fingers he grasped his left index finger—“I urge you to refrain from continuing the investigation as well as from communicating any of your concerns to anyone. Do we agree?”
Ricciardi hadn’t moved a muscle.
“No. I don’t agree by any means. There’s the risk of letting one or more guilty parties go free, and you know it. Not to mention remaining in the dark about various aspects of this case that cannot currently be explained.”
There was a moment’s silence. Maione and Ponte, in the doorway, looked like two statues. Garzo roused himself.
“I have no intention of reconsidering the matter, Ricciardi. That was an order. And another thing: we both know how many times you came and intervened with me, to support the positions of your closest co-workers, and how much you care about them. I would therefore remind you that any disobedience will be attributed not just to you, but also to them. So that Brigadier Maione here, for example, would go from a commendation and a more than likely cash bonus to a severe disciplinary action. Be advised.”
At that he turned and walked out with military bearing. Ponte stepped aside to let him pass and followed after him, feigning a look of distress. Maione entered Ricciardi’s office, his face flushed. “What a shitty bastard he is!” he said as he closed the door behind him.
XXX
Ricciardi slumped into the chair behind the desk. He looked glumly at Maione sitting in front of him.
“You hear that? So, either you’re a hero or you too are a criminal. No middle ground.”
Maione looked at him in silence. Ricciardi sighed.
“I have to take you off the case, Brigadier. From this point on, you will no longer be involved with the investigation. You deserve a nice bonus for the work you’ve done.”
Maione went on looking at him.
“So, Maione. You can go.”
“Commissa’, I’m not going anywhere. Aside from the fact that I don’t take orders from that guy,” he nodded toward the door, “but from my immediate supervisor, namely you, I know you by now: and I know when a job is finished and when it isn’t. And as I see it, we haven’t finished here yet. I realized it last night already and I was sure of it this morning when I saw your face. Besides, the urge to prove to that man and his little dog Ponte that he’s wrong is too strong for me to resist. Plus, I really don’t give a damn about the bonus: my kids aren’t used to having a lot of money. Those kids with too much money turn out bad. Finally,” he concluded, mimicking the Vice Questore and holding the tip of his left pinkie with two fingers of his right hand, “only one thing bothers me more than seeing a guilty party go free: seeing an innocent man go to prison.”
Ricciardi shook his head and sighed again.
“I knew you were a stubborn old man. One of these da
ys remind me that I should make you retire. You’re right though: we haven’t finished here yet. There are some things that aren’t clear to me, that must be brought to light, then we can rest.’
Maione put the newspaper on the desk.
“As far as the paper is concerned, we’re already heroes. Listen to this: ‘The police, after only two days of tireless investigation, discover and bring to justice the brutal murderer of the tenor Vezzi. See the news section for details.’ If we’re tireless, we must continue slogging away. That’s what the word means, doesn’t it?”
“Right. However, we have to be wary of Garzo and his people, so here’s what we’ll do: you take a nice one-day leave, which I’ll approve, ostensibly to take your child to the doctor. Instead, see what you can do. Are you still in touch with that guy who lives above the Quartieri, what was his name . . . Bambinella? The one who has a finger in every pie, who knows everybody’s business.”
“The transvestite? Sure I am. Whenever we pick up a few hookers, that guy is always among them, dressed as a woman and, forgive me Commissa’, but he looks better than the real ones. He’s simpatico though, a million laughs.”
“That’s the one. Track him down right away, this morning. And ask him about this name.”
Ricciardi took a sheet of paper, and after dipping his pen in the inkwell, wrote a name and handed the note to the Brigadier.
“Everything you can find out. Everything. Then come to me and report.”
Maione read the name, nodded and smiled.
“So she’s the one, huh? I noticed that he looked at her strangely. I was sure you hadn’t missed it either. Okay, Commissa’. Don’t give it another thought.”
“One last thing, then you can go. Have them bring in Nespoli.”
*
It was obvious that Nespoli hadn’t slept a wink. He appeared with deep shadows under his eyes and dark stubble on his face, his thick head of hair in disarray. The spectre of his life’s failure had begun to dance around him again and this time, he knew, it would never stop. In the cell, his father and mother, siblings and fellow villagers had passed before his mind’s eye: all those who had given up a little or a lot to enable him to study, for the joy of seeing him sing at the San Carlo. And now that he had made it there, he had thrown it all away.
I Will Have Vengeance Page 16