Secretum

by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  "Of course," Sfasciamonti agreed, impassively.

  After that, the catchpoll asked whether Melani intended to report the theft to the Bargello or to the Governor of Rome. Since the victim of the theft was a person of note, an edict could be posted all over the city offering a reward for the return of the loot or the capture of the thieves.

  "Come now," Atto responded at once, "rewards are worthless. When I was robbed of gold rings and a heart-shaped diamond in the Capuchin monastery at Monte Cavallo, the governor placed an enormous reward on the head of the thieves. Result: nothing whatever."

  "I cannot say that you're wrong, Signor Abbot," agreed Sfasciamonti. If I have understood you well, apart from this document, you were robbed only of a spyglass and the scapular of the Carmel."

  "Quite."

  "You have not yet told me, however, what sort of sacred relic you kept in the scapular. A thorn from the crown of Our Lord Jesus Christ? A piece of wood from the cross? There are plenty of those around, but they are still popular; you know, now that it's the Jubilee..."

  "No," Melani replied laconically, having no desire to confess that he had jealously kept my little pearls close to his heart for all those years.

  "A piece of clothing, then, or a tooth?"

  "Three pearls," Atto admitted at last, glancing at me, "of the Venetian margarita variety."

  "A singular relic," observed Sfasciamonti.

  "They come from the luminous vestment which Our Lady wore on the day of her apparition on Mount Carmel," explained Atto with the most natural air in the world, while the stupefied sergeant remained utterly unaware of the Abbot's irony. "Will that be enough for you now?"

  "Of course," replied Sfasciamonti, recovering his composure after the surprise; "I'd say. . . Yes. Let us begin by looking for the spyglass."

  "The spyglass? But that's of no importance whatever to me!" protested Atto.

  "To you, no. But someone else might find it an interesting object, to be resold for a good price. Quite apart from the fact that it is not the kind of thing that passes unobserved. On the other hand, the relic and your political document will be difficult to identify. For anyone who does not know its contents, that little treatise will seem like any other old bundle of papers. It might be in the hands of someone who. . . well, someone not like yourself."

  "In what sense?" asked Buvat.

  "In what language was your document written?"

  "In French," replied Atto, after a slight hesitation.

  ' "It might have been stolen by someone who does not know how to read Italian, let alone French. And who therefore will not have the least idea of what he has laid his hands on."

  "If that were the case, he would not have gone to the trouble of looking for it down there," commented Atto, pointing to the place where the slats in the parquet had been removed.

  "Not necessarily. He may have come upon that hiding place by pure chance and been curious about the care with which your document was stowed away. 'Tis useless to speculate, first we must find that stuff."

  "So, what are we to do?"

  "Do you know what a good lawyer does when a gang of criminals are arrested?" asked Sfasciamonti.

  "What does he do?"

  "He lets one of his assistants defend the leader, and he himself takes on one of the ordinary bandits. Thus, the criminal judge cannot determine who the big fish is. We shall do likewise: we shall pretend we are looking for the spyglass, but at the same time we shall be looking for your political document."

  "And how shall we look for it?"

  "Our first port of call will be one of those persons who resells stolen goods. I know two good ones. If your things have passed through their hands, perhaps they'll help me out. But one can be sure of nothing. We shall have to negotiate."

  "Negotiate? If it is a matter of spending some money, so be it, I can surely pay for the favour. But, for heaven's sake, I cannot be seen in the company of persons of ill repute. There are cardinals here, I have connections with..."

  "As you wish," Sfasciamonti cut him short politely but firmly. "I can deal with that. You, my boy, could accompany me. Those who steal do not willingly hang onto their loot, it burns their hands. Anything valuable disappears like lightning. We shall have to move fast."

  "When, then?"

  "Now."

  It was thus that I began to become acquainted with Sfasciamonti's truly singular double, nay triple, nature. The imprecations which he was wont to utter, invoking arms and all manner of warlike devices, made him seem like some common braggart, swaggering and blustering, as his very name suggested. Yet, when he spoke of cerretani, his bravado vanished, turning into febrile apprehension, and that great mountain of a man would cower at the first old gaffer passing him by, as had happened when we stopped at the Piazza Fiammetta. Lastly, when confronted, not with the indefinite menace of the cerretani, but with a hard and fast case of crime, he proved to be an excellent sergeant: laconic, consistent and phlegmatic. This he had shown in the investigation of the assault on Haver; and likewise his comportment on the scene of the theft of Atto's papers had been both balanced and attentive. He had abstained from asking particulars of the stolen document and above all he had agreed with Atto about an utterly incredible circumstance: that there was no connection between the death of Haver and the theft in Atto's apartment. It was clear that this could not be the case, yet the catchpoll (whom the responsibility vested in him by Cardinal Spada had transformed almost into a private gendarme) had let it be understood that he was not interested in how matters stood but in how he could turn them to the advantage of the person hiring him.

  For the time being, it was impossible to tell which of the three natures (blustering, fearful or penetrating) best corresponded to Sfasciamonti's true character. I imagined, however, that sooner or later time would tell.

  For the time being, he was offering Atto his discretion and his assistance; and, what was more, during the hours of night. Atto knew that all that, like the silence which he had bought from me, had its price.

  So Sfasciamonti and I set out with all due speed, almost without taking our leave of Atto and his secretary. I would not be able to keep my appointment with Cloridia; I therefore asked Buvat to warn her of this. I prayed silently that she would not be too worried and unwillingly postponed the time when I would learn from her the news gathered from her women.

  We left the villa stealthily under the starry mantle of night which, given the late hour and the gloom weighing down on my soul after so many grim events (killings, thefts), seemed no longer protecting but a menace hanging over our helpless heads.

  The catchpoll had arranged for one of his grooms to saddle us two horses, and he helped me to mount the smaller of the two. (I have never been a great equestrian.) We straightaway took the road for the city centre. Thus I followed him towards an unknown destination; the speed of Sfasciamonti's mount, weighed down by its corpulent rider, was in truth little greater than my own.

  We descended the slope towards the San Pancrazio Gate, leaving to our left the grandiose panorama over the Holy City. Thanks to the dim light of the moon, we could just descry the silhouettes of rooftops, campaniles and cupolas, and, by the faint glimmer from windows, eaves and penthouses, the space where darkness had engulfed a certain basilica or the abyss into which a palace had vanished. It was a sort of capricious game of hide- and-seek played between my sight and the vision which memory retained of that great view by day.

  We veered left, towards the Piazza delle Fornaci, then, leaving the Settignano Gate to our right, we moved directly to the Sisto Bridge. Here, the view, hitherto obstructed by the walls of houses and rented apartment buildings, opened up again onto the bed of the Tiber, showing its tarnished course near the riverbanks, while the middle depths remained inky and abundant in piscatorial booty.

  At last, we slowed down. After passing Piazza Trinita dei Pellegrini, we found ourselves within a stone's throw of the Piazza San Carlo quarter. Darkness and silence reigned, broken only b
y sparks from the horseshoes on the flagstones and the echo of pounding hooves. Only from the occasional window did the indistinct glimmer of candles penetrate the motionless air, lighting perhaps a young mother's last labour of the day (mending, nursing, consoling.. .)

  Behind one such window, modestly set into the wall at street level, was our objective.

  "Here we are," said Sfasciamonti, dismounting and pointing to a door. "But, please remember, you've never been here. Our man is incognito. No one knows that he sleeps in this house. Even the parish priest, when he does his Easter rounds, feigns ignorance. He accepts a gift of a couple of scudi, in exchange for which the parish records remain clean."

  "Whom are we going to visit?" I asked, letting myself fall to the ground from my nag.

  "Well, visit isn't the right word. Visits are announced and awaited. This, however, is a surprise, by all the mortars in Asia! Heh," he guffawed.

  He stood before the door, pushing his thumbs under his belt and sticking his belly out strangely, breathing out rhythmically as though he were preparing to break the door down with his guts. He knocked. A few instants passed. Then we heard a bolt being shot. The hinges moved.

  "Who is it?" asked a voice heavy with suspicion, of which I could not have said whether it was a man's or a woman's.

  "Open up, this is Sfasciamonti."

  Instead of one of the tender mothers about whom I had been fantasising only moments before, there appeared before us a hunchbacked and ill-formed old woman who, as the catchpoll was later to explain to me, was landlady to our man. The woman did not even attempt to protest at the late hour; she seemed to be acquainted with my companion and knew that it was useless to talk back. She began to complain weakly only when she saw us mounting the stairs to the next floor.

  "But he is sleeping. . ."

  "Exactly," replied Sfasciamonti, grabbing the candle from her hand to light our way and thus leaving the poor woman in the dark.

  After climbing two flights of stairs, we found ourselves on a landing which gave in turn onto a closed door. The candle, which the catchpoll had handed to me, cast a sinister light on our faces from underneath.

  We knocked. No answer.

  "He's not sleeping. Otherwise he'd have replied. He always keeps one eye open," murmured my companion. "This is Sfasciamonti, open up!"

  We waited a few moments. A key turned in the lock. The door opened up a mere crack.

  "What is it?"

  The catchpoll was right. The occupant of the room stood fully dressed with his nose protruding from the crack in the door. Faint candlelight glimmered from within. Weak though the light was, I could distinguish the man's features at once: an enormous rat's nose, long and swollen, with a pair of little black eyes surmounted by long, thick crow-black eyebrows; below these, an ugly, drooling and contorted mouth clumsily framing an undisciplined row of yellowing rabbit-like teeth.

  "Let us in, Maltese."

  The little man who answered to that curious name (which in truth derived from the fact that he came from the island of Malta) sat down on a chair, without inviting us to take a seat, which we nevertheless did, for want of better, on his bed. He lit a third candle, the light from which gave the place a less cavernous appearance. I took a quick look around. The chamber was in reality a disorderly hovel, the furniture consisting of the bed on which we were sitting, our host's chair, a little table, a chest, a few old wooden cases and a heap of old papers half abandoned in a corner.

  The Maltese seemed very nervous. He stayed seated, hunched up, his eyes avoiding contact, playing with a button of his shirt, plainly scared by the visit and anxious that we should be off as soon as possible. From the conversation, I understood that the two had shared a long acquaintance, in which they had always played the same parts: the man with the big stick and the man on the wrong end of the stick.

  "We are assisting a person of note, a French abbot. They have taken some things of his to which he is very attached. He is a guest at the Villa Spada. Do you know anything?"

  "Villa Spada at Porta San Pancrazio, of course. The Spadas' place."

  "Stop pretending you're a fool. I asked you if you know anything about the theft."

  The Maltese took one glance at me, then another, questioning one at my companion.

  "He's a friend, Sfasciamonti reassured him. Behave as though he were not here."

  The Maltese fell silent. Then he shook his head.

  "I know nothing."

  "They've robbed him of an object he absolutely wants to have back: a spyglass."

  "I know nothing and I've seen no one. Today I've been here all the time."

  "The injured party, the French abbot, is prepared to pay to recover what belongs to him. As I said, it matters greatly to him."

  "I am sorry, if I knew something, I'd tell you. I really have heard nothing."

  We were disappointed, but we did not insist. From our man's timorous, rat-like frown, there did seem to emanate something like sincerity. We rose.

  "Then it will be better to go and ask Monsignor Pallavicini," added Sfasciamonti carelessly. "I shall request an audience with him. Moreover, he has just dined at the Villa Spada."

  The name of the Governor of Rome had the desired effect. We were about to leave when the Maltese's question stopped us on the threshold.

  "Sfasciamonti, what is a spyglass?"

  As our host did not know what a telescope was, we had to explain to him that it was a tubular optical apparatus, equipped with lenses, with which one could see distant objects close, and so on. Sfasciamonti's description was pretty crude and even somewhat uncertain, and I had to help him with it. In the end, the Maltese had given his reply: there was someone who might know something.

  "'Tis someone who buys only strange objects that are difficult to resell: antiquities, various instruments. And he seems to have a great passion for relics. Now, with the Jubilee, he has become very rich: I've heard tell that he has done excellent business. He has cronies who trade on his behalf, but no one ever sees him. I don't know why, perhaps he does not live in town. I have never had dealings with him. They call him the German."

  The grimace which Sfasciamonti could not suppress betrayed his disquiet.

  "I know that a short while ago he bought something similar to the spyglass which you are looking for," continued the Maltese, "a device with lenses that can move, for seeing things bigger - or smaller - I know not which."

  Sfasciamonti assented: we were on the right track.

  "I don't even recall who told me," concluded the other, "but I think I know who bought it for him. They call him Chiavarino."

  "I know him," said Sfasciamonti.

  Five minutes later, we were in the street, setting out in search of the mysterious personages named by the receiver. Sfasciamonti murmured curses against his informer.

  '"I know nothing, I know nothing.' That's that, nothing! When he heard the Governor's name, he got cold feet and asked what a spyglass was."

  "But did he really not know?"

  "People like the Maltese are scum. They buy the loot from others' thefts for a couple of lire and pass them on to others. They don't know how to do anything else. They're animals; their only merit lies in shouldering the risk of being the first to buy after the crime. That's why they often pass for the authors of the theft, which they are not. Those who buy from him, however, are better acquainted with the value of goods. The Chiavarino's in another class, he's very well known in the criminal fraternity. He's a murderer and thief many times over."

  I had been struck by the catchpoll's expression the moment he heard the name of the Chiavarino's principal.

  "And the German? Have you ever heard of him?"

  "Of course, they've been talking of him for ages," replied Sfasciamonti. "Now, with the Jubilee. .."

  "And what do they say?"

  "They don't even know whether he exists. They say he's in cahoots with the cerretani. Others say that the German's an invention of us catchpolls and that when we can't manag
e to find who's guilty of the theft of some valuables or the defrauding of some pilgrims, we blame it on him."

  "And is that true?"

  "Come, come!" he snapped, taking offence, "I believe that the German exists, just as I believe that the cerretani exist. Only, no one's really interested in finding him."

  "And why is that?"

  "Perhaps he has done some favour to someone important. That's how Rome works. It must not be too clean, or too dirty. The sergeants and the Governor must be able to boast of keeping the town clean, otherwise what are they there for? But we also need the dirt to be there, fine dirt and plenty of it. Otherwise what are we there for?" quoth he, guffawing. "And then, have you seen how the Maltese gets away with it? If something's stolen off someone influential, he's there to give us a hand. In exchange, the Governor leaves him in peace, even though he knows perfectly well where he lives and could have him arrested at any time."