For the first time since Urbino had come into his office Gemelli looked uncomfortable. “Excuse me, Signor Macintyre, but I shouldn’t have mentioned the calls at all. I only did it to impress on you that Galuppi might have had reason to kill his mother. I don’t want to frighten you but it’s not at all inconceivable that you might be in danger yourself. Perhaps you don’t know as much about our Italy as you should. How could you? But we understand crimes like this. A wife poisons her husband, a father shoots his daughter, a sister stabs her brother.”
“But a son killing his mother?”
“Ah yes, this is perhaps a little more difficult to understand in our country of la mamma, but such a son, such a mother?”
Urbino rose from his chair.
“Excuse me, Commissario, but I don’t think you should be so quick to form judgments about these people or the crime itself. It’s not the best procedure for someone in your position, I would think. Isn’t it just as logical to assume that Maria was there in the church when someone came in to steal the relic? Why would Carlo want to take the body of Santa Teodora? And why would he take it after he had already struck out at his mother? No, I’m not Italian but it’s possible I know more about these people than you do. Maria Galuppi was a simple woman who loved her son and Carlo, despite his appearance, is a gentle soul, more to be pitied than feared. You speak of crimes of passion, Commissario, but Venice isn’t Sicily.”
Gemelli had risen too. A flush was creeping over his face. As Urbino knew from the Contessa, Gemelli was originally from Sicily.
“I’d appreciate if it you wouldn’t imply that I don’t know my job, Signor Macintyre. What you are giving is your opinion. We will take it into consideration along with all the others but so far yours is in the minority. Our two callers both said that Maria Galuppi mistreated her son, at least verbally, and even Don Marcantonio has told us that Carlo seemed afraid of her at times. In fact, he’s heard them arguing in the sacristy on one or two occasions, he thinks he even heard them mention Santa Teodora. And don’t forget that Carlo did show up at your door last night with a pillow slip stained with blood, the same blood type as Maria’s and, I might add, blood that came from a female, not a male. I’ve just received the laboratory report.”
Gemelli shook his head. The flush was gone now. In its place was a slightly irritated, weary expression.
“Listen, Signor Macintyre, we appreciate your concern. Not everyone would be so quick to defend an old washerwoman and her son who’s something of a frightful joke in the Cannaregio. But Galuppi is all we have to go on at the moment. He’s our primary suspect and until we get more evidence—something the scene-of-crime unit comes up with or perhaps a ransom note or information about someone suspicious in and around San Gabriele—well, until then my report must reflect the information we have up to this point. We know that Galuppi was in San Gabriele shortly before his mother’s body was found. We also know that he appeared a short time later at the Palazzo Uccello with the bloodied pillow slip. He’s nowhere to be found. He’s fled, he’s hiding somewhere. You mentioned that I shouldn’t be too quick to form judgments but here in Italy we move differently than you do in America.” A smile came over his face as he said, “I have a cousin, an avvocato in New Jersey. He visits us maybe once every two, three years, and we always end up arguing about the differences between the handling of crime and punishment in our two countries. We never reach a conclusion, we never convince each other. What more can I say, Signor Macintyre? Galuppi is all we have at the moment. This doesn’t make him guilty, but neither does it make him innocent. If we are lucky—and luck plays a larger role in these cases than you might imagine, luck and informers, that is—yes, if we are lucky then this affair will be cleared up by carnevale.”
“Or else it might be bad for business, mightn’t it?”
“The Questura isn’t concerned about business. We leave that to you Americans, along with some decidedly naïve notions about guilt and innocence.”
Assuming that this was his dismissal, Urbino started to put on his coat.
“Excuse me, Signor Macintyre, but you aren’t finished yet. We need your identification.”
“My identification? But surely someone else has already—”
“Not the body, Signor Macintyre, your laundry.” There was a hint of a smile on Gemelli’s handsome face. “Come with me.”
Urbino followed Gemelli to a small, dark room at the end of the hall. It was filled with file cabinets, bookcases, and wooden and cardboard boxes. Gemelli pointed to a carton on top of a file cabinet.
“If you wouldn’t mind going through it, we would appreciate it.” As Urbino approached the carton, Gemelli added, “The bloodstained pieces are still at the laboratory. There were several. You’ll get everything back eventually.”
Urbino examined a few pieces, then turned to Gemelli.
“They’re mine.”
“But is it all there? Not counting the bloodstained pillow slip, a white monogrammed towel, and two pieces of underwear—unmonogrammed.”
“Commissario, there is no way for me to be sure everything is here. I wasn’t in the habit of making out a laundry list. Perhaps I’ll notice something missing later when I need it.”
“Like another pillow slip? People usually have at least two.”
Urbino went through the laundry piece by piece.
“There were two.”
“We have only the one. May I ask why you have such large pillow slips, Signor Macintyre? Three, four times the usual size?”
“Because I have such large pillows, Commissario. Both the pillows and the pillow slips are custom-made in Milan. But I don’t see what importance their size has.”
“In addition to indicating a man who likes his peculiar comforts, it gave the murderer a convenient way to carry away the body of Santa Teodora.”
“But surely her body could never have fit!”
“From what can be determined there probably isn’t much substance left to the body. Even a body five years old would have been in poor condition in Venice’s damp atmosphere, but one from the tenth century—even given a miracle if you believe in such things—would probably be only dust by now, dust and some bones. Who really knows what condition that body was in? Don Marcantonio has resisted any attempt to have it examined since he’s been at San Gabriele. Even throwing in the garments, the shoes, the mask, and—who knows?—those legendary jewels, it’s not hard to imagine everything fitting into one of your pillow slips.”
After helping put the laundry back into the carton, Gemelli detained Urbino in the hallway for a few more minutes.
“Try to understand our position here at the Questura, Signor Macintyre. We have a delicate situation. It’s not just the murder of a defenseless old woman. That would be bad enough. We don’t have many violent crimes here in Venice—thefts, yes, frauds, purse-snatchings, graft, the city is rife with these. We handle them as a matter of course, and sometimes we feel we’re going crazy, especially during the tourist season. Murder is an ugly thing. I’ll never become accustomed to it and I never want to. If I had my way—which, contrary to what you Americans might think, the police in this country definitely do not have—but if I did, I would go after whoever killed Maria Galuppi with every one of my men here.
“But there’s another factor, the relic. The Vatican has already contacted us twice and they’re sending an official from something called the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. And, believe me, the Vatican won’t be satisfied until that relic is returned and although they won’t go on record, you can be sure, they seem much more concerned about finding the relic than the murderer.”
“Is that so much of a conflict, Commissario? Whoever took the relic also murdered Maria Galuppi. Find the relic and you’ll find the murderer.” It all seemed so clear to him.
Gemelli shook his head and smiled.
“I’m not so sure of that. You see, Signor Macintyre, I’m not as quick to form judgments as you think. If you need to speak with
me, my secretary will put you through right away. Good day.”
8
ON the way to the Piazza Urbino bought a copy of Il Gazzettino. There were several front-page articles about Maria’s murder but he only glanced at the headlines before putting the paper in his coat pocket. He would read it at Florian’s over a much-needed cup of coffee.
As he passed the café-bars with their stacks of sweet rolls and small crustless sandwiches or tramezzini, the boutiques, souvenir stands, and pastry shops, he barely glanced in their direction, and returned the occasional greetings absently. He thought only about his conversation with Gemelli.
When a young couple asked him to take their picture with the Bridge of Sighs in the background, he just stared at them for a few blank moments until they repeated the request. Then he took the camera and pointed it vaguely in their direction, handing it back without a word.
Almost everything Gemelli had said was disturbing, and not only what he had said but also the way he had said it. Although Urbino understood that under the circumstances Carlo couldn’t be anything but the prime suspect, he also realized that for Gemelli to be so self-satisfied about it was far from professional behavior in a high-ranking officer of the Questura.
But maybe Gemelli hadn’t been completely straightforward. Last year in the same office with the gulls screaming outside he had made a point of telling Urbino just how little he understood the laws protecting the buildings in the city, although Urbino had known that it was Gemelli himself who was either misinformed or hoping his version would be believed. There had been a strain between them from the time they had first met and today’s encounter hadn’t helped any. He wouldn’t be surprised if the man had some ulterior motive for making it seem he believed Carlo was the murderer, for misleading him. Perhaps he even—
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Macintyre!”
Urbino, who only a few moments before had entered the Piazza, was startled to see Clifford Voyd standing almost directly in front of him between the Basilica steps and the elevated wooden planks for the acqua alta. The writer had a big smile on his face. Had Voyd been watching him from the time he had entered the square oblivious to everything but his own somewhat unsettling thoughts?
“And what dark, shameful deeds of your current victim are you mulling over, my friend? You will allow me to call them your victims, won’t you?”
Urbino just stared at him.
“Your mischievous little lives, what else!” He used the same diminutive about Urbino’s biographies that he had the evening of the Contessa’s party. Before Urbino could say anything, the writer added, “But I suppose I’m not in any position to be criticizing you, my friend, even if it is so mildly and playfully.” He held up a copy of Il Gazzettino in a gloved hand. “This unfortunate business at San Gabriele has started me thinking about a little story, the mother of two ill-fated children, daily trips to the shrine, a sizable amount of her hard-earned lire spent on candles, only to be—But no! It’s too melodramatic, much too unbelievable! It would have to have a different ending.”
He looked over Urbino’s head toward the clock tower as if it might provide the ending he needed.
“A comforting convenience of fiction, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Voyd?”
He had tried to keep his tone light but he knew that an edge of sarcasm and irritation had crept into it.
“So I suppose it is, my friend, and where would any of us be without that particular little convenience? And it’s not only in fiction either. I’ve read quite a few biographies that play fast and loose with the facts themselves. But don’t take it personally. As I said at the Contessa’s last week, I have yet to read one of your own little lives. I see some are honored with shelf space in the library.” He nodded toward the Biblioteca Marciana on the other side of the Campanile. “I might get to one of them before I finish here, who knows?”
And with that he said good day and walked off in the direction of the library, the newspaper carefully folded and tucked up under his arm.
When Urbino was settled at a window table at Florian’s, he took out his own copy of Il Gazzettino.
One article was a brief history of Santa Teodora, describing her martyrdom in Sicily and subsequent removal to Venice by what the article called “two reverent sailors from the Lido.” Being familiar with the story, he only skimmed it, smiling at its description of the sailors who, from his own understanding, had been the Doge’s hirelings whose only reverence was for scudi and the safety of their own necks.
Another article was about the Church of San Gabriele and Don Marcantonio. A photograph at least twenty years old showed a smiling Don Marcantonio in the Campo San Gabriele in front of the church. The caption beneath said: “Monsignor Marcantonio Bo, pastor of the Church of San Gabriele for almost fifty years, in happier days.” The article praised his devotion to the relic of Santa Teodora and described his efforts to protect it over the years from “the encroachment of the modern world and its skepticism and profit-motive.” Mention was made of his “ecclesiastical battle behind closed doors” with his former assistant, Luigi Cavatorta, who had wanted to install a modern system of lighting and coin-operated recorded lectures. Cavatorta’s failure in this attempt was underlined by the last line of the article: “Luigi Cavatorta has since left San Gabriele and the priesthood.”
Across the top of the first page were two large photographs. Both were of the body of Santa Teodora, one of her in her mask, the other showing the body in the same reclining position but without the mask. It was the first time Urbino had seen the face of the saint. Although the photograph was a poor one taken before Don Marcantonio had come to San Gabriele, Urbino could make out all the features in profile. What would the old priest think of this exposure of his beloved saint?
The face, with its prominent nose and receding chin covered with mummified flesh, bore a strong resemblance to La Befana, the witch of the Epiphany, a holiday they had just celebrated on the sixth of January. On her head was a high tiara from which trailed backward a long piece of pale material that might have been some fashionable accoutrement in a previous age. The material fell from the head onto the ornate pillow and then off the edge of the catafalque. Except for the pillow these were all details he was seeing for the first time. He wondered where the tiara and veil were now.
He read the article beneath the photographs.
MURDER IN CANNAREGIO
Theft of the Remains of Santa Teodora
“All that might remain is a big sack filled with dust.”
This is the fear of the police who have initiated a search for the person or persons who committed a murder before stealing away with the remains of Santa Teodora from the Church of San Gabriele in the Cannaregio.
The belief that the relic was heavily damaged in the theft is supported by the fact that the body’s extreme fragility made necessary in the last century a face mask to hold together the cranium of the saint.
The reconstruction of the crime presents many puzzling aspects. A British husband and wife on their honeymoon entered the Church of San Gabriele by a side entrance at approximately 5:30 yesterday afternoon. The church had been closed for the night and the six o’clock Mass had been canceled because of the indisposition of Monsignor Marcantonio Bo, pastor of San Gabriele. No one is believed to have been in the church when the couple arrived.
The honeymoon couple found Signora Maria Galuppi of the Cannaregio lying on the floor in the chapel devoted to the saint. She was pronounced dead a short time later by Professor Alberto Lago, the medical examiner. Signora Galuppi was a frequent visitor to the shrine.
The police could find no traces of the person or persons involved. Neither could they find anyone in the area who saw anyone fleeing or acting in a suspicious manner.
The double panes of glass of the coffin holding the body of the saint were most likely broken by a candelabra, also believed to be the murder weapon, found on the floor of the chapel. It is believed that the remains were stuffed into a pillow slip that was am
ong the laundry the dead woman was returning to her client, Signor Urbino Macintyre of the Palazzo Uccello, Cannaregio.
It is speculated that the unfortunate woman was murdered in the course of the theft of the remains of Santa Teodora, the motive for which is unknown. Several possibilities are being considered.
It might have been perpetrated by a political or religious group or individual intending to ask for ransom.
It might be the crazed deed of drug takers of which our city has seen a considerable increase. It might even be the result of a centuries-old rivalry between Syracuse and Venice for possession of the saint.
However, sources close to the Questura claim that the authorities have not ruled out the possibility that Maria Galuppi was the main focus of the crime and that the theft of the body of the saint was either an afterthought or a final insult to the dead woman.
Police are searching for Carlo Galuppi, son of the murdered woman and sexton for twenty-five years at San Gabriele, in the hope that he will shed light on this tragedy.
On the inside page of obituary notices was a brief piece about Maria Galuppi:
LAUNDRYWOMAN MURDERED
Maria Galuppi, the widow of Ignazio Galuppi of this city, was murdered yesterday afternoon at the Church of San Gabriele. She was 78 years old.
Signora Galuppi, who lived all her life in the Cannaregio where she was a familiar figure, was a laundrywoman and occasional domestic until the time of her death.
She is survived by her son, Carlo, also of the Cannaregio. A daughter, Beatrice Galuppi, predeceased her.
After reading the articles, his coffee forgotten, Urbino felt that same peculiar pull and tug of curiosity he always did when he was about to commit himself to a new Venetian Life. It always began with a question but never one as disturbing as the one he formulated now to himself.
Who had killed good, gentle Maria Galuppi?
The lives he dealt with usually involved people about whom the unanswered questions were subtle and complex rather than disquieting. And he was never in any way emotionally involved with his subjects, having understood from the first the dangers of too close an identification or too strong an antipathy.
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