Ricciardi got to his feet in turn.
“Grazie, Signor Consul; we’ll wait just outside the door, we don’t want to intrude any longer.”
They saluted; then on the way out the commissario stopped and asked:
“Sorry, one last thing: Why the painting of Saint Sebastian?”
The consul, who already had the intercom in hand, seemed surprised at the question; then he turned and looked at the painting, as if he were seeing it for the first time.
“Ah, that? He’s the patron saint of the national volunteer militia. Only the Good Lord knows why.”
XVI
Maione exploded the minute they were alone in the hallway.
“Commissa’, this one you’re really going to have to explain to me,” he hissed, looking out of the corner of his eye at the usher, who stood to attention, motionless behind the desk, some ten feet away. “Why would you promise to alert these fanatics when we catch the murderers? We might as well just give them a call when we think we know who it is, that way we can save ourselves the effort and risk of carrying out the arrest ourselves. For all we know, it was one of them: if so, they can sing the song and accompany themselves on guitar. What could be more convenient?”
Ricciardi smirked.
“You see, Raffae’, I had to think on my feet. It occurred to me that if I told him no, as would normally have been my instinct, they’d simply take us off the case and some innocent citizen might have paid the price. These folks aren’t kidding around: if there’s the slightest doubt people just vanish and no one ever knows what became of them. So I decided it was the best course of action to make that promise, so that it might allow us to find out what happened and who did it. Besides, as you know, once we’ve made the arrest, what happens next is out of our hands anyway; and do you think that someone like Garzo wouldn’t do his best to make these maniacs happy, if there was anything he could do for them?”
Maione stood shaking his big head, still unconvinced.
“I don’t know, Commissa’; your line of reasoning makes sense, I can’t argue with you, but I just don’t like cutting deals with these people. They scare me. Did you hear how they knew every detail of our lives? Even what happened with poor Filomena; to hear them tell it, she was practically my lover. And all about your financial situation, and Signora Rosa. Those damned spies!”
Ricciardi sighed.
“They must have a vast network of informers. They even have someone at police headquarters; otherwise, how could they have known that we were coming here?”
The question went unanswered, because the sharp sound of heels clicking just a few inches away made them both jump.
“Seniore Renato Spasiano, at your orders. The Signor Consul told me to take you to the office of Centurion Garofalo and to answer your questions. Please, come with me.”
And he set off, it goes without saying, at a run. Maione rolled his eyes.
The office where Garofalo had worked was on the third floor, the top floor of the barracks building. The window looked out on the area opposite the wharves, offering a grim panorama of dead tracks and abandoned railcars. To make up for that, the noises that reached it from both the port and the street were quite muffled.
There was another officer seated at the desk, and when Seniore Spasiano entered the room this officer leaped to his feet with the usual perfect heel-click and Roman salute.
“This is Platoon Leader Criscuolo. He’s going over the cases that Centurion Garofalo was working on, for anything urgent that may require action. Go ahead, Criscuolo, you may speak freely. These gentlemen are from the mobile squad, and they’re looking into the accident.”
“The accident,” thought Maione. “Accident,” my foot. Garofalo just slipped and fell on a knife. He slipped and fell on it a good thirty times.
Criscuolo, a strapping big man with a ridiculous-looking ultrathin black mustache, replied:
“Seniore, I’ve reviewed all the documentation on the cases still under way. As you know, Centurion Garofalo was in charge of monitoring small-scale fishing on the city coastline, an area that extends from the port to the island of Nisida. There are reports on inspection up to this month, as required, including the quantities of fish and an inspection of the fishing areas. Detailed lists of the equipment on the individual boats, minutes of the meetings of the district commission. Human error aside, I found no irregularities awaiting report.”
Ricciardi broke in, as a fascinated Maione watched the movement of the mustache on Platoon Leader Criscuolo’s upper lip, a mustache that seemed to move independently of the lip itself.
“Excuse me, but what does ‘irregularities awaiting report’ mean?”
Spasiano explained:
“As you may know, the legion performs a number of duties, among them, monitoring fishing. There are large fishing boats, the ones with crews consisting of many men, which, because of their size, operate here in the port, at specially designated wharves. Then there are the smaller boats, which is to say boats owned and operated by families, which dock at the beaches of the borghi, near Castel dell’Ovo, in Mergellina, in Bagnoli, and so on. Centurion Garofalo was assigned to inspect these small fishing boats. The platoon leader, who worked with him, has checked to see that the centurion didn’t have any pending investigations, irregularities detected that had yet to be reported. It’s important to be timely, to avoid giving those who have committed some violation the time to rectify it and thus elude further inquiry.”
Ricciardi nodded, pensively.
“I understand. And had Centurion Garofalo recently reported any major irregularities, as a result of which major proceedings would have been undertaken against anyone?”
Spasiano tipped his head in Criscuolo’s direction, passing him the ball. The mustache leaped and dived on the motionless lip, like a cat’s whiskers.
“No, Signore. Little things, the kind of things you see all the time: non-regulation nets, minor incursions into private waters. Slight infractions. The centurion was highly respected and feared for his strictness; the fishermen knew it and toed the line.”
Ricciardi turned and spoke once again to Spasiano.
“The Signor Consul, earlier, made some reference to Garofalo’s promotion to centurion: to be exact, to the way in which that promotion was obtained. What can you tell me about that?”
The Seniore was caught off guard. He looked at Criscuolo, who, apart from a vibration that ran through his mustache, didn’t move a muscle. He reddened, opened his mouth, and snapped it shut. Ricciardi decided to lend him a hand.
“The Signor Consul told me that I could ask you for any information that I might find useful. If there are problems, we can just go speak with him.”
Maione smiled warmly. Ricciardi’s ability to slip into the cracks of a given bureaucracy was unequaled. Spasiano blinked and gave in immediately.
“Garofalo was the deputy platoon leader. The corresponding rank in the army is second lieutenant. This means that he worked with a superior officer, an officer assigned to a specific area: a sector to be monitored, in other words.”
He stopped, looking down at the toes of his boots. Ricciardi and Maione waited. Criscuolo moved a sheet of paper on the dead man’s desk. From outside came the mournful sound of a siren, carried by the stiffening wind. Spasiano went on with his story.
“This officer was the platoon leader Antonio Lomunno. One of the youngest men to hold that rank, ready to be awarded another promotion. The inspection area he was assigned to was smuggling, a terrible problem especially where tobacco and spices are concerned, and with coffee in particular. They were a hardworking team, and they’d uncovered a lot of smuggling operations.”
Another silence. This time they could hear Criscuolo sigh, a sigh accompanied by a quiver in his cat whiskers that didn’t escape Maione’s notice. The Seniore was clearly having a hard time continuing. His voice drop
ped an octave.
“One day, Garofalo knocked at the door of the consul’s office, without even stopping to speak to the usher first. He said that he had something he needed to show someone, and that he could reveal it only in the presence of the highest officer of the legion. The consul summoned me as a witness, so that if needed I could testify concerning this act of insubordination. Garofalo announced that he had uncovered a large-scale coffee smuggling ring that had been active for many months, perhaps for years. He said that he’d informed his superior officer, Lomunno, of his discovery, but that he’d been told to say nothing about it.”
Maione looked at Criscuolo and saw that the man was staring at Spasiano with a silent note of accusation in his eyes.
“Why would this Lomunno have ordered Garofalo not to say anything?” Ricciardi asked.
Spasiano went on.
“Exactly. The Signor Consul asked the same question. Garofalo reported that he’d even been threatened with disciplinary sanctions by his superior officer if he talked, and that he’d been unable to understand the reason under the circumstances. Later he said that he’d stopped some of the smugglers and that one of them, in order to gain his release, had declared that he paid a monthly sum to Lomunno in order to be allowed to continue his smuggling without interference.”
Criscuolo sighed again.
“I’m sorry, but did this Garofalo produce even a shred of evidence?” Maione asked. “Or is it enough to lodge an accusation when you feel like it, from one day to the next?”
“Of course he did, Brigadier,” Spasiano replied. “We’re not savages. Foremost among our considerations was the fact that Lomunno’s service record was perfect, as I’ve told you; he was one of the finest officers in the legion, skillful and knowledgeable, with great instincts and intelligence. But Garofalo said that the smuggler, on condition of anonymity, had revealed the exact date on which he paid his monthly kickback to Lomunno, and that as it happened it was that same day. Garofalo invited us to question the officer, who had just returned to the barracks from an inspection.”
Maione sat openmouthed.
“And you believed him?”
Spasiano shrugged.
“What else could we do? The Signor Consul told Garofalo that, if his charges proved to be unfounded, he’d be punished with expulsion from the corps and that he might well face proceedings for defamation of an officer of the National Volunteer Militia.”
“And what did he say in response?” asked Maione.
“He asked, ‘And if it’s true? What would be my reward?’”
Criscuolo puffed out his cheeks, then said:
“May I go, Seniore? I’ll finish after my inspection, that way you can . . .”
“No, don’t leave, Criscuolo,” Spasiano replied. “It’s better that someone else be present to hear the story I’m about to tell. The order comes from the consul, but still, this is privileged information.”
“At your orders, Seniore.”
Ricciardi had listened carefully to this exchange. Criscuolo seemed to be in some discomfort hearing the story, which, in any case, he must have known quite well. Spasiano continued.
“We were so sure that the accusation was false that the consul said in my presence, ‘If it were true, he’d receive the maximum punishment allowable. Corruption is a cancer that the legion cannot allow to spread. You, on the other hand, would be promoted, for having had the courage to . . . to accuse an unworthy colleague.”
A cold drizzle had started to fall, tapping against the windowpanes.
“And what happened?” asked Maione, more than anything else to break the silence.
“Lomunno was found in his office with a large sum of money on his person. In cash. He wasn’t able to explain where that money had come from, and he was arrested. Garofalo’s testimony was decisive, and Lomunno was dishonorably discharged from the militia and served a year and a half in prison.”
Ricciardi had listened attentively.
“So what happened is that Garofalo ruined his superior officer and took his place.”
“There’s more. He took the post to which Lomunno was about to be promoted, the rank of centurion. To place that in the context of ranks in the army, his promotion was the equivalent of going from second lieutenant to captain, in a single leap and without respecting the years of minimum seniority for the ranks in question. It was something unprecedented.”
Maione couldn’t believe his ears.
“Excuse me, maybe I missed something. What did Lomunno say?”
“Of course, he swore he was an honest man, but he refused to reveal the provenance of that money. He said it was his, his whole life’s savings, and that he was going to use it to finally buy a house of his own.”
“So, really, wasn’t it just his word against Garofalo’s?”
“Yes, but no one carries some ten thousand lire in cash around with them. And in any case, it takes a lot less in this corps to merit disciplinary proceedings. His wife, when questioned by several of our officers, knew nothing about the money, and that was considered further evidence against him.”
Ricciardi stared at Spasiano.
“There’s more, isn’t there? An epilogue.”
Spasiano looked at Criscuolo, who in turn looked down at the floor. Maione had the impression that he was clenching his fists.
“While Lomunno was in prison, his wife killed herself. She threw herself off the balcony of their apartment, the day she learned they were being evicted. She left behind two children, who stayed with a neighbor woman until their father was released.”
Wind and rain on the window, and the roar of the sea. Ricciardi thought to himself that, as usual, it was the innocents who paid the price.
“What became of them?”
Spasiano shrugged.
“These events date back three years, more or less. We don’t have any more recent information, in part because, Commissario, I have to confess to you, we’re not very fond of remembering it, and for more than one reason. First of all, we don’t like to think that we were completely wrong in our evaluation of Lomunno, who was very well liked in the barracks. And, second, we don’t like to think that one of our own officers, and one of the best, for that matter, might have been corrupt. But above all, though I would never admit this outside of this room, we don’t like the way the matter ended.”
Maione broke in.
“And you did nothing for the family of this Lomunno? The wife and children, what did they live on while he was in prison?”
The raw nerve. Criscuolo jerked his head up, started to say something, and then looked back down at the floor. Spasiano replied:
“No. It was as if we were dealing with lepers. None of us had the courage to give them a hand. We’re all partly to blame for what happened.”
Ricciardi brushed aside the lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead, with the usual quick swipe of his slender hand. Then he asked:
“Where are Lomunno and his children now?”
XVII
The little one was the first to notice, in spite of the rain and the wind, and the incessant roar of the waves.
“Papa, don’t you hear? Someone’s knocking at the door.”
The man stopped what he was doing, set down the knife and the piece of wood he was carving, and went to open the door. When he saw who it was, he turned around and went back to the table, leaving the door wide open.
The visitor closed the door behind him. He looked around.
“Do you realize it’s colder in here than it is outside? Can’t you feel how freezing it is?”
The man had gone back to his carving.
“It’s a hovel. It’s drafty, the wind cuts right through the wood; and the fire goes out quickly, of course. What do you want? If you’re cold, go home, where it’s nice and warm. And take your conscience with you.”
&
nbsp; The visitor opened a bag he’d brought with him, pulled out some clothing, and gave it to the little girl.
“Here, Adelina, this red one’s for you, it’s a nice heavy sweater. The blue one ought to be Vittorio’s size, you see if it fits him. And here are two wool hats, my wife made them, and two scarves. Make sure you bundle up, now.”
The woodcarver barely looked up from the piece of wood he was working on.
“Who asked you for anything? When their mother needed you or any of my other so-called friends, where were you? And when she decided to . . .”
The other man broke in forcefully, his eyes darting to the children.
“Anto’, for the love of God! That’s enough! Have you lost your mind? In front of the children!”
“Why, didn’t she do it in front of them? Not even she believed me, her own husband. Not even she had the strength to help me prove that I was telling the truth.”
“Anto’, listen to me. The trouble you’re about to be in is serious. Today two policemen came in, a commissario and a brigadier. Smart people, very good at what they do. Spasiano got orders to tell them the whole story.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I was right there. And they listened, and the first thing they asked when they’d heard everything was if we knew where you were.”
Antonio Lomunno slammed the knife down on the table. The little girl, who was stirring a pot on the stove with a wooden spoon, jumped at the sound.
“Damn him, damn him! This thing will never end, never!”
Criscuolo took a step toward him.
“But you can say that you were out on the water when it happened. You can say that you were on the fishing boat, you can say . . .”
“‘You can say’? But—that means you think I did it! And you don’t realize that if I’d wanted to . . .”
He shot a quick glance at his son, who was staring at him openmouthed.
“. . . I’d have done it then and there, on the spot, in front of everyone. That coward, that bastard. I’d have done it then, and goodnight Irene.”
By My Hand Page 8