A Florentine Death

by Michele Giuttari

  'Relax, Sergi. Tell it in your own words.'

  The inspector went red. He ran a hand through his long curly hair, shifted his weight to his other foot, and took a deep breath.

  'There's not much to tell, chief,' he resumed. 'She was devastated when she heard the news. She didn't have any explanation for her husband's murder. She kept repeating that it couldn't be true, that it was all a bad dream. She's not a strong-looking woman. She's very young, almost a girl. According to her, her husband had no enemies; all he cared about was his home and his family. In her opinion, it must have been a madman, or a case of mistaken identity. She says the reason she's so sure is because she knew her husband so well. They practically grew up together, they got engaged when they were very young . . . Neither of them had ever loved anyone else.'

  And nothing from the shopkeepers?'

  'Nothing at all. Nobody saw the killer, although the street's full of people even that early in the morning. We questioned the owner of the shop, a man named Antonio Salustri, but he couldn't tell us anything either. According to him, Alfredo Lupi was extremely loyal, totally professional, and he trusted him completely. But that's it. Nobody saw anything. Or nobody wants to talk.'

  'Come on, Sergi, we're not in Sicily or Calabria.'

  'If you say so, chief . . .'

  He knew what Sergi was getting at. The police were perfectly well aware that some of those involved in the antiques racket had strong connections with the Calabrian Mafia. But it was dangerous to jump to conclusions.

  Sergi persisted. 'You know who that shop belonged to, before the current owner bought it?'

  'Not if you don't tell me.'

  'Ricciardi.'

  Gualtiero Ricciardi had been one of the most important art and antiques dealers in Florence from the late seventies to the mid-nineties, and had amassed a considerable fortune. He and his wife had died in a fire that had almost destroyed an entire floor of their villa. They had been asleep at the time. Arson had been suspected, but the arsonist had never been found. In fact, it had been the last, and worst, of a whole series of arson attacks in Florence between 1993 and 1995. The police had investigated the possibility of underworld involvement, given that Ricciardi had long been suspected of having connections with the Calabrians, though nothing had ever been proved.

  Even after his death.

  'I see. Anything else? Any results yet from the autopsy, or from the search of the shop?'

  'Chief Inspector Violante has everything. I left word for him to join us.'

  'Where has he gone?'

  'Er ... I think he went out for a coffee.'

  Ferrara smiled. The coffee break was a habit common to everyone, southerners and northerners alike: no point in getting worked up about it.

  'He'll tell you about the Nucci woman. She's the only witness who claims to have seen something. He questioned her, but I'm not sure what he found out . . .'

  Just then, Chief Inspector Violante knocked discreetly at the door.

  'Come in!' Ferrara called.

  Fabio Violante was a man of medium height, who always looked rather down at heel, and didn't exactly give the impression of efficiency Ferrara liked to see in his men. But he was close to retirement, so there was no way of getting rid of him.

  He was carrying a shabby-looking brown leather briefcase. 'Talk of the devil . . .' Ferrara said.

  Violante looked first at one, then at the other, uncomprehending. He was hard of hearing - another reason he and his colleagues weren't always on the same wavelength.

  'Sit down, inspector. Sergi was just telling me that you interviewed a woman named . . . what was it?'

  'Laura Nucci,' Serpico said.

  'Laura Nucci, born in Florence, forty-one years old, secretary in a clinic on the second floor of the building directly opposite the antique shop,' Violante recited almost mechanically. 'She told me she'd just arrived at work, about eight-thirty. As she was opening the shutter of one of the windows looking out on the street she happened to see a man entering the antique shop. She described him as about six feet tall, with an athletic build and short fair hair. That was all she could say, because she had only seen him from the back, and then only briefly. She did say, though, that she'd had the impression there were no lights on yet inside the antique shop, which means the assistant hadn't yet finished opening up.'

  Anything else?'

  'No, chief.'

  'Have they done the autopsy?'

  'They haven't finished, but I've brought you the first findings,' Violante said, opening the threadbare briefcase and taking out two files which he placed on the desk. 'And here's the forensics report.'

  'Thanks. You can both go now.'

  Ferrara took the first file, which contained both a report on the scene of crime investigation and the pathologist's report, and started to read the latter:

  Following the autopsy performed by myself, in my capacity as an expert pathologist, on the corpse found at No 25 Via Santo Spirito, in the district of San Frediano, on 31 December 1999, here are the initial findings.

  The pathologist described the corpse, his garments and distinguishing marks. Then he listed the numerous wounds, two from a firearm and thirty-nine from a sharp instrument, pointing out the particular anatomical areas on which they were found. All the wounds were concentrated in the front part of the body, apart from the two bulletholes in the back, which were the only fatal ones.

  The wounds from the sharp instrument had been inflicted after death and were located predominantly in the top part of the body, above all on the neck and face. Curiously, these were in unusually close proximity. Other, more isolated marks had been found on the right arm.

  The time of death had been established as between 8.30 and 8.45. Death had been almost instantaneous. The cause was described as 'terminal and irreversible cardiac-respiratory failure', consequent to the traumatic lesions from the firearms.

  The analysis of the stomach contents had revealed nothing of interest. The victim did not appear to be a drug-taker and his state of health prior to the murder appeared normal.

  The accompanying foolscap sheets from Headquarters contained a first attempt by Violante to piece together the facts of the crime, drawing on both his observations at the crime scene and the results of the forensic tests.

  According to Violante's hypothesis the killer had attacked the victim from the back, standing to the left of him. Falling to the floor, Alfredo Lupi had banged his head and rolled over onto his back, exposing his chest to further blows. The wounds on the front part of the body had bled less than those on the back, a sign that they had been struck in the final phase of the attack, by which time the victim was already dead.

  Ferrara closed the file and went on to the other, which bore the stamp of the Regional Office of Forensics.

  It contained dozens of photographs and two thin, typewritten pages. No useful prints had been found at the scene of the crime other than those of the victim, nor had anything significant been found in the proximity of the corpse. The only positive result was that of the ballistics test: the weapon used was a model 92 Beretta equipped with a silencer.

  Not an uncommon weapon. Almost legendary, in fact. It was used by various police forces around the world, as well as the United States army, because of its stability and precision. It was a semi-automatic which normally took lethal 9mm Parabellum cartridges. The 92F model was the one used by the Italian armed forces, Carabinieri and police - as well as by a large part of the underworld.

  Too common to be a useful clue, Ferrara thought.

  The photographs showed the victim's mutilated face from different angles, the scene of the crime with the corpse still on the floor in the position in which it had been found, the outside of the shop and details of the objects inside, including the seventeenth-century crucifix mentioned in one of the headlines - even though it wasn't actually all that close to the body. There was also a photograph of a large eighteenth-century wardrobe which, being more or less in the middle of th
e large room, parallel to the front door, divided it into two almost equal parts, obstructing much of the view from outside. The body, as the newspapers had reported, had been found behind the wardrobe by two French tourists who had come in to browse even though the shop was not quite open yet.

  When he had finished reading, Ferrara decided that the time had come to make a move. Il Gatto goes into action, he told himself with a mixture of irony and self-flattery.

  The shop had only one window, a large one protected by a wire-mesh shutter that was three-quarters open. Ferrara had a warrant from the judge to have the seals taken off. He went in alone.

  The interior was surprisingly large. There was a big room at the front, some sixty-five feet by twenty-five, divided more or less in half by the heavy wardrobe; a second, smaller one reached by four steps on the left just after the entrance, and a back room.

  They were all cluttered with furniture, paintings, statues and a variety of objects, from crystal glasses to silver teapots and copper ladles to gilded frames. The whole place smelled of dust and damp. And death.

  Ferrara switched on the light. A porcelain owl stared at him severely.

  Making a mental note of the objects, he went into the back part of the main room, behind the wardrobe.

  The chalk marks drawn around the body before it had been moved were still visible on the floor. Against the side wall, about five feet from the marks, stood a desk, still cluttered with notebooks, bills and papers. Ferrara went closer to have a look, but did not touch anything. Although nothing particularly attracted his attention, he stood there for a while, motionless, peering around him, even into the darkest corners. Identifying with the environment, absorbing its smells, its atmosphere, seeing what the victim must have seen a moment before dying: for Ferrara, that was worth more than any report, however detailed and conscientious.

  Ten minutes later, he left the shop. He had the seals put back on and sent the officer back to Headquarters, then called Petra on his mobile to tell her he wouldn't be home for lunch. He stood there for a long time, looking along the street.

  The Via Santo Spirito, which is the continuation of the Borgo San Frediano and turns into the Borgo San Jacopo after the crossroads with the Via Maggio, is a narrow street in the Oltrarno, a major destination for tourists who flood across the Ponte Vecchio to visit its many antique shops. Even that Saturday, the area was dense with people, despite the intense cold and grey skies. The bad weather, which had raged for weeks, showed no sign of abating with the New Year.

  Ferrara's gaze came to rest on the buildings opposite the shop, as if they could tell him what they had seen. There was an arched door of reddish wood studded with iron nails, a small shop to its left, and then a little green door with a marble name plate beside it: Physiotherapy Clinic - 2nd Floor.

  Looking up, he saw someone moving at the second floor window and rang the bell beside the name plate.

  He heard a buzz and the lock snapped open.

  On the second floor he was met by a thin, nondescript woman of about forty, wearing glasses with fake tortoiseshell frames.

  ‘I’m looking for Signora Laura Nucci.' 'That's me.'

  'Chief Superintendent Ferrara of the Squadra Mobile.

  Pardon my intrusion, but I thought I saw someone here when I was in the street so . . .'

  'I've been taking advantage of the holiday to catch up on the backlog,' the woman explained.

  'May I ask you a few questions?'

  'Of course. Follow me.'

  She led him through the deserted reception area.

  'I know you've already made a statement to Chief Inspector Violante, but I'd like to question you myself. Maybe you've thought of something else in the meantime. Do you mind if we start from the beginning?'

  'Of course not. I'm quite happy to cooperate. I saw the man going into the shop, but..."

  'Let's just start at the beginning.'

  'Yes, of course, you're right, I'm sorry. Well, I'd just opened the door of the clinic. I came in, put my handbag on the desk, the desk over there, and went to open the window that looks out on the street. The window and the shutter, obviously. I do it every morning when I get in, to let the light in and air the room, obviously. When I was at the window I saw someone entering the shop. I only saw him from the back, and only for a few seconds, as I said in my statement. Unfortunately, I really can't remember anything else.'

  'What time was it?'

  'It might have been about half past eight.' 'Okay. And then?'

  'I went back to the desk to start work, obviously. I didn't go back to the window until I heard the police cars arriving with their sirens blaring. That was when I found out the shop assistant had been murdered.'

  And between the time you opened the window and the time the police arrived you didn't hear anything unusual?'

  'Obviously not. This may only be a narrow, one-way street, but it's very noisy. Or maybe that's why it's noisy. And then the telephone was ringing, the first patients were arriving, kids were throwing firecrackers in the street as a game . . .' 'Did you know the dead man?'

  'Only by sight. But he seemed a nice man - pleasant, polite. Obviously, that's only an impression.'

  Obviously, Ferrara repeated to himself. Out loud, he said, 'Of course, but I'd like you to think really hard and try to describe again, as clearly as you can, the person you saw entering the shop.'

  'I noticed his height and build, obviously. He was tall, I'm sure of that, about six feet tall. Good build, slim, athletic. Quite short hair - at least it looked that way from behind, I mean it was thick but didn't touch the top of his collar. He was wearing a dark suit, and I had the impression he was very young. And obviously not from round here.'

  'What makes you say that?'

  'Because of his clothes. The young men around here wear jeans and waterproof jackets all year long. It's like a uniform. But this man was wearing a smart, well-cut suit, dark, maybe even black. He wasn't wearing a coat.'

  A black suit? You mean like a dinner jacket and trousers? Or the kind of thing priests wear? You don't see many black suits these days.'

  'No, no. I don't think so. Definitely not a dinner jacket, and not a priest's suit either, I'd say . . . though, thinking about it, I couldn't completely rule it out. I'm not even very sure it was black, like I said. It could have been dark grey, or dark blue. The street's in the shade, and at that time of day it's not easy to see things clearly'

  'But you're sure it was a man?'

  'Oh, yes. If it had been a woman, she'd have had to be very tall and athletic, and very well disguised.'

  'But we can't rule it out completely,' Ferrara remarked, almost to himself. 'And what about the hair? Dark, fair? Smooth, curly?'

  'Wavy and fair. I already said that, it must be in my statement.'

  'Of course, but you know how it is, I like to hear things for myself. Please bear with me just a little while longer. Do you remember anything else about him? Was he wearing glasses, for instance?'

  'I couldn't see that. Like I said, I only saw him briefly and in passing. I don't put my nose into other people's business, obviously' The woman sounded as if she was losing patience.

  And obviously that's the window.' He couldn't help himself.

  'Yes, that one,' the woman replied curtly, responding to his involuntary provocation.

  Ferrara went to the window and looked down at the shop. There was a good view from here, so good that you could tell whether or not the interior of the shop was lit. From that height, though, the angle could be deceptive, and it wasn't easy to judge how tall a person was.

  If only the woman had been nosier, he thought. Or had opened the window a few minutes later, when the person was coming out. . .

  'Thank you for your help,' he said. 'Please don't trouble yourself, I know the way out.'

  Wrapped up warm in his overcoat and scarf, he strode along the Via Santo Spirito and stopped at the first bar-tobacconist's he found. It was already nearly one o'clock and the place wa
s crowded with tourists and locals.

  At the tables and the counter, the main topic of conversation was the murder of Alfredo Lupi.

  'I always thought there was something not quite right about that one,' an elegant-looking woman was saying.

  'He was a bit strange, that's for sure,' her friend replied. 'But I talked to him a few times and he seemed decent enough.'

  'If you ask me, he was mixed up in something,' a man said. 'It happens all the time in that line of business.'

  'A small thief shouldn't steal, because the big thief makes sure he swings for it,' the barman said, quoting an old Tuscan proverb.

  A beer and a roll,' Ferrara ordered. 'Ham and cheese okay?'

  'That's fine. Did you know the young man who was murdered?'

  'He had a bite to eat here a few times, like everyone.' 'What kind of man was he?'

  'Fairly average. Quiet, kept himself to himself. I don't think he had any friends around here, I never saw him with anyone.'

  'Did you notice anything unusual lately? Any strangers lurking around?'

  'Everyone here's a stranger. Foreigners, Italians, they're all tourists. Are you a journalist?'

  'No, just curious.'

  He went to the cash desk, asked for two boxes of Antico Toscano cigars, paid and left.

  As it was not raining, he decided to go back to Headquarters on foot, by way of the Via Tornabuoni, San Lorenzo, the Piazza del Mercato and the Via Santa Reparata. A half-hour's walk would do him good.

  Halfway across the Ponte Santa Trinita he stopped to look at the Arno, swollen by the recent rains. The water swept along, as if trying to wash away every remnant of nature. But it could not wash away the mysteries that continued to shroud Florence as they had always done.

  A strange city, Florence, he reflected. One of the most beautiful, most beloved cities in the world, steeped in history and full of art treasures, it offers itself to visitors like a generous courtesan. But if on the one hand it flaunts itself, on the other it shuts itself up behind the heavy doors of its palatial houses, jealously guarding a privacy that has to remain inviolable, and leaving us to wonder what is concealed within those walls, what memories of past plots and betrayals.