Glass Souls

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  Maione grabbed a small Chinese chair and waved it in the air like a hammer.

  “I’ll break this over your head, don’t you dare say such things! I’m not a bouncer, I’m a sweeper-up, I’ll sweep you up and send you to prison! Just don’t tempt me, or you’ll see what the full service looks like, understood?”

  Bambinella pretended to be worried about the chair.

  “Mamma mia, be careful, Brigadie’, these Chinese items aren’t exactly cheap, you know. But what can I do about it, I just love those things! But instead of hitting me over the head with that chair, why don’t you sit on it and give me a minute to make you a cup of ersatz coffee.”

  Maione thought carefully about whether he ought to carry out his threat to shatter the chair into a thousand pieces, as he stood balancing it in midair. Then he opted for the more peaceful solution and set it back down and took a seat. The groaning sound from the bamboo suggested that the chair itself might have had other preferences.

  “All right, then, Bambine’, are you going to explain what all this is about? Why did you lock the door and send the boy away? Is there some problem?”

  The femminiello, as he continued to rummage around on his cheap stovetop, replied with a braying laugh that sounded like nothing so much as a donkey.

  “No, no problem at all, Brigadie’. Quite the contrary, something wonderful, for a change. Shall I put the sugar in myself?”

  “Bambine’, I asked you a question. What’s going on?”

  Bambinella handed Maione the demitasse and sat down coquettishly across from him, a broad smile on his face.

  “Brigadie’, I’m in love.”

  Maione sighed and ran a hand over his face.

  “Mamma mia, just the thought of it is enough to turn my stomach. Anyway, what does that have to do with you locking your door? And above all, who’s the lucky girl . . . I mean, boy?”

  Bambinella blushed and cast a modest glance at the floor. He seemed like a parody of a schoolgirl being presented with a risqué joke.

  He murmured: “No, you know how it is, Brigadie’, it’s just that a girl might not feel like doing certain things, let’s say, on a professional basis. Forgive me, but I can’t tell you the name, just this once, that’s a piece of information I’m going to withhold. He came here on a bet—certain friends of his had told him that I’m famous because I know how to . . . ”

  Maione raised a hand, imperiously.

  “For the love of all that’s holy, Bambine’: spare me the technical details. Go on.”

  “ . . . and anyway, he came here. At first, I just thought he was some ordinary guy, all sorts of people come up here, you understand. But then, I realized that he has an . . . ”

  Maione moaned, and reached for the handgun in his holster. Bambinella decided to skip over the reasons for his sudden crush.

  “ . . . And I don’t how it is or how it isn’t, but this love affair sprang into being. What can I tell you, since that moment I have stopped being a working girl. Over the years I’ve managed to put a little something aside, nothing much to speak of, but after all a small nest egg, and you know I don’t need much, once I’ve got some lipstick, some blush . . . It’s just that there are a few who won’t give up, and they come all the way up here any to see if I’m willing to take on a job or two.”

  The brigadier shook his head in amazement.

  “Well, what am I supposed to say to you? If you’re happy, then everyone’s happy. At least this way I won’t have to trouble my conscience every time over the fact that I’m not running you in. Does this mean you won’t be able to procure information anymore?”

  Bambinella laughed his usual donkey bray, fetchingly putting one hand over his mouth.

  “Why no, Brigadie’, what are you thinking? I get news for you from my friends, male and female, not from my customers. Don’t worry about that. Speaking of which, what fair wind blows you in my direction today? I don’t think anyone was murdered recently, at least not to the best of my knowledge. Or am I wrong?”

  Maione shook his head.

  “No, in fact, this isn’t about a recent death. I’m interested in an old death. It dates back to June, to be exact: a lawyer from Santa Lucia who . . . ”

  The femminiello bounced happily up and down, clapping her hands as if she knew the answer to some parlor game.

  “Ah, I know this one, I know this one! Piro was his name, am I right? Of course, everyone was talking about it this summer! But didn’t they catch the murderer straightaway? In fact, I remember thinking, what good policemen these are, they barely begin the investigation and already they’ve figured out who it was . . . O-o-oh, madonna santa, Brigadie’, forgive me . . . ”

  Maione had leapt to his feet and was glowering down at Bambinella.

  “Look, I won’t kill you for the idiotic things you’ve just said because I want to explain to you just how idiotic you are. And you’re idiotic for two reasons. First. That moron De Blasio, the commissario who was in charge of this thing, didn’t catch a blessed soul because the self-proclaimed criminal, Count Romualdo Palmieri di Roccaspina, turned himself in of his own free will. Second. Maybe it wasn’t even him. So before you start flapping that open sewer of a mouth of yours, think twice, capito?”

  Bambinella put both hands together in astonishment.

  “Jesus, sweet Jesus, then it wasn’t him? Mamma mia, what a hot piece of news!”

  Maione immediately reversed course.

  “That’s not what I said. I said that it might not have been him. We need to investigate, and we’re trying to figure out what happened on a top-secret basis, so don’t let a word of this leak out. That’s why I’m here. I need information about the victim and the alleged murderer. Anything you can find out: bad habits, personal relationships, secret debts, everything. And I need it fast.”

  Bambinella smiled.

  “Of course I will, Brigadie’, seeing that I’m not working for the reasons I explained to you earlier, I have more time on my hands. I’ll take a walk up to Santa Lucia, I have a girlfriend there who keeps house in the same building as the dead man, she was the one who told me all about it. And then I want to ask someone I know whose brother runs a clandestine gambling den, oh lord, he’s a fine young man, but his bad friends needed someone who had a place where they could gamble and he, who happens to own a basement space that . . . ”

  Maione emitted a snarl and Bambinella got her story back on track.

  “In other words, I have a few contacts I can fall back on. Tomorrow during the day I hope to let you know something, Brigadie’. Maybe, if it’s not too much of a bother, I’ll send for you.”

  Maione nodded menacingly.

  “You’d better. Remember that I can always still find a reason to arrest you, even if you’ve stopped being a working girl.”

  He turned to go, but the femminiello stopped him.

  “Brigadie’, forgive me, just in case anyone happens to ask why I let you in, since I’m turning away all my usual clients, do you mind just telling them that you came out here on a case? You understand, my sweetheart is terribly jealous and I wouldn’t want him to . . . ”

  Slowly, Maione swiveled around, his jaw clenched and his eyes aflame.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll say that I came out here to track down some facts, and in fact I tracked down the fact that you’re a moron, an idiot, and a cretin; but that unfortunately none of these are actually crimes, and therefore I let you out on your own recognizance. Let me have the information I requested by tomorrow, otherwise I’ll come back. And believe me, that’s not in your best interest.”

  And he turned and left, walking stiffly but with his mind set at ease. At least the way back would be downhill.

  XX

  Since they arrived at the office at roughly the same time, Ricciardi and Maione briefed each other on their meetings and tried to establish a concerte
d line of action.

  The commissario had no doubts about what the next step would be.

  “We need to see the place where the murder happened. Otherwise we won’t be able to form a clear idea of things.”

  Maione agreed.

  “Yes, Commissa’, that’s true. But it’s dangerous, and it’s no simple matter. How are we going to explain our presence in the victim’s home after the investigation has been completed and all we’re waiting for is the trial? What if the family calls in to police headquarters, or speaks to someone important and asks why the police are still investigating?”

  “That’s true. But it’s also true that if we fail to figure out how the murderer managed to enter and exit undisturbed in the middle of the night, with the arrangement of the rooms in that apartment, and why the family members heard nothing, unless we can see their faces and unless we hear what they remember, beyond what’s written in the reports, we can’t move forward.”

  The brigadier was very happy to rediscover in Ricciardi the motivations of days gone by. It was the first time since Rosa’s death that he had heard him utter more than a few monosyllabic words of generic courtesy.

  “We could do what we did with De Blasio, invent some case that we’re investigating in the surrounding neighborhood, that might have some connection with the murder.”

  “No. They wouldn’t let us ask specific questions about the event and the days that preceded it. Don’t forget that the family believes that the murderer is in prison, and that as far as they’re concerned, the case is closed.”

  Ricciardi thought it over, pacing back and forth in the room.

  “Sometimes the investigating magistrate will order a supplementary investigation if some detail in the accusatory charges is less than perfectly clear. We could pretend it was something of the sort. I could go on my own, that way no one would get you into trouble.”

  “Commissa’,” Maione replied, “if they see you show up on your own, they wouldn’t even let you in the door. They need to see someone in uniform, and you know that. So, either you find an extra and you dress him up, or else you take with you a trusted assistant, precise and intuitive, who, as usual, can solve the case for you while giving you all the credit. What do you say?”

  The building where the Piro family lived was one of the most prestigious palazzi on one of the loveliest streets in the city. It was on the corner of the waterfront promenade, it was warmed by the sun on three sides, and its front entrance overlooked a quiet little piazzetta, complete with flowerbeds and benches.

  Everything oozed wealth and comfort.

  In the serene September afternoon, the clamor of the city seemed like a distant memory. The sea was preparing for the coming evening by donning a darker suit, a vivid blue that was reminiscent of the color of the paper in which sugar was sold, and the sky hosted a couple of innocent-looking clouds that helped to distinguish it from the mass of water beneath. In the various parks, nursemaids and nannies in uniform promenaded with tall baby carriages and the occasional elderly gentleman with a monocle hobbled along with a cane, making a great show of what might be wounds won in combat or simple inflammations of the sciatic nerve.

  How September resembles June, thought Ricciardi, the only difference is in the outlook for the future. Probably, on the day of the murder this is exactly what the neighborhood had looked like. Maybe a little bit warmer, maybe with a few more open windows.

  An automobile went rattling past, with the chauffeur in livery sitting proudly at the wheel and a lady with an elegant cap sitting in back. The noise had the general effect of an explosion in the tranquility of the street, to such an extent that a couple of women sitting talking on a bench shot the car a malevolent glare. Impossible, thought Ricciardi. Impossible that no one heard a thing.

  The doorman didn’t ask many questions. What had happened was grave and quite recent, and so, when he saw Maione’s uniform, he showed no suprise. He led them up to the third floor, where they were met by an attractive housemaid in an apron and lace headpiece who ushered them into an elegantly furnished waiting room. Ricciardi didn’t leave his calling card, well aware as he was that it was best to leave as few traces as possible of this visit.

  They looked around. The apartment was very elegant, with an expensive wallpaper on the walls and a great deal of fine silver on the walnut furniture. The waiting room had two doors: one was closed, the other led into a room with a window overlooking the sea.

  After a few minutes a middle-aged woman entered the room, dressed in black and wearing no makeup. Her face bore the signs of suffering that, Ricciardi decided, must date back several months, if not longer.

  “Buonasera,” she said in a low, firm voice. “I’m Costanza Piro. With whom do I have the pleasure?”

  Ricciardi bowed his head ever so briefly.

  “Commissario Ricciardi from police headquarters, Signora. I apologize for not having alerted you in advance of our visit. It’s nothing more than a minor formality, and we hope not to take up much of your time.”

  Intentionally, he had refrained from introducing Maione in order to ensure that the woman couldn’t bring up his name in case she grew suspicious and decided to make inquiries. The brigadier, slightly ill at ease, doffed his cap and murmured a greeting.

  The woman looked them up and down, mistrustfully.

  “I thought that the . . . whole matter was taken care of, after the arrest. What is it now?”

  Ricciardi was ready for that question.

  “Unfortunately the draft version of the police report is marred by a lack of details concerning certain areas, and in the trial phase such a lack could create a risk for the appeals process. No one wishes that to happen, especially since what happened is so crystal clear. Don’t you agree?”

  The woman’s expression changed, taking on a new harshness.

  “That’s for sure. That damned murderer must pay and should remain in prison for the rest of his life. A prison that can be no worse than the one to which, by murdering my husband, he has sentenced the rest of us, who deeply loved him. Well?”

  Maione ostentatiously pulled out a notebook and a pencil, licking the tip of it and preparing to jot down notes. Inwardly, Ricciardi approved of the pantomime.

  “Can you take us to the place where the misfortune occurred?”

  “It was no misfortune, Commissario,” the woman replied tersely. “It was a murder. Please, come this way.”

  As they walked through the room from which they could just glimpse the sea, they headed into a charming little parlor with a sofa and two armchairs, and from there walked on through a dining room, until they fetched up against a closed door.

  Costanza Piro opened the door and they found themselves in a small study shrouded in dim light, with a large elaborately carved mahogany desk. Behind the desk was a balcony shut off by a heavy curtain. When the woman pulled it aside and opened the window, a marvelous panorama of the bay appeared.

  Ricciardi ran his gaze over the large bookshelf, over the massive tomes of law codes, over the two green leather armchairs and the coffee table in front of the sofa that backed up against the wall opposite to the balcony. He waited, but the image of the dead man didn’t appear to him. It’s been too long, he decided. In the cool air wafting up from the sea, he thought he could detect the usual sense of surprise and nostalgia, that mixture of the detached and the serene, the sorrowful memory that accompanied violent death like a stench that only he could perceive. But perhaps it was only his imagination.

  He concentrated on the desk and the high-backed chair that stood behind it, where Piro must have been sitting. He tried to imagine him slumped over the mahogany desktop, his head lolling on the right cheek, one arm next to his body, the other dangling toward the floor.

  The woman broke into the silence.

  “Why didn’t your colleague come, the one who worked on the case in the first p
lace? De Blasio, I think his name was.”

  Ricciardi replied in a distracted tone of voice.

  “He was busy. Tell me, Signora, is the way we came the only way to reach the office?”

  “Certainly. From the front door to here, a straight shot. Then through there,” and she pointed to a closed door, “you reach another wing of the apartment, the area with the bedrooms.”

  The commissario turned his attention back to the desk. A document tray, a desk pad, an elaborate silver inkstand with two wells. A bronze statuette depicting a young fisherman, a leather portfolio tied shut with a ribbon. All of it immaculate, totally clean. Not even a faint coating of dust.

  Too clean, thought Ricciardi.

  “Was it normal for him to work so late?”

  Costanza nodded. It was unsettling how the woman’s expression never changed, the wrinkles around her tight lips, her eyes level and empty.

  “My husband, Commissario, administered the assets of several very prominent religious institutions. He oversaw their investments, and their financial transactions. He enjoyed the trust of both the bishop and several highly placed state functionaries. He was a member of the Party, and he could have ascended to important political positions, if he had so chosen. He had a hard job, he worked all hours, frequently late into the night. He said that actually he preferred to work at night, because of the silence and the calm, which helped him to concentrate.”

  Before Ricciardi had time to formulate an answer, the door swung open and a girl walked in. She resembled Costanza in her physique and her eyes, but her complexion was fairer and the oval of her face was much more delicate.

  The woman introduced her.

  “Commissario, this is my daughter, Carlotta. The gentlemen are here for an . . . examination in preparation for the trial.”

  The girl made a slight, well-mannered bow. She was wearing a simple pleated dress with white-and-red stripes, fastened at the waist by a belt and with a round collar that was reminiscent of a schoolgirl’s smock. Her hair was gathered in two large braids pulled up into a bun in the back. She might be sixteen or even seventeen years old.