Falco had gotten the impression that his superior officer was paying him those compliments unwillingly, which gave him a faint shiver of pleasure. That veiled annoyance could only mean that the little man with the comma on his forehead was feeling threatened by his underling.
Then the little man had explained what his new assignment would be.
At first Falco hadn’t been able to believe his ears, and he’d struggled to preserve his proverbial impassive demeanor: this was the umpteenth test to which he was putting his poker face, he told himself. He’d heard about many colleagues whose careers had come to a sudden halt after questioning an order or a strategy. And so he had nodded, expressed his thanks, and settled down to listen.
A singer, indeed a former singer, the widow of a great tenor. Who had moved to this city because she had fallen in love with no less than a police officer, a strange commissario who’d been under their surveillance for quite some time, someone who often operated outside of standard procedures, but about whom, as he had read in the reports, nothing unorthodox had been found, save for a suspicious lone-wolf tendency and the lack of any bad habits.
The woman had to be protected, his superior officer had explained to him, she was very dear to people at the highest levels, and she must not be exposed to the slightest danger. He realized how singular this request must seem, but they had instructed him quite specifically that the assignment should be entrusted to one of his best men. Falco had tried to discern whether there was irony in those words, but as usual, he had been unable to detect any. He had taken the scanty information transcribed onto a single sheet of paper and the woman’s file, he had left with a cold, formal salutation, and then he had spent the night studying, clinging to that one phrase: very dear to people at the highest level. Later, he would learn that Livia was one of Il Duce’s daughter’s closest friends.
He had remained in the shadows, as instructed, to keep an eye on her as she moved into her new home. He had constructed a protective network around her to ensure that nothing bad befell her in a city where nothing was ever quite what it seemed. Then, in the aftermath of several unforeseen mishaps, he had been forced to ask her for a face-to-face meeting.
That was the kind of thing that, if possible, should always be avoided. The very existence of the organization—even though people were talking about it everywhere, and in increasingly concrete terms—was never supposed to be revealed, and most especially not to anyone who was the subject of its surveillance. But in that case Falco had been forced to arrange for the woman’s collaboration, to keep her from getting herself into trouble.
He thought back to that first meeting now, as he climbed the staircase of the magnificent palazzo where Livia had chosen to live. He remembered the encounter and the stirring emotions he had managed to conceal under his customary impassive front, but only by virtue of the long training and practice to which he had been subjected.
Before that day, he had observed her from a distance, by and large, save for a few cases, at the theater or on the street, when he had pretended to cross paths with her by chance or taken an adjoining box. And he had studied her in the countless photographs printed in the newspapers on the occasion of receptions, inaugurations, or theatrical premieres, portrayed with leading figures of Fascism. He knew who she was, and he believed that he knew what she was like.
Then he had come face-to-face with her.
Beauty, thought Falco as he rang the doorbell, is something you can’t define until you have it before you. Beauty is a matter of tiny movements of the facial muscles, a flicker of eyelashes, a movement of the fingers. Beauty, thought Falco, moves through the air like radio waves, and if you’re too far away, you can’t perceive it for what it is. Beauty hits you in the chest like a sudden blow, and its memory produces an echo that, afterward, you’ll have to deal with forever.
Falco had become very pleased with that assignment, which he had at first experienced as a professional purgatory, after actually meeting Livia. After his nostrils had inhaled that strange perfume and his eyes had locked with that dark, profound gaze, and then run down over the soft, lithe outlines of a statuesque body, a tacit promise of an unattainable paradise.
It had been second nature, since that moment, to protect ner. And it was a pleasure every time to see her and speak to her. All the same, he only became aware of a more substantial sentiment when he heard her sing.
He loved music very much, it was his only weakness. The only message of beauty that came to him from a past that he’d been forced to forget, though without any excessive regret. He remembered having attended an opera in which Livia had been one of the performers, but on that occasion his chest hadn’t quavered the way it had when, on the terrace of the apartment where he was waiting to enter, he had heard that wonderful woman’s voice shape the notes of a song that had never been sung before. That was when his calloused old heart had skipped a beat, only to begin galloping crazily; that was when he had felt for the first time a sensation of bewilderment and innocence, turmoil and weakness; that was when, almost incredulous, he had felt his eyes well up with tears.
Two months had gone by. Two months in which he had been forced to take into account his awareness of a new emotion, in all likelihood in direct contrast with his professional duties. Two months in which he had tried to find a precarious balance between his profession and the fact that he was a man. By limiting his desire for more frequent opportunities to see her, focusing on the vague expression of disgust that appeared on Livia’s face every time she found him in her presence. Doing his best to persuade her, little by little, that all he wanted to do was protect her, help her to steer clear of the dangers to which she herself and her fragile emotions might expose her.
All of this in the dull, painful awareness that she loved another man. Another man who, for no good or understandable reason, remained unattainable to her, possibly because he was—in his turn—in love with someone else.
And now an investigation undertaken strictly to gratify Livia’s wishes, a simple piece of research that ought to have been mere routine, had put him face-to-face with something he never would have imagined. By an indirect and very marginal path, his job of protecting Livia had unearthed the presence in the city of what looked very much like a spy for the German military.
The dossier was classified and his office had not yet been entrusted with the matter, but Falco’s well trained eyes and ears could not be fooled. Major von Brauchitsch, newly seated as the cultural attaché at the German consulate, was marked with a finding of top alert and had already been placed under confidential surveillance twenty-four hours a day; and for the past month and a half he had been carrying on a lively correspondence with the young woman who lived right next to Ricciardi, the same young woman who had been friends with the late governess Rosa Vaglio and who was, in all likelihood, the object of the commissario’s romantic attentions.
This new development—while on the one hand it certainly complicated his assignment of protecting Livia, who might face consequences from any potential contact with the German that were impossible to calculate in advance—on the other hand did open some interesting possibilities for Falco. It would surely not go unnoticed that he had been able to gather information about this man, about what he did and who he saw. One of his men, for instance, had just learned that the major had paid a call on a florist and had sent a bouquet of roses to Enrica’s mother. The note enclosed with the bouquet had announced a visit to their home that evening, as he had learned from the shopkeeper, who by a lucky but hardly uncommon fluke of fate turned out to be one of the organization’s informants.
Falco was planning to draw up a report to inform his superior that he had found a channel that might allow him to keep a closer eye on von Brauchitsch’s movements; a discreet sidelong vantage point that would, nonetheless, offer a finer view than simple stakeouts or reading his mail. This would allow Falco an unexpected prominence, allowing hi
m to move up through the mysterious hierarchies of the structure in which he worked.
Before doing so, however, he would need to make sure that Livia understood what risks she was facing by being even indirectly exposed to the major’s maneuverings. That Ricciardi unquestionably posed a danger, in both one sense and the other. Ricciardi could hinder the consolidation of the major’s relationship with Enrica, just by asking the young woman not to see the German officer again, or Ricciardi could become an insurmountable obstacle to Falco’s contacts with Livia, if instead he were to decide to accept the attentions of the lovely singer. It would be useful, opportune, and enjoyable to find a way to get rid of this Ricciardi, once and for all if possible.
In this context, he had arranged to intensify the surveillance of the policeman. Perhaps he’d stumble upon some excuse to throw him into jail, or send him into exile somewhere far away. Never give up hope.
Clara, Livia’s housekeeper, answered the door; instead of her usual sunny smile, however, she now wore a baffled, unhappy expression. Falco even had the impression that she had been crying. He asked her if everything was all right, and the girl shook her head, lips quavering, incapable of speech.
Falco took fright. Could something serious have happened to Livia? Still in silence, Clara led him directly into the living room, which was shrouded in evening shadows. Usually the young woman was quite a chatterbox and to get rid of her he was obliged to tell her in no uncertain terms that she could leave. This time, instead, she seemed to be in a hurry to leave him alone. She hurried off without even bothering to turn on the light.
Falco reached his hand out toward the light switch, but a scratchy voice coming out of the darkness stopped him.
“No, please don’t.”
He sharpened his gaze and made out Livia’s shape, stretched out on the sofa. The air was dense with the odor of smoke and alcohol; on an impulse he went over to the window and threw it open, leaving the curtains closed. Livia started coughing uncontrollably.
“What’s the matter, Signora? Aren’t you well?”
Livia didn’t answer. She was singing to herself, her voice slurred, an unrecognizable singsong. The man realized that she was drunk.
He switched on a lamp that stood on a side table. Livia was dressed in a housecoat that hung open in the front and was stained with liquor. On the floor beside her lay an overflowing ashtray and two bottles: one of them lay on its side and had created a small puddle of liquid on the carpet, the other was half empty. At the end of her arm that splayed out into the empty air, her hand gripped a precariously balanced glass.
“Here you are, my dear Falco, the man without a face and without a name. They sent you to take me back to Rome, didn’t they? They asked you to come sweep up the fragments of this heap of wreckage of a woman, isn’t that right?”
Even in her unmistakable state of intoxication, even shabby and dirty as she was, even dreary and disheartened, she struck Falco as alluring and beautiful. He perceived her need for help. Her malaise conferred upon her a weakness that stirred a certain tenderness within him.
“Signora, you’re anything but a heap of wreckage. Come now, put down this glass. How long have you been sitting here? Have you had anything to eat?”
He lifted her to a sitting position, supporting her. She let him do as he wished, then softly began to cry. Little by little, the sobs grew louder and more uncontrolled, and then they subsided, ebbing into an unbroken stream of tears that striped her face, cutting through the gooey layer of smeared makeup. She looked like a heartbroken little girl.
“I beg you, Signora, tell me what’s happened. Did someone . . . ”
Livia opened her eyes wide, as if she were seeing him for the first time. Then she said, in a harsh and hissing voice: “Yes. Yes. Someone has hurt me. Someone is hurting me, wounding me, ravaging me, murdering me. If you want to defend me, if you want to save me, if it is true that you are here to protect me, you need to rid me forever of the sight of him.”
“Signora, but what . . . ”
“He’s a pervert. A damned pederast, a homosexual. He’s not interested in women because he prefers men. It’s obvious, this has to be the reason. And I was so stupid, so damned stupid, that I never understood it.”
The words fell between them like the drops of a scalding rain. Falco said nothing, his hand supporting her arm. He could smell the toabacco and alcohol on her breath. Yes, she was drunk, no doubt about it, but what did that matter, really?
“Are you positive about this, Signora?”
She nodded, repeatedly. Then she burst into tears again, sobbing into the handkerchief that he had handed her.
Falco, practically under his breath, murmured: “This explains everything. Don’t worry, Signora, you have me here to protect you.”
XXIX
Maione and Ricciardi had just finished going over the information they’d gathered during the course of the day. They agreed that, with the evidence at their disposal, it would be difficult to support the hypothesis that anyone other than the Count of Roccaspina had murdered Piro.
“But let me understand this, Commissa’: he admits he murdered him, and he confirms the confession, but he’d like to be released from prison as soon as possible. And why do you find that so strange?”
Ricciardi paced back and forth across the room.
“Because, all things considered, except for the quarrel the day before, and then his own confession, there is no evidence that it was him. How could we have ever identified him as the murderer? He could have relied on his wife’s testimony, and as you know she is quite certain he was at home that night.”
“And so?”
“And so, if you don’t want to be in prison in the first place, then why do you want to be sent there?”
Maione, sitting in his usual chair, thought that over.
“A person might have a conscience, Commissa’. Maybe the count realized: If I don’t step forward, someone else might go to prison in my place. Bambinella told me that, deep down, Roccaspina, aside from his fixation on gambling, is a decent person. Perhaps then and there he wasn’t sufficiently clear-minded to understand that he’d be losing his liberty for a long time to come.”
Ricciardi shook his head.
“To me, actually, he seemed pretty lucid. I don’t know, it’s as if something were eluding me.”
The brigadier was following the thread of his thoughts in the light of the information brought to him by Bambinella.
“What strikes me as strange is the fact that they fired this chauffeur, so unexpectedly. All right, I understand that the dead man was dead and therefore would no longer need to be driven here and there, but it’s also true that people care very much about keeping up appearances, letting everyone think that they are still rich, that nothing has changed. Otherwise who’s going to marry the guagliona, the young lady? Maybe we should have a chat with him, this chauffeur. Maybe he can give us a little information.”
“All right, tomorrow we’ll talk to the chauffeur, too. The problem is that this is an old case, something that everybody figures is wrapped up and done with. It’s hard to get people to willingly cast their memories back. But one thing I’d like to understand better is our client, the contessa. This suitor, the Duke Marangolo, what was he doing at the Roccaspina residence the night of the murder? A slightly odd coincidence.”
Before Maione could come up with a retort, the door swung open without anyone having knocked.
“Why, in here we have people working right into the evening. Very good! My sincere compliments. That means that in this city, as I have been claiming, it’s not true that we have nothing but lazy good-for-nothings!”
Maione, who had his back to the door, leapt to his feet, knocking the cap off his head, then he scooped it up, swearing under his breath, and put it back on, first backwards, then the right way round.
“Buonasera, Dott
or Garzo,” said Ricciardi. “I didn’t think there was anyone still here at this hour. We were just going over the duty roster for tomorrow.”
The man’s overcoat was draped over his arm, which meant that he was in fact leaving the building. He ran the back of his hand over his narrow, well trimmed mustache with a gesture that had long since become notorious at police headquarters, as well as the object of endless secret ridicule and mockery.
“Certainly, certainly. Because, as we all know, everything is under control and there are no investigations of any real seriousness underway. That’s right, isn’t it?”
Garzo, to whom Ricciardi reported directly, was in charge of supervising all the investigative activities of the city’s police department. He was puffed up and conceited, and he loved to think that he was in charge of the situation. In reality, he was a bureaucrat who was very skilled at maintaining relations with his superior officers, but entirely incompetent in the specific responsibilities of policework.
Maione and Ricciardi held him in utter contempt, and they struggled to conceal that fact.
“Certainly, Dottore. Everything is under control.”
Garzo nodded again, then, winking behind the thick lenses of his eyeglasses, said: “And yet you continue to receive visitors, I see. Perhaps the brigadier ought to leave you alone, Ricciardi, since you’re expecting company.”
Ricciardi and Maione exchanged a glance.
“No, Dottore, I’m not expecting any visitors. We were just saying goodnight, our shift is over and . . . ”
Garzo grimaced in a way that was clearly meant to be a sly grin, but which actually produced an idiotic leer.
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