“Dottore, if you have orders . . . I’m in the middle of an investigation, as you mentioned. I don’t have a lot of time.”
Garzo clenched his fists for a moment. That man really got on his nerves, with his calm and casual way of always showing him disrespect. Still, he did his best to restrain himself, so as not to deviate from the approach he had planned out in advance.
“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I heard about this pizza maker, what’s his name . . .” He consulted a little sheet of paper before him on his otherwise immaculate desk. “Iodice, that’s right. So this Iodice is dead, isn’t he? As a result of self-inflicted wounds, according to the report. Therefore, case closed. Another quick and successful conclusion.”
Ricciardi expected this line of attack and he was ready for it.
“No, Dottore. You must have been misinformed. There was no confession on Iodice’s part.”
Garzo looked up from the report he was reading, staring at Ricciardi over the gold rims of his reading glasses.
“But I didn’t say anything about a confession. It’s the act itself, the taking of his own life: that is a confession. He was the murderer, and his conscience couldn’t stand it. There’s no doubt about it, as far as I’m concerned.”
Ricciardi briefly shook his head.
“No, Dottore. We’re not done with our interviews yet. We have another person we still need to talk to, possibly two people, and a couple of places we need to inspect. After that we may be ready to conclude our investigation. Maybe.”
With a theatrical gesture, Garzo whipped off his eyeglasses.
“It was precisely this last interview remaining, Ricciardi, that I wanted to speak to you about. I know that you’ve summoned the wife of a very prominent man for an interview. I assume you realize how important it is to preserve amicable relations with this city’s judges and lawyers. I therefore strongly urge you to avoid causing friction.”
Ricciardi smiled.
“But, Dottore, it was my understanding that the overriding interest of both judges and lawyers was the pursuit of truth. Can you imagine what a surprise it would be for the press to discover that a subpoena for questioning had been, how should I put this, suppressed by police headquarters? You should know, Dottore, that a certain list of names was found at Calise’s apartment by none other than a reporter, and if it hasn’t been published yet it’s only because Brigadier Maione here asked the person in question not to disseminate it, so as not to hamper our investigation. But if you really think it’s necessary . . .”
Both Maione and Garzo looked at Ricciardi in amazement. Neither man had ever heard him talk that much.
The deputy chief of police recovered from his bewilderment. Among his many fine qualities was his ability to recognize when he’d been defeated and cut his losses.
“If that’s how matters stand, please, proceed as planned. And my thanks to you, Brigadier, for your sensitivity and concern for the reputation of the police force and for the people involved. The one thing I would ask, Ricciardi, is that you proceed with the utmost discretion. This means that the . . . person in question will not be coming to your office. Instead, you will conduct your interview at the signora’s residence. And you’ll go there by car, so that no one sees you arrive on foot. Keep me informed.”
XLVII
If there was one thing he hated to do, it was drive a car. Perhaps because it wasn’t something his generation had grown up with, or else simply because he’d ridden horses as a boy and in his heart that was still his preferred way of getting around. Whatever the reason, Maione didn’t like to drive.
“I don’t understand these fixations. Taking the car to go half a mile! It takes two minutes to get there! And they tell us they need it, that they don’t want it to be used for police duty. Let them keep it!”
He’d just installed himself in the driver’s seat, and he was already drenched with sweat from the agitation. The engine was roaring as it revved. He shifted into gear; the vehicle lurched forward and the engine stalled. A lawyer and a clerk who were standing talking in the courtyard of headquarters took a step back, apprehensively.
“Now look, even the clutch is shot on this, this, this jalopy. I have to ask, though, Commissa’, where did you get the idea to bring up this list and this reporter? As if I would talk to a journalist. You know I hate journalists.”
Ricciardi, sunk into the upholstery of the backseat, was holding himself steady with both hands on the door handle.
“It was the only thing I could think of. I’m sorry, weren’t there any drivers available?”
A wounded expression appeared on Maione’s face.
“Listen, Commissa’, I’m the best driver out of all the staff at police headquarters! The problem is that this damned vehicle hasn’t been maintained properly, that’s what it is. Ah, there’s the choke, I see.”
With a roar, the engine started up again and the car took off. Lawyer and clerk each leapt to opposite sides of the street, running for dear life. Ricciardi’s thoughts turned briefly to Enrica, bidding her farewell as he clutched at the door handle to stay upright.
It was, in fact, not much more than half a mile from police headquarters to Via Generale Orsini, where the Serra di Arpajas lived. You just took the new road running along the waterfront, with the monumental buildings of Castelnuovo and the Palazzo Reale on one side, on the other the old buildings of the Italian navy arsenal, the Arsenale della Marina, which would soon be demolished to make way for a park. The city reminded Ricciardi more all the time of one of those houses with a nice parlor for entertaining guests while the rest of the rooms were falling apart.
At the end of the road, just before the broad left-hand curve that would take them to Via Santa Lucia, was the huge construction site for the Galleria della Vittoria, a magnificent tunnel and an undertaking of the Fascist regime. Linking two parts of the city with an underground road. A hole a third of a mile long. Five men had already died in the excavation. Ricciardi could still see two of them, glowing in the darkness of the excavated earth, talking about their families as they were just seconds before the explosion that had blown them to pieces.
These accidents never even came to public attention. First, the authorities carefully covered them up; then they arranged for the surviving families to receive special assistance. Well, that’s something, at least, thought Ricciardi, doing his best to hold on tight as they drove through the curve, which Maione had entered by swerving suddenly. A cart piled high with produce and being drawn by an elderly mule lost most of its cargo, and the carter’s stream of invective poured out after them like the wake of a speedboat.
“Eh, what’s the big deal? That cart was loaded with nothing but garbage, anyway. Now then, Commissa’, what’s the street number of this palazzo?”
“It’s number twenty-four, right here on the right. Start slowing down.”
Maione immediately jammed on the brakes, bringing the vehicle to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk. On the exact spot where an austere nanny was walking, with the traditional long white dress, the white lace headpiece, and an enormous wooden baby carriage.
“Is that any way to drive? You almost frightened me to death! And if the child had taken a spill, who’d have told the baronessa? Are you gentlemen mad?”
Maione did his best to placate her wrath.
“Forgive us, Signo’, we’re engaged in a police operation and I didn’t see you. We were in a hurry.”
Ricciardi looked down at the toddler, who seemed interested in the commissario’s face.
“What’s the little boy’s name?”
“His name is Giovanni. He’s almost two.”
Good luck to you, Giovanni, Ricciardi thought to himself. It’s not a very nice world, the one you decided to be born into! Even though from this part of town it doesn’t look so bad.
The child smiled up at him. He had green eyes, too.
The palazzo’s uniformed doorman walked forward to meet Maione and Ricciardi with
a soldierly step, inquiring as to who they were and ostentatiously checking a list he had. The brigadier and commissario exchanged a look of annoyance.
“Commissa’, would you like to tell the admiral here that we’re members of the police and we’re not here on a social call, or shall I? Otherwise, I swear to God, I’m going to shove him aside and break down some doors.”
Ricciardi laid a hand on the doorman’s arm.
“Listen, please just announce us. They’re expecting us.”
As they stepped out of the elevator, they found the apartment door wide open and a housemaid curtseying in welcome.
“Prego, come in. The professor will see you in just a moment.”
Maione shot the commissario a glance.
“But aren’t we here to talk with the wife?”
Ricciardi shrugged. He didn’t think they had much chance of gaining direct, unmediated access to the signora, but he was determined not to leave without questioning his witness. After a short wait, they were admitted to an austere study lined with antique books. The man walking toward them exuded an air of authority.
“Prego, Signori, please have a seat on the sofa; let me order you a cup of tea. I hardly think we need to sit at the desk. You’re not here for legal consultation.”
He flashed a conspiratorial smile. The policemen let his friendly stare go unanswered and remained standing.
“Professor, we thank you for your hospitality. But we’re here to interview the signora and the quicker we can get to it, the better.”
“You’ll see her, Commissario. She’s on her way now. But I will need to be present; that’s not up for discussion. As her lawyer, if not as her husband. If you want to see her alone, you’ll have to arrest her. That is, if you think you can find a magistrate in this city willing to issue the arrest warrant, of course. So, shall I have her come in?”
Ricciardi thought it over rapidly: it was just a matter of asking a few questions, the answers to which in all likelihood would allow them to close the case definitively. A woman from the better part of town who had indulged in the thrill of having her fortune told by an old tarot card reader.
“All right, Professor. Let’s get this out of the way.”
XLVIII
Ricciardi observed Signora Emma Serra di Arpaja. He’d imagined her as quite unlike the way she had presented herself.
Pallid, circles under her eyes, hollow cheeks. No makeup except for a hint around her eyes, dressed in gray, hair cut fashionably short and tucked behind her ears, leaving her forehead uncovered. Simple shoes with flat heels, sheer stockings.
She kept her eyes lowered, fixed on the small parlor table, with an undecipherable expression on her face, without any apparent emotion. She had greeted them in a low, flat voice. She seemed to be suffering, but from some dull, recondite, distant pain.
Thus far her husband hadn’t looked at her. He was scrutinizing Ricciardi, sizing him up. The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife.
After a long and awkward silence, Ricciardi spoke.
“Signora, please describe your relations with the Signora Calise, Carmela, self-proclaimed fortune teller, found dead in her apartment on April fifteenth.”
Emma didn’t look at him. She answered in a monotone.
“I’d been to see her a few times. A girlfriend of mine took me there.”
“For what purpose?”
“My own amusement.”
“What did the two of you talk about?”
Emma shot a rapid glance at her husband, but her tone of voice remained unchanged.
“She read cards. She told me things.”
“What sort of things?”
Ruggero broke in, unruffled.
“Commissario, I hardly think the details of my wife’s conversations with Calise are pertinent to your investigation. Don’t you agree?”
Ricciardi decided that it was time to establish the boundaries of jurisdiction.
“Professor, as far as our investigation is concerned, kindly let us determine what’s pertinent and what isn’t. Go ahead, please, Signora: what did you talk about?”
When Emma replied, she seemed to be talking about other people in another world.
“I liked her. I didn’t have to think; she cleared up all my doubts for me. My life . . . Commissario, we live with so many uncertainties. Should I do this. Or should I do that instead. She didn’t have doubts about anything. She moved her cards around, she spat on them, and then she made a decision. And she was never wrong.”
Ricciardi looked the woman hard in the face. He had felt a stirring of emotion.
“And lately? Had you been to see her often?”
Ruggero responded, in a decisive tone of voice.
“Commissario, my wife told you that she’d been there a few times. That’s an expression that indicates chance visits, and infrequent ones. Under no circumstances can the word be understood to mean ‘often.’”
Without taking his eyes off the woman, Ricciardi gestured with one hand to Maione, who pulled Calise’s notebook out of his jacket.
“In this notebook,” said the brigadier after clearing his throat, “found in Calise’s apartment, your wife’s name is recorded, either written out or as initials, one hundred and sixteen times over roughly three hundred days of appointments. If you ask me, ‘often’ is a perfectly reasonable term, don’t you think, Professo’?”
Ruggero snorted in annoyance. Emma answered.
“Well, yes, I would go see her. It was a distraction. We all need distractions. Especially when life becomes oppressive.”
She’d said something terrible; Ricciardi and Maione realized it immediately. They both glanced over at Ruggero. He didn’t react, continuing to stare silently into the void in front of him. The commissario went on.
“And what did Calise talk to you about? Did she ever, I don’t know, confide in you, mention any names? Did she ever tell you that she was worried about anything, or did you ever sense that she might be in danger?”
Maione looked over at Ricciardi in surprise. He would have expected the commissario to ask other questions about Signora Serra di Arpaja’s troubles, delve deeper into the cracks in their relationship. Instead, he had returned to the topic of Calise.
“No, Commissario. We talked about other things, like I told you. She read my cards. That’s all. She told what was going to happen, and she was never wrong.”
When the woman had withdrawn from the room, Ruggero saw Maione and Ricciardi to the door.
“You see, Commissario, my wife is like a child. She has her little crazes, her amusements, the silly things she does with her girlfriends. But she was having dinner with me at the home of His Excellency the Prefect the night that Calise was murdered. I read about the mechanics of the murder in the newspaper. Our name is fairly prominent in this city. I’d appreciate it if this conversation was the last we could look forward to. Can I count on that?”
“We want exactly the same thing that you do, Professor: to make sure no innocent person is made to pay for something they didn’t do. You can rest assured, you and your wife. We know how to perform our duty.”
As they were walking out the front door, under the doorman’s resentful glare, Maione reviewed the meeting.
“Commissa’, why didn’t you delve a little deeper into the matter at hand, so to speak? It seemed to me that the signora was reciting a lesson the professor’d taught her, and then she let slip that she was unhappy. Wouldn’t it be worth finding out a little more about that? It wouldn’t be that the signora got started killing little old ladies as a way off fending off her boredom, for example?”
Ricciardi stopped Maione, laying a hand on his arm before stepping into the car.
“You have a point. Listen, Maione, there’s something I want to tell you before we get back in the car, just in case I don’t get out alive: none of this is clear to me. Emma Serra went lots of times to see Calise, who never made use of Nunzia’s services for her. That means that someone else was
serving as her informer. So I want you to do some digging into the life of Emma Serra di Arpaja, but be very careful how you go about it. I want to know who she sees, where she goes when her husband’s not around, the names of her friends, and what the domestics have to say. And as soon as you can. I have a feeling that any minute, we’re going to be given a choice: either say Iodice did it, or they’ll take us off the case.”
“Yessir, Commissa’. But this thing you said about not getting out of the car alive, I don’t get it. On the way back you can explain it clearly to me.”
XLIX
Teresa watched the two policemen from the kitchen window as they got into the car and departed with a jolt. They’d aroused her curiosity; those crystal green eyes had made a strong impression on her. She’d observed the professor and the signora, too: he, who had gone several days without washing or shaving, more perfectly groomed and elegant than ever; she, who was usually glamorous and dressed in the latest fashions, as modestly clothed as the parish priest’s spinster housekeeper back home in her village.
She had served the tea in silence, her eyes riveted to the floor, so she was unable to see their faces, but she’d still sensed all of the tension in the room bearing down on her. Only whispers had escaped through the parlor door; no one had raised their voice. She had taken this opportunity to tidy up the signora’s bedroom, scrubbing away the wine and vomit.
Then she had cleaned the professor’s study and had noticed the filthy shoes, which she now had there with her, in the little kitchen cabinet.
Teresa raised her gaze to the sea, from which a faint breeze carried a pleasant smell. Spring is really upon us now, she thought.
Having unleashed Maione to follow his trail, Ricciardi returned to his office alone.
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