Maione raised his voice.
“No, it’s not less of a headache. How dare you say such a thing? Why, do you think that Brigadier Raffaele Maione pays less attention to what happens to poor people? Listen, for saying something like that, I won’t just throw you in jail, I’m liable to kick your ass down the stairs!”
Bambinella laughed openly. When she laughed, her womanly affectations and imitations vanished, and she sounded very much like a horse.
“Brigadie’, how little it takes to piss you off! I know, I know: you and your commissario, the handsome one who carries a hex, you treat poor people and rich people just the same. That’s why we respect you. After all, what do you think—if I really thought that, would I be helping you?”
When Bambinella sat back down, Maione noticed that she had an enormous dish of fried anchovies on the table in front of her.
“What is this, a conspiracy? Everyone seems to be eating here, at every hour of the day or night! You must have agreed on this behind my back, all of you: the minute you see me coming you start eating something? Since when do people sit down to eat at three in the afternoon, if I might ask?”
With her mouth full, Bambinella replied:
“No, Brigadie’, it’s just that at lunchtime I wasn’t hungry, so I had only a little hard biscuit and tomatoes—fresella con pomodori. Then Gigino came by, the fishmonger down below who, every so often . . . okay, you get it, but truth be told, the man has a wife who is truly revolting. In other words, the man has no money, but he breaks my heart, and so this is how he settles his accounts, a few anchovies, a sea bream or two. The anchovies are nice and fresh, if I didn’t cook them right away in this heat, I’d have had to throw them out. But try some, try some, there must be five pounds here, I can’t possibly eat it all myself. Hold on, I’ll get another plate and a fork.”
Maione let himself drop heavily onto the ramshackle sofa and waggled his forefinger.
“No, no, forget about it. I made a promise and now I can’t break it. But listen here, now: I want you to tell me everything you know about Mario Capece and his family.”
Bambinella’s mascaraed eyes opened wide in a sincere display of astonishment.
“Oh, so now he’s the guilty party? My girlfriend who works at the Salone Margherita told me all about it . . .”
Maione raised his hand:
“No, hold up just a minute: that’s not what I said. In fact, I have my doubts that it was him at all, even though he can’t give us an alibi. The thing is, we have to check him out carefully so that we can rule him out as a suspect. So, spare me your personal opinions and just tell me what you know. And swallow first, because if you talk with a mouthful of anchovies, you’ll be even more revolting than usual.”
“Grazie, Brigadie’, you’re always such an exquisite gentleman. It’s always a pleasure to talk to you, a girl feels appreciated for what she is. Now then, Capece: all I know I told you the other day. Capece wasn’t someone you saw in the usual social circles, before he struck up this affair with the duchess. He was a journalist, and he was even a good one. Then, five or six years ago, he started seeing her and he became a public figure. Still, I never heard anything about him that didn’t concern the duchess. That is, if people mentioned him, they always mentioned her in the same breath.”
“And just how long had this relationship been going on?”
Bambinella took a second to answer, busy as she was chewing her mouthful of fried anchovies.
“Five, maybe six years. Forever. In their way, among the, so to speak, non-regulation relationships, they were an old couple; you know it, Brigadie’, men switch lovers more often than they do wives. Not the two of them: they’d really been together for some time.”
The policeman wanted to know something more about the man’s life when he wasn’t with the duchess.
“For instance, his wife, his children? Had he moved out or was he still living with them? And his family, I don’t know, his parents?”
Bambinella shrugged her shoulders and joined her greasy hands together, palms flat.
“What can I tell you, Brigadie’, I don’t really know. Certainly, he slept with the duchess more nights than not, I think. The two of them, what with going to the theater, the movie house, and out to dinner in fancy restaurants, were out on the street until dawn, then he had a job after all, and I don’t think that left much time in the day.”
Maione felt downcast, a victim of the heat and the heap of fried anchovies that Bambinella was methodically shoveling down.
“Then how on earth can I find out something more?”
After a moment of silence, spent chewing while lost in thought, Bambinella’s face lit up.
“Maybe I can help you out, but it’s not recent information. A girlfriend of mine—honest, and a hard worker—used to keep house for the Capece family. Then she had a piece of blind luck, she met a guy from the Pendino quarter who ran a shipping service, a couple of horses and two or three wagons, he’d bring the goods in from Mugnano . . . okay, okay, I understand, Brigadie’, but try to be a little patient: I have to tell stories my way, otherwise I lose the thread. So, as I was saying, what with one thing and another, this girlfriend of mine, Gilda’s her name, now she’s had this brilliant career and she’s in a brothel at La Torretta, she’s making money hand over fist. Now everyone calls her Juliette. I don’t remember how long ago it was that she kept house for the Capeces, but she can certainly tell you something.”
Maione shook his head in admiration.
“Certainly, Bambine’, there are times when you seem like a spider at the center of her web: even if you don’t know something, you always know someone who does. Would you take me right away to see this . . . Signorina, what’s her name, Gilda Juliette; and let’s see if she can tell us something about Capece.”
Ricciardi knew very well where he needed to go in order to start understanding something more about the murder of the Duchess Musso di Camparino. He needed to head home. To be exact, he needed to reconstruct the senseless route he’d taken the night before, in search of the sleep he’d never found.
As he climbed the Via Toledo, gasping under the whiplash of the hot sun, doing his best to stay in the shade of the palazzi, he reflected on the dance of emotions around the duchess and her death. A woman who had turned her beauty into a tool, an instrument with which to climb the social ladder, to amuse herself, to charm others. And then she’d become that beauty’s slave, a prisoner of the passions that her own beauty ignited, and which she no longer knew how to extinguish.
Love is one thing, but passion is quite another, Ricciardi thought. This is the real difference. My feelings for Enrica, for example. I want her welfare and happiness, and if the young man can make her happy, then I ought to be happy too. Perhaps that is love. Then, there is passion, this stabbing pain in the belly, this vise grip that seizes your stomach. The picture of Enrica’s eyes filled with tears, the emptiness in his heart, this anxiety on his flesh. The inability to sleep, the street by night, a sense of regret, even though he had nothing to regret.
It is passion that leads to murder, he mused. Perhaps in all these years I’ve attributed faults to love that it does not deserve. I wonder how you can eliminate a passion; probably by replacing it with another passion. His mind, in defiance of his attempt at self-control, leapt to Livia; her smiling face, the dimple in her chin, the scent of spices. And the long legs, sheathed in fishnet stockings, her feline stride.
And especially, the fleeting kiss that she’d planted on his cheek as she left, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then and there, caught as he was in the tempest of emotions prompted by the sight of Enrica, he’d felt embarrassed, practically annoyed. But now, as he walked under the arch of Port’Alba and turned into Via Costantinopoli, he thought back to the pressure of her lips and the whisper of her breath. As always, he’d been too brusque, and he regretted it.
It wouldn’t make any sense to go in search of her; but if he ever did see her a
gain, he promised to give her the pleasure of his company, at least once. She wasn’t like Enrica: Livia was a strong, independent woman, he couldn’t hurt her. A relationship without a future, he decided, but possibly one with a present.
As he drew near to his destination, he forced himself to regain his focus and concentrate on what he’d come to do. Love or passion, he thought.
Let’s see what kind of animal we’re dealing with.
XXVII
Walking through the city streets with Bambinella wasn’t the greatest, as far as Maione was concerned; the incredibly piercing voice and the dozens of friends the man had, which required affectionate billing and cooing and lengthy, nerve-racking pauses on the cobblestones, exacerberated the effect made by the dubious appearance, the garish colors, and the heavy makeup.
Moreover, it could hardly be healthy for the transvestite to display publicly his close contacts with the police, albeit with no one other than the brigadier; the world of the vicoli frowned on these contacts, even on the part of those who had nothing to do with the darker dealings of the underworld, but might simply be aware of them. By common agreement, then, they made an appointment to meet directly in La Torretta, the poor quarter close to the waterfront, at Mergellina. That was the location of the brothel where Gilda worked, the Capeces’ former maid who’d enjoyed such brilliant career advancement.
Maione was the first to arrive. He’d stopped at a fruit and vegetable shop, where he devoured two plums and an apricot; it actually seemed to make him hungrier. He’d insisted on paying, despite the proprietor’s protestations: no, he had it in for the entire professional category of grocers now—an extension of his antipathy toward the notorious Ciruzzo, the skinny and intrusive fruit and vegetable vendor.
The fact that he’d arrived early only worsened his already bad mood. The brothel, in fact, was located on a cross street of the broad Viale Principessa Elena; hardly a main thoroughfare, in other words. He found a place to wait in the shade of a tree, thirty feet or so away from the entrance with a brass plaque, on which was engraved: “Casa di Madame Yvonne.” There was quite a coming and going, and every soldier, sailor, or office clerk who went in or came out shot him a look somewhere between the scornful and the concerned: what was a uniformed brigadier of the Neapolitan police department doing there loitering in the shade of a tree? Was he noting down the identity of everyone who frequented the house, or was he laying the groundwork for a raid? Or was he simply working up the nerve to go in himself?
Finally Bambinella showed up, swinging her hips on her stiletto heels, wrapped in a tight-fitting red-flowered dress.
“Forgive me, Brigadie’, but I had to stop twice to get something to drink, it’s so hot you wouldn’t believe it.”
Maione wanted to speed things up.
“Sure, sure, that’s fine. But let’s go in, all we need now is for your girlfriend to be busy, and the two of us to be seen sitting together in the waiting room.”
The entrance to the brothel was through a small wooden door and up a steep staircase. At the top of the stairs, they were greeted by an old woman with a broom and a bucket in her hands, cleaning an already spotless landing.
“Never once do they let you clean in peace; never a moment of calm and quiet, day and night,” she grumbled ungraciously, stepping aside to let them pass. Maione thought better of telling her he was there on official police business, but he shot her a hostile glare that she returned in full.
At the end of a hallway wallpapered in red silk there was a large room with sofas and chairs lining the walls, dominated at the center by a large wooden dais and desk. Behind it sat a middle-aged woman whose hair was dyed a red not found in nature and whose face was so made-up that it would have been impossible to recognize her when she woke up in the morning. As soon as she saw Maione and Bambinella walk in, she got out of her chair and strode toward them with a grim, furrowed brow.
“Buona sera, Brigadier. Excuse me, but I should inform you that in my house, only my own young ladies are allowed to work. If you’re here for a threesome, I can certainly let you choose two of my misses, but I absolutely cannot allow you to bring . . .”
Maione broke in brusquely, stemming her flow of words:
“No, Signora, forgive me but you seem to have misunderstood. I’m not here to enjoy myself, I’m here strictly on police duty.”
The woman put on a worried face and took a step back.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. My operation is in strict compliance from every point of view: taxes, health certificates. The receipt book for all the services rendered and paid is available for your inspection, just say the word . . .”
Maione started to lose his temper.
“Enough, Signora, be still: who asked you anything? I’m just here to talk with a signorina who I understand works here, according to what the signore—” pointing to Bambinella, who quickly corrected him: “Signorina . . .”
The woman gave Bambinella a disgusted glare, and then turned back to Maione.
“Why, are you suggesting that one of my young ladies has broken the law? I can guarantee the utmost supervision under my roof, but once they’re outside of my control, responsibility for their actions . . .”
The brigadier seriously considered leaving a five-fingered handprint on the thick layer of greasepaint that covered the madam’s face.
“Signora, no one’s done anything wrong here. Unless I decide that you’re trying to interfere with a police investigation, and if I do, then I’ll wrap you up, along with all your young ladies and that bad-mannered concierge sweeping out on the landing, and slap you behind bars for a while.”
His tone was abrupt; the woman lowered her head as if he’d just slapped her on the back of the head.
“At your orders, Brigadie’,” she said obediently.
Ricciardi had found the street door, though not without some difficulty. Nocturnal landmarks are provided by the lamplighter; in the light of day everything looks different. He stepped into the courtyard and the welcome shade, and noticed a doorman’s booth close to the main entrance. The doorman himself was walking toward him, a tall and powerful-looking young man, asking him in a peevish voice what he might be looking for. Ricciardi identified himself:
“I need some information. Who lives in this building?”
The young man looked him up and down. From inside came the sound of scales being practiced on a piano, frequently breaking off for mistakes. The answer was slow in coming; the two men looked each other in the eye. Finally, the doorman said:
“Why, who are you looking for?”
Ricciardi understood that he needed to eliminate this stumbling block promptly.
“Listen: if you want to answer my questions, we can get this over with and I’ll stop bothering you. If you want to play games, then I’ll come back on official business and we’ll take you someplace where I can make you talk whether you want to or not. That’s up to you.”
There weren’t many citizens out there likely to resist Ricciardi’s will when he hissed his determination eye-to-eye, with unwavering intensity. And the doorman certainly wasn’t one of them. He blinked once and replied:
“At your orders, Commissa’. Ask away.”
The policeman was duly informed that this apartment building, not far from the Conservatory, was occupied by two families with small children, an elderly retired widower, and several female music students from a small town in the southern region of Lucania.
“They’re the ones you can hear practicing,” the man pointed out.
On the second story were the offices of a shipping line, which were closed at that time of year.
“As far as you know,” Ricciardi inquired, “was there a party last night? Did someone have a reception, with music and guests, that might have gone on until quite late? With prominent guests?”
The doorman shrugged.
“I couldn’t say, Commissario. I don’t live here, and when I lock up at night I go straight home, I have
little kids myself. Still, if you tell me that there was a party here until late, I would have thought someone would complain this morning. That seems odd to me.”
Ricciardi was starting to think that his exhaustion, the night before, had played a trick on him; or perhaps he might have misremembered the building. Just as he was about to thank the man and go looking for another similar front entrance, the man said:
“Unless . . . sometimes they stay late, on the top floor. Still, music would strike me as odd.”
“Why, who lives on the top floor?”
Instinctively lowering his voice and looking up, the doorman murmured:
“The Fascist Party’s on the top floor. Fascist Party headquarters.”
Maione and Bambinella followed the expansive derriere of Annunziata Caputo, alias Madame Yvonne, up another steep flight of stairs; then they walked down a narrow corridor, with closed doors up and down both sides, at the end of which was a small room with a large window from which, if you craned your neck, you could glimpse the sea. The air was cool and clean and slightly briny, and in the distance you could hear the cries of children playing and seagulls swooping.
In the middle of the room there was a table, around which sat a few young women, laughing, smoking, and chatting. Some of them were bare-breasted, most of them were seeking a little cool air near the window. When the brigadier walked in, even though he was accompanied by the maîtresse, there were little squeals of fear; the girls covered themselves as best they could and retreated to the far end of the room. But Madame spoke to them in a reassuring voice:
“Don’t worry, young ladies, the brigadier isn’t here to arrest anyone. He just wants to talk to . . .”
Maione interrupted her in a weary voice:
“Let me guess, Signora: that’s Juliette right there, no?”
Seated on a sofa against the wall, off to one side, a half-naked young blonde was hungrily consuming a large chunk of bread dripping with tomato sauce.
Everyone in Their Place Page 19