No, she hadn’t heard a thing. And there couldn’t be any doubt about it: she wasn’t lying. She was still too surprised and too curious to think of anything besides discovering what was going on. If for no other reason, she was telling the truth.
All at once, De Vincenzi turned towards her husband. Grabbing his jacket and staring into his eyes, he asked, “And you! You heard nothing?”
The poor man shook like a leaf.
“Me? Ah! No, nothing.”
His wife sneered. “Him? He just sleeps! If the palazzo were to fall down, he wouldn’t even hear it.” She looked at him with sarcasm and contempt. “He’s always sleeping.”
De Vincenzi felt sorry for the poor man. He’d have liked to shut the woman up right away, confront her with something that would terrify her.
“Are you feeling brave, little lady? As courageous as you are talkative?”
“What are you saying? What does courage have to do with sleeping?”
“Ah, you’ll see, and then it will be difficult to get to sleep.”
He pointed towards the door of the parlour.
“Look in there.”
Instead of going towards the door, the porter’s wife retreated. She became wary and looked around, as if she suspected a trap.
“In there? What’s in there?”
The inspector took her by the arm and led her into the parlour.
“Come with me, and don’t be afraid. In any case, being afraid won’t get you anywhere.”
As soon as they walked in, the porter’s wife saw the doctor bent over the sofa. She didn’t realize what he was hiding. She went forward, still cocksure, despite her increasing wariness. The doctor stood up and moved aside. The woman saw what was there and emitted a frantic scream—the scream of an injured beast. She tried to run, but De Vincenzi blocked her way.
“Oh, Madonna!”
“Come now. Be brave. Try to be brave and look at him carefully. Tell me if you’ve ever seen him, if you recognize him.”
“No! Don’t make me look at him. Madonna! Oh! How can I do it?”
The inspector’s voice was chilly. Severe.
“I’m telling you to look at him.”
“Oh, Madonna!”
The terrified woman turned to look at the dead man. She covered her face with her hands and would have collapsed had De Vincenzi not been ready to catch her and sit her down in an armchair.
He studied her. Why had she reacted so strongly? There wasn’t anything that horrible about the dead man. A hole in his temple. Nothing else. Not even any blood on his cheek—the doctor had washed it away.
The doctor took a step forward. He felt it his duty to intervene since the woman was very unwell. But De Vincenzi stopped him.
“Let her be,” he whispered. “Wait for a few minutes while she does what she wants. I want to watch her reactions.”
Silence fell over the room. The porter’s wife kept her face in her hands. She was drooping, her chest heaving.
Meanwhile, in the other room her husband had approached Maccari.
“Sir… Signor Commendatore…”
The inspector did not so much as smile.
“What do you want? Do I actually seem like a commendatore to you?”
The other man didn’t understand the irony in the question.
“Tell me, commendatore, what’s in there? What’s happened?”
“There’s a dead body. What’s happened is that a man’s been killed.”
A tremor convulsed the little man. He clutched at Maccari’s arm, his terror rendering him pitiful.
“Oh, my God! This house is cursed! Do they know that this house is cursed?”
“C’mon! Keep off me. What does the house have to do with anything? Men are sometimes cursed, but not houses! C’mon!”
The porter tried to stay upright and whispered, “Don’t believe her, OK? It’s not true! It’s not true! If she says it was him, the tenant in the attic, don’t believe her! He’s a good lad. Poor but honest. I know it! Don’t believe her.” And he looked at the door of the parlour, fearing his wife’s reappearance.
Maccari shrugged. “Tell that to the other inspector. He’s the one making enquiries.”
De Vincenzi came back in supporting the porter’s wife on his arm. He had her sit down and then stood in front of her, looking straight into her eyes.
The woman watched him, her own eyes full of bewilderment and fear.
The inspector put his hands on her shoulders. “Now, talk!”
4
Shocking Evidence
A leaden silence descended on the men in that room.
The clock counted the minutes with audible clicks, like the ticking of a beating heart. The only one—all the others had stopped.
When De Vincenzi spoke, his voice betrayed the turmoil even he was feeling.
“Now you can’t not tell me the truth. Did you know the dead man?”
The porter’s wife seemed hypnotized by the inspector’s gaze. She nodded “yes” mechanically, almost woodenly.
“Did he come to see Aurigi?”
“Yes.”
“Often?”
“Every day for two or three days.”
“And before that?”
“No, I don’t think so… maybe, rarely. I’ve only seen him once or twice in all.”
“And a woman came here to Aurigi’s as well, is that right?”
The woman’s eyes flashed with fear rather than surprise.
“How did you know?”
“Did she come often?”
“Yes.”
“Every day?”
“Almost every day… but she stayed only a short time. It’s not what you think.”
“I don’t think anything. And today? Did she come today?”
“Yes.”
“And why didn’t you tell me so?”
“I didn’t know! I didn’t think it was important. I was thinking about a break-in. The gentleman… Signor Aurigi didn’t want me to let on that that… signorina came to visit him. He’d asked me not to tell anyone.”
“He paid you well to keep quiet, didn’t he? But that doesn’t matter. What time did she come today?”
“At four. Shortly after Signor Aurigi went out.”
“And she came up anyway?”
“Yes… she always went up without asking anyone. Today I would have told her; but then I thought maybe she knew that Signor Aurigi wasn’t there.”
“And how long did she stay?”
“I don’t know.”
“So, you’re saying that when Aurigi came back this afternoon with the elderly gentleman the signorina was already in the house, right here?”
“Yes. She must have been.”
“And you didn’t see her leave?”
“After half an hour. She went by in a hurry, almost running. She was really pale. It made an impression on me so I went out to the pavement where I saw her get a taxi… in front, here… on the corner of via Conservatorio.”
De Vincenzi turned round to Maccari.
“Would you be so kind as to trace that cab in the morning. If you find it, send the driver to me at the station.”
Maccari nodded. He had listened to the whole interrogation and said to himself that De Vincenzi must know more than he was letting on, and must already have his own ideas about the signorina and the elderly gentleman.
De Vincenzi offered the porter’s wife his arm and helped her up.
“Enough! Enough for now. Go back to bed, both of you, and keep quiet, eh? Don’t speak to anyone about this, not even tomorrow, or I’ll shut you up in the cells and keep you there. Off with you!”
He pushed the porter—still trembling and so small and stooped as to seem old and decrepit, and his wife, who by this time had lost her bravado—towards the door on the other side of the room.
He then took one of his officers aside and whispered: “Go downstairs with them and make sure they go to bed. See that they don’t talk to Aurigi, who’ll be in the lodg
e… that they don’t say a thing to him, not a single word. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
And the officer hurried to follow the porters as they left.
De Vincenzi and Maccari found themselves alone again. Cruni had gone to the entrance hall. De Vincenzi’s brain was whirling. He was obviously struggling to stay on top of things and to see them clearly and precisely. He was trying not to think about Aurigi just yet. However, he was the actual cause of De Vincenzi’s state of mind, one the inspector had never experienced before. A crime! Despite his youth, a crime would not really have upset him.
“You can’t trust appearances,” Maccari said, looking at him and shaking his head. “I have a feeling there’s something behind this that’s escaping us at the moment. Something horrible and unnatural. Too awful to contemplate.”
The other man’s exclamation was spontaneous, almost violent.
“God willing, if it were only unnatural!”
“Are you a friend of his?”
“Yes—and I thought I knew him.”
“You thought him incapable of it?”
“Of killing? Of course. I didn’t want to say so. I was thinking about something else… but I don’t believe anything yet. You put it well: there are things that don’t bear thinking about.”
“Yes… the poison, above all. I don’t understand the poison. Because, look—”
But he immediately interrupted himself, for the doctor was coming in from the parlour with the air of someone pleased to have accomplished something not only difficult but also interesting.
“I’ve removed his clothes; they’re in there. I left the body undressed but covered it with a sheet. I can tell you that there was no struggle. One could say he was shot unexpectedly. The bullet entered the temple from the right, a little behind it, and stopped in the cranium. Tomorrow it can be extracted and then we’ll see what calibre it is. But it must be a fairly large one, more than six millimetres. Death was instantaneous.”
He put on his overcoat as he spoke. He then grabbed his hat and tucked his black bag, now closed up again, under his arm.
“I’ll let you have a report on the poison tomorrow morning. Oh! I made a chalk outline of the body on the floor where it was lying. Everyone does it these days, in Germany, in America… Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
No, De Vincenzi didn’t want to know anything else and he could have done without the chalk outline, even if they did it in Germany and America.
Before going off, the doctor repeated, “Naturally, tomorrow morning I’ll be at the Monumentale cemetery at nine. Make sure the cadaver is on the table in the hall, and let the pathologists know I’m available. Goodnight.”
“Thank you. Goodnight.”
Maccari was so lost in thought that he didn’t even reply.
They were alone once more. But De Vincenzi seemed not to be wavering this time. His glance had become hard and bright. He went towards his colleague and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Listen to me.”
He fell silent, muttering to himself: “Yes, it’s a risk, but I must run it. In the end, he’s a friend, my childhood companion. I wouldn’t do it for anyone else; but for him.”
Then he raised his voice.
“Listen to me, Maccari. I’m asking you a favour, a big favour. It’s true that I’ll take responsibility for everything. But you’re here now and tomorrow you could be asked to answer for it.”
Maccari remained placid. De Vincenzi’s preamble didn’t really affect him. It was almost as if he’d been waiting for it.
“Oh. Go ahead, tell me.”
“OK. Go downstairs. Aurigi is there. Go down as if you were the only one here. Tell him I left a while ago. Don’t speak to him about… about what’s in there… make up something for him, whatever you want—that there was a robbery in the house, that they didn’t understand my phone call very well at San Fedele and they brought him here instead of just letting him know as I’d said to do. Try to give him the impression that everything’s over and it was nothing and… get him to come up… alone. Understood?”
Maccari took it all in and looked at the inspector affectionately. He was young enough to be his son. He admired him, even while telling himself that he might be doing something very foolish.
“Have you thought it over carefully? It’s a big risk.”
“I’ve already said so!”
Maccari didn’t hesitate. He shrugged. “You’re young. You can take some risks.” For the umpteenth time he buttoned up his overcoat and took his hat from a chair.
“Would you like me to stay down there?”
“No. Just ask Cruni to pretend to go off with the rest of you but to turn back right away and stay in the porter’s lodge and wait.”
“Right. Bye, and may God be with you.”
Maccari left in a hurry. His greatest wish was to leave that house, and even this final mission weighed on him. Oh! not on account of the responsibility—he couldn’t have cared less, really—but he was frustrated by having to muster the energy for it. He went downstairs with an officer in tow, pausing briefly on every step.
Alone now, De Vincenzi went quickly into the parlour. He looked over at the corpse. The doctor had covered it completely with a sheet. He went nearer, without feeling any disgust, and uncovered the face and a bit of the chest. The dead man now had his eyes closed and seemed to be sleeping. Only the hole in his temple was black, visible, and frightening.
He moved away unhurriedly and with some satisfaction. He turned off the parlour lights.
In the drawing room once again, he looked around for a moment and turned off the lights there too. There were no lights on now apart from the ones in the entrance hall. He went in and dimmed them. The apartment was in total darkness, the dead man on the sofa.
De Vincenzi hid behind a cupboard in a corner near the kitchen. He felt his way through the shadows to the hiding place with some confidence—he’d spotted it beforehand.
He waited, barely breathing. He felt as if his thoughts were circling round a single point. And everything turned on this: What will he do?
He heard someone put a key in the lock, turn it, release the catch—and open the door. Giannetto appeared framed at the entrance, illuminated from behind by the lights from the stairs. His fur coat was open and he was still wearing his top hat. A bit pale, but not excessively so. He came in, closed the door and switched on the light. Looked around. He was clearly listening to the silence. He went into the drawing room and switched on the lights in there too. And there, too, he looked around, looked at the sofa, glanced at the closed door of the dining room and then at the open door of the parlour. He seemed almost surprised to find everything in order. All at once he stopped, shuddering as if he’d heard a step. He turned expectantly towards the door on the other side of the room. He didn’t see anyone, and he grew more surprised. He drew a hand across his forehead. It seemed as if he were smiling, but his smile quickly vanished. He’d made up his mind, and he moved swiftly now, effortlessly. He went to the entrance, turned off the light and returned to the drawing room. When he reached the door to the parlour, he put his hand inside and adjusted the dimmer. He returned to turn off the light in the drawing room. And then with a sure step he crossed the threshold into the parlour.
A harrowing scream rang out.
As soon as he’d seen Aurigi turn out the drawing room light, De Vincenzi had emerged from his hiding place and walked towards the door. When he heard the scream, he quickly turned on the light, feeling as calm and confident as a surgeon before an operation.
Aurigi returned from the parlour. He’d taken off his hat and he was swaying. A crazed terror was written on his face.
De Vincenzi took several steps towards him.
Aurigi saw him. Desperately throwing out his hands, as if to escape from a terrifying shadow, he fell back into an armchair.
De Vincenzi continued in his direction, looking straight at him.
“You? Why?”
Giannetto managed to utter in a strangled voice.
De Vincenzi answered him calmly, without a flicker, in the tone of someone wishing to reassure another. “Now try and pull yourself together. We’ll talk later.”
There was a fireplace on the left of the room. On the mantelpiece, a pendulum clock. The pendulum marked the hours: four loud strokes.
De Vincenzi jumped. He looked at the white clock face with its black points and then at Giannetto.
Aurigi had sat collapsed on the sofa for nearly an hour, as if concussed by a blow to the head. His eyes were open, but it wasn’t clear that he could see. Nevertheless, he was looking around, perhaps at a shadow visible only to him.
De Vincenzi watched him for some time, telling himself that Aurigi’s inertia could mean no good, and certainly wouldn’t be productive. Inertia, which breeds confusion when it reaches the limit of human capacity. Because even the brain has precise limits and when thoughts go beyond them, they enter into a hazy, almost foggy region. It’s craziness.
De Vincenzi sat down in an armchair by the table. He was trying on principle to keep out of Aurigi’s line of vision so he could recover. But he realized that his friend not only wasn’t recovering, but was lifeless and couldn’t think rationally. He wanted to approach him, and he retreated almost fearfully.
In the next room, Sergeant Cruni and an officer were sleeping, perhaps on the sofa or perhaps not, since the sofa, which had been placed in front of the room containing the corpse, wouldn’t have encouraged anyone to sleep.
Now that the pendulum had struck four, De Vincenzi deliberately got up and went into the adjoining room. He had to shake Cruni, who was sound asleep, to tell him: “I’m going home. I’m leaving Signor Aurigi to you; he’s still here. Take care! You’ll have to watch him, but not just because he might escape. Understood?”
Cruni nodded, now completely awake.
“I’ll return tomorrow morning. They’ll probably come to remove the body. If the investigating magistrate comes, tell him that I left the house at four and will return at nine.”
He went back to the drawing room and glanced at Aurigi, who’d finally stirred. And he had moved more than a little. Even without seeing him, De Vincenzi could guess from his current position what had happened: he’d toppled onto the sofa in a sort of complete collapse and closed his eyes. He must have been feeling literally broken up.
The Murdered Banker Page 4