Once again, the inspector entered the room he now knew so well; its every detail was impressed on his brain.
Aurigi was sleeping on the sofa, crumpled and exhausted. He was still in evening dress, his overcoat wrapped round him.
“Has he been sleeping the whole time?” De Vincenzi asked Cruni.
“Like that, just as you see him. Now and again I thought he was dead… him too! Then he would get restless and fidgety and utter meaningless half-sentences…”
“Did you write them down?” the inspector asked almost automatically; he was imagining the phrases the sleeping man might have uttered.
“They’re over there.” The sergeant pointed to the table. De Vincenzi saw a sheet of paper covered with notes. He looked at Cruni. He’d never have expected his underling to have demonstrated such intelligence.
“Read them. You’ll see they won’t be much help. They don’t mean a thing.”
De Vincenzi took the paper and read:
“No, don’t do that! I’ll pay! You must not get involved… A lot of peace, a little quiet time… I’ll go away, yes, I’ll go away…”
Meaningless? He would see him later, when he was refreshed. But he was fairly happy with the sergeant’s observation, since it showed that his subordinate’s intelligence only went so far after all. And in this case above all, he wanted to rely completely on himself. Anyone else’s help would do nothing but derail him. If he wanted to reach his goal, he’d have to follow his own instincts, his own mysterious intuition. But what goal? He didn’t want to admit to himself at that precise moment that his whole being—quite obsessively and unexpectedly attached to his schoolmate of so long ago—was pushing him to save his friend at any cost.
Every now and then his thoughts returned to the young man in the attic. He couldn’t forget the boy’s appearance. An interesting face, without a doubt. Even when it was pallid—in fact, even more then.
But why had he blanched at the name of Aurigi?
Without being able to explain why he was doing so, De Vincenzi began contrasting the two men. Two fine examples of humanity! Even if one was still practically a boy. But how mature he was, how conscious already of life and its sorrows. This one here was more of a man, albeit with a character less deep, less passionate, more superficial.
Until now, he’d known only life’s pleasures, while the young man already knew all the bitterness of renunciation, sacrifice and struggle. But he’d come through the storms, while right now Aurigi appeared shaken, overwhelmed.
The other man, however, had experienced such a shock that he’d collided with the table.
De Vincenzi watched Giannetto sleeping. He realized he was still holding the sheet of paper Cruni had given him. He put it back in his jacket pocket before asking, “Did the investigating magistrate come?”
“Yes, at seven. He wanted to talk to you. I told him you’d been up until four. Because, sir, you left this house at four and not at five.”
De Vincenzi looked at him. He moved away from the sofa where Giannetto was sleeping and, looking Cruni squarely in the eyes, he asked quietly, “Why does that matter? What are you trying to tell me?”
Cruni lowered his voice in turn. “I mean that this clock, here,” and he pointed to the clock on the mantelpiece, “is one hour fast.”
De Vincenzi took his watch from his pocket and looked at the clock with a jolt. But he said nothing and put the watch back.
“It doesn’t mean anything. You were telling me about the investigating magistrate.”
“He’s coming back later.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know him. He’s young. It seems, though, from what the registrar said, that the public prosecutor will see to this business personally.”
The inspector shrugged. “Provided he leaves me some space to act…” He nodded towards the sleeping man. “Have you questioned him?”
“Yes. But he didn’t say anything. His personal details, and that was that. To every question he answered: ‘I don’t know anything’.”
There was a silence. De Vincenzi looked around. He went to the door of the room and turned towards Cruni.
“They took the body away, yes?”
“Right after the investigating magistrate gave clearance.”
“Did the investigating magistrate search the apartment?”
“Like so!” The other man waved his arm. “He looked around… said he’d send forensics to take samples… but he was smiling, as if to imply that all of it was pointless. I have the impression that he was convinced of the guilt of the man sleeping over there. He asked if you’d declared him under arrest.”
This time, the inspector neither jumped nor smiled. Of course! He would have to declare him under arrest. But it would be pointless.
Silence fell once again. De Vincenzi moved towards the entrance hall, then stopped.
“The servant?”
“Nobody’s seen him.”
“Get Inspector Maccari on the telephone for me.”
The sergeant looked at his superior in amazement.
“But he’ll be sleeping, sir. He was on night duty.”
“Call the Duomo police station. If Maccari isn’t there, some- one else will be.”
Cruni went to the telephone. He soon appeared at the door, holding the receiver at the end of its long green cord.
“Here you are, sir.”
De Vincenzi took the receiver. “Hello! Ah, it’s you. Yes, good morning. Did Maccari leave the report for you? Good. Yes, the chief constable naturally entrusted the inquiry to me. Look, I need you to find me the taxi driver right away, the one who drove the young Contessa Marchionni yesterday… Yes, he was at the stand in via Monforte on the corner of via del Conservatorio… at five or five-thirty… Yes, thanks… One more thing! HQ has given orders to look for the servant… Giacomo Macchi… They’ll have telegraphed the description all over Italy and the borders… You should look for him too… Definitely let me know if something about him turns up… What? Nothing in the filing cabinet. Thanks… Nothing else for now… Ah! When Maccari arrives, please ask him to telephone me. Thank you. Ciao!”
He hung up and went back to the drawing room.
Giannetto Aurigi was still sleeping. He was no longer agitated; he wasn’t even moving.
The inspector resumed his conversation with Cruni.
“Have you taken his next-door neighbour’s details?”
“I asked Verri to do so and he brought me the owner’s business card. He’s an engineer.”
“Do you have it?”
“What, the business card? Here it is. I had Verri leave it with me. He wanted to deliver it to you personally.”
De Vincenzi took the card and read: Vittorio Serpi. He didn’t know him. He asked, “Does he have family?”
“Wife… two kids… a maid.”
“They heard nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“What time did he come home last night?”
“At twelve. After the theatre. He says he found the door closed and the stairs deserted.”
“And the smell of cordite on the stairs?”
“I don’t think so. He would have said.”
“Get him to come to the station later this afternoon… with the rest of his family.”
A muffled groan rose from the sofa and the man stretched out on it moved. He wasn’t raving. He was no longer immersed in a nightmare. He was slowly waking up, coming from the dark of night to the dawning of perception.
De Vincenzi grabbed Cruni’s arm and pushed him towards the door on the other side.
“Keep quiet! Go over there… don’t reveal yourself until I call you.”
Cruni disappeared.
Giannetto shifted around on the sofa, still emitting little groans from time to time, as if he were trying to find a position comfortable enough to go back to sleep in. But he couldn’t, and he opened his eyes. He looked around to see where he was. He saw the room with its familiar furniture and then inspected
himself—still in evening dress, with his fur coat on. An expression of profound wonder spread over his face. He did not understand.
He glanced at De Vincenzi. A light flashed through his mind and he leapt to a sitting position on the sofa. His face was strained, taut and fixed.
Affecting indifference, De Vincenzi said jovially, “Good morning! Did you sleep?”
“I did.” Giannetto answered in an almost toneless falsetto. He slowly rose.
“You slept on the sofa! It isn’t the most comfortable spot…”
“I didn’t have a choice—did you want me to go in there?”
But he didn’t turn round to point at the door to the parlour. He was definitely still petrified.
De Vincenzi, however, stared at the door and answered nonchalantly, as if to show he thought nothing of it.
“Oh! You can go in there now. He’s gone.”
Giannetto interrupted him. His voice verged on the shrill.
“I know.”
“Were you awake when they took him away?”
“Yes.”
He shivered visibly and turned in on himself.
A long silence followed. Too long. The inspector wanted to end it but couldn’t find the right phrase. Finally he asked, “Did the investigating magistrate question you?”
It seemed as if Aurigi were waking up again, he’d been so absorbed.
“What were you saying? Yes. This morning…”
“And?”
“I did not confess.”
The sarcasm in his reply was painful. It wasn’t bitter; it was raw.
For De Vincenzi, it was time to get to the bottom of things. He shrugged and exclaimed with a policeman’s brutality: “Well, it wasn’t necessary, either.”
Giannetto sneered. “Indeed! Who’ll believe it wasn’t me?”
“You weren’t here?” De Vincenzi said immediately—almost hustling, he was studying Aurigi so intently.
“Oh, believe what you want—you, too. At this point.”
His words revealed him to be so crestfallen, without any fight left in him, that his friend took him by the arm and forced him to stand up.
“Look at me, Giannetto! What’s happened here is frightening, for you above all. I’m trying to believe in your innocence—I want to. I’ll tell you something else: it’s your friend speaking, the friend who was your schoolmate years ago. Believe me! I’ll tell you what duty prohibits my telling you: there’s something so grim about this, so paradoxical… so terribly clever that it makes me believe in your innocence. For the love of God, help me out. Speak! Tell me everything. Help me discover the truth, even if you’re ignoring it.”
The other man appeared unmoved. He seemed insensate. His shoulders fell again.
“At this point,” he repeated.
De Vincenzi felt another jolt, and this time its force made him really brutal.
“But don’t you understand, idiot, that you’re risking your life? All the evidence is against you! Don’t you understand that I can’t do anything for you if you don’t give me some way of discovering the truth?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know anything.”
“Don’t you realize, Giannetto, that no one can possibly believe you when you say you know nothing? This is your apartment… the lock wasn’t forced. Do you understand what I’m saying? And then, how can anyone accept that Garlini entered your house to be killed by someone else, if you didn’t bring him here? Garlini was your stockbroker, and while I’m standing here talking to you, the experts are examining the bank’s books. They’ll find the figures from your game, they’ll say you’d have had to pay Garlini’s bank almost half a million by tomorrow.”
Giannetto was obviously listening to him, but he didn’t move. His face was inscrutable.
The inspector shuddered, as if an idea had suddenly occurred to him.
Slowly, articulating his words with care, he asked, “Did you really have to pay half a million to Garlini?”
“What are you trying to say?”
De Vincenzi proceeded to speak so plainly and with such sincerity that Aurigi was momentarily really shaken.
“Listen to me, Giannetto! You know this: except in cases of insanity, committing a homicide presupposes a reason, a cause, a motive. If you’re the one who killed him, the motive is there. And the reward… the very fact that tomorrow you would have had to pay a sum you didn’t have…”
Aurigi boldly interrupted him.
“Who says I didn’t have it?”
De Vincenzi immediately became insinuating while continuing to scrutinize him.
“So, did you pay?”
“You know whether I did or not!”
“No! Clearly I don’t, or at least I don’t know at this stage. What makes you think I might know?”
“Oh, well then…”
“Well then, you are the one who must tell me. And you must also demonstrate to me how you came by the money to pay, if you did.”
The answer came immediately. Too quickly, and brimming with anxiety.
“I did not pay! How could I have come by the money to pay?”
De Vincenzi then remembered one of the two sheets of paper he’d found in the dead man’s pocket and stuffed into his own as soon as he’d read them. He hadn’t shown it even to Maccari. And for the time being he hadn’t shown it to the investigating magistrate, either. He instinctively went to draw the paper from his pocket. But all at once he held back. He didn’t have to show it to Giannetto yet. He mustn’t, if only because to do so would be procedurally irregular.
So he spoke again with renewed warmth, as if to excuse his own severity and the coldness he had to maintain during an investigation. This time, because of his friendship with Giannetto, it was troubling him.
“But good God, don’t lock yourself up and lose yourself in some bitter and terrible silence! Don’t you see that everyone is accusing you? How do you explain Garlini’s coming here, if not with you or to find you here?”
“I don’t know!”
“You’re acting crazy. Are you hoping to get out of it by feigning insanity?”
Aurigi’s eyes widened, as if the insinuation alone were powerful enough to stun him.
“But I’m not defending myself! I’m not defending myself. I’m only asking you not to torture me. If there’s some of our old friendship left in you, if you can just manage not to despise me, don’t keep on hoping to find out what I can’t tell you, because I don’t know!”
He fell back onto the sofa and took his head in his hands. A sob came from him and his words were pleading: “I cannot… I can’t tell you anything! I don’t know… I don’t understand… I’m afraid to understand.”
His head jerked upright in desperation. A quiet anguish could be heard in his voice. “I’m afraid—do you understand? I’m frightened of knowing what happened in here!”
De Vincenzi continued to stare at him. The entire drama could be summed up in those words. And Giannetto wouldn’t utter any others, which were needed for explanation. Better to pretend not to want to know, and not acknowledge that things could now turn nasty.
“Fine. Calm down… after all, I’ll manage on my own, even if you don’t want me to. We have too many clues not to succeed.”
He was looking for the right words. All at once, he deliberately put his hand in his pocket and took out not the piece of paper he’d fingered before without daring to show it to Aurigi, but another—the second of the two he’d found in the dead man’s pocket. Now he held it before Giannetto’s eyes.
“Look.”
There was no need to tell him. Giannetto had seen it. He trembled long and hard.
He asked in a steady voice, “Was that in his pocket?”
“Yes. He had it in his pocket, the inside pocket of his tailcoat. It’s yours, right? A note from you to Garlini, with yesterday’s date on it. There’s your signature. It says—”
Giannetto interrupted him sarcastically. He’d managed to overcome his shock and stated coldly, �
�I know what it says.”
But De Vincenzi read it out: “Come tonight at half-past midnight… Be ready to honour your commitment… and the signature, your signature. So?”
The questions and answers, the words of these two men now chased each other round, retorting like shots from a revolver.
“It’s obvious, no?” Giannetto uttered with all his sarcasm. “What more do you want?”
“It’s absolutely clear… enough to send you to the firing squad.”
“Oh!” And Giannetto hunched his shoulders, immediately adding coldly and decidedly, “He was a rogue. I killed him. Is that what everyone wants to believe? Now you know. Enough! It’s over. I have nothing else to say to you.”
“OK, but in fact it’s not over. There’s your alibi: you left La Scala at eleven-thirty and spent two hours walking around. People saw you.”
The other man lit up with hope, almost despite himself. “Who saw me?”
His anxiety was so obvious that De Vincenzi felt once more as if he were on the wrong track. He had to ask: “But then… so you actually spent two hours wandering around Milan? Have you really told me the truth?”
“Ah!”
After all, the inspector knew nothing. No one had seen Aurigi wandering around Milan during that time. Giannetto fell back into his apathetic resignation.
“You see! No one saw me. And anyway, what would that prove? I could have killed him before starting out on my walk… right away… I wouldn’t have stayed here staring at the body.”
He would have gone on, but De Vincenzi interrupted him.
“Tell me, do you know Remigio Altieri? At least you can tell me that, no?”
Aurigi stopped and looked at him. He didn’t understand.
“Remigio Altieri?” he asked, completely dumbfounded.
“Yes. A young blond man who lives—”
For some unknown reason, the inspector interrupted himself mid-flow, and held back from telling Aurigi where Remigio lived.
“No. I’ve never heard of him,” Aurigi affirmed with sincerity.
Just then the doorbell rang. Giannetto quivered, instinctively stepping backwards as if moving out of harm’s way.
Both men stood looking beyond the door of the room to the door of the apartment. It was opening.
The Murdered Banker Page 6