The Murdered Banker

by Augusto De Angelis

Aurigi nodded apathetically.

  The inspector let in the officer who’d been standing guard on the landing. He took him into the parlour, closed the door and spoke to him quietly. The officer listened to him attentively, every now and again muttering, “Got it, sir.”

  But he probably understood little or nothing. De Vincenzi’s words had obviously astonished him.

  When his superior had finished talking, he asked hesitatingly, “So you believe that?”

  “I believe nothing,” the inspector answered coldly. “And I ask you not to believe anything either.”

  He left in a hurry. He made as if to go downstairs, and when he was sure the officer had closed the door, he quickly went back up to the top floor.

  Remigio opened the door and ushered him in with a sad, resigned smile.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I thought you would be back soon. And so? Have you found out?”

  The inspector didn’t answer.

  He sat down at the table and the other man sat across from him. They looked at each other for several moments.

  A handsome young man, thought De Vincenzi. He probably didn’t deserve everything that was happening to him. Why just like his father? The same fate! It made one believe it wasn’t only individuals, but families, too, who were marked, one generation after another. What had happened twenty years before was repeating itself, this time with the small complication of a body mixed up in it all.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you went out last night?” the inspector asked at once, looking sharply at Remigio and enunciating every syllable.

  The young man was shaken. He had expected something entirely different.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” he asked. “You didn’t ask me about it.”

  “Actually, I specifically asked you where you had been last night between twelve and one.”

  “Maybe. But it didn’t occur to me that you’d be very interested in knowing that I went out for a walk at around one.”

  “At several degrees below zero? In the fog?”

  “I was out of cigarettes.”

  “Where did you go to buy them?”

  “See? Not even that can help you. I got them from a machine on the side of the Duomo, in front of the Rinascente department store. And the machine can’t testify!”

  “True. So, you went out at one; did you come back home?”

  “Well, a little later… I was probably out about twenty minutes at most. As you’ve said, with that cold and fog it wasn’t really the time to take a walk through the park.”

  “Or to Acquabella.”

  The young man jumped.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Are you sure you didn’t meet up last night, during your nocturnal walk… with the Contessina Marchionni?”

  “What are you saying?! You’re joking or delirious. But if it’s a joke, it is in the worst taste.”

  His voice trembled as he spoke. It was clear that he was prepared for anything on his own territory.

  “As it happens, I have no desire to make jokes. Signorina Marchionni was in this building last night.”

  The young man now paled. He couldn’t speak for several moments.

  “Are you sure of that?” he asked with contained desperation.

  “Why are you so afraid that I’m sure of it?”

  “Because it’s unbelievable!”

  Silence hung over the room.

  De Vincenzi waited for the other man to recover himself, and then stated, “And in this building, last night, a man was killed.”

  The young man jumped to his feet but had to lean against the table when his legs gave way.

  “What! Why are you insinuating such a thing? Do you know whom you’re speaking about?”

  “I’m not saying or insinuating anything. Sit down. It’s better if we discuss this calmly.”

  Remigio turned and fell heavily into his chair. Terrified, he looked at the inspector.

  “Tell me everything! I beg you: tell me everything!”

  “I can’t tell you any more than I already have. You, however, can and must tell me everything.”

  “I don’t know anything!”

  “Why did you go out at one?”

  “For cigarettes.”

  “One doesn’t go out at that hour to buy cigarettes.”

  “If one has a vice like mine, one does worse.”

  “In any case, if you went out at one, you couldn’t have avoided meeting someone on the stairs.”

  The young man hesitated, but only momentarily.

  “I didn’t go out at one. I lied to you, and I don’t even know why myself. Maybe I unconsciously accepted your suggestion about the time. It would have been midnight… maybe a few minutes before.”

  “And you met no one?”

  “Yes… someone appeared… in front of me… below the second floor… a man was going downstairs… I only saw his back, because he walked faster when he heard my step.”

  “You didn’t recognize him?”

  “No. He was wearing a grey hat and a long, dark overcoat.”

  “Ah. And Aurigi’s door… Signor Aurigi’s door was open?”

  Remigio struck his forehead with the palm of his hand.

  “It’s coming back to me now! It must have been half open, I had the idea that it was open without really noticing it for sure. When I go past that door, I avert my gaze.”

  “So you went out at midnight. And then?”

  “And then? Nothing. I went to the Piazza del Duomo, I really did buy cigarettes and I came back home.”

  “And did you find the main door closed?”

  “Open. But that often happens. The main door of this building is almost always open.”

  “Hmm,” De Vincenzi reflected.

  So this man too had left his attic room at precisely the moment when someone was murdering or had only just murdered Garlini. He too was in the vicinity of the bloody apartment and he too had a close relationship with one of the principal protagonists in this matter—still as dark and tangled as the moment when Maccari’s calm voice had announced to him that a body had been found at 45 via Monforte.

  De Vincenzi had, without a doubt, discovered many things. All the same, they had convinced him deep down that Aurigi had not killed, and neither had Maria Giovanna or Count Marchionni.

  Who, then?

  He was proceeding by elimination. It was a method that only appeared foolproof: let himself be swayed by some poorly observed fact or—even worse—by his own secret conviction, and he’d commit an error from which there’d be no going back.

  Only a few suspects now remained if this drama had come full circle. Perhaps two, maybe only one.

  The young man in front of him was completely consumed by romantic passion. De Vincenzi saw it in his face and in his eyes, which settled now and again on the portrait of Maria Giovanna, shining on it feverishly.

  How far would he have gone for his love?

  He had already acted strangely by going to live in the same building as Aurigi. Why had he done that? Out of some sort of cruel and self-destructive need to be near the man who was ruining his life? To stand as a constant and living image of reproof for the girl who’d strangled the pure and noble love in his heart, who’d bent to her duties as a daughter and perhaps to some atavistic law of obedience, the cast-iron demands of her class?

  Or had he had a plan—simultaneously crazy, desperate and premeditated?

  But then, how did he suddenly find himself in the thick of this drama involving three souls and the banker Garlini with his forty million?

  Was it really possible that this young man—seemingly so loyal, with soft, clear eyes and broad, bright forehead—had in him such subtle wickedness as to conceive this monstrous crime, so that suspicion should fall on his rival and eliminate him? Certainly his skills, those of an accomplished criminal, could be considered truly diabolical if he’d preferred that roundabout way of getting rid of Aurigi to a direct attempt on the p
erson of Maria Giovanna’s fiancé—one that would have been much more dangerous for him.

  In the latter case, suspicion would immediately fall on the young inhabitant of the attic rooms. However, the other way…

  De Vincenzi thought about all of this while he continued to observe Remigio Altieri.

  Remigio appeared to be lost in thought. His eyes flashed with terror. The effort he was making to avoid looking at Maria Giovanna’s portrait was obvious—as if he were afraid of it, or ashamed.

  All at once, the inspector got up with a movement so sudden and determined that Altieri was startled. He looked at him anxiously.

  De Vincenzi seemed to be trying to react against himself by making a definitive decision.

  “So, you don’t want to tell me anything else?”

  “What could I tell you?”

  The inspector stood at the door. He asked casually, “When did you last see Maria Giovanna?”

  Caught by surprise, Remigio spluttered, “Yesterday…”

  “Afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time?”

  “It would have been about five… five-thirty… I don’t know.”

  “Where?”

  The young man’s hesitation changed to obvious embarrassment. He murmured, “But why… why do you want to know it from me?” and his supplicating tone was distressing to hear.

  De Vincenzi stood at the door, blocking it.

  “I’ll tell you when you saw her. It was at five, and she was leaving this building, almost running.”

  “Well, if you already know!” the other exclaimed.

  “Did you see her take a taxi?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you followed her!” the inspector’s voice was sharp and insistent.

  But Altieri shouted, “No! No! I did not! I did not do that!”

  Exhausted, his nerves aching, with no more strength or control, he burst into convulsive sobs.

  De Vincenzi closed the door and went downstairs.

  13

  Trial and Error

  De Vincenzi found Cruni waiting for him at the police station.

  “I did everything you asked me to, sir,” the sergeant told him. He approached De Vincenzi with a triumphant air.

  The inspector looked at him.

  “Count Marchionni did not go to the Clubino or to the Savini last night.”

  “So?” the inspector asked indifferently.

  Cruni was stupefied. After all the orders he’d been given, he couldn’t account for this apathy.

  “Oh, I was very careful, you can be sure of that. But at the Clubino every member has to sign the register when entering or leaving, and it was easy for me to consult it without giving the doorman a reason. As for the Savini, all the waiters know the count and all I had to do was question them like nothing was going on to discover the truth.”

  “And?”

  “Ah! Do you want to know when he got back to his palazzo? It must have been two. He went back in a taxi along with his daughter. The signorina seemed to be suffering—the doorman told me—I knew how to get it out of him, right? That one won’t speak, for sure… Now we know for a fact that the count lied.”

  “I know,” De Vincenzi said nonchalantly, going to sit down at his table.

  “You know?” the sergeant exclaimed, eyes wide. “So, I…”

  “You carried out your duty scrupulously, dear Cruni, and I thank you. Only this is old news now. Events are moving along, my friend.”

  “Did you find out something?”

  “I haven’t found out anything.”

  He pushed his papers around. He came across the two volumes he’d been reading the night before when Aurigi had come in, and he sighed… if he could only go back to his books and not bother himself further with all these crimes! Now he understood what Maccari had been saying. At that moment, he too wished he could retreat to the country; at least Maccari had quickly sloughed off the bother of these awful events. Yet he himself could not and must not.

  He thought about Giannetto, about Maria Giovanna and about that other unfortunate man, crying in his room on the top floor.

  Once more he heard the investigating magistrate’s ironic tone: What sort of news do you think you’ll have?

  Well, what news did he have, and what would he say to him in just a short while—at four o’clock?

  He looked at the clock. It was two. He’d had a quick bite while he was at the Monumentale. He knew the bullet that had killed Garlini had been shot from the revolver found in the locked drawer of the chest. He patted his overcoat pockets and felt the shape of the two revolvers, one in each pocket. He should have left them in his office with the rest of the material evidence: the tube of red lipstick, the phial of poison, Aurigi’s letter, the receipt from Garlini, the ticket stub from Aurigi’s seat at La Scala.

  But he had everything in his pockets.

  Bah! Before long he would consign the items to the investigating magistrate and tell him to get on with it.

  And the investigating magistrate would swiftly get on with having Aurigi arrested.

  He sighed…

  Cruni stood there watching him.

  “Eh! My friend,” murmured the inspector, just for the sake of saying something.

  “The chief constable asked for you,” Cruni offered timidly.

  De Vincenzi shrugged his shoulders. He looked at the calendar. The same two red numbers he’d shown to Giannetto were still there, the ones that had forced him to admit to his losses on the stock exchange. In a strange association of thoughts, he again saw the Bank of Garlini, and the reddish, apoplectic cashier who’d held a packet of thousand-lire notes in his hand, saying: I took it right in front of him… See? There was a hundred and now there’s eighty… Do you want to count it?

  He jumped up. How could he have neglected that clue? He pulled his hat down and stood up straight, his eyes gleaming.

  “Come with me,” he ordered Cruni.

  The sergeant quickly donned his overcoat and fetched his hat.

  “Do you know where Garlini lives?”

  “On via Leopardi.”

  “Hurry!”

  Once outside the great door opening onto the piazza, he threw himself into a taxi. A colleague greeted him, but he didn’t even see him.

  “Via Leopardi!” he shouted to the driver.

  Ten minutes later he and Cruni got out in front of Garlini’s front door.

  There he found an elderly housekeeper who began weeping and blowing her nose as soon as she saw him.

  He began questioning her straightaway, without ceremony.

  No, the signore had not returned home for supper the night before. No, she had not seen him since breakfast.

  Where did he keep his money?

  She pointed to a small safe.

  Did he keep much of value in it? No, not much. Only what was necessary for housekeeping expenses.

  De Vincenzi remembered that in his own pocket he had a small bunch of keys found in the dead man’s pocket. The one to the safe was there, of course.

  A simple safe, without a code.

  He opened it and found nothing but envelopes, documents, a thousand or so lire and a few packets of letters from women bound with coloured string.

  But Garlini had left the bank with twenty thousand lire in his pocket!

  De Vincenzi appeared satisfied. He smiled and gave Cruni a friendly cuff on the shoulders. Cruni didn’t understand a thing, in particular the reason for conducting such a search, without looking in any particular place and only glancing into the safe.

  “Let’s go now,” De Vincenzi said.

  When they got to the main door, he looked again at the time: it was almost three.

  “We’ll take the tram,” he announced. “I want to arrive at three-thirty, and not before.”

  *

  He entered Aurigi’s apartment at half past three. He found the officer in the entrance hall.

  “Anything new?”

  “N
othing.” The officer approached De Vincenzi to give an account of his time.

  Aurigi had not eaten. He’d stayed in the drawing room, just where the inspector had left him.

  “He hasn’t even moved!” said the officer.

  “And the other one?”

  “In the kitchen or his room. He wanted to give me something to eat. He seems calm. In any case, he is certainly courteous.”

  “True,” said De Vincenzi.

  He went into the drawing room and greeted Giannetto, making a show of cheeriness.

  “Beautiful day today! After all that fog last night, there’s some sun.”

  With some irony, Aurigi replied, “That’s natural. After the fog, there’s always good weather.”

  He spoke just for the sake of it. He’d got up. He didn’t even ask what De Vincenzi had done, or if he was sure he’d discover the killer. It was almost as if for him the crime had not taken place. As if nothing that had happened had anything to do with him.

  De Vincenzi had left the door open, and now he saw Cruni bringing Count Marchionni and Maria Giovanna into the room.

  The young woman was still dressed as she had been that morning. She looked at De Vincenzi with a bewildered air.

  The count had regained his self-assurance: he was proud and correct, a proper gentleman paying a duty call. He bowed his head to the inspector.

  “Here we are,” he said, and he seemed to be asking him, as he might have an employee: What have you done? What do you intend to do?

  In answer, De Vincenzi gestured for the count and his daughter to sit on the sofa.

  “Have a seat, please.”

  He went to the drawing room door and called Cruni. He whispered a few words in his ear and the sergeant hurried to leave the room.

  Then he ordered the other officer: “Go to the landing and close the door there. Wait for the investigating magistrate, and when he comes in, go down to the lodge with Cruni. The sergeant knows what to do.”

  The officer bowed his head. “Very well, sir.” And off he went.

  The entrance hall was now deserted. De Vincenzi glanced at the servant’s room. The door was open, and he saw Giacomo reading next to the bed.

  He closed the door to the drawing room. He drew from his pocket the revolver he’d taken from the servant and showed it to Aurigi.