“Do you recognize this revolver?”
Giannetto did not hesitate.
“It’s mine. It should be in the drawer of that chest. I haven’t touched it for years.”
“Fine,” said the inspector, and he put the revolver back in his pocket. He then took out the other one he’d found in the drawer.
“And this one?”
Aurigi’s eyes widened. He had never seen that one before.
“This one,” De Vincenzi said with some vigour, “is the revolver that killed Garlini. The ballistics expert has confirmed it.”
He wrapped the gun in a handkerchief and put it on the table.
The others watched his actions. He paused for some time. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he made up his mind and went to the corner of the room, where he’d seen a bell.
After a spare few seconds, the door swung open and Giacomo appeared as if he’d been behind it, ready to be called.
The servant’s smooth face was unruffled. But an attentive observer would have noted an odd gleam in his eyes, which could have been disguised apprehension as easily as curiosity.
De Vincenzi regarded him for a moment and then asked, “Would you bring me a glass of water?”
The servant bowed and went to the kitchen.
The inspector then headed for the door to the entrance hall and opened it, calling the officer from the landing.
“You—come here.”
He ushered him into the dining room and showed him the revolver wrapped in the handkerchief.
“Take that revolver—but be very careful not to remove the handkerchief and not to touch it.”
He stood near the table and spoke slowly. When the officer held out his hand to take the weapon, De Vincenzi made as if to stop him.
“Wait—I must tell you something else, give you some other instructions.”
He was looking to gain time. Only when he heard Giacomo behind him did he turn suddenly. Cautiously, using only two fingers, he took the glass the waiter had brought him on a platter. He quickly emptied the water into a vase of flowers sitting on the table. He drew another handkerchief from the small pocket of his jacket, wrapped the glass in it and held it out to the officer.
“Take this.” His voice had become hard.
“There are fingerprints on the revolver as well as the glass. Go to the Forensics Office right now and have them lifted. Quickly! I want the photographs within an hour.”
The officer left rapidly with the two white handkerchiefs.
Giacomo had paled, but he displayed no obvious disturbance; rather a certain insolence, and a touch of sarcasm. He held his right hand out to De Vincenzi.
“Would you like my fingerprints?”
The inspector looked him over and took a sheet of white paper from his pocket.
“Let me see,” he ordered sharply. He put the paper on the table.
With a wide grin, Giacomo extended his open hand and pressed the fleshy parts of his five fingers on the paper. He paused during the gesture, as if in challenge, and he stared at the inspector.
De Vincenzi watched him before asking, “What is your real name?”
The other man shrugged. “Giacomo Macchi.”
“I will discover your real name before long. That’s not it. You don’t appear in any police files under that name and you are too experienced with fingerprints not to have a notorious past. How long have you been in this house?”
“I told you. Two years.”
“Before that?”
The servant’s insolence was pointed. “I brought references. If you want them, you can ask the signore.” He gestured towards Aurigi, who was watching him.
“He was happy with me. I’ve never taken a thing from him in two years!”
The questioning was proceeding quickly. De Vincenzi obviously did not intend to let him off easily.
“And what time did you leave here last night?”
“Probably around ten… maybe before.”
“The porter’s wife didn’t see you leave.”
“But she can’t say that she saw me leave later, either,” Giacomo proclaimed triumphantly.
“Exactly! But after midnight the main door was closed.”
“How can you say that I left after midnight?”
“There are people who saw you.”
“Are you sure about that?” Giacomo asked sceptically.
De Vincenzi wagered everything he had. Either he’d get him to confess straightaway or—as he knew all too well—the man would never confess.
“The person who saw you will be here in a matter of minutes,” he said confidently. “And he’ll recognize you.”
“I’ll be happy to look that person in the face!”
The servant was clearly some way from feeling lost. After all, he must have found himself in similar situations before. He was too calm, too confident.
“You’ll do so at four.”
Giacomo turned to look at the clock. “So, another quarter of an hour to go.”
The clock struck quarter to five, and De Vincenzi took Giacomo by the arm.
“That clock is showing four forty-five.”
“I see that,” Giacomo said. “But it’s an hour fast.”
“How do you know?”
This time the man seemed surprised.
“Eh?” he said, trying to gain time.
“I said,” the inspector repeated, articulating every syllable, “I said, how do you know that the clock is running an hour fast?”
Giacomo paused for a second, but only a second.
“It’s broken… I should have taken it to be fixed.”
Aurigi intervened, his voice weary.
“That’s not true, Giacomo. That clock was working just fine. It has always worked extremely well.”
Giacomo flinched. Angry now, he turned towards his master.
“And now you too! Perhaps it was working well, but today it’s not working properly.”
An idea must have struck him. His eyes lit up and his confidence returned.
“As a matter of fact”—he turned to the inspector—“it was actually you who made a show in front of me that the clock was running fast.”
It was true. De Vincenzi remembered it.
“True. And it’s running fast because you put it forward last night.”
“Me? Why would I have done that?”
“Why you did it, I shall tell you before long. It was a clever ploy, which immediately gave me the measure of your intelligence. A truly notable criminal intelligence! Yet none of this is extraordinary. The extraordinary thing is something else: that you didn’t think to put the clock back after killing Garlini and before you left, and that you put the revolver used in the murder in the drawer—locking it and taking the key with you, as well as your master’s revolver.”
The servant listened. The smile remained on his lips.
“But what are you saying? Your imagination is running away with you. How are you going to prove all this?”
In fact, as De Vincenzi knew very well, he was using his intuition and this time, too, he had not a single piece of evidence. Yes, his intuition was telling him he’d hit the target, but how could he prove it? The man would never confess.
Nervous, he began pacing the room briskly. All at once he stopped in front of Giacomo.
“But you made a mistake. Everything was calculated, everything was ingeniously devised, and then it was all ruined by an oversight. If you’d put the hands back on the clock, I’d never have suspected you.”
“And now?” Giacomo asked insolently.
“Now I know it was you who killed Garlini.”
“Fantasy! I have an alibi. You can check it. And why would I have killed him? I barely knew him.”
“His money?”
“What money? You think someone kills a man in order to rob him and then leaves five hundred lire in his pocket?”
The count had remained silent throughout, watching the scene with suppressed anxiety. At thos
e words, he jumped up and advanced towards the servant.
Aurigi, too, sprang up.
But De Vincenzi made a move to hold them back and staved off their questions.
“How do you know,” he asked, looking into Giacomo’s eyes, “that Garlini had five hundred lire in his wallet?”
Giacomo looked lost for a moment. But while the others waited for him to keep quiet or offer some vague explanation, he broke into laughter. He took a newspaper from his pocket, unfolded it and left it open on the table.
“Read it. There, inside,” he said calmly. “Read it and you’ll see how anyone can find out that a wallet with five hundred lire in it and some calling cards was found on the body.”
De Vincenzi was annoyed. The count, clenching his fists, returned to the sofa.
Giannetto fell back into his tragic apathy.
Maria Giovanna, who had heard nothing and seen nothing, continued to ponder her ruined life, her thwarted affections, and poor Remigio, whom she loved.
14
A Meeting with De Vincenzi
The man certainly knew how to defend himself.
But the irritation soon disappeared from De Vincenzi’s face. Too clever! He’d given himself away.
“When did you read that newspaper?” asked the inspector, resuming his questioning.
“This morning.”
“There weren’t any newspapers here in the house. You could not have got hold of it while you were in there just now. Therefore, you had it with you, and you read it before coming here. Is that right?”
The servant did not understand. He asked plainly, “What if I did?”
“Oh, nothing,” the inspector smiled briefly. “But let’s be clear: you admit to having read that newspaper before coming in here two hours ago?”
“Of course. I told you so. I don’t see how that can possibly matter.”
“So why did you pretend not to know anything when I questioned you? Why did you come into this house as if nothing had happened? Why did you play the nonchalant who knows nothing and has a clean conscience?”
The questions came hammering out.
It was a blow for Giacomo. He went quiet. He looked around like a captive beast, his eyes flaming.
For the last time in that day full of dramatic events, the unconscious, innocent doorbell trilled long and loud.
Again, everyone jumped nervously.
De Vincenzi turned to the door almost angrily. Then he looked at Giacomo and his face lit up. He’d had an idea. He said to himself: It’s the only way!
So he ordered the servant, “We’ll take up this discussion later. Right now, though, go and open—”
Giacomo hesitated, as if realizing the inspector was setting a trap for him. He moved slightly, looked around once more and then started towards the entrance hall, in no hurry.
Marchionni clenched his fists and made as if to follow him.
“What are you doing? He’s guilty! He’ll escape!”
De Vincenzi stopped the count with a brusque gesture, almost nailing him to the spot with a look.
Meanwhile, Giacomo had opened the door and was standing aside in order to let in the investigating magistrate, followed by the court clerk.
The investigating magistrate came in quickly, smiling. He was a man of about thirty, with an ordinary face, a common aspect. The glasses sitting on his nose slid down every now and again, and he’d swiftly push them back into place with an automatic, almost tic-like movement.
As soon as he entered the room, he looked the three men in the face. He barely noticed Maria Giovanna, who had not risen from the sofa.
“The inspector?” he asked in turn.
De Vincenzi bowed.
“At your service, sir.”
“Well? How have we got on? This seems a crime with a simple solution, am I right? And then of course,” he added with irony, “you have some news, which you announced to me earlier.”
Adjusting his glasses, he looked at the count and then at Maria Giovanna, who was getting up slowly, having shaken off her lethargy.
“These people?”
De Vincenzi introduced them. “Count Marchionni and his daughter.”
“Witnesses?” asked the investigating magistrate, shaking the count’s hand.
The inspector assumed a slight air of triumph.
“I believe we can do without them too.”
“Ah,” said the investigating magistrate, staring at him. Then, murmuring “Well, well,” he made for the table and sat down, signalling for the clerk to sit down beside him.
The clerk took several sheets of paper from a leather case and spread them out on the table.
De Vincenzi moved so that he could watch the entrance hall. It was chiefly the door to the servant’s room that attracted his attention. If his calculations were correct, the determining event should take place now. But he’d have to play for time while they waited.
So he spoke.
“A common crime, beautifully conceived and executed. The French call such crimes crapuleux, yet this one has particularly intelligent aspects. The goal was theft… the petty theft of money.”
At these words, Marchionni and Giannetto, knowing that five hundred lire had been found in Garlini’s wallet, expressed their astonishment.
De Vincenzi, with one eye still on the entrance hall, noticed their surprise and smiled.
“This morning, before I got here,” he said, turning to Aurigi, “I, too, took a walk, and in Piazza Cordusio I stopped at the Garlini Bank. I questioned the employees and learnt that yesterday evening Garlini took twenty thousand lire from the safe and put the money in his pocket. Since I was able to establish that the money was not in his house, it’s clear that he should have had it on him last night.”
He turned again to the investigating magistrate.
“Being certain about this allowed me to exclude a motive of passion, and cleared the way for a petty one. Certainly, in principle anyone could have followed the trail of that receipt for half a million, and anyone could have committed an irreparable error. But if having left five hundred lire in Garlini’s wallet was a stroke of genius that could derail the investigation from the beginning, it comes back to the general picture of premeditation, of clever and careful premeditation. Not only did the thief kill, but he did so by weaving such a firm web of evidence against other people that it would be impossible to suspect him—if the clock hadn’t been there to sound the hours, and if I had not counted the strokes of the pendulum.”
He pointed to the mantelpiece. The clock was striking four.
“Do you see, sir? Four—and it’s actually three. Yesterday it struck eleven when it was ten… almost eleven.”
He paused. The entrance hall was still empty. Would he be outsmarted? For a moment he feared Giacomo had left by another door, but told himself it was impossible. He’d seen every room of the apartment. As for the windows, no one would believe a man might leap some twenty metres.
“Sir, would you like the facts of the case, which will allow you to determine the accusation here and now, so that you can order the suspect’s arrest and proceed to accuse him with peace of mind?”
“I ask for nothing else,” said the investigating magistrate. He didn’t know what to make of the inspector’s wordiness.
“Here they are: a clock put forward by one hour; a revolver in a locked drawer; the spontaneous and unsolicited admission of the suspect that he heard a meeting taking place in this room yesterday afternoon; a phone call placed to the Duomo police station so that the murderer would be discovered as soon as possible, and in any case that night; and finally, some fingerprints, which may reveal a lot to us—but could also reveal nothing.”
They’re all just like him! the investigating magistrate thought to himself. Such pompous windbags. They’re all so sure of themselves, these blessed inspectors. They investigate, discover things and never offer definite proof—and then the poor investigating magistrate is the one who gets into trouble.
; “I see, I see,” he murmured, settling his glasses on his nose. But he didn’t see a thing.
“Good, good. But up to now, just clues. Expertly evaluated, but only clues. No confession! What if you’re wrong, dear fellow? If you’ve gone down the wrong track, following an elaborate, juvenile fantasy, and you’ve lost sight of reality? It seems to me that the killer has—if we read the name written on this door and look at the bank balance, if we examine the life of the dead man and that of the suspected killer—how can I put this?—signed his own warrant!”
Giannetto was unperturbed. He knew all too well that the evidence was there, clear as day, to incriminate him. And he would truly have preferred to end the agony once and for all, for them to accuse and condemn him. He couldn’t even consider taking up where he’d left off, now that he felt his spirit crushed and his heart in pieces.
“So right!” De Vincenzi replied to the investigating magistrate, tilting his head. He’d briefly been feeling less sure of himself. What he’d predicted had not happened. What if he really had been deceived? If all the clues were pointing to the servant, as they’d pointed to the others, were they actually pointing to an innocent, at the whim of chance?
The inspector knew all too well that he was risking his position and his career. That reedy little man with the glasses that wouldn’t stay put had extremely set ideas. How could he convince him?
With his heart in his mouth, he looked at the hallway door, the door to the servant’s room.
All at once his face lit up.
Giacomo had appeared at the door wearing his overcoat, hat in hand. He paused and looked around.
De Vincenzi quickly turned so that Giacomo would not notice that he’d been seen, and began talking again. He purposely raised his voice, making as much noise as possible to cover the killer’s steps, which he alone could hear.
“So right! Everything you say is the theoretical explanation, I agree. The name on the door, the balance at the bank, the life of the dead man, above all the way the suspect had been living the past few months… so many facts, so much evidence. But you see, sir, sometimes facts deceive, and evidence lies. What does one need to be certain? Indeed—what does one need?”
The Murdered Banker Page 14