The brigadier pushed his way through the crowd, making good use of his uniform. People let him through, but no one turned to go: the spell of curiosity was too strong. Inside, behind the long counter, there were four people, two men and two women. One of the men came over, pale and visibly upset. Both Ricciardi and Maione noticed that he resembled the widow Irace.
He introduced himself.
“Buongiorno. I’m Michelangelo Taliercio, proprietor of this shop.”
Maione touched his fingertips to the visor of his cap.
“Brigadier Maione, from police headquarters. And this is Commissario Ricciardi, my superior officer.”
Silence fell. Ricciardi said: “I thought that the proprietor was Signor Irace.”
Maione shot him a surprised, sideways glance: sometimes the commissario overdid it with the tough questions.
Taliercio blushed, then replied: “We’re partners, actually. Or perhaps I should say . . . we were.”
Ricciardi nodded.
“Right. We expected to find the shop closed, we just decided to drop by on a hunch.”
“It was usually Costantino who opened the shop for the day, but today he had an appointment, so I came in. When we got the news, we were all already here, and there was immediately a procession of customers who wanted to know what happened. We haven’t been able to leave since.”
The commissario looked around; in effect, there was a full-fledged audience listening to the conversation, as if they were standing onstage at the theater.
“Isn’t there anywhere we could speak more privately?”
The man followed Ricciardi’s gaze and replied: “Certainly, of course. Please, follow me.”
He led the policemen to an office in the back of the shop, by way of a door set between two sets of shelves behind the counter. Inside was a desk piled high with scraps of fabric, ledger books and registries, invoices and other documents, as well as scissors, shears, and needles of every shape and size.
Taliercio clumsily tried to neaten up.
“Excuse me, Commissario. We weren’t expecting visitors, this morning. We weren’t expecting anything at all, truth be told.”
Maione looked him up and down. He couldn’t be any older than thirty years, though he didn’t particularly healthy for his age. His face was creased with wrinkles, he had dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was swept back with brilliantine. He wore a dark brown, half belted sports jacket and a pair of trousers in a slightly lighter tone. The shirt had a starched collar, which seemed slightly rumpled, over a wide, striped tie, with a gold tie pin.
The brigadier asked: “How did you get the news?”
“An hour ago the son of my sister’s doorman came to tell me. I would have hurried straight over, but you can see how many people there are here, it was unthinkable to leave the shop manned only by the sales clerks. Certainly, the Lord knows, they’re trustworthy people, but you can just imagine: if I were to leave the shop in this kind of a situation, then next thing you know it goes from pilfering to even worse.”
Taliercio, Ricciardi decided, was one of those men who think aloud.
“Earlier, you mentioned the fact that your brother-in-law had an appointment this morning. Do you have any idea what it was about?”
“Of course, Commissario. Costantino was supposed to go down to the port to meet an import-export agent with whom we had negotiated a large purchase of worsted wool, a rather large shipment.”
“Yes, your sister told us a few things, but we’d like to get some more details.”
Taliercio sighed.
“Cettina must be a wreck. Life hasn’t been kind to her. But tell me, in any case. What is it you want to know, exactly?”
“When did you see your brother-in-law for the last time?”
“Last night. I was at his place for dinner.”
“Did you talk about what he was going to do? Was he nervous or . . . ”
Taliercio shook his head, with a sad smile.
“My brother-in-law? How obvious it is that you didn’t know him. He is . . . or he was a bold, brash man, he wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything. And the agreement that he was going to sign this morning was crucial. He would have taken care of our supplies for at least two winter seasons, and at a very low price. We would have swept away all our competition. That’s all he was thinking about. He certainly wasn’t scared.”
Maione coughed faintly.
“And yet we were told that just yesterday, at the theater, he had been threatened.”
Taliercio’s expression hardened.
“Yes, I heard about that. And I already knew about the return home of that miserable wretch Sannino. But Costantino laughed about it, saying that if that man got in his way, he’d just kick him in the seat of the pants.”
Ricciardi broke in.
“And yet some serious threats were made, and in public. Your cousin told us that . . . ”
Taliercio made a face.
“My cousin is always afraid of something or someone. He’s a lawyer, and it’s no accident that he is. He’s very protective of me and my sister; we grew up together. But my brother-in-law wasn’t worried about Sannino, that I can assure you. He told me that the man was dead drunk, that he could barely even stay on his feet. My sister told me about the serenade, the night before. Did she tell you about it? Who even goes out to sing a serenade, nowadays? Costantino just thought he was laughable.”
Ricciardi exchanged a glance with Maione.
“Let’s talk about the business deal he went down to the port to conclude.”
Taliercio concentrated.
“We had heard about this shipment of merchandise, top-quality fabric coming in from Scotland. Generally speaking, we have deals with the locals even before they shear the sheep; everyone has their own suppliers and the market shares hardly ever vary. But this is a new manufacturer, and in order to break into the market they’re offering very low prices. We met with their import-export agent, the man who represents them in Italy, and we persuaded him to let us have a hundred fifty bolts. Costantino was going to close the deal in order to prevent anyone else interfering at the last minute.”
Maione had pulled out a notebook.
“Who is this import-export agent? Where can we find him?”
“Martuscelli is his name. Nicola Martuscelli. He has his office down by Pier Fifteen.”
Ricciardi asked: “And was it normal for him to go around with so much cash on his person? At that hour of the morning, it’s not advisable to carry certain sums of money.”
“Usually, everything is handled through a bank, when the contract is officially signed. In part because the intermediary is paid directly, while the rest of the money goes to the manufacturer overseas. But like I told you, this was an unusual transaction: there was no time to waste. Costantino was determined, and he did things in his own way. I had suggested accompanying him, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He said that the store had to open like it always does, otherwise the competition would have sensed that something was cooking. You can’t begin to imagine: business is a constant battle.”
Maione was astonished.
“No less? What competitor keeps such a close eye on you that he’d notice if you opened late?”
Taliercio pointed toward the door, as if there were someone just outside eavesdropping.
“There’s another big shop a little further along, still on the Rettifilo: Merolla. He used to do more business than we did, then we moved in across from him, and with this merchandise that we’ve managed to win the bid on, maybe we’ll be able to force him out of business. Trust me, Brigadie’, they keep an eye on us, and how.”
Ricciardi asked: “Did you start the business together, you and your brother-in-law?”
“No, no. My grandfather opened the store, almost fifty years ago. It’s belonged to my family since then; it’s one of the oldest in the field, here. Costantino came up selling wholesale fruit and vegetables. Only twelve years ago my father died suddenly, and a
s a result of that misfortune, we had a number of serious problems. I was too young, and then there was Merolla, who was undercutting us with his low prices. My brother-in-law was interested in the business and he became a partner when he married my sister. With his methods, we put things back on track, and now we are once again the top fabric retailer in the city.”
“In other words, Signor Irace brought a capital infusion and entrepreneurial skills. Is that right?”
Taliercio confirmed.
“Yes. And I brought my knowledge of the field and the reputation for trustworthy practice consolidated over so many years. We were perfect, together.”
“And there were never any disagreements?”
“The two of us? No, never. We had different responsibilities. Each of us had his own domain and the other would never have dreamed of invading it. He was in charge of accounts and suppliers, and I took care of sales and our customers. As I said, we worked perfectly together.”
The commissario seemed to be following the flow of other thoughts.
“Earlier, you said that your sister has had a difficult life. Why?”
Taliercio turned his gaze back to the wall.
“Those are personal matters all her own, Commissario. I don’t know whether . . . ”
Maione interrupted: “Taliercio, we’re investigating a murder here.”
The man stared at him with a mortified expression.
“You’re right . . . please forgive me. You see, my sister never had any children, and she’d dreamed of being a mother since she was a little girl. She wanted lots of kids. She had married my brother-in-law to save the shop, even though in time she came to care for him deeply: she really loved him. But . . . when she was a girl, she was hurt very deeply. She was in love, and the person she loved left her. I remember when it happened: she stopped eating and sleeping; we were sure she was going to waste away and die, my cousin and I. Then, little by little, she recovered. And now . . . She’s a very fragile woman. Let’s just hope she doesn’t lose hope again.”
The two policemen fell silent for a moment, as if trying to get their thoughts organized. Then the commissario said: “Can you think of anyone, in the fabric business, who might have wanted your brother-in-law dead?”
Taliercio vigorously shook his head.
“Are you kidding, Commissario? My brother-in-law had a powerful personality, and a style in managing his business dealings that was, how to put it, impetuous. But he was an honest and trustworthy man, everything he did was done in the light of day.”
“What about the competition?” Maione broke in. “This shop that you say might have gone out of business . . . ”
Taliercio furrowed his brow, as if the brigadier’s words had shocked him.
“Are you trying to say that . . . No, no. Let’s not joke about such matters, Brigadie’. We’re talking about a murder here. They would never have gone to such lengths. I don’t even want to think of such a thing.”
Ricciardi seemed satisfied.
“All right, Signor Taliercio. That’ll do for now. If we need any further information, we’ll get in touch.”
The other man put on an embarrassed expression.
“Commissario . . . excuse me . . . I wouldn’t want to seem too material, at a time like this, but when are we going to be able to get back the sum of money that my brother-in-law . . . the cash that he had on his person? It was a substantial amount, and the company absolutely must complete that deal.”
Maione turned cautious.
“And how do you know that your brother-in-law wasn’t robbed?”
The man looked at him in surprise.
“If he had been robbed, you wouldn’t have mentioned the money that he had on his person. Then I spoke to my sister on the phone, of course, and she told me that there were no indications that it was a robbery. And anyway, we all know who it was, don’t we? At least, we feel that it’s obvious. Costantino didn’t have any enemies, except for . . . ”
Ricciardi drove in.
“Go on, complete your thought.”
Taliercio ran an astonished gaze over the two policemen.
“Why, Sannino, no? I thought that was obvious to everyone. It was Sannino who killed my brother-in-law.”
As they were walking back to police headquarters Maione said to the commissario: “Well, as far as I can tell, the court has already issued its verdict. The boxer did it.”
Ricciardi walked along in silence, his hands in his overcoat pockets, blithely indifferent to the fine, dense drizzle.
“Maybe though, at six in the morning, the champion was actually warm and cozy in his bed sleeping off all the wine he’d drunk. At this point, in any case, we need to talk to him. Find out where he’s staying, I imagine in a hotel somewhere. But let’s also find out a few things about the rival shop, Merolla. If the success of this deal would have hurt them, then the owners would have had every interest in preventing it from coming through.”
“Yes, Commissa’. And likewise the trail of the failed robbery, interrupted only by the chance arrival of some passerby, shouldn’t be overlooked. We ought to speak to the import-export agent down at the port. If nothing else, to confirm what Taliercio told us.”
“Right. But do you feel up to it? Your complexion is ashen.”
Maione snorted.
“Commissa’, believe me, the way things are at my house, work is a vacation. If it would only stop raining . . . ”
Ricciardi looked up at the sky.
“Where I come from, in the mountains, this is a sunny day. Come on, let’s go. We’ve got work to do.”
XVIII
Rosa’s spirit observed Nelide as she stood on the little balcony, both hands akimbo on her hips as she sniffed at the autumn air.
To be exact, it wouldn’t be accurate to say that she was observing her. Rosa was present, certainly, in spirit, and as we all know, spirits have neither eyes to observe nor noses to smell. But the woman, who had died several months ago already, showed no signs of leaving Ricciardi’s apartment, where she had run the household with absolute dedication and maniacal attention to detail for so many years.
She didn’t know how long that odd concession would go on, allowing her to remain in a familiar and beloved setting, nor did she know whether this was the way it worked for every deceased soul, nor even whether the reason for this prolonged continuance of her perceptions was none other than Nelide, the niece who so closely resembled her. In fact, Nelide was actually her connection to the real world. She might not be able to read Nelide’s thoughts, but she could feel—and was at that moment feeling—all her sensations and reactions.
With Nelide, Rosa sensed a hint of homesickness. In the mountains, thought the young woman, this is a nice day. One season leaves and another arrives. The way it’s always been. The way it ought to be.
One of the things that was hard to get used to, Rosa remembered very clearly, was how different the climate was here. The offshore breezes brought by the immense body of water that extended out in front of the city, the hot winds that blew in from far away in the off season carrying sand and bad moods and dirtying the sheets hanging out to dry, the warm air that tousled your thoughts as if they were a head of long hair hanging loose; these were oddities for a woman from the mountains, accustomed to the simple alternation of cold and warm air.
Nelide came back in from the balcony, brisk and decisive. She rubbed her hands on her apron and looked around her. Everything was in perfect order, clean and tidy. Rosa detected her niece’s satisfaction and was pleased about it. When she had named her as her heir in caring for the young master—the signorino, as she liked to call Ricciardi—the young woman, her brother’s daughter, had been just ten years old, but she was already strong and stubborn, tireless, with an ironbound sense of duty, and what’s more, mistrustful of the outside world, a girl of few words and with no fanciful ideas dancing in her head. The ideal person to take her place.
That position, Rosa clearly understood, entailed some c
omplications. The Baron of Malomonte possessed absolutely no common sense when it came to practical matters: he was so devoid of interest when it came to the administration of his assets and estates that, if it had been left up to him, his sharecroppers and tenant farmers would have stripped him penniless. To keep that from happening had been Rosa’s responsibility, and now it was Nelide’s turn. At less than eighteen years of age, she showed every bit of the same authoritative nature that had allowed her aunt to make sure everyone toed the line. Yes, she had taught her niece well.
The young woman began to lay out on the marble tabletop in the kitchen all the ingredients needed to make dinner. Rosa followed her selection of items, trying to guess at what she would be making. Olive oil, poured from the demijohn, chili peppers, garlic, salt, dried beans, and wild fennel, which were all conveyed from the fields to Ricciardi’s pantry aboard a cart drawn by two horses, in keeping with ancient custom; a two-day trip, once a season.
The minestra selvatica, Rosa realized. Wild soup. But what about the chicory, the thistles, and the beets? Those must be bought fresh.
Nelide nodded decisively, as if in response. She went into her room, put on her overcoat, switched her broad clogs for a pair of street shoes, and got ready to go out.
She was a homely girl, Nelide was. Graceless, short and stout, as broad across as she was tall, with uneven features rendered even harsher by an invariably grim expression. Her eyes, small and very mobile, were surmounted by a broad unibrow; on her face, and in particular, above her upper lip, she had a diffuse coat of facial hair; the hair on her head was so thick and frizzy that she was unable to pull it back.
She walked past the mirror hanging by the front door without so much as a glance; good, Rosa’s spirit smiled to itself, that’s the way a good Cilento girl should behave. She walked downstairs with her heavy step, taking care how she set her foot on the ramshackle steps. The concierge greeted her with a nod of her head, to which she replied with nothing more than a chilly glance; well done, thought Rosa, don’t offer that old gossip the slightest opening. She walked out into the fine drizzle with indifference; she had a hat and an overcoat, far heavier garb than she required, accustomed as she was to the sleet that on certain days—perhaps even today—fell on Fortino, her hometown.
[Ricciardi 09] - Nameless Serenade Page 13