The woman got up from the armchair and walked over to the window. The rain was still falling and the street was deserted.
“I ought to have left. I should have gone back to Rome, like so many of my friends were telling me to do. Ever since it happened . . . ever since then, I ask myself every day: What am I doing here, now? Why can’t I seem to get back to the life I used to live, to those who truly love me? My girlfriend, the one you know about, told me time and time again. But I can feel that it’s still not over. I can feel that I still have something left to do here.”
She turned to look at Falco.
“If the German major really is interested in this young woman, why should I steer him away from that intention, at the risk of bringing a potential rival back onto the field? Because if I were to seduce this man, even without taking him to bed, then she would once again be free to take up relations with Ricciardi, wouldn’t she?”
Falco smiled, with a hint of sadness.
“So, you still think about him. After that rejection, after that insult, you still think about him.”
Livia jutted her chin.
“So, what if I do? Did you think I was the kind of woman who resigns herself to defeat without putting up a fight?”
“I’ve already told you once, Livia: things change. And my job is based on the speed with which we are able to adjust to the changes in situations. Now your Ricciardi is frequenting a lady, as you are certainly already well aware. A noblewoman whose husband is in prison: the Contessa di Roccaspina. She’s very pretty and enjoys the favor and friendship of one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the city, Duke Marangolo. It is not Enrica Colombo, then, who is your rival. Not anymore.”
Livia thought it over for a moment, then she said: “Does my girlfriend in Rome know that you intend to . . . to use me in this fashion? And what do I get out of it, for that matter? What benefit do I obtain?”
Falco caressed the ballerina’s raised leg.
“Your friend doesn’t know anything about it, no. And she must not find out about it, nor can anyone else. All the same, her father is, of course, informed about it, as are all those who enjoy his trust, among them my own boss. As for your interests and your compensation, you are required first and foremost to do what your country demands of you. What’s more, you would have their gratitude, as well as my own personal gratitude. That might persuade us not to carry on a certain judicial proceeding first undertaken a month ago. You didn’t think that we were the kind of people who could easily be discouraged, did you?”
Livia felt suddenly weak.
“You mean . . . you mean that you’d take it out on him? You’d try to harm him again?”
Falco smiled sweetly, which only made her blood run cold.
“There are countless paths, you know. Sometimes the most unexpected things happen; in this city people say: stammo sotto ’o cielo. We’re under the sky. Unfortunately, accidents happen, secrets are spilled. We document all sorts of activities against the government, against the state. There’s more than just pederasty.”
The man had spoken in a low voice, but to Livia his voice had reached her as if he’d been shouting. Her eyes stared into the void.
“So, you’re not satisfied with the schemes we devised. It’s not enough to have forced him to defend himself against charges of which he was innocent and theforefore to have driven a wedge between us. You can’t even imagine the sorrow I feel at the thought that I’ll no longer see him, that I can no longer hope to . . . ”
Falco had lifted the ceramic ballerina into the air and now he was holding her up against the light.
“Hope? Hope for what? For a man who has heaven within grasp and chooses hell instead? For a man who has mortified you, humiliated you, who has turned his back on you? Anyway, if you still feel certain sentiments for him, if you really wish to protect him, deluding yourself into thinking that he might one day change his stripes, then you must make sure that he remains a free man. And, even more important, alive.”
When he was done talking, he opened his hand and the ballerina fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces. Livia started.
“I’m so sorry,” said Falco with a gloomy smile. “I’m really a clumsy oaf. I will be sure to get you another one, but an authentic one: this one was a fake. An imitation unworthy of you and of your home. In any case, I’d never do any harm to anyone you cared for. Unless, of course, I were forced to.”
He turned and walked to the door. When he had his hand on the doorknob, he stopped and, turning every so slightly, said: “Think my proposal over, Livia. And let me know as quick as you can whether I can count on you. Otherwise I’m going to have to find an alternative, with everything that comes with that. I’m sorry to have intruded. Have a pleasant day.”
XXI
When they returned to police headquarters, Ricciardi and Maione were informed that someone was waiting for them. It was Nicola Martuscelli, the import-export agent with whom Irace had had an appointment at the port to settle their deal. They found him sitting on the bench in the hallway, outside the commissario’s office.
He was a man in his early sixties, with thinning gray hair, slightly greasy, an olive complexion, and bad teeth. He looked to be in poor shape, and he kept turning his hat in his hands, nervously looking around him. He didn’t seem to be at his ease around all those cops.
Maione gestured for the man to follow him inside and pointed him to the chair in front of his desk, but Martuscelli made it clear that he preferred to remain standing.
The brigadier addressed him in an authoritarian tone.
“Identify yourself, please.”
“My name is Nicola Martuscelli. I’m an import-export agent for the fabrics trade.”
Ricciardi scrutinized him.
“Are you the one who was supposed to meet with Costantino Irace, early this morning?”
Martuscelli nodded. He continued to look around, as if sizing up potential escape routes.
“Yessir, Commissa’. I’d risen early, we had an understanding. Instead I waited in my office until noon, when they called me on the phone and told me that Irace wouldn’t be coming because he’d been murdered.”
Maione asked: “Who was it that informed you?”
“A shop clerk from Irace’s store. For a moment, I even thought it was just a flimsy excuse.”
“What do you mean, an excuse?” Ricciardi asked. “I don’t understand.”
A smirk appeared on Martuscelli’s face.
“It was a nice big shipment of goods that was at stake, Commissa’, and Irace had obtained a sizable discount for paying quickly and in cash. We convinced the manufacturer, a new operator who was just coming into the market. But if the money didn’t arrive right away, then things would change. That’s why I thought it might be an excuse.”
Ricciardi tried to dig deeper: “So this was a negotiation that had been going on for some time?”
Martuscelli smirked again, uneasily bouncing on the tips of his toes.
“Excuse me, but do you think that business deals like this are just improvised in two minutes? Of course it had been going on for some time. Visits, meetings, phone calls, letters back and forth from here to Scotland. There were just two men left in the end, Irace and Merolla. Actually, Merolla had offered more money, it’s just that he would have paid with letters of credit. Irace instead was willing to bring cash, so he won the bidding. That is, he would have won because, as we all know, he never did show up with the cash. Which is a pity.”
Maione shot a glance at Ricciardi and asked: “Excuse me, Martusce’, but do you regularly conduct such large negotiations?”
The man made a face that was almost a leer: “Don’t be fooled by appearances, Brigadie’. In our sector, we don’t care about silk ties and gold rings, we don’t have fine manners, we don’t drink tea with our pinkies extended like those English dolts, with whom we have to do business because they still have the best sheep on the continent. I’ve been in this business h
ere for forty years now. I started out unloading ships, then I built a space for myself by working hard and refusing to let myself be cheated. Sure, I handle deals this size; I handle much bigger ones, too. It’s just that it’s not in my interest to go around town dressed in a tie and tailcoats. I move a lot of money, and out in the streets, no offense, there are plenty of criminals on the loose.”
Ricciardi stared at him attentively.
“How often had you met with Irace?”
The man paused to think.
“Not often, a couple of times. I went to tell him that this opportunity was presenting itself, he told me that he was interested, and we agreed on prices and terms. I appreciated his play of insisting on moving up the meeting. He was a sly dog.”
“So, what you’re saying is that, even if you were both in the same line of business, you’d only just become acquainted?”
“I knew his father-in-law, who was a gentleman, a prince of a man, truly. Then for a while I dealt with his children, lovely people, by all means, but lacking in grit. When Irace showed up, the store was doing badly; he cleaned up the balance sheets and, now that he’d gotten a handle on how things worked, he was starting to expand. He had got it into his head that he needed to destroy the competition, and with all the money he had at his disposal, he would surely have succeeded. For instance, with this one purchase, he would have threatened to put a great many other shopkeepers out of business before winter’s end.”
Maione was extremely focused—which meant, as usual, that he looked as if he were about to fall asleep: his eyes were half-lidded and his mouth hung half-open.
“That means that if the deal had gone through, it would have spelled someone’s ruin, isn’t that right?”
Martuscelli shrugged his shoulders.
“Who can really say, Brigadie’. Certainly this is a miserable period, as you know. In the past two years, prices have dropped 35 percent. This depression is something terrible, especially for products people can do without, like a new overcoat. If a store is able to put good merchandise on display at lower prices for a whole season, then everyone will do their shopping there.”
Ricciardi spoke, as if speaking to himself.
“A fine problem for everyone else.”
The man took a breath.
“Well, I wouldn’t have wanted to be in Merolla’s shoes, if Irace had shown up with the money.”
“Why Merolla in particular?”
Martuscelli snickered.
“Because he’s right across the street, Commissa’. For the stores that are further away, until word gets around, there’s always some hope of selling. For someone who’s just a few yards away, though, and what’s worse is riddled with debt, there are no alternatives. You might just as well go out of business right away, head north in the middle of the night, and stiff your creditors.”
Maione looked at his superior officer. The scenario was growing broader.
“And did this Merolla know that Irace, specifically, had concluded the deal?”
“Of course he did, Brigadie’. He drove me crazy yesterday; I had to kick him out of my office so I could lock up and go home. He wanted to issue letters of credit, he was even willing to pay more. He was begging me. He said that he’d lose all his customers, that he was ready to commit suicide right there in front of me. A tragedy.”
Maione was surprised.
“Mamma santa! And what did you say to him?”
Martuscelli spread both arms wide.
“Brigadie’, what was I supposed to say to him? I told him that business is business. That if I had been tenderhearted every time someone had got down on their knees and begged, right now, the best outcome I could imagine is that I’d be sitting in the Galleria panhandling. I explained that there was nothing I could do about it, that it wasn’t my fault that the Scottish supplier preferred cash to IOUs.”
Ricciardi broke in: “Who is this Merolla? What kind of a person?”
“A good person. A man who started out as a sales clerk, then he opened his own shop, and he’s been running it for twenty years, he and his two daughters who help out. In the good years, the business grew, but then he started to struggle. He’s a guy who respects his commitments, and does what it takes, jumps through all the hoops, and there are more and more hoops these days. But in business, the only thing that matters is whether you turn a profit. If you can’t do that anymore, you either get out while the getting’s good, or else you bet it all on a number and hope that you win, just like in roulette. And like in life, sometimes.”
Ricciardi sat in silence for a moment. He stared at the window through which he could clearly hear the suicide’s last message, as he kept repeating: ll’anema mia int’e mmane voste, mammà, my soul in your hands, Mamma; maybe he too had chosen the wrong number to bet it all on. He shook his head, and returned to the matter at hand.
“Was Merolla aware that Irace was planning to come see you the next morning, and did he know what time?”
Martuscelli furrowed his brow.
“I don’t know that, Commissa’. I don’t have the slightest idea. For sure, he guessed that the man would be coming early, it only made sense. But how could he know the exact time? He would have had to be keeping Irace under surveillance.”
Ricciardi looked out the window again. The spectre of financial ruin, poverty, and debts. Ll’anema mia int’e mmane voste.
“Thanks, Martuscelli, we’re done here. Make sure we know how to get hold of you, though, we might need to talk to you again. This story has too many points that don’t quite add up.”
The man, visibly relieved, opened his mouth in a poor imitation of a smile.
“Certainly, Commissa’, no doubt about it. Who could get me out of my office? I make deals with Scotland and England, my letters of credit and my money travel the world, but I’ve never even left my city. But, I’m sorry, there is one thing I want to ask you.”
“Be my guest.”
Martuscelli rose for one last time onto the tips of his toes.
“So what now, the deal is shot? I mean, was Irace bringing the money and someone stole it, or did he just not have it at all?”
It was Maione who answered him, dismissively: “Talk to his partner, Signor Taliercio. We aren’t authorized to provide you with certain information.”
“Of course, Brigadie’, I just thought I’d try asking, since now it looks like the best offer is Merolla’s letters of credit again. Anyway, have a pleasant evening.”
Alone now, Maione and Ricciardi exchanged their respective impressions.
“Commissa’,” said the brigadier, scratching his head, “it strikes me that we need to go run over and talk to this Merolla. I personally get a little bit of a tingle every time I hear the word desperation, if it’s in the context of a murder investigation.”
Ricciardi leaned back in his chair.
“Yes, you’re right about that. But we ought to keep a sharp eye on Martuscelli, too, don’t you think? After all, he was the only one who could theorize with a certain degree of precision what time Irace would be passing through the vicolo.”
Before Maione had a chance to reply, someone knocked at the door. It was Camarda, the officer on duty.
“Commissa’, there’s a lady who wants to see you. A blonde lady who has a funny way of talking.”
XXII
Signorina Wright entered the office thanking Maione, who was holding the door open for her. She had changed her clothes, now she was wearing a dark gray jacket and skirt and a white blouse dotted with embroidery, but her figure was still highlighted by a tight belt at the waist and a pair of patent leather high heels.
That woman knew how pretty she was, and she had no intention of foregoing any of the advantages that went with her appearance.
She sat down in front of the desk and asked if she could smoke. A tiny tremble in her hand, when she placed the cigarette next to the flame offered her by the brigadier, betrayed a certain nervousness that couldn’t be divined from her rela
xed and smiling expression.
When she spoke, she addressed Ricciardi.
“Commissario, I hope you’ll forgive me if I come over without an appointment. Our meeting today was a little too . . . sudden, and I’m afraid I may have given you a bad impression. I was sorry about that, and I decided to come over to get a better idea of what’s going on.”
Maione was fascinated, and did nothing to conceal his curiosity.
“Signorina, forgive me, may I ask how you come to speak such perfect Italian? I mean, with your last name and all . . . ”
The woman laughed.
“My mother comes from a town near Frosinone. She was just a girl when she came to the United States and met my father, who is of Irish descent. At home, with her and with my brothers, we always and exclusively spoke Italian. It was very important to her that we understand her language. She dreamed of going back, even though she was never able to make the trip.”
Ricciardi decided to bring the conversation back to the matter at hand.
“Signorina, coming back to us, can I ask you in what position you’ve been accompanying Signor Sannino? Are you his . . . ”
A shadow of sadness passed over the face of Penny Wright, but it dissolved so quickly that anyone who had seen it would remain doubtful about whether it had ever really been there.
“I do everything around here, Commissario. I’m the secretary, I take care of the correspondence and, since I used to be a journalist, I’m in charge of press relations too. Signor Sannino is a boxer, he never had a chance to study, and in the United States a champion athlete has the same kind of business dealings as any captain of industry. It’s not like here, in other words.”
“I can imagine. Still, in the hotel, it seems to me that you stated that Signor Sannino had spent the night with you. Did I hear wrong?”
The woman blushed, and for a moment it looked as if she were about to deliver a stinging retort to what Ricciardi had just said. Maione observed the scene placidly: it often happened that the commissario behaved in a fashion designed to upset the subject of the interview. He didn’t entirely agree with the tactic, which sometimes verged on the violent, but he had to admit that it worked.
[Ricciardi 09] - Nameless Serenade Page 16