“No, Commissario,” Penny Wright replied. “You didn’t hear wrong. Vinnie and I have a . . . let’s call it an open relationship. In other words, there are times when he sleeps with me. Yesterday, for instance, that’s what happened.”
Ricciardi fell silent for a few seconds, then said: “Signorina Wright, I imagine that you understand just how important what you’re telling us really is. Signor Sannino publicly threatened to kill a man who was murdered a few hours later. If you’re the only person who saw him during the night . . . ”
The woman interrupted him: “No, Commissario. That’s not what I said. I wasn’t the only one to see him. And please, call me Penny.”
Ricciardi was baffled.
“I don’t understand. What do you mean, you weren’t the only one?”
“I’d better tell you everything in detail, and anyway, that’s what I’m here for. Maybe some of this might turn out to be useful in your investigation.”
“Go right ahead.”
Penny lit another cigarette. She was tense, but also focused.
“Yesterday, Vinnie had a lot to drink, and he was drinking all day long. It’s a recent development, this drinking of his; he’s not used to it and he loses control. Which is why he threatened that man. But that doesn’t mean that he killed him.”
Ricciardi took a breath.
“As I’ve already had occasion to mention, nobody is saying he did, right now. For now, all we’re trying to do is assess the evidence in our possession. But now that you mention it, I’d like to know more: why did Signor Sannino start drinking?”
Penny Wright paused for a moment before answering, and when she did, she lowered her voice, as if she were remembering something unpleasant.
“Vinnie is an athlete, and athletes take care of themselves, because the health of their bodies is at the foundation of their success in the work they do. He has always been conscientious, both in his training and in his private life. He’s not . . . he’s not someone who talks much, no, but he’s serious and determined. Then there was the episode with Rose, which you surely know all about. After that he changed.”
Ricciardi furrowed his brow.
“Could you be a little more specific?”
The woman exchanged a surprised glance with Maione, almost as if seeking comfort from him.
“What on earth, Commissario? Are you saying you don’t know? All the newspapers in the world covered the story. In a bout where he was defending his title, Vinnie took on a very strong boxer, Solomon Rose. During the sixth round, he laid him out on the canvas, and the man didn’t get back up. He had let loose with a left hook, his very best punch, the trademark punch of Vinnie the Snake, and Rose suffered a brain hemorrhage; Vinnie’s fist caught him on the right temple. He died a month later, still in the hospital.”
There was a moment’s silence. Ricciardi remembered that Maione had said something about this before, but he’d paid no real mind to the matter before now.
“Then what happened?”
Penny went on: “For Vinnie, it was devastating. He was a hero, the perfect Italian, the champion of the poor and the emigrants. Accidents happen in the ring, it wouldn’t be the first time. All he had to do was say he was sorry, pay a visit to the family. Or else just shrug it off entirely, no one would have been surprised.”
“And instead what happened?”
The woman clasped her hands together in her lap.
“It was as if he lost his mind. He stopped training, he spent all his time in the hospital at Rose’s bedside. He turned the purse he’d won for that fight over to the young man’s mother. Without talking to me or Jack Biasin, his manager, about it, he told the press that, for the moment, he had no plans to climb back into the ring, and that he no idea of when or if he would ever fight again. The Italian ambassador even came to see him, to tell him loud and clear that the Duce didn’t appreciate one bit that soft-hearted behavior, and that he expected a prompt and victorious return to boxing. The Duce didn’t want to hear any excuses.”
Maione murmured: “It can’t exactly be easy, Signori’, to beat someone to death and just go on as if nothing had happened.”
Penny Wright nodded.
“No, it can’t be easy. But if someone chooses this profession, he knows that he’s facing certain risks. I believe that Vinnie had already made up his mind to quit, and that the Rose incident just speeded matters up.”
Ricciardi asked: “Why do you think he wanted to quit?”
“So he could come back here.”
That answer was greeted with a wall of silence. After a moment, the woman went on: “For two years, I hoped that he might come to the conclusion that his life by now was in America. Maybe even, with me. He was famous, rich, and loved; his friends adored him and the press celebrated him. There was even talk of a movie about his life. But he had other ideas. He wanted to go back home, as if the home he had in America wasn’t one at all. He wouldn’t explain why. We only understood once we arrived here.”
Ricciardi nodded.
“Irace’s wife, right?”
“Yes, Irace’s wife. A woman who hadn’t waited for him, who had gotten married and who, in all these years, had never even sent him so much as a postcard. A woman who had no hold on him at all, except for a young boy’s illusion.”
Ricciardi and Maione exchanged a glance. She let slip a bitter laugh.
“He seemed to have lost his mind. First, he went and waited outside that fabric store, in the rain, and then he peered through the window, without having the nerve to go inside. Then he decided to do this ridiculous thing, to go and sing a song under her window; Jack helped him, I refused to have anything to do with it. And then, last of all, we went to the theater and he caused the scene that you know all about. But, let me say it again, he was drunk . . .
Ricciardi sighed.
“Signorina, don’t wander off track, please, we need to reconstruct what happened last night.”
The harshness of his tone startled Penny Wright.
“Yes. Yes, of course. After the show, we spent hours in a bar near the theater. He was crying, and he just kept drinking. At a certain point, he said that he wanted to go for a walk, by himself. Jack wanted to be careful, and so he followed him; I just went back to the hotel. I was exhausted, and I fell fast asleep right away. When I opened my eyes again, I found him sleeping next to me, open-mouthed. I tried to wake him up, it broke my heart to see him like that; but I couldn’t get him to come to. He only got up when the two of you arrived.”
Ricciardi leaned forward.
“What time were you first aware of him? Take care how you answer this question, Signorina: if later evidence shows that you were not truthful in this answer, you may find yourself in very deep trouble.”
The commissario’s menacing attitude made it clear that she could neither argue nor fudge her answer. Maione, awkwardly, looked away from Penny, who murmured: “It must have been seven thirty, eight o’clock at the latest. Light was filtering through the shutters. But I didn’t look at the clock.”
Ricciardi stared at her.
“So, you can’t state that he came in before seven o’clock?”
“I can’t, Commissario. Maybe Jack can. I’m sure that he never lost sight of him.”
“Biasin told you nothing? Does he know that you’re here?”
“No, no. This was entirely of my own initiative. I just wanted to make sure you understood that Vinnie isn’t a violent man, though you might assume that about a boxer. The fact that he was . . . that he had feelings for that woman shouldn’t lead you astray: he never would have hurt her husband. It’s an old infatuation, he’ll get over it. He’ll learn to appreciate the fine things that he’s won for himself, instead of chasing after a memory.”
Maione spoke to her gently.
“And you have no idea, Signori’, why his hands were all scraped up and his jacket was torn?”
The woman turned to look at him, a dolorous expression on her face.
“I
explained to you, Brigadier. He was drunk. Stinking drunk. Maybe he got in a fight with someone, or he might just have let off steam by punching a front door, or a wall. He might fallen, tripped over something. Or do you assume that anyone who has a rip in their jacket is a criminal?”
The answer closely resembled Ricciardi’s answer to Maione outside the hotel. The two policemen looked at each other uneasily. The commissario said: “All right, Signorina Wright . . . Penny. I thank you for having come in. Naturally, we’ll have to talk to Jack Biasin and to Signor Sannino again. In the meantime, I’d ask you not to leave the hotel without our authorization.”
Just then the phone on Ricciardi’s desk rang: It was Dr. Modo summoning him to the hospital.
XXIII
On rainy evenings, Pellegrini Hospital contrasted even more sharply with the neighborhood that surrounded it.
Once the comings and goings of relatives, doctors, nurses, and medical students doing their internships had finally come to a halt, the drive that led up to the hospital building and the church was finally dark and deserted, while the vicoli of the Pignasecca neighborhood teemed with life, even in the bad weather. Here and there women could be heard shouting, calling their children in to dinner, and their children could be heard yelling back that they wanted to stay outside and play.
Modo greeted Ricciardi and Maione at the door to the ward; he looked tired but satisfied. As usual, his labcoat was smeared with blood. The brigadier suspected that he did it on purpose, just to horrify them.
“Dotto’, buonasera. Is it revenge for our calls on your service that makes you call us all the way out here? Couldn’t you have told us over the phone?”
Modo dried his hands on a rag.
“Why, what fun would that be, if I was the only one to get drenched in the pouring rain? Still, no, it wasn’t out of a healthy and more than justified desire to have the last laugh that I’ve made you trot all the way over here. It’s because I have something to show you.”
The non-commissioned officer feigned horror.
“No, we’re not playing around. I have a hard time looking at slaughtered bodies. I can’t even go into a butcher’s shop with my wife.”
“Rest assured, Brigadie’, no displays of intestines, today. I don’t want to have you on my conscience, I know what a delicate soul you are. Unlike our friend Ricciardi, here, who apparently turns into a bat every night and flies around sucking the blood of women and children.”
Maione turned to look at his superior officer.
“Hey, Commissa’, how did the doctor find out your secret? I thought only your closest friends were allowed to know.”
A grimace of long-tested patience appeared on Ricciardi’s face.
“Lucky you, if you still feel like joking around at the end of the day. That’s because, in your different fashions, you both can look forward to a relaxing evening. I, on the other hand, am expected at a reception at the home of I can no longer remember which duchess, and all things considered I really would rather be transformed into a bat so I could simply fly away.”
Modo’s face took on an expression of interest.
“Well, well, listen to this . . . After years of isolation befitting the melancholy Dane, our good friend here has decided to plunge into the social whirl. Come to think of it, someone did tell me that you’ve been seen out and about with an aristocratic lady whose hair glints with coppery highlights, as charming as her reputation is dubious; my kind of companion, in other words. Never share the nicer things in life with your friends, right? Only the pains in the neck.”
Ricciardi sighed.
“Let it go, it’s a long story and I don’t have time to go into it. Soon enough I’ll get back to my old habits, never fear.”
The doctor stroked his chin.
“As for me, I have a little visit planned to Madame Flora, in the Vicaria neighborhood. She has all the new girls of the second half of the month, and word is going around that there are a couple of Venetian girls who are supposed to be a force of nature. What do you say, Brigadie’, would you care to join me?”
Maione pretended to be scandalized.
“Dotto’, what on earth are you thinking? And after all, I can’t even find the time to spend a couple of quiet hours with my family, where am I going to find the time to go to a brothel? In fact, if you’d be so good as to tell us why you called us here in the first place, I’d be glad to put an end to this shift. By now I’ve completely forgotten what my children even look like, and I just hope they’re over the flu. They’ve been passing it around from one to the other for the past month now, you never know which one is going to come down with it next.”
Modo nodded.
“True, there’s a nasty strain of influenza going around. If the rain doesn’t let up around here, we might as well all just climb into bed and be done with it. All right, come with me.”
He headed off down a hallway leading through the ward until he reached a small room. He selected a key from the bunch he had dangling from his waistcoat and opened the door. He turned on the light. Inside, on a table, was the clothing Irace had been wearing when he turned up dead in the vicolo. The clothing was laid out as if the body were still wearing it: shoes, socks, trousers, and so on.
Maione was slightly taken aback.
“What is this, an autopsy of the invisible man?”
The doctor chuckled softly.
“We can talk about the autopsy later, anyway there was nothing remarkable about it, if you leave aside everything we’d already guessed. The real fun is here, right before your eyes. Come closer, draw near. Look carefully.”
Maione and Ricciardi started examining the garments, turning them over in their hands. After a while, the commissario said: “I think I understand. Actually, it strikes me as a very interesting piece of evidence.”
Maione’s patience was running short.
“All right then, if you’ve all understood, why don’t you explain to me, too? Because honestly, aside from the fact that it’s all fine, expensive apparel and that the shoes are actually my size, so I’d be glad to take them for myself, I can’t see anything strange about any of it.”
Ricciardi showed the brigadier the back of the overcoat.
“Look carefully, Raffaele. It’s covered with mud, right? But there’s a section that’s muddier than the rest, and where the fabric is also more heavily worn.”
Maione pointed to a central area that would have corresponded to the lower back.
“Right here, Commissa’. And it’s the same thing on the trousers, too.”
“Exactly. Now, if he’d been dragged all the way to where we found him on just one side . . . ”
The doctor, his eyes sparkling with gratification, finished Ricciardi’s sentence for him: “ . . . he would have the sleeves or the trouser legs all dirty, or even torn. Which means that . . . ”
The brigadier had a flash of understanding and smacked his forehead.
“ . . . that it was two people dragging the dead man. One must have been holding him by the arms, because the overcoat sleeves are clean, and . . . ”
And Modo finished his thought for him: “ . . . and the other was holding him by the feet, and in fact the shoes and the lower sections of the trouser legs are also clean. So, basically, I’ve just done your job for you. If you’ll be so good this month as to sign over the salaries they so undeservedly pay you, then we’ll be even.”
Ricciardi looked at him with a sardonic smile.
“With all the times that I’ve paid your bar tab, at the very most I might be willing to take a little something off your account. Which would then mean you only owe me a few hundred thousand lire, maximum. Still, thanks for this. Now will you tell us the findings of the autopsy?”
The doctor sighed and held out both arms.
“Oh, fine, now we’re calling into question a more than justifiable redistribution of the wealth between the large landholding masters of society and the intellectual proletariat: justice is strictly
a pipe dream, I see that . . . Now, then, the subject is, or rather, used to be a powerfully built male, middle aged, slightly overweight but generally speaking, in good physical health. Left to his own devices, he would probably have died in fifteen years or so from clogging of the arteries. He was already heading straight in that direction: it’s obvious that the man liked to eat, drink, and smoke . . . I can’t imagine what he saw in it.”
Maione coughed. Modo shot him a vicious glare.
“Brigadie’, physicians are invulnerable, don’t you know that? They teach us at the university how to avoid certain things. I was just saying that his general state of health was decent, and so, by killing him, they didn’t do him any favors. The examination confirmed that death was the result of a big, fat mazziatone, as we say in dialect. A serious beating. Ecchymoses on the face, lacerations in the region of the nose and mouth, broken teeth, loss of blood. Fractured ribs . . . ” and here the doctor pulled out of his labcoat pocket a sheet of paper written in a dense, slanted script and put on a pair of eyeglasses, “ . . . right ninth, tenth, and eleventh ribs, with correspondiung perforation of the lung, the lower lobe of which was a dirty brown and presented leakage of liquid upon application of pressure. No lesions of either esophagus or stomach, but presence of hematic traces: he swallowed the blood that had risen from the respiratory tract, in other words. Cracked spleen and leakage into the peritoneum.”
Maione let out a soft whistle.
“Maronna, they cleaned his clock for him, and plenty more into the bargain.”
“That’s right, Brigadie’. They really did. And I haven’t even finished: fracture of the third distal of the right femur and substantial contusions on the left one. If you ask me, the first thing they did was give him a good hard smack from behind, on the legs, to get him to fall to the ground.”
Ricciardi was very attentive.
“Yes, but what killed him? Because in your list, there is no fatal blow.”
Modo smiled, with a great satisfaction.
[Ricciardi 09] - Nameless Serenade Page 17