Ricciardi didn’t have a chance to reply, because there was a knock at the door. Officer Cesarano stuck his head in, announcing visitors.
The first one through the door was the widow Irace, eyes downcast beneath her black hat with a black mourning veil, gloved hands clutching at a small, rigid handbag. Then the woman stepped aside, and like a Greek fury, the lawyer Capone burst into the room.
“Commissario, you owe me an explanation for behavior that I find entirely unacceptable. As I explained to you, I am not a criminal lawyer, but I am fairly certain that an interrogation should be preceded by formal summonses and that one cannot . . . ”
Maione was the first to recover from his surprise.
“Calm down, counselor, calm down, if you please. Take a deep breath and remember that you’re in police headquarters now, not out in the piazza, much less in your own home. Let’s start over, and to begin with, buongiorno to the Signora and to you.”
Capone fell silent, pressing his lips together, but his bright little eyes never once stopped launching bursts of flame. He was dressed quite fastidiously, though his clothes were just a shade old-fashioned: the collar of his shirt was starched and the tips were rounded. He shook the sleeves of his overcoat, which was dripping water onto the floor and, after a perceptible hesitation, removed the gray hat that covered his thinning head of hair.
“I apologize, Brigadier. You’re quite right, buongiorno to you and to the commissario. Nonetheless, I must lodge a protest. I’ve learned that you’ve once again visited my cousin at her home and that you have asked her questions in my absence, in spite of the fact that I . . . ”
Ricciardi interrupted him: “Counselor, you were correct when you said that you’re accustomed to dealing with a different side of the law. We’re investigating a murder, and if we feel that it’s necessary to speak to someone, we are under no obligation to request any authorization. Our job is to catch the murderer and ensure that he is in no position to do any further harm. We urgently needed to shed light on certain aspects of the case, and so we went to pay a call on your cousin. I don’t see what the problem is.”
It was clear that Capone was caught on the horns of a dilemma: he was tempted to reply vociferously, and instead he was making an effort to remain calm. From his neck, constrained by a broad striped tie, a growing red flush was rising toward his cheeks.
“My cousin, esteemed Signor Commissario, is suffering from an enormous and recent loss. She ought first and foremost to be left in peace, and instead she is continuously forced to remember and even to venture suppositions about just what befell her poor, late Costantino. Would you inflict such torment upon your sister?”
Ricciardi gazed at him with a flicker of emotion.
“If it would help to track down her husband’s murderer, yes I would. Would you prefer that, in order to spare the Signora’s feelings, we sat here doing nothing? And, in any case, I don’t have a sister.”
Capone clenched his fists, but managed to keep the volume of his voice low.
“Then go and arrest the murderer. Because, as far as I can see, it’s clear to everyone but you who the guilty party is. He shouted for the whole world to hear that he would kill him, and that he wanted him dead. And after that, he launched a cowardly assault on him when no one else was there to see. I wonder what you’re waiting for. Why don’t you do your job?”
At this point, Maione snapped.
“First, and seeing that you are a lawyer, you ought to be well aware of the fact, a man isn’t guilty until a court issues a verdict. Second, we know our business, and we don’t need you to come tell us how to do it. Third, if you’re referring to Signor Vincenzo Sannino, we can inform you that he has been arrested, but that the investigation has not yet been completed, because there are a great many things left to be verified.”
The news had the effect of a bomb going off. Capone stood there, open-mouthed, eyes staring. Signora Irace, who until that moment had been clutching at her handbag, eyes downcast on the floor, looked up and stepped forward to the commissario’s desk.
“You’ve arrested him? And on what . . . For murder?”
Ricciardi remained silent; he seemed to be studying the expression on the woman’s face.
It was Maione who replied.
“Certainly not for disturbing the peace, Signo’. But let me say it again, the investigation is still underway.”
Capone recovered. He was visibly gratified.
“Ah, you see. You finally made up your minds. Still, all in all, you waited too long. In any case, congratulations.”
Ricciardi crossed his arms over his chest.
“There’s no cause for congratulations, Counselor. Not yet. An arrest is one thing, an indictment is quite another. For instance, I am by no means convinced of Sannino’s guilt. And I hardly think I’m alone in that.”
Capone furrowed his brow.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Even your cousin, in the conversation we had in her apartment, seemed quite unsure that events unfolded the way that you claim.”
The lawyer turned to look at Cettina with a look of astonishment.
“But . . . but what do you mean by that? If you yourself . . . Commissario, my cousin is a woman ravaged by grief. Believe me, no one knows her better than I do, no one is fonder of her than I am. She isn’t capable of remaining objective, at a time like this.”
Ricciardi spoke to the woman: “Signora, is it not true, perhaps, that during our conversation you stated more than once that you did not believe Sannino capable of such a violent act?”
Capone jumped in: “Cetti’, don’t answer that question. You’re not a suspect, and you needn’t . . . ”
The woman nodded.
“Commissario, my cousin is right.”
Ricciardi was stunned.
“But you told me that . . . ”
“What I said was that the young man I once knew would never have done such a thing. But that was sixteen years ago; more or less our age at the time. I have no idea what he might or might not be capable of now. The times that I’ve seen him, since his return, I barely spoke to him. People change, Commissa’. Those threats . . . the profession he chose . . . Perhaps . . . perhaps he really did murder Costantino.”
Capone blurted out: “Perhaps? Perhaps? Can’t you see that there’s no doubt about it? That this criminal may even have come back from America specifically to . . . ”
Ricciardi interrupted him in annoyance: “Conselor, why don’t you stick to your profession and let the judge, if one is empowered, issue the verdict. What’s more, I’d ask you to stop peddling your own views as those of the lady.”
Signora Irace was overwhelmed. Her hands were trembling; her eyes darted from Ricciardi to Maione and then, inevitably, back to her cousin. She struggled to recover her poise.
“Commissario, here’s the way I look at things: I want you to catch my husband’s murderer, whoever he might be, and I want him to rot in prison for the rest of his life, whoever he might be. There’s nothing else that I care about.”
Capone dissolved into an expression of great pity and tenderness. He ran a hand over the woman’s shoulder, deeply moved. Then he addressed Ricciardi: “I have full and complete faith in the justice system, otherwise I wouldn’t do the work I do. But I’m positive that the man who murdered Cavalier Costantino Irace is Vincenzo Sannino. And that’s the way that my cousin feels, and so does her brother, who isn’t here today only because he cannot leave his place of work until she feels strong enough to return to her position in the business that belonged to her father and her grandfather before him. It’s important for Michelangelo, too, who has his own life ahead of him. In the trial that is going to be held to judge that cowardly murderer, Cettina is going to appear as the civil plaintiff, and I will represent her myself. We’re going to take this case all the way to the bitter end. I feel certain, let me say it again, that Sannino will be proven guilty, and the civil reparations are going to have to be enormous.�
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Capone’s tirade was steeped in a powerful, violent hatred. Ricciardi and Maione looked at each other. Then the brigadier said: “Explain one thing to me, counselor, just where do you get all this certainty? It’s not as if there’s a cast-iron case.”
Capone seemed to be surprised at the question. Before answering, he moved closer to Irace, almost as if he wished to hold her close.
“Because I know him. I’ve known him as long as my cousin has: I lived with her when I was a young man. I’ve never liked him. He was always hypocritical, showing a façade of courtesy, but deep down all he ever wanted was . . . What he wanted was her, and nothing else. He even tried to take her away with him, to America, where he would have forced her to live a life of want and hardship. And that’s not love, don’t you agree? If you love someone, you want them to be comfortable and happy.”
If you love someone, you want them to be comfortable and happy, thought Ricciardi. That’s right. Comfortable and happy.
Capone added: “And then there’s the matter of the punch.”
The commissario sat up a little straighter at his desk.
“What are you talking about? What punch?”
“You know better than I do, Commissario. When I went to identify Costantino’s body, the doctor in charge of the autopsy, I believe his name was Modo, explained to me that what caused his death was a blow to the right temple. A punch that was identical to the one that killed the Negro boxer; the case was in all the papers, even the radio reported it. It’s the chief argument I’m planning to rely on during the trial, and I’ll be sharing it with the magistrates who are going to file the case for the prosecution.”
Ricciardi stared at him attentively, almost as if he were trying to get a better read on him. Then he replied: “We aren’t overlooking any of the evidence, Counselor. If you think we are, you’re sadly mistaken. We’re well aware of the array of evidence against Sannino, and in point of fact, we have already arrested him. But let me reiterate, the investigation is still under way. Now, if you don’t mind, we have a lot of work to do.”
XXXVII
He’d thought about it all day long, Brigadier Maione had. Even though he was focusing on the Irace case, even if it had been up to him to organize the shifts of the officers at police headquarters, part of his mind had continued to focus on the problem of how to ensure the survival, if possible in an acceptable state of health, of a certain Gustavo Donadio, better known by the dubious nickname of ’a Zoccola. The sewer rat.
Among other things, he realized that what stirred such lively concern in him had not been merely the heartfelt request of Bambinella, with the resulting, unsettling admission of the mere existence and the sheer depth of their friendship, nor even the fact that Gustavo himself had struck him as almost likable and in a certain sense, his peer in his sorrowful love for his children.
The thought that most tormented him was that of Pasquale Lombardi, also known as ’o Lione. His old classmate from elementary school, the red-haired boy with whom he had played and skipped class to go down to the sea; whom he had lost sight of until, one day, he had found him on the opposite side of the barricades. It struck Maione as unjust and serious that the child of his youth had become that man. A man who lived by an absurd code of conduct, which demanded that he harm and even take the life of a poor wretch like Gustavo, in order to affirm his power. What’s more, Maione had no way of preventing him from committing these crimes, because he couldn’t say when, where, and how he would put his wicked intentions into effect.
He had wracked his brains to come up with a solution, and in the end he had found himself at a dead end. At a certain point, he’d even thought of talking about it with Ricciardi, who was always so clear-headed about these things, but then if the commissario failed to find a way out of the impasse, he would have demanded that Maione intervene nevertheless, or else the commissario might very well intervene himself. And that wasn’t the way things worked, as Maione well knew: ’a Zoccola would suffer the same fate no matter what they did, and for Bambinella the consequences would be devastating.
All the same, in the shadowy dank atrium where he had spoken with Lombardi, a few words had emerged from the enormous silhouette of the Lion that might, perhaps, point to an hypothesis of salvation.
A painful, difficult hypothesis.
Maione had just reached the middle of the long uphill street, where there were no longer any sheltering overhangs, when the rain started to pour down again. The brigadier recognized the event, accepting it as ineluctable, as his shoes filled with water. It was evening by now, but there was no time to waste: he needed to try to lay out the solution that he had come up with and get Bambinella’s approval. She still might very well reject it, but he needed at least to try.
The interior of Bambinella’s apartment had been ravaged even worse than the last time. The coquettish, garish messiness that generally characterized the style of the furnishing and decoration of the place had now been transformed into a grim welter of clothing and objects. The only lighting came in from the lamps hanging out in the street, and a shutter slammed rhythmically in the gusting wind. It seemed to be colder inside than out. Maione called the femminiello’s name a couple of times, and finally heard a faint moan. Concerned, he hastily switched on the light. His eyes were greeted by the very spectacle he had feared.
Bambinella lay stretched out on the bed, covered with a sheet that was stained with blood and vomit. Her face was swollen, with one puffy eye, half closed, and a split lip.
“By all that’s holy, Brigadie’, turn off the light,” she mumbled. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
Maione took out a handkerchief and went over to the sink where he wet it, then he sat down next to the femminiello and started cleaning her wounds.
“Bambine’, when did this happen? Who did it?”
Bambinella let herself be tended to without complaint, even though she had to be in a great deal of pain. Maione felt reassured when he saw that there was no grave damage: no broken teeth, or what would have been even worse, no slashes to the face.
“Last night, Brigadie’. There were two of them, they had their faces covered. They thought I didn’t recognize them, but I know them very well. They were ’o Lione’s men; there’s no point in me telling you their names. It’s better if you don’t know.”
Maione was angry now.
“What, couldn’t you have sent for me? For utter nonsense, you send me a scugnizzo in the middle of the night and for matters like this, on the other hand, you wait until I come by on sheer chance. But why did they give you this treatment?”
Bambinella swallowed, with some effort.
“They wanted Gustavo, Brigadie’. He didn’t show up for the appointment because I prevented him from going. And so they came here looking for him. I managed to stall them for a while, but they’ll find him, and then what happened to me is going to look like a joke.”
Maione helped her to sit up, doing his best to figure out whether the criminals had also taken it out on her body. Bambinella understood and shook her head.
“No, no, only the face, Brigadie’. They said that that way I’d be able to go out and warn him that he better show up the next time.”
“And just when is this next time, if I may ask?”
The femminiello opened wide the only eye she could open at all.
“No, you may not ask. If I tell you, I’m unleashing a whole world of trouble; it would spell a death sentence for me and for Gustavo, and it might put you in some considerable danger as well.”
Maione clenched his jaw.
“Bambine’, you’re crazy. It’s by staying silent that you really run risks. Just as they came the first time, they might easily come back, you need to think about how to defend yourself. With the attitude you’re showing, there is no hope, it’s just a matter of time.”
Bambinella started crying, sniffing loudly.
“Then what am I supposed to do, Brigadie’? I can’t just let them kil
l him. I put him into an unrented warehouse not far from here. The owner is a customer of mine: I asked him to give me the keys and . . . ”
Maione reeled in astonishment.
“Are you trying to tell me that you took Gustavo ’a Zoccola and you locked him up in an empty warehouse? Who else knows about this?”
“Just me and him, and now you too, Brigadie’. But I left him plenty to eat and drink, and if I can see that things are quiet then I go by to visit him. Today is the one day I haven’t gone, because . . . because this thing happened. But he has everything he needs, and he’s better off there than he is out in the street, otherwise he would have been sure to go to the appointment, and they would have gutted him like a fish.”
The brigadier considered the circumstances and was forced to admit that, when all was said and done, the solution made a certain amount of sense.
“All right,” he said. “Still, your face is solid proof that those people will stop at nothing. So we’re going to have to find a solution once and for all, otherwise the two of you are going to have a rough time of it, a very rough time.”
Bambinella started to make a face, but then she stopped immediately: the pain in her lip was too great.
“I know, Brigadie’, don’t you doubt for a minute that I understand. But what can I do about it? What can we do about it?”
Maione took a deep breath.
“Actually, there might be one thing we can try, I think. But you have to make up your mind whether you’re willing.”
And then he told her.
A boy, about ten years old, opened the door, and when he saw the entire doorway occupied by an enormous policeman, he stood there petrified. Then he snapped out of it and ran off shouting for his mother: “Mammà, mammà, currite!”
After a while he heard the quick steps of a woman and the boy’s mother appeared before him, a young woman, her hair a mess, her face lively, her eyes sparkling. She looked Maione up and down, without the slightest sign of alarm, and then said: “Brigadie’, I’m sorry, you came all the way over here for nothing. He doesn’t live here anymore.”
[Ricciardi 09] - Nameless Serenade Page 27