Ricciardi replied through the handkerchief that he pressed over his nose: “Buongiorno to you, Martuscelli. To tell the truth, we’re still investigating. And that’s exactly why we’re here: we need to talk to you for a little extra information.”
The man took on a brusque, hurried tone.
“Sure, but let’s try to make it quick, Commissa’. You know how it is, we businessmen are always in a rush. And another thing, if I can speak from the heart, it’s not as if your presence is the best sort of publicity, for my company.”
Maione smiled toward the door, which the secretary had intentionally left open so she could eavesdrop.
“Yes, we noticed. But it’s still better than sending a couple of officers out to collect you, isn’t it?”
The man turned slightly pale in the face, and immediately became more cooperative.
“Go right ahead, Commissa’, I’m at your disposal.”
“Let’s delve a little deeper into the deal that you were going to sign the other day with Irace. You told us that the cavalier was willing to pay a higher price than what Merolla had offered, is that right?”
“No, Commissa’, that’s not the way it was. In fact, Merolla had offered more money. It was the methods of payment that were different, very different indeed. And since the fabric trade isn’t going through a particularly good period right now . . . ”
Ricciardi cut him off: “Of course, right. In short, Irace had cash, while Merolla was offering letters of credit.”
“Exactly. And the seller, on my advice, to tell the truth, chose to take Irace’s offer. Better to get less money but be certain than to get more money but be uncertain. Merolla, in order to meet his obligations, would have had to sell all of the merchandise.”
“Would you mind telling us what difference there was between the two offers?”
Martuscelli rummaged through the papers on his desk, taking vigorous puffs on the half Toscano that he continued to chew; Maione was feeling seasick.
“Ah, here we are. Let’s see now, the shipment is of one hundred fifty bolts, thirty yards each in length and one yard in width; it’s fine worsted wool, specifically whipcord, among the finest. It’s a refined, light fabric, but very warm, ideal both for suits and dresses and for overcoats. The starting price was . . . let’s see . . . 620 lire per bolt, but I’d managed to convince the Scots that that was too high for the current market conditions. My line of work, Commissa’, isn’t easy. The buyers assume that you’re in cahoots with the sellers, and the sellers make the reverse assumption.”
Ricciardi tried to keep him from wandering off track.
“Which means that the price being asked was greater than ninety thousand lire. Is that right?”
Martuscelli nodded, consulting a few figures that had been jotted down in the margin of the sheet of paper in front of him.
“To be exact, ninety-three thousand lire, Commissa’, my compliments on the quick calculation. Unless I do my multiplications on paper, I never can get them right.”
“And how much would Merolla have offered?”
“Merolla would have accepted the original terms, with payment at six months and a year, including interest. Practically speaking, he would have signed letters of credit for a hundred thousand lire, give or take. No doubt, he could have sold such a fine fabric without difficulty, and with a comfortable margin, but he’s already in debt over his head, Commissa’. The temptation to use that revenue to pay off his current situation would have been strong.”
“Which means,” Maione broke in, “that you recommended against the manufacturer selling to him.”
Martuscelli shrugged his shoulders.
“Brigadie’, I earn a percentage. I’d have received more money, no doubt about it: but then, if Merolla hadn’t paid, and in my opinion he wasn’t going to pay, I’d have lost the customer’s trust. In the end, it wasn’t in my best interests. In my profession, trust is everything, and I care a lot about making a good impression.”
Maione looked around and sighed, wondering when they’d get out of there.
“What about Irace?” Ricciardi asked.
Martuscelli smiled, showing off his nicotine-stained teeth: “Ah, Irace was a horse of a different color. Negotiating with him was always a pleasure. Certainly, he was sly as a fox, but if he said something, that’s the way it was. He made an initial offer, too low, then gradually raised the stake and we struck a bargain.”
“Did he insist on checking the quality of the merchandise?”
The import-export agent shook his head vigorously.
“No, no, Commissa’. As far as the, shall we say, technical aspects are concerned, I deal with Taliercio, his partner, who’s been in the field since he was a boy. The shop used to belong to his father, an old-school gentleman, may he rest in peace. With Irace, I only talked about money, and he was one tough cookie.”
Ricciardi stared at him.
“What was the figure you agreed upon?”
Martuscelli grimaced.
“He offered seventy-five, I told him that there was no way I could go lower than eighty, and we struck a price there. But they must have been afraid that Merolla might make a counter-offer, because they moved up the time of the appointment, to an earlier hour.”
Ricciardi narrowed his eyes.
“So they were the ones who insisted on making the meeting so early?”
The import-export agent confirmed.
“Yes. If you ask me, they were afraid that Merolla might somehow manage to come up with the money. Irace was determined to get rid of his competition. But I wonder why, after all: Merolla hadn’t been any trouble for years now. And another thing, Commissa’, just between us, have you seen how ugly his daughters are? Even if they gave me the cloth for free, I wouldn’t do my shopping there.”
And he burst into an explosive laugh that faded into the smoke of his cigar.
XLI
This time, now that Maione was well aware of the exact investigative theory that Ricciardi was working on, he had no hesitation as to which direction to take when he and and the commissario left the port area. He immediately headed toward the Rettifilo, along a path that led by the scene of the murder.
The brigadier stopped at the spot where it was safe to assume that Irace had been attacked.
“And so, Commissa’, you’re convinced that he was killed here and his corpse dragged into the vicolo.”
Ricciardi stared at a point in midair, close to where his colleague stood. Maione couldn’t imagine that at that very moment the commissario’s ears were clearly detecting a murmuring of words issuing from a mouth twisted in pain, through shattered teeth: You, you again, you, you again, once again you, you again.
“No, Raffaele, not necessarily. Maybe out here on the street they just beat him badly enough to render him helpless, and then finished him off back there. The only sure thing is that there were two of them, like Modo told us. And the fact that when they hit his legs, he wasn’t walking, but standing still, makes me think that one of them stopped him and the other was hidden, in ambush . . . Maybe here, in this recess in the wall.
Maione looked at a small ornamental column and reckoned that by night, or in the early hours of the morning, it could have offered concealment to a small man, or a crouching one, because it was shielded by the glare of the overhead streetlamp.
“Yes, it could have gone the way you say, Commissa’. So, you’re thinking it was an ambush?”
Ricciardi nodded, hypnotized by the phantom of Irace as it knelt before him.
“Precisely. A full-fledged ambush. Let’s get going though, we aren’t done yet.”
After their visit to Merolla, Irace’s shop struck Ricciardi and Maione as even more florid and prosperous.
Inside, there were six customers, four women and two men, intently examining bolts of winter fabrics. It was clear that the chilly weather of the last few days was encouraging those who could afford it to add to their wardrobe earlier in the season than usual. Maion
e imagined troops of tailors ready to receive that cloth and then set to work immediately, and with a hint of melancholy thought about his own articles of heavy clothing, few in number, which would no doubt fit him a little too snugly again that year, and his children who were growing visibly from week to week, and who had to be bought a brand new wardrobe every season.
Ricciardi looked around for Taliercio, Cettina’s brother, but couldn’t find him. Behind the mastodontic black-and-chrome cash register, with its rows of buttons and its brass crank, there was a distinguished-looking man, about fifty years of ago, tastefully dressed, and with a pair of long, gray sideburns; he wore a pair of pince-nez spectacles, tied to the top button of his waistcoat with a fine cord. As soon as he saw them he left his post and came over wearing a professional smile.
“Buongiorno, Signori. How can I serve you?”
Ricciardi replied with a hasty nod of the head.
“Signor Taliercio, if you please. We need to speak to him.”
“I’m sorry, Signore. The proprietor had to step out and he won’t be back until we reopen in the afternoon. Is there anything I can do for you? I recognize you, you were here the day before yesterday after . . . after the misfortune.”
Maione raised his fingertips to the visor of his cap in a formal salute. That man, with his refined manners, made him feel slightly ill at ease.
“Brigadier Maione and Commissario Ricciardi, from police headquarters. And you would be?”
The man performed a stiff little half-bow and replied: “I’m Paolo Forino, the shop’s chief sales clerk, at your service.”
Ricciardi struggled to conceal his disappointment. He hated unforeseen obstacles when he was in the throes of an investigation.
“We’re interested in gathering some information about the negotiations that Cavalier Irace was on his way to finalize when he was murdered, but I doubt you’re informed on the matter. We’ll be glad to come back by later on.”
Forino seemed stung.
“As you think best, Commissario. Just for your information, however, there is not a shipment of merchandise, in this company, concerning which I am any less than fully informed. I have more than twenty years of experience in the sector, and both Signor Taliercio and the late, lamented Cavalier Irace have always relied implicitly upon me. Indeed, I can safely state that it was I who established with great precision the various requirements and proceeded accordingly. Have a very pleasant day.”
Ricciardi and Maione exchanged a rapid glance. Then the commissario said: “In that case, perhaps you could spare us the need to come back in the afternoon, and we could also avoid troubling Signor Taliercio, who no doubt has other pressing matters to take care of. By the way, do you happen to know where he’s gone?”
Forino put on a sad expression.
“Signor Taliercio is obliged to be away from the store every day at noon: he returns after lunch. During that interval of time I am in charge of the whole operation, and I’m the sole employee authorized to work the cash register. That is an act of enormous trust on the part of any proprietor. It’s a very delicate responsibility.”
Maione stared at him. Forino struck him as a stupid penguin. The brigadier suddenly had a thought.
“You wouldn’t by any chance have worked for Merolla previously, in the store right across the way?”
The other man stiffened.
“Yes, but you mustn’t suppose that I’m the sort of employee that leaves a position because I’m disloyal, let that be clear. Much less that Merolla fired me for any unseemly behavior, such as embezzling or negligence of any kind. Quite simply, here they needed a head sales clerk whose functions included that of managing the store, and Signor Taliercio made me a very attractive offer. For that matter, in the other shop, I hadn’t received a pay check in more than three months, and so . . . ”
Ricciardi raised his hand.
“Signor Forino, you can tell us all about your work history some other time, and I’m certain it will be fascinating. Now, however, I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a hurry, and after everything you’re told us about your position here, we have no doubt that you can be very helpful to us.”
This recognition of his professional standing dissolved the sales clerk’s face into a gratified smile.
“Ask away, Commissario.”
“On the day of his death, Cavalier Irace was heading down to the port to settle up a commercial transaction, right?”
“That is correct. One hundred fifty bolts of worsted whipcord. It was a big deal, it was going to set us up for this winter and possibly next winter as well.”
Maione chimed in: “Why do you say ‘it was going to’? Is the deal off now?”
Forino spread his arms wide.
“I couldn’t say, Brigadier. I asked Signor Taliercio about it this morning, and he told me that for now he doesn’t want to think about it. I think he must have been deeply shaken by what happened, and maybe, before making a decision, he prefers to wait for his sister, Signora Cettina, to come back to work at the store so he can talk to her about it.”
Ricciardi insisted: “Merolla was interested in the same batch of fabrics, did you know that?”
“Of course I knew that, Commissario. I was present when Cavalier Irace and Signor Taliercio talked about the best way to prevent Merolla from interfering. While we were doing the inventory, last Sunday, we talked about the topic the whole time.”
“Therefore, the fear was real.”
“It certainly was, I have to admit it. According to Signor Taliercio, Merolla is supposed to have offered a larger sum, even though that was in the form of letters of credit, and he might even have arranged to get a loan of cash for a down payment. And that’s why he wanted to accelerate the arrangements and make an appointment for early this morning.”
Maione narrowed his eyes.
“And in your opinion, do you think anyone might have informed Merolla of the situation?”
Forino straightened his back.
“You can’t possibly think that . . . No, I certainly don’t think so. In any case, it was just a commercial strategy, Brigadier, a way of being cautious.”
Ricciardi was staring into the man’s face. The pressure of his green eyes, which might have been made of glass, upset the head sales clerk considerably, and he tried to avoid the commissario’s gaze. An attitude that reminded Maione unpleasantly of Ponte.
At a certain point, the commissario asked: “And so the decision was made to move up the payment and to find the money. Did you have that money in the cash register, or here in the shop?”
Forino couldn’t help but laugh.
“Of course not, what on earth can you be thinking, Commissario, we’re not a bank, you know. It was the cavalier who took care of certain matters. He got in touch with the lawyer Capone, Signor Taliercio’s cousin, who is an expert in the legal aspects of commercial matters and does the company’s accounting, and asked him to withdraw the sum. I myself took care of noting the withdrawal in the master ledger. Eighty thousand lire. But for a product which was going to bring in twice that sum. It would have been a great deal, if we had pulled it off.”
“Are you certain that no one else was present when the decision was made to move forward the appointment?”
“Yes, Commissario, I’m quite certain.”
“But then all three of you went home,” Maione commented. “And one of you might have told someone else about it.”
Forino blushed, but he met the policeman’s level gaze.
“I didn’t, Brigadier. I can assure you: I certainly didn’t.”
XLII
By now there wasn’t much left for them to do. They were necessarily going to have to wait until the next day.
Ricciardi and Maione agreed on their strategy and decided to make use of the remaining time to summarize some of the information they still lacked. It was the brigadier who took matters in hand, making use of his network of personal contacts, a network that he had consolidated over decades of work
in the field: apartment house doormen and concierges, bus drivers, street vendors. People who, for one reason or another, owed him a debt of gratitude. It took him a little while longer than it would have if he had turned to Bambinella, who was unrivaled when it came to this line of work, but Maione didn’t have the heart to disturb the femminiello at such a trying juncture in her life.
Evening had fallen by the time he reported back to Ricciardi with the results of his work, and matters looked correspondingly clearer. As usual, however, the confirmations and cross-checks on the theory that pointed to a solution of the case brought them no relief, if anything, it left them tinged with a feeling of profound bitterness.
The two policemen bade each other a laconic goodnight, saying farewell until the following morning. Maione puffed up the long hill toward his home, as usual leaning into the wind, determined to get himself a couple of extra hours of sleep. Ricciardi headed off toward Via Santa Teresa degli Scalzi, where no doubt a dinner awaited him that was largely composed of legumes and for which he felt no particular inclination.
The commissario had just crossed the Largo della Carità and was now walking along, brushing close to the wall of a building, when he heard a low voice, coming from behind him, that made his heart leap into his mouth.
“Buonasera, Signore. Excuse me.”
At first he thought that he’d just imagined that voice, that greeting. Then he decided it couldn’t have been addressed to him and took a few more steps. Then, at last, he stopped and turned around.
The fact that Enrica had gone out at that time of the evening had constituted a minor household revolution. She had no desire to tell lies, and so she hadn’t bothered to dream up a call on some convalescent schoolmistress or other, nor had she adduced an urgent errand that she absolutely had to attend to; she’d simply gone to her father and told him, plain and simple, that she felt like going out for a walk. Even though it was already dark out, that’s right. Even if it meant she might be late for dinner, yes. In spite of the fact that it was still raining, yes.
[Ricciardi 09] - Nameless Serenade Page 30