Roman Count Down

by David P. Wagner

  Al’s glasses slipped down his nose and he pushed them back. “I suppose so.”

  They were interrupted by a woman who walked up and put her hand on Al’s shoulder. “Ci vediamo domani, Al?” Her voice was like warm honey.

  Al looked up at her, but no words came out. Art leaned toward him. “She wants to know if she’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”

  Al’s face brightened. “Si, si. Dalle due alle tre.”

  “Ciao, Al.” She moved off, her languid stroll studied by the three men who remained silent until she disappeared out the door.

  “Between two and three,” Rick finally said. “Your Italian is pretty good, Al, even though you didn’t understand her question.”

  “He always uses that line, Rick. Falstaff, isn’t it, Al?”

  “Yeah. Act two. One of my favorite Verdi operas, and the more famous of only two comedies the maestro composed. But Arrigo Boito wrote the libretto, so I guess I have to credit him. Where are you coming from in the States, Rick?”

  “New Mexico. Albuquerque.”

  “Been there,” said Al, noticing his wine. He took a small sip. “I auditioned for a violin chair in the New Mexico Symphony when I got out of Oberlin. Didn’t get the job, it went to some relative of the governor.”

  “That sounds like New Mexico,” said Rick. “Sorry your experience there was negative.”

  “Not at all. The violinist who won the chair invited me out to dinner. Hotter than I was used to, that’s for sure.”

  “Do you remember the restaurant he took you to?”

  “A she, actually. Some French place. I don’t remember the name.”

  “French? When you said it was hot, I assumed it was Mexican food.”

  “I wasn’t referring to the meal.”

  Rick and Art exchanged looks.

  “Tell me something, Al,” said Rick. “I have a friend who is thinking of studying harp. Art thought you might know of some harp teachers.”

  Al rubbed his chin, which looked like it had never grown enough beard to be shaved. “I only know of one, she’s at the conservatory. Her name is Angelini.”

  “Good name for a harp teacher,” said Art, chuckling.

  “Why is that?” Al asked.

  Rick went on before Art could answer. “How would my friend get in touch with her?”

  “She’s only at the conservatory a few days a week, like most of the teachers, but she probably has a studio somewhere. None of them can live on what the conservatory pays, so they perform when they can and give private lessons. Call the conservatory to get her contact info.” He glanced at his scores and looked back at the two visitors. The implication was clear.

  “We’ll let you get back to your work, Al,” said Art. He and Rick stood, glasses in hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Rick. Hope your friend enjoys the harp.”

  “I’m sure he will. Thanks for the help, Al. Good to meet you as well.”

  They returned to their original table.

  “I see what you mean about him,” said Rick. “I’ll tell my uncle about Signora Angelini. He’ll probably want to interview her. Another beer?” Art nodded and Rick caught Guido’s eye, signaling another round. “Did I tell you about the Argentine wine merchant?”

  “Another one of your bad jokes?”

  “I wish it were.” He told Art about Juan Alberto Sanguinetti, and by the time he was finished his friend was laughing as if it really were a joke.

  “I’ve got to meet this guy.”

  “Take my word for it, you don’t want to. But I was thinking, who do I know at the Vatican that could at least give me a name that I could pass to Juan Alberto to get him off my back?”

  Art’s face lit up. “Lidia.”

  “Exactly. You said she works at the Vatican press office. Maybe she knows who buys the wine. There must be a cafeteria for the Curia, or a restaurant, or something. The Swiss Guards must have a mess hall. Is there a commissary?”

  “Lidia will know everything. I’d bet on it.”

  Chapter Six

  Standing at the bar the next morning, cocooned by the sounds and smells of caffeine, Rick tried to organize his thoughts on what he had learned the day before. Once again Rick and Piero had missed each other the previous night and that morning, even though they were living in the same apartment. A note left in the kitchen said the commissario would be waiting in the questura for a full briefing. A half cup of the strong coffee jolted Rick’s brain enough to solve the first problem of the morning: What is an Italian word for “skullduggery?” The harp lessons and tidbits about gambling seemed minor compared to that one ominous notation in the count’s journal. What shenanigans could the man have discovered? Was it the reason for his demise? Rick chewed on those questions as he chewed his chocolate cornetto. It had been kept warm in the glass case, so it tasted like it had just emerged from the oven. He toyed with the idea of having another, and a second coffee to go with it, but decided instead to head for his uncle’s office.

  And well that he did. When Rick walked into the police station, Carmella was standing at the front desk talking with the duty officer. She noticed him and gestured toward the large clock on the wall before jerking a thumb toward Piero’s office.

  “Buon giorno,” she said as they walked down the corridor. Apparently, he was beyond needing a pass to wander the building.

  “Buon giorno, Carmella.”

  That was the extent of their conversation before reaching the commissario’s office. Piero wore a tailored suit, lightweight wool for the chill which still hung in the spring morning air. He greeted Rick, and waved him and Carmella toward the two chairs in front of his desk. His manner was businesslike, as Rick expected in the presence of an underling.

  Piero leaned back in his chair. “Tell us what you found yesterday.”

  Rick told them. His notes were in his pocket but he didn’t find the need to pull them out. He went over the main points of what he read in the count’s journal, including the mention of the Englishman, Syms-Mulford, and described the countess’ reaction when he asked her about the man. He recounted his visit to the card players. Then he told them of Signora Angelini, the harp teacher suggested by Al Firestone.

  Piero’s first words were about the count’s journal. “The man saw something that disturbed him. We must find out what that was. Tell me exactly what he wrote.”

  Rick now pulled out his notes and found the lines, translating them carefully.

  Piero rubbed his chin in thought. “It sounds like it was more than someone not giving him a proper receipt,” referring to a common method used by stores and restaurants to avoid paying sales tax. “Let’s hope you and Sergeant Lamponi can find out what it was when you interview people on that street. I’ll track down the harp teacher. I’ve asked them downstairs to check on this Britisher who was a friend of the count. What was the name again?”

  Rick checked his notes. “Girolamo Syms-Mulford.”

  “Yes, now I remember. With a name like that he should be easy for them to find.” He tapped his pen on the pad. “The count’s gambling also raises possible motives, and makes me wonder if he had some debts.”

  Carmella held up her hand. “I’ve worked on those cases before, Sir. It could have been someone urging him to pay up and the warning went bad.”

  “Have you heard of this guy, Rospo?” Rick asked her.

  She nodded. “I know him, but he doesn’t strike me as the kind who would get violent. We can talk to him. I know where he’s found most days.”

  Piero leaned forward and put his hands on the desk. “You can go see him after you poke around the count’s last street, which is likely where he saw something that bothered him. Riccardo, you can brief me on the two meetings at lunch.” He nodded at the policewoman and she stood up, knowing from experience when the commissario was finished.

  “I’
ll meet you in front with the car, Riccardo.”

  Before Rick could answer, she was out the door.

  “Did you visit the apartment yesterday?” Piero was into the next topic.

  “Yes. Yes, I did. It’s perfect. I’ll move in tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Might as well, with our schedules, I never see you anyway. Don’t tell your mother yet. She thinks that by staying with me I’m keeping a careful eye on you.”

  “In loco parentis.”

  “Exactly. My sister thinks you’re still a child.”

  “She always will, Zio.”

  When Rick got out to the street, Carmella was in the driver’s seat of the police car, its engine revving slowly. Inside, he looked in vain for a seat belt. Apparently police didn’t use them, perhaps better to leap quickly to the aid of the citizenry. The tires screeched as she took off up the street.

  “Riccardo, you’re not married, are you?”

  The question took him by surprise. “No, I’m not.”

  She shifted into second and turned the corner while the tires complained loudly. She’d have little tread on them if she always drove like this.

  “If you ever do, don’t have children.”

  Rick was afraid to ask what recent event in Carmella’s life had prompted such advice, so he said nothing, and she was comfortable with his silence. The only noise during the rest of the trip came from outside the car.

  Twenty minutes later, after fighting their way through the traffic of downtown Rome, Rick and Carmella were close to their destination. Even with a police car it was difficult to maneuver through the streets, and impossible to get close to Via Anacleto. When she spotted an empty spot near Campo de’ Fiori, she grabbed it. It wasn’t a full parking space, but large enough to squeeze in at an angle. Without Polizia printed on the side, the car would be a prime candidate for a ticket. As they stepped to the pavement Rick noticed that Carmella’s parking job was earning stares from the foreign tourists and indifference from the locals.

  “It’s down here,” she said to Rick, pointing to a street so narrow that he wondered if they would have to walk single file. Buildings on both sides were barely tall enough to block direct sunlight from reaching the cobblestone pavement, except perhaps at midday in the summer. They walked the length of the street, about fifty meters, to the corner where a rectangular stone plaque on the wall marked the beginning of Via Anacleto II. Rick made a mental note to find out who this Anacleto guy was. From the Roman numeral after his name, he had to be a pope, but it wasn’t one he recognized.

  Carmella stopped and surveyed the street, about half the length of the one they had just walked. “Let’s walk down to the next corner, then work our way back and see who we can find to talk to. You brought along your notes on who the count interviewed?”

  Rick froze. He was back in high school and had forgotten his homework. “I left them with my uncle for his file. But I think I can remember.”

  She shook her head but said nothing.

  They were far enough from the guidebook sites that the businesses on the street catered strictly to locals. No restaurants, not a single souvenir shop, not even a shoe store. As such, no tourists and, at the moment, almost no one of any type. The buildings were the same height as the others in this part of town, two and three stories, with the same gray or yellowed facades. Doors to the residences on the upper floors were squeezed between the businesses at street level. Like all the streets in downtown Rome, there was no sidewalk, but since parking was prohibited, it didn’t matter. Rough cobblestone, sometimes chipped, made walking the street tricky without flat soles, though Rick managed in his cowboy boots. The windows of the first business they passed were so dirty that they couldn’t see inside, but the thump-thump of a machine and a small sign told them it was a print shop. Directly across the street were the padlocked doors of a garage. After the printer was another garage, but its metal shutter was rolled up above the doorway to reveal a man in greasy overalls working on a Vespa. Three mopeds were parked on the street in front, and Rick could see wheels and other parts hanging from the walls inside.

  Across from the mechanic, in a space barely large enough to hold three customers, a glass counter displayed square trays of pizza. Below it ran a row of soft drink cans. The mechanic and the printers did not have far to go to buy their pizza by the slice, if they weren’t turned off by the smells coming from the kitchen behind the counter. The next business on that side of the street sported only a boarded facade, with no indication of what had been there at one time. They were almost to the corner, and since street names in Rome often last for only one block, to the end of Via Anacleto itself. On the last section of the pizzeria side of the street sat what in the Bronx might be called a bodega, a store selling a wide variety of food in cans and boxes, as well as meats and cheeses, bread and milk. Across from it was another storefront business, this one a furniture restorer who could be seen through the glass door. The strong odor of linseed oil overpowered what little aroma remained in the air from the pizza slices.

  Carmella jerked her thumb toward the man behind the glass. “We’ll start with this guy. Do you remember anything in the count’s notes about him?”

  Rick had an idea to get him off the hook. “You know, Carmella, it would be better if you don’t know what the count had written. Then you have a fresh view of each person, without any preconceived ideas you might have gotten through the eyes of the count. I can read you the notes later.”

  She thought about that a moment. “Maybe you’re right.”

  It worked. Rick smiled as he opened the door to let her go in. The space, dimly lit by a few bulbs hanging from the ceiling, was made even murkier by the furniture cluttering the one room, each piece a darker brown than the next. The floor was spotted with brown, the ceiling had a brownish hue, and the apron of the man, like his hands, was covered with brown stains. He looked at Carmella’s uniform and rubbed his hands on the apron. Enough light hit his face to show a stubby beard, though it could have been stain rubbed off from his hands.

  The man only stared, so Carmella started the conversation. “I am Sergeant Lamponi, this is Lieutenant Montoya. We are investigating a homicide.”

  Rick covered his surprise at being called a lieutenant, and kept his eyes on the restorer. In TV cop shows a murderer often betrayed nervousness when first confronted by the police. This guy’s face didn’t betray anything.

  “The old count? I saw something on the news, with his picture. I wondered why he hadn’t shown up here in a few days to do more snooping. Who killed him?”

  Rick, being the lieutenant, thought he should be saying something. “That’s what we’re investigating, Signor…?”

  “Avellone. You got any leads?”

  “We’ll ask the questions, Signor Avellone.” Not sure what to say next, he turned to Carmella, who fortunately took the cue.

  “What kind of snooping did the count do?”

  The man again rubbed his hands on the apron. It was a toss-up as to which was more stained. “He said he was interested in the history of the street, so he asked about what I remembered from the time I’ve been here, what business was at this address in the past, that kind of thing. I played along. You never know when someone might want an old piece of furniture refurbished, and he obviously had money. I get a lot of rich people in here with furniture they’ve had sitting around for a while and they get the idea that it might be worth something. So they pay me to make it look like new. I don’t tell them that doing that decreases the value.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Carmella asked.

  “I remember seeing the news of the murder and thinking that he’d just been snooping here a couple days before. I saw him on the street that day, but he didn’t come in.” He pointed his dirty chin toward the door. “He always spent more time with Pina, so that wasn’t unusual.” The half smile on
his face exposed yellow teeth.

  “Pina?”

  “She owns the store across the street.”

  Carmella pulled a card from her jacket and passed it to Avellone. “If you remember anything that might help with the investigation, call me.”

  The man squinted at the card, which was unreadable, given the lack of light.

  When Rick and Carmella stepped back on the street they didn’t have far to go for their next stop. The sign above the door read Alimentare Giuseppina, and they could see Pina herself through the glass. The long apron not only didn’t cover her curves, it somehow accentuated them.

  “Perhaps our count was interested in more than street history,” said Carmella as she marched to the door.

  Rick followed behind, and once again he was introduced as Lieutenant Montoya. He was immediately surrounded by pleasant smells and tried not to allow them to distract him from his newly assigned duties as a police officer. It was not easy, since the cheeses and cold cuts were battling it out to see who would dominate the airways. The prosciutto and mortadella hanging from hooks were putting up a good fight, but thanks to a feisty caciocavallo and an especially pungent gorgonzola, the cheeses were winning. Rick felt a twinge of hunger.

  Pina blinked back tears when she heard the reason for their visit. “A wonderful gentleman, Umberto. You would never have taken him for a member of the Roman nobility, not that I’ve had much contact with Roman nobility, but you get what I mean. Loved making jokes. Always something nice to say.” She found a tissue somewhere in her apron and touched it to her eyes.

  It all seemed genuine to Rick, and he crossed her off the suspect list, not that he had one yet. “When did you see him last?”

  Pina took a moment to compose herself. “When I saw the news on TV I realized we had talked only the day before he was killed. It was quite a shock, I don’t mind telling you. They had a very nice picture of him on the newscast, and then showed the bridge where he was found. I used to walk across that bridge when I was a child, since I had an aunt who lived in Trastevere. She died a few years ago. Broke her hip, then got pneumonia and never recovered. Same thing happened to my grandmother. There’s something about breaking a hip that—”