“No, no, Reek. You’ll be glad to know that I have decided to stay longer. Another business opportunity, a local one, has come up.”
Rick rolled his eyes heavenward. “Something in the tourism trade, I’m guessing.”
“You are correct. I must tell you all about it.”
“But not now. I really must go. I’ll call you in a few days.”
Rick hit the “end call” button, stuffed the phone away, and shook his head. So that’s where Giulia was last night, why she couldn’t have dinner with him. She was wining and dining the Argentine Lothario so she could use him to set up the business to bring in South Americans. Well, he had only himself to blame since he had put them in contact in the first place. If only he’d had some inkling that it would end up keeping Juan Alberto in Rome.
His phone rang again, and he snatched it back out of his pocket.
“Riccardo, you were correct. Sergeant Lamponi is on her way.”
“I’ll meet her there,” Rick said.
Rick considered trying to find a taxi, but immediately decided to walk, taking off at a fast pace. The sky had turned a darker yellow, even more menacing than when he had left his apartment, and the thick air dried his nose and mouth as he strode across the square into a side street. Buildings squeezed in on both sides, diminishing the little sunlight that penetrated the clouds. His heart beat faster, but he wasn’t sure if it was merely from exertion, or the possibility that the Zimbardi case could actually be resolved. Or was he just out of shape? He picked up his pace, and the sound of his boot heels hitting the cobblestones echoed like a horse trotting through a canyon.
He arrived at one end of Via Anacleto at the same time that Carmella pulled up in a patrol car and climbed out of the driver’s seat. A uniformed policeman emerged from the passenger seat.
“I’ve got another patrolman at the other end of the street,” she said without a word of greeting. “I hope everyone is here today.” She instructed the other cop to stay at the corner. “Let’s go,” she said to Rick, her tone indicating that his lieutenant status had been rescinded.
They walked together past Pina’s delicatessen and Signor Avellone’s furniture restoration shop. Rick glanced through glass and saw Pina behind the counter. She also saw him, and a look of concern darkened her face.
“Look at that, Riccardo. They’re at the pizza parlor. How very convenient.”
Rick looked, and saw all three Stampatelli generations standing just inside the open front of Ahmed’s pizza establishment. They were empty-handed, indicating they had just arrived and were about to place their orders. From the mechanic’s shop, directly across from where the printers stood, came the noise of a hammer on metal. Signor Leopoldo was back, and at work. When Rick and Carmella reached the entrance to Ahmed’s, Silvio, the youngest of the Stampatellis, noticed them and tugged on his father’s sleeve. Ludovico looked at his son with annoyance and then saw the police uniform.
“Well, look who’s back,” he said. “A slow work day?”
“I could ask you the same question,” said Carmella.
“We always come here at this time of the morning for a slice of pizza to hold us until lunch.” Ludovico raised his index finger to the sky. “And today we had to complain to Ahmed for bringing us this damn weather from his country.”
The youngest Stampatelli giggled at his father’s comment, but Ahmed didn’t seem to notice. “Would you like pizza?” he asked Rick and Carmella.
“Not for us today, Ahmed,” she answered before turning to Rick. “Lieutenant?”
It seemed that he had retained his rank and was expected to do the talking. Or if his theory turned out to be wrong, he would be the one with egg on his face. He swallowed hard and considered getting a soft drink from Ahmed to get the dust out of his throat.
“What is going on?”
The voice was that of Pina, who had seen Rick and Carmella and rushed down the street behind them. She stepped into the store and grasped the arm of Ludovico Stampatelli. Even Leopoldo had abandoned his broken Vespas and was in the street rubbing his greasy hands on an even greasier rag while watching the proceedings. They had a quorum.
“Some new information has come to light in the case,” said Rick using his most official-sounding voice.
“You’ve found Umberto’s murderer?” asked Pina before covering her mouth with her free hand.
Ludovico’s face turned hard and he stared at Rick. The old man’s eyes widened. The kid looked scared. Leopoldo blinked. Ahmed’s expression had not changed from his normal polite smile.
“Let me finish, Signora. The night of the count’s death he took a bus most of the way to his residence. We are not sure where he got on the bus, but we do know where he got off, at Tiberina Island.”
“That’s not new,” Ludovico said. “We all read about it in the newspapers.”
Rick thought about what a real cop would do and decided he should continue as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “The count crossed one bridge, then traversed the island and walked onto the Ponte Fabricio for the final meters to his home. It was on that second bridge that he met his end.”
Pina sniffed. “Poor Umberto.”
“It was interesting what we did not find on the count’s person.” Rick glanced at Carmella, who was beginning to show impatience. He didn’t care; he was getting into his role. “His wallet. His wristwatch.”
“So it was a robbery,” piped up Leopoldo, still rubbing his hands on the rag. Everyone looked back at him and then returned their attention to Rick.
“Or the murderer wanted us to believe that, Signor Leopoldo. But there was something else that we did find, and it was in the count’s pocket.” Rick reached into his own pocket and very slowly pulled out what appeared to be a small piece of paper. Everyone squinted to see what it was.
“It’s Umberto’s bus ticket,” said Pina, trying hard to hold back her tears. “His very last bus ticket. Most people would have thrown it away when they got off the bus, but not Umberto. He was very tidy. It was one of his virtues.”
Ludovico Stampatelli was not interested in hearing about the count’s virtues, especially from Pina. “So he kept his ticket, what does that have to do with anything?”
“Ah, but it has everything to do with the case,” Rick replied. “The count kept a journal, and during the final week of his life he recorded some concerns on its pages. He had encountered something which bothered him greatly, something that went against his sense of decency, something which—”
“And what would that be, Lieutenant?” Carmella was ready to cut to the chase.
Rick help up the ticket. “It’s all in a common bus ticket. But was it really so common?”
Eugenio Stampatelli stepped forward. “Let me see that.” Before Rick could react, the oldest Stampatelli snatched the bus ticket, peered at it, and suddenly stuffed it into his mouth.
“Grampa, what are you doing?” said Silvio.
“Papa, are you pazzo?” said Ludovico.
After two bites it was on its way down, but it became obvious to everyone that it did not settle well. He held his stomach, his face turned a color similar to the morning sky, and he sank to one of the benches with a low groan. Ahmed reached under the counter, pulled out a cold can of Coke, and passed it to the elder Stampatelli who took a few sips. His color stayed the same.
“That will be two euros, please,” said Ahmed.
“Why did he do that?” said the moped mechanic, staring at the old man.
“It’s very simple,” said Rick. “When the sergeant and I first came to the street, we spoke with Eugenio and Silvio Stampatelli. Eugenio told us about how his father had used the family business to fool the Nazis during the occupation of the city. Do you recall that, Silvio?”
“I’ve heard the story a million times.” The boy kept his eyes on the ground.
“Do you
remember telling us, Signor Stampatelli?”
“I’m not saying anything,” answered Eugenio, taking a sip of the Coke. It seemed to help settle his stomach.
“It was this morning,” Rick said, looking at Carmella, “that we recalled that story, and put it together with the bus ticket which,” he paused for several seconds, “is counterfeit.”
“Papa,” said a horrified Ludovico, “so that’s why you were staying late in the shop. How could you?”
Rick replied for the old man: “He could and he did. But somehow the count found out and must have insinuated that he was going to the authorities. Is that what happened?”
The man’s reply was a belch. The carbonation was doing its work. “But you don’t have any evidence now,” he said in almost a groan, while smiling and pointing to his stomach.
“The ticket you ate is one I purchased this morning,” Rick answered. “The one found in the count’s pocket is still back at the questura. Sergeant?”
Carmella pulled a set of handcuffs from her belt and walked toward the old man.
Ahmed, sporting his standard grin, looked at the other two Stampatellis. “You still want pizza?”
Rick held the phone to his ear and talked with his uncle as he walked. “I wasn’t sure which of the three Stampatelli was printing up the tickets, but suspected it was the kid. Fortunately, Eugenio, by snatching and eating the one in my hand, answered the question.”
“I’ll reimburse you for the ticket out of petty cash, Riccardo.”
“No need, just buy me a coffee sometime. Was it easy to tell it was not a real ticket?”
“Our counterfeiting specialist confirmed it almost immediately. You have to wonder how many of them are in circulation, but that’s not my problem. What I have to do is get the old man to confess to doing in the count. If we find his prints on the ticket, though, it will be all we need. They’re checking it now.”
A clap of thunder exploded close to Rick, and the phone connection was out for a split second. “Are you there, Uncle?”
“Still here. It sounds like Mother Nature is going to clear the air of the scirocco. You’d better get somewhere inside. Thanks for your work on this. It’s going to make my meeting with the countess considerably easier.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Uncle.”
“You really should consider taking the police exam, Riccardo.”
“Let’s not start on that again. I’m perfectly happy with my career choice.”
“We can discuss it at our next lunch.”
They said their goodbyes and Rick noticed raindrops beginning to fall. Rather than make a dash for his apartment, he decided to duck into a building, and realized that O’Shea’s Pub was just around the corner. Would it be open at this hour? He loped toward it as the drops became larger, and he was pushing through the door when the heavens opened up. Guido was at his place behind the bar. He glanced up at Rick and then went back to what he was reading. The rest of the bar was empty except for one table where Alan Firestone sat, immersed in the musical scores spread out in front of him. Apparently the guy used the pub as his studio. He looked up.
“Oh, hi, Rick.” He seemed genuinely pleased, perhaps he needed a break from whatever he was working on, and waved a hand toward an empty chair next to him. “Join me. You want to order something?”
“No thanks, Al. I just ducked in here to wait out the storm.”
“Storm?”
“Didn’t you hear the thunder?”
“I guess I was concentrating on my work.” He put on a sheepish grin, and Rick made a mental note to look up why sheeps had grins. It was the kind of thing a translator should know.
“Did your friend get in touch with Signora Angelini?”
“Oh, the harp teacher? Yes, Al, he did. Thanks again for the information.”
A rumble of thunder rolled in the distance, the main part of the storm was approaching.
“I don’t know if she’s a good teacher, Rick, but she is an excellent performer. I saw her in a concert of the symphony a few weeks ago and one of the numbers had a very demanding harp part. She nailed it. I went backstage afterward since I know some of the musicians, and I saw her sitting alone. She looked exhausted.”
“You must go to a lot of concerts.”
“Not as many as I’d like. That one was a special performance to celebrate the founding of Rome. It’s a big deal around here, apparently, though I don’t know how they can be sure of the exact date. Not that it matters.”
Rick had been slouched in his chair but now sat up straight. “Al, are you sure it was that night?”
“Absolutely, the girl I was with speaks English and she was telling me all about Romulus and Remus. They teach all that in junior high school here.” He watched as Rick pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “You need to make a call, Rick?”
Rick kept to the side of the street, ducking under the overhang of buildings in order to keep somewhat dry. The rain had subsided, but its clouds still hovered over the city, cleaning both the air and the streets. The Romans were beginning to emerge, looking to the sky to see if it remained the same brown color, and were pleased when they saw the gray of a normal rainy morning. Wet weather that would normally elicit grumbling was now welcomed, and he could almost feel the collective relief as every surface was cleansed. His own throat was still parched with Sahara dust, and he was thinking how a cool glass of mineral water would hit the spot. Fortunately the Bar Il Tuffo was just ahead.
When he entered, Syms-Mulford was standing at the bar, chatting with Gilda. In front of him was a large cup and a small glass of water. The bar was almost empty, save for two gray-haired women at one of the tables, and a well-dressed man at the far end of the bar reading a newspaper and sipping an espresso. Rick brushed some moisture from the shoulders of his jacket and walked to the bar.
“Good morning.”
Syms-Mulford looked up quickly and smiled at Rick. “Good morning to you, Mister Montoya. I was happy to get your call and the news that the crime has been solved. It was very decent of you to offer to tell me about it, an unexpected courtesy.” His British accent seemed especially strong, perhaps it came with being in a good mood. “Someone on that infernal Anacleto Street, I suppose? But let’s get you something. What will it be?”
“A glass of mineral water would be perfect. I need it for the dust in the air.”
Syms-Mulford gave the order to Gilda and turned back to Rick. “Damned nuisance, that scirocco, it puts everyone out of sorts. Thank goodness for this rain. So, are you permitted to tell me the details, or is it still hush-hush? My guess is that it has something to do with that woman. Some hot-blooded Italian male didn’t appreciate the attention Umberto was giving her?”
Rick’s water arrived and he took a long drink. “Not exactly. The count discovered some illegal activities being carried on by someone working on Via Anacleto.”
The news elicited a furrowing of the brow. “Oh, dear.” He glanced over his shoulder at the man at the other end of the bar who was still reading his paper. There was little chance that the guy understood English, but he lowered his voice anyway. “So Umberto stumbled into something and had to be silenced?”
“It appears that way, though the man refused to talk. He is in custody now.”
Syms-Mulford thought about that for a moment. “You police have your ways to bring out a confession, I suppose.”
Rick took another sip of the mineral water and the bubbles felt good on the way down. “We can’t make someone confess to a crime if he didn’t commit it.”
“Whatever do you mean? You just said that Umberto had found out that the man was committing a crime. Is there a question about that?”
“No, we are sure that he was doing something illegal, and we are sure that the count discovered it. But putting it together with the murder is something quite separate. So we are still
trying to tie up loose ends, which is why I wanted to talk to you again.”
“I don’t see how I could be of any more help. But have at me if you must.” He held up his arms in a mock defensive gesture.
Rick finished his glass and signaled to Gilda for another. “To begin with, tell me about where you were the night of the murder.”
The question was not expected. “As you well know, Mister Montoya, I was with Signora Angelini. What we did that evening is of no importance to your investigation, and I do not see what it has to do with this malcreant on Via Anacleto. Signora Angelini confirmed that we were together. You police found out from her, as you will recall.”
“The police just interviewed her again, and she decided quite quickly that she was mistaken about the night in question. Apparently, when you saw her a few days ago and talked about it, she got confused. Perhaps it was the excitement of receiving that lovely diamond brooch from you. She recalled that on the night of the count’s death she was playing in a symphony concert, and went home immediately afterward. It must have been another evening when you were with her, which is understandable since she says you have been seeing a lot of her in the last several weeks.”
Syms-Mulford shut his eyes tightly. “Frailty, thy name is woman.”
Rick watched the new glass of mineral water being placed in front of him, then bore in. “And you didn’t want the countess to find out since you have been—how shall I say this?—very attentive to her as well. You are quite the ladies’ man, Sir.”
“She has gone through too much anguish, with Umberto’s death, she needs no more of it.”
“Very noble of you. So tell me where you really were that night, though I think I can reconstruct the scene myself.”
“Perhaps you should do just that, Mr. Montoya. I am finished with attempting to assist you.”
Rick took a drink from his new glass and patted his lips with a paper napkin. “Perhaps I will. The count was out that evening, playing cards in this very place with his friends. Like a good husband, he phoned his wife and told her he would be home soon.”
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