Blood Curse

XLVII

If there was one thing he hated to do, it was drive a car. Perhaps because it wasn’t something his generation had grown up with, or else simply because he’d ridden horses as a boy and in his heart that was still his preferred way of getting around. Whatever the reason, Maione didn’t like to drive.

“I don’t understand these fixations. Taking the car to go half a mile! It takes two minutes to get there! And they tell us they need it, that they don’t want it to be used for police duty. Let them keep it!”

He’d just installed himself in the driver’s seat, and he was already drenched with sweat from the agitation. The engine was roaring as it revved. He shifted into gear; the vehicle lurched forward and the engine stalled. A lawyer and a clerk who were standing talking in the courtyard of headquarters took a step back, apprehensively.

“Now look, even the clutch is shot on this, this, this jalopy. I have to ask, though, Commissa’, where did you get the idea to bring up this list and this reporter? As if I would talk to a journalist. You know I hate journalists.”

Ricciardi, sunk into the upholstery of the backseat, was holding himself steady with both hands on the door handle.

“It was the only thing I could think of. I’m sorry, weren’t there any drivers available?”

A wounded expression appeared on Maione’s face.

“Listen, Commissa’, I’m the best driver out of all the staff at police headquarters! The problem is that this damned vehicle hasn’t been maintained properly, that’s what it is. Ah, there’s the choke, I see.”

With a roar, the engine started up again and the car took off. Lawyer and clerk each leapt to opposite sides of the street, running for dear life. Ricciardi’s thoughts turned briefly to Enrica, bidding her farewell as he clutched at the door handle to stay upright.

It was, in fact, not much more than half a mile from police headquarters to Via Generale Orsini, where the Serra di Arpajas lived. You just took the new road running along the waterfront, with the monumental buildings of Castelnuovo and the Palazzo Reale on one side, on the other the old buildings of the Italian navy arsenal, the Arsenale della Marina, which would soon be demolished to make way for a park. The city reminded Ricciardi more all the time of one of those houses with a nice parlor for entertaining guests while the rest of the rooms were falling apart.

At the end of the road, just before the broad left-hand curve that would take them to Via Santa Lucia, was the huge construction site for the Galleria della Vittoria, a magnificent tunnel and an undertaking of the Fascist regime. Linking two parts of the city with an underground road. A hole a third of a mile long. Five men had already died in the excavation. Ricciardi could still see two of them, glowing in the darkness of the excavated earth, talking about their families as they were just seconds before the explosion that had blown them to pieces.

These accidents never even came to public attention. First, the authorities carefully covered them up; then they arranged for the surviving families to receive special assistance. Well, that’s something, at least, thought Ricciardi, doing his best to hold on tight as they drove through the curve, which Maione had entered by swerving suddenly. A cart piled high with produce and being drawn by an elderly mule lost most of its cargo, and the carter’s stream of invective poured out after them like the wake of a speedboat.

“Eh, what’s the big deal? That cart was loaded with nothing but garbage, anyway. Now then, Commissa’, what’s the street number of this palazzo?”

“It’s number twenty-four, right here on the right. Start slowing down.”

Maione immediately jammed on the brakes, bringing the vehicle to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk. On the exact spot where an austere nanny was walking, with the traditional long white dress, the white lace headpiece, and an enormous wooden baby carriage.

“Is that any way to drive? You almost frightened me to death! And if the child had taken a spill, who’d have told the baronessa? Are you gentlemen mad?”

Maione did his best to placate her wrath.

“Forgive us, Signo’, we’re engaged in a police operation and I didn’t see you. We were in a hurry.”

Ricciardi looked down at the toddler, who seemed interested in the commissario’s face.

“What’s the little boy’s name?”

“His name is Giovanni. He’s almost two.”

Good luck to you, Giovanni, Ricciardi thought to himself. It’s not a very nice world, the one you decided to be born into! Even though from this part of town it doesn’t look so bad.

The child smiled up at him. He had green eyes, too.

The palazzo’s uniformed doorman walked forward to meet Maione and Ricciardi with a soldierly step, inquiring as to who they were and ostentatiously checking a list he had. The brigadier and commissario exchanged a look of annoyance.

“Commissa’, would you like to tell the admiral here that we’re members of the police and we’re not here on a social call, or shall I? Otherwise, I swear to God, I’m going to shove him aside and break down some doors.”

Ricciardi laid a hand on the doorman’s arm.

“Listen, please just announce us. They’re expecting us.”

As they stepped out of the elevator, they found the apartment door wide open and a housemaid curtseying in welcome.

“Prego, come in. The professor will see you in just a moment.”

Maione shot the commissario a glance.

“But aren’t we here to talk with the wife?”

Ricciardi shrugged. He didn’t think they had much chance of gaining direct, unmediated access to the signora, but he was determined not to leave without questioning his witness. After a short wait, they were admitted to an austere study lined with antique books. The man walking toward them exuded an air of authority.

“Prego, Signori, please have a seat on the sofa; let me order you a cup of tea. I hardly think we need to sit at the desk. You’re not here for legal consultation.”

He flashed a conspiratorial smile. The policemen let his friendly stare go unanswered and remained standing.

“Professor, we thank you for your hospitality. But we’re here to interview the signora and the quicker we can get to it, the better.”

“You’ll see her, Commissario. She’s on her way now. But I will need to be present; that’s not up for discussion. As her lawyer, if not as her husband. If you want to see her alone, you’ll have to arrest her. That is, if you think you can find a magistrate in this city willing to issue the arrest warrant, of course. So, shall I have her come in?”

Ricciardi thought it over rapidly: it was just a matter of asking a few questions, the answers to which in all likelihood would allow them to close the case definitively. A woman from the better part of town who had indulged in the thrill of having her fortune told by an old tarot card reader.

“All right, Professor. Let’s get this out of the way.”