Everyone in Their Place

XXX

Contrary to his own expectations, Ricciardi slept like a rock; perhaps because he needed to catch up on sleep from the night before. He’d dreamed, that much he knew, but he couldn’t remember much about it: something muddled involving shoes. Probably the boots of the four unknown men, he was thinking the following morning, back in his office.

What had happened explained a great many things, while raising plenty of other questions. He’d decided not to mention it to anyone, not even to Maione; first he wanted to test the various connections, understand more clearly just what had triggered the attack. He was sorry for Livia, who had found herself caught in the middle of a highly unusual situation; he felt sure that she considered his life even stranger and more difficult than it really was, and this, for some reason, rubbed him the wrong way.

He hadn’t been afraid, not even when that man had slapped him, because he knew they’d only been sent to scare him; but Livia’s presence had made him weak. He’d felt responsible for her safety, he’d shielded her with his body, but he couldn’t help thinking what he would have felt if it had been Enrica with him. He’d walked her back to her hotel in silence; he didn’t know what to say. She’d never let go of his arm, squeezing it gently, as if giving him support rather than being supported herself. When they said goodnight she’d kissed him, brushing her lips against his; he hadn’t responded to the kiss but neither had he warded it off.

Looking out his window at the city that still hadn’t entirely woken up that morning, he decided that love is a liquid. Like water, only denser, a fluid similar to oil, which fills every space until it takes on the shape of its container, filling in all the odd shapes, contaminating everything. And the worst kind, the strongest kind, is the love that flows through the darkness, accustomed to overcoming every obstacle, the love that knows neither patience nor rest. I saw it last night, he thought. And the love that flows in the night, the love that hides, never forgives those witnesses who have glimpsed its path.

Maione appeared in the door, an early riser just like him.

“Buon giorno, Commissa’. How are we doing, this morning?”

“As always. And there are others who were at work even earlier than me, today. Look what I found waiting for me, on my desk: it’s a search warrant for the Capece apartment, and authorization to question his family.”

Maione rubbed his hands.

“Oh, and at last they let us work the way we ought to. Also because, the way things stand now, Capece is the prime suspect, wouldn’t you say, Commissa’?”

Ricciardi continued to stand looking out the window, his hands in his pockets. The faint hot breeze blowing in from outside gently tossed the shock of hair that hung over his forehead.

“Hmmm, I don’t know, you can never be sure. There are still a few things that aren’t clear yet.”

“You’re thinking about the young master, eh, Commissa’? Still, Capece, do me a favor: there’s the pistol, and he owns one; there’s the alibi, and he lacks one; there’s the motive, and he has one; there’s the eyewitness testimony in his favor, of which he has none. You’ll concede the point: it all fits together?”

The commissario gestured vaguely with one hand.

“That’s what scares me the most, when it all fits together. He loved the duchess, no? On this point we agree. And he truly seemed on the brink of despair when we talked to him. And he came to the funeral: if you ask me, a murderer wouldn’t normally run that risk. It could have been him, I’m not saying it couldn’t. But it’s still not a certainty. Let’s go and see for ourselves.”

“Yessir. Shall we go immediately?”

“No. We’ll go later. I have something to do first, an errand of my own. You wait for me here, I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Maione nodded. But he was concerned.

Livia hadn’t slept a wink. It wasn’t so much the fear, which surprised her because she’d had every reason to be afraid: what had really put a chill in her heart was the fear of losing him.

Strange, for a woman whose husband had been murdered, she mused; and yet she never remembered feeling that same stab of pain in her heart except once, years before, when the doctor, standing by the cradle in which her baby lay, had shaken his head hopelessly. Who was this man? she asked herself. What had he done to her, that he mattered so much even though there was nothing between them?

By the light of dawn, on the balcony of her hotel room, she realized that she was crying. For no good reason.

Ricciardi arrived at Palazzo Camparino just as the church bell was chiming nine. Sciarra came to meet him with a broom in hand, followed by his son, who was sniveling.

“Commissa’, buon giorno. At your orders.”

Ricciardi nodded toward the child who was yanking on his father’s sleeve, making it even longer than it already was.

“And why is this little one crying?”

Sciarra grimaced in a comic leer, beneath his gigantic nose.

“Well, why do you think? As usual, Commissa’: he’s hungry, and he wants me to feed him. What can I do about it, if he can never get enough?”

The child objected between sobs:

“No, Papà, that’s Lisetta who always eats my snack, and you never say a thing to her.”

His father glared at him disgustedly.

“You’re the spitting image of your mother: you’re always crying. Piangi e mangi-when you’re not crying you’re eating. But tell me, Commissa’: what can I do for you? Do you want to talk to Donna Concetta? I’ll call her for you right away.”

“No, don’t call anyone. I want to talk to you first.”

Sciarra turned pale and gulped.

“What do you mean, you want to talk to me? I already told you everything I know, I even talked to your Brigadier Marrone, too. .”

Ricciardi struggled not to laugh in his face.

“Maione is his name. And I have a few other questions to ask you. Where can we sit and talk?”

The little man hesitated, looked around, and said: “Make yourself comfortable in my little place, in the booth by the front door. I’ll go get another chair and send this scourge of God to his mother, so they can have a nice long cry together, and they’ll both be happy.”

He came back a couple minutes later, staggering under the weight of a chair he’d found in the kitchen. His hat, turned around backwards, had even fallen down around his eyes.

“Ask away, Commissa’,” he sighed as he took a seat.

Ricciardi waited for the man to adjust his uniform, pulling up the sleeves and turning his hat around, before he spoke.

“All right, then, Sciarra: let’s talk about young master Ettore. I need to know as much as possible about where he goes and his routines. What he does and what he doesn’t do.”

Sciarra spread his arms.

“I don’t know much about him, Commissa’. He spends his days on his terrace, all on his own. .”

Ricciardi interrupted the litany decisively, raising one hand.

“Let’s get one thing clear: I will take you in and I will lock you up, for obstructing an investigation. So fast it will make your head spin. I don’t believe that you’re a doorman and yet you don’t know a thing. I know for sure that you come and go, that you venture out frequently into the world. So don’t talk nonsense, and most important of all, don’t waste my time.”

Sciarra folded over as if he were under a hail of fists and boots.

“Commissa’, understand me: I have to work here, I can’t lose this position. You can’t even imagine how much my children eat, where would I turn, where could I take them with me?”

“And if you want to keep your place here, then it’s in your best interests to tell me what I want to know.”

The little man heaved a deep sigh.

“Fine, if that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get. To tell the truth, I see little enough of him, he spends the whole day on his own, out on the terrace. He takes care of his plants, he waters them himself. He doesn’t want any help: one time my son, the eldest, looked in his door because he thought he’d heard him crying, and he rudely kicked him out, in fact my poor boy tumbled headlong all the way down the stairs. . He told him that he needs to stay in his place, that he should never dare to look into his apartment. That’s the way the young master is: sometimes he’ll give you a smile and a wink, or he’ll give candy to the children. Other times, you’d think he’d just killed someone, he’ll glare at you with pure hatred, so that the children go sobbing to hide under their mother’s skirts.”

Ricciardi wanted to know more.

“Aside from his moods, I want to know where he goes late at night, when he leaves.”

Sciarra stared at him, wide-eyed. Ricciardi could distinctly see the beads of sweat forming on his enormous nose.

“But I don’t know that! I can tell you that sometimes. . that he goes out often, at night, yes, that’s true. While I’m watering his hydrangeas, he gives me certain lectures, he says that flowers ought to be watered in the morning, at dawn, or in the late afternoon, but I’m already up at six, and in the evening if I’m not there the children don’t eat and I go to bed late. .”

“He goes out, you say. Where does he go?”

“I don’t know that, like I told you. One thing’s for certain, he doesn’t come and tell me about it. And he sure doesn’t tell his father; in fact, he never even goes to see him at all. One time he said to Donna Concetta: if the old man dies at night, don’t come looking for me. And for that matter, the duke doesn’t want to see his son either. He doesn’t give him a thought; he says that the boy is dead, just like the first duchess.”

Ricciardi had no intention of following the doorman’s ramblings.

“By any chance, did you ever see anyone come to pick him up? Or did he ever come home with anyone?”

Sciarra furrowed his brow with the effort of remembering.

“One night, this last winter, it was raining hard. I’d closed the front door, and no one had the keys but the duchess and the young master. That night someone started pounding on the door, fists and boots, and I woke up and opened the door. There was a car outside, with someone in it, waiting. And a chauffeur who told me to go at once to summon the young master. I went upstairs, and the door was open. I called once, twice. He came out, with a face on him. . it looked to me like he’d been crying. He didn’t say a word to me, he just went out, climbed into the car, and drove off into the rain. But I couldn’t see who was inside, Commissa’, I swear to you.”

Ricciardi nodded, as if that was exactly what he’d been expecting.

“Can you describe the car? Was it marked in any way, I don’t know, official insignia?”

Sciarra looked away.

“No. I don’t remember, but I don’t think so. But the car was black, in any case. Big and black.”

After a moment’s thought, Ricciardi asked another question: “One last thing, Sciarra. The padlock. Are you sure that no one had the keys but the two of them?”

The little man looked the commissario in the face again.

“Yes, Commissa’. The duchess, to lock up at night, when she came in; and the young master has an extra set, in case he needs to come in late, for whatever reason. And in the morning, it looked as if the duchess had opened the padlock: it was fastened and hanging next to the chain.”

Ricciardi stood up.

“Fine. Now take me up to talk to young master Ettore again.”