Everyone in Their Place

VII

By now everyone was up and about in the Colombo home, bent on creating the disorder of a typical Sunday morning. Enrica was resigned to the loss of the lovely peace and quiet she’d won by rising early; to make up for it, once breakfast was over, she’d expelled everyone from the kitchen with the excuse that she had to wash up and go on with her preparations for lunch.

As she went back and forth in the large room, every time she went by the window, she shot a fleeting glance across the street at another window. It was still Sunday, after all, and she hoped to catch him giving a chance look back at her, in broad daylight, for once; but she failed to spy the object of her interest. Instead, she saw the elderly woman who lived with him, as she was tidying up the apartment. In a strange fashion, she had learned that this was his old tata and not, as she had supposed for almost a year, his mother.

The one who had told Enrica was Signora Maione, the brigadier’s wife; a genuine angel who had come to tell her about the commissario’s introverted personality and his loneliness; and about his sadness.

Luigi Alfredo. She let the name roll off her tongue, alluring and slightly mysterious, like the man it belonged to. She uttered it to herself, at night before falling asleep or while taking a bath in the new metal tub that her father had triumphantly had delivered to the apartment. It had been Signora Maione who’d persuaded her that nothing was lost, that it was worth waiting because, certainly, even if he wouldn’t admit it, he was actually interested in her.

With a smile on her face as she took the long way around, for no good reason, to reach the sink, the long way around that took her past the window, Enrica decided that it was worth waiting. For as long as it would take.

Livia decided that it wouldn’t take long.

When she’d come to the city during the winter, summoned to indentify her husband’s corpse, she’d been unable to book a seat on the direttissimo that ran on the new line via Formia, and instead she’d been obliged to take the train that followed the old line, the one that ran through Cassino. She remembered a long, exceedingly tedious journey of more than four hours, interspersed with numerous stops, level crossings, and even flocks of sheep blocking the tracks, so that the engineers and firemen had to get out and chase them off. All the same, on that occasion she’d been glad of the extra time it took; she was in no hurry to come face to face with Arnaldo, even if he was dead. The longer the trip the better.

This time, instead, she’d have flown, if she could. Since she’d made the decision to go see Ricciardi, to find out why she couldn’t get him out of her mind, every day had been pure torture.

While the direttissimo rattled through the countryside, Livia, ignoring the conversation that was taking place in the first-class compartment, fantastized about meeting him again. The other seats in the compartment were occupied by two married couples, and the husbands were gazing at her rapturously while the wives stewed in angry silence; as far as she was concerned, they could have been dancing naked, and she wouldn’t have noticed.

Out the window, blending into the sea that she could just begin to glimpse and in the shimmering heat that was suffocating her, she could only see a pair of green eyes. And she thought about what a strange thing love is.

The door swung open and in came Doctor Modo, followed by the photographer with his camera, tripod, and magnesium flashbulbs. Beneath the broad brim of his white hat, the doctor was sweating freely. Without a greeting, as if he were simply continuing a conversation begun previously, he said:

“Now, I’m not saying that there are better times or worse times to be murdered, of course not. Still, once you’ve made up your mind, how are we supposed to do what’s necessary, on a Sunday, with a temperature of 105 degrees? I wonder if someone would be so kind as to explain that to me?”

Bruno Modo was a hospital physician, a surgeon, and, when needed, a medical examiner. He’d been an officer on the Carso front during the Great War, and he’d developed an exceptional body of experience, invaluable for police investigations; but he had no difficulty voicing his opinions and his clear anti-Fascist leanings made him a dangerous person to know. As a result, despite his outgoing personality, he had few friends. What’s more, a number of officials at police headquarters avoided using his services.

Not Ricciardi-he sought Modo out whenever he needed a doctor. He had the highest opinion of the man’s extraordinary expertise, and found him to be profoundly humane. Moreover, he had the gift of irony, as did Ricciardi himself; and so they had a working relationship that, while you might not call it friendship, was certainly something that verged on it. He was the only person who addressed the commissario with the informal tu.

“Oh, Ricciardi, and who else would it be? Tell me the truth, did you murder this lovely lady, with the sole purpose of making me sweat through my clothes and ruining my Sunday? Next time, I’d advise you to try suicide, just for something different: in that case, I’d even promise to come out and work the case free of charge.”

Ricciardi shook his head.

“Ciao, Bruno, buon giorno to you, too. I felt sure you’d enjoy this little social occasion as a way of killing time on a boring day off. You’ll certainly appreciate the Signora’s company, accustomed as you are to the cheerful denizens of the morgue.”

The doctor was fanning himself with his hat, and sweating profusely beneath his unkempt mop of fair hair.

“Well, at least, from the look of things, I can say that the duchess didn’t leave us because she’d been beaten to death by some damned squad, like the guy we found in the Via Medina. I’ve drafted a forty-page report on the effects of the man’s ‘trip and fall,’ which is the finding you all came up with at police headquarters. You’re shameless, the whole lot of you. I often think life was easier in wartime.”

Ricciardi protested:

“Look, they didn’t even ask me to take a look at the crime scene. If they had, official complaint or no official complaint, someone would have wound up in jail. So, what do you have to say about this?”

Modo had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and now he was kneeling down by the corpse.

“Well. . judging from appearances, I’d opt for a myocardial infarction. Or perhaps she simply died of boredom. What do you say?”

“I’d say that, to the best of my knowledge, they’re looking for a new vaudeville routine at the Salone Margherita. Have you ever considered it? A new line of work might spare you the indignities of internal exile.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll go talk to the stage manager and see if they’re looking for a duo. I always work best with a partner, and you have such an infectious laugh. Now let me do my job, please, and I’ll have something for you in a couple of minutes. I’ve already alerted the morgue, and they’re sending an ambulance; in this heat it’s not advisable to leave a corpse out in the air for too long.”

In the meanwhile, the photographer, sweating copiously, was punctuating the scene with flashes from all angles: the dead woman, the cushion, the door. Maione, who had stepped away to inspect the stairs, came back in.

“Buon giorno, Dotto’, what a pleasure,” he said, touching fingertips to visor.

“And here we have him, another comedian. A very good morning to you too, Brigadie’. Next time, though, perhaps we should meet at a trattoria somewhere, if you really want it to be a pleasure.”

Maione sighed.

“Eh, if only we could. Now then, the courtyard offers plenty of hiding places, Commissa’. The four columns, various nooks and crannies, the doorman’s booth. There’s nothing wrong with the padlock, the chain wasn’t tampered with: whoever opened the gate did it with the key. The stairs lead up to two other floors, which must have been installed at some later date: if you ask me, when they built this palazzo, it must have had ceilings higher than the Naples cathedral. Right above us are two doors, one of them is closed, and that must be where this famous young master lives; the other door is open, and inside are the Sciarras’ children who, I hardly need tell you, are eating. And then there’s a narrow little staircase that leads up to the terrace.”

Ricciardi listened intently.

“And have you talked to any of the spectators, downstairs in the street? No one heard a thing, no, of course not? But we do know that someone fired at least one pistol shot.”

Maione ran an already drenched handkerchief over his face.

“No, Commissa’, when has anyone ever heard anything? Still, this time there’s a justification, the festa was last night and they danced and sang out front until three in the morning. The main event is a tarantella that lasts for an hour, with the dancers spinning around a bonfire of old wood, you can still see the debris outside, they’re cleaning up now. Can you imagine, a bonfire with this heat? People are crazy.”

The photographer coughed discreetly.

“Commissario, I’m done here. I’ll get you the prints tomorrow night or, at the very latest, the day after tomorrow. Arrivederci.”

Ricciardi gave a little farewell wave and lifted the cushion. It was a foot square, fringed with gold frogging and with little tassels at the corners. Made of silk, with a floral motif, stuffed with goose down. Just as the commissario had guessed, the side that had been turned toward the floor had a vast burn mark more or less in the center, while on the other side there was a large depression matching the duchess’s face, with the exit hole made by the bullet.

As he leaned forward to see more clearly, Ricciardi saw signs of moisture: saliva, perhaps a little blood as well. The pillow had been pushed down violently.

As he laid it back down onto the floor he noticed that, partially concealed by the cushion, there was also a mark on the floor. Getting down on both knees, the commissario looked closer; it seemed to be a murky stain left by a shoe, not exactly a footprint. As absurd as it might be, since it hadn’t rained in forever, it might have been a mudstain left by a wet shoe: he could just glimpse minuscule fragments of gritty dirt. At the far corner of the room, at regular intervals, the dead image was repeating:

“The ring, the ring, you’ve taken the ring, the ring is missing.”

Ricciardi spoke to Doctor Modo.

“Bruno, forgive me; could you tell me something right away about her left hand, too?”

The doctor stood up, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. His shirt, crushed to his chest by his suspenders, was drenched with sweat.

“I’m not cut out for this damned profession anymore, I’m too old. I need to do a nice calm autopsy, otherwise, I swear, I won’t tell you a thing. I’m sick and tired of quick results after a hasty examination, I’m running the risk of telling you a bunch of nonsense that’ll blow up in my face later, and I’ll lose my reputation for infallibility.”

Ricciardi shook his head.

“Well, that’s something you don’t have to worry about, you may not know it but everyone around here does: all you ever say is a bunch of nonsense. So a little bit more, a little bit less: go ahead and tell me some right now.”

Modo smiled.

“That’s what I adore about you: the way you buck up your colleagues. Well, now, here’s what I’d say: pistol shot, fracture of both cranial bones, frontal and occipital, with full penetration of the brain. The bullet is right here, lodged in the backrest of the sofa. No burn marks, this shot wasn’t fired pointblank, but I saw you examining the cushion, so you already figured that out. From the bleeding I can tell you that she was alive when she was shot. More than that I wouldn’t venture to say without an autopsy, even under torture.”

“Now just tell me about her left hand.”

“The middle finger is dislocated, but there’s no hematoma: it was done when she was already dead. And there’s a small bruise on her ring finger, so that was when she was still alive. Maybe she died between one finger and the other. Ah, here’s the ambulance from the morgue.”

Ricciardi, hands in pockets, watched as the duchess left her palazzo for the last time. At least, her physical form. Behind him, her image was saying to him:

“The ring, the ring, you’ve taken the ring, the ring is missing.”