“Avanti!”
The doorway was filled with the shape of a brigadier giving a loose military salute, with a somewhat frantic demeanor and an unmistakable bloodstain on his jacket’s epaulette.
“Hey there, Maione. Good to see you. What on earth have you been up to this morning? And what’s that stain? Are you hurt?”
Ricciardi had risen suddenly to his feet, causing his pen to roll across the form on the desk in front of him. His expression betrayed concern, and Maione felt a surge of pride and fondness; it wasn’t every day that one detected a hint of emotion in his superior’s eyes, as he knew very well.
“No, no, it’s nothing, Commissa’. I just helped out a woman who. . had an accident. I took her to the hospital. I’m sorry I’m late, please forgive me. You haven’t had your ersatz coffee.”
“Don’t worry. There’s nothing going on here. Everything’s fine; the city was safe even without you, as Mascellone would put it.” Mascellone-a jocular reference to Il Duce, or “Thunder Jaw,” as Ricciardi liked to think of him.
“I’ll go make it for you right away, then; that’ll give me a chance to get cleaned up a little, too. By your leave.”
As soon as he’d left the room, Ricciardi bent over to resume writing; but the form was destined to remain uncompleted, at least for that day. A mere instant later, in fact, the officer who guarded the entrance appeared at his door to inform the commissario that a body had been found in the Sanità quarter.
The mobile squad of the Royal Police Headquarters of Naples was mobile in name only. Ricciardi had always appreciated the irony of the unit’s official title, accompanied as it was by the chronic shortage of working vehicles at its disposal.
Truth be told, they possessed not one but two automobiles: an old Fiat 501 from 1919 and a gleaming, almost new 509 A from 1927. He had personally laid eyes on them no more than twice, in his four years on the job. The former was always in for repairs, while the latter was assigned, along with its driver, to the crucial and urgent duty of accompanying the police chief’s wife and daughter on their shopping trips.
And so, whenever something happened in a far-flung quarter of the city, as it just had, the squad became mobile on its own regulation boot-shod feet.
Ricciardi was among those who believed in the importance of a timely arrival. He knew well how much damage one or more rubberneckers could do to a crime scene, the delays that could be caused by people’s desire to be eyewitnesses, to have something horrible to give an account of. Shoe prints, objects moved from one place to another, windows closed that had been open, or opened if they had been closed, and doors left wide open.
Thus, if there was one thing the commissario hated, it was to be the last one on the scene of the unfortunate event. Having to elbow his way through the crowd, being forced to answer a stream of pointless questions, dealing with wailing family members: all things that tended to double or triple in number if it was a poor neighborhood, and he knew, as one who lived on the border of the Sanità quarter, that it was a poor neighborhood par excellence. As he strode up the Via Toledo at the head of his squad, with Maione out of breath a step behind him and the two police officers bringing up the rear of the little procession, Ricciardi decided that every minute that passed was a minute wasted, and he picked up the pace, taking the same route he took every night on his way home from work. But this time, it wasn’t dinner and a brightly lit window across the way that awaited him.
Once they were within sight of the little piazza above Materdei, it became clear to him that there would be no need to ask directions; all he’d have to do was follow the excited children who were running in the same direction. The spectacle must be more or less like it was in the jungle, as described in the books of Emilio Salgari, Italy’s Kipling, with the hyenas and vultures guided by the scent of blood. The crowd swelled in front of a small apartment building. Maione and the two officers formed a human wedge, clearing a path for Ricciardi; though all they really needed to do was raise their voices and the crowd would have scattered. People in this part of town were none too eager to come into contact with the police, even incidentally.
When they arrived at the front door, the men came to a halt and silence fell over the crowd. Ricciardi looked around to see if anyone had something to say, some preliminary piece of information they cared to volunteer. More silence. Men, women, children: all stood mute. No one lowered their gaze, no one whispered. Heads uncovered, hats in hand; in their eyes, astonishment, curiosity, wonder, even irony-but no fear.
Ricciardi recognized his age-old enemy, the established authority in this quarter, an alternative to the one he himself represented. These people did not acknowledge his authority over them: they wouldn’t hinder his investigation, but neither would they lift a finger to help him. They simply wanted him out of there, the sooner the better, so that they could go back to their own business, or to mourning their dead.
From upstairs came a prolonged lament; possibly a woman’s voice. Ricciardi spoke, continuing to stare straight into the eyes of the people at the front of the crowd.
“Maione, have the officers keep watch at the front door. You come with me. If anyone has something to report, make sure that we get their name: we’ll interview them at headquarters.”
His words prompted no reaction from the crowd. An old man shuffled along with a slight rustling sound. A small child babbled in its mother’s arms. In the middle of the small piazza, several doves flapped into the air.
Ricciardi turned, walked through the front entrance hall, and started up the stairs.
XIII
Step after step, the acid smell of urine and excrement blended with the sharp odor of garlic, onion, sweat.
Even before the advent of the Deed, Ricciardi had been made aware of another curse visited upon him: the damned odors. Sometimes they stunned him and other times they distracted him; they tangled up his thoughts the same way that the wind tousled the disobedient shock of hair he was constantly brushing away from his furrowed brow. Issuing from the dark corners of the uneven stairs he could feel unfamiliar eyes watching him. Though he couldn’t quite see them, he sensed them, and he sensed their unfriendly curiosity. Behind him came Maione’s heavy footfalls, confident and protective; Ricciardi considered the brigadier to be something of a human notebook, on which the images and words that they encountered in their investigation would remain impressed. All he needed to do later was leaf through Maione’s memory to pull up sensations, voices, and facial expressions.
When they got to the third floor, they found an enormous woman standing in front of a half-open door, her greasy hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, her face flushed, her hands clutched together beneath her breasts, her fingers interlocked so tightly that her knuckles were white. She seemed accustomed to dealing with emergencies, but not the situation that had just befallen her. It was Maione who addressed her.
“And you are?”
“Nunzia Petrone, the building’s porter. I’m the one who found her.”
Not a trace of pride, awkwardness, or fear. A simple statement.
From inside, a ray of morning light cut like a blade through the dark shadows of the landing and Ricciardi clearly heard the lament that had already reached his ears down in the street a few minutes earlier.
“Who’s in there?”
“Just my daughter, Antonietta. She’s impaired.”
That was all she said, as if that explained everything. Maione glanced over at Ricciardi, who nodded without meeting his gaze. Behind them, the usual small crowd had gathered, silently. Their necks craned upward, eyes darting to capture details worth recounting, to be exaggerated if necessary. The choke point of the staircase funneled the crowd into a line.