It had been two weeks since she’d heard, through the door, a violent argument between man and wife; it had been occasioned by her return home at dawn, something that had been happening more and more frequently. That time the professor had been waiting for her, wide awake, sitting in the front hall, and he’d given his wife an open-palm slap in the face. Emma’s only response was to spit in his face, just like they did back in her village, Teresa told them. Then she had fled to her bedroom. Ruggero had chased her, and managed to get inside and shut the door behind him.
This was followed by a heated dispute, in the course of which he had forbidden his wife from paying a call on “that old witch” ever again, or else “he’d see to shutting that woman’s sewer of a mouth once and for all.” Emma replied that “he wasn’t a real man” and therefore he’d “be too feeble even to knock on her door.” She insulted him for his lack of virility, and her husband fled in tears, passing right by the girl without noticing her. Just as he usually did.
As soon as she could, she’d gone over to warn her aunt; but she had told Teresa not to worry, a smile on her face. She had the situation under control, she’d said. Then, terrified that she might lose her job, Teresa stopped going to see her. Until Emma, her face ravaged by tears, told her she’d learned about the murder from the newspaper.
“But the day before that, Commissa’, the professor came home very late at night; it was practically morning. He looked like a lunatic, his hair was standing straight up, he was shaking and sobbing. He was filthy and disheveled, he who was usually as well groomed as a mannequin on Via Toledo. He hurried to his bedroom and shut the door behind him. It was a long time before he came out. When I went in to clean the room, this is what I found,” and she pointed to the shoes, neatly lined up on Ricciardi’s desk. “If you ask me, that’s blood that they’re covered in. My aunt’s blood. Blood of my blood.”
Ricciardi kept his green eyes fixed on the now silent girl’s face; she was as calm and still as if she’d just finished reciting a rosary. Then she came to with a start, as though waking up from a dream. He looked at Maione, who was standing beside him, mouth agape.
The brigadier looked back at him.
“Now, who’s going to tell Dottor Garzo?”
LIII
It was Ricciardi who told Garzo, the minute Teresa left. She’d been afraid to return home and share a roof with the murderer. But the commissario and Maione made it clear to her that there was no danger until formal charges were filed; in fact if anything, her absence would put the professor on his guard, giving him time to prepare an alibi. Once this whole affair was over, Teresa could take possession of Carmela’s apartment or, as an alternative, return to her village.
Maione and Ricciardi went to report to their superior officer, not without a hint of malevolent satisfaction as they savored the thought of the look on the deputy chief of police’s face.
On some level, his reaction came as a disappointment. Once they were done relating Teresa’s story, and after the professor’s shoes had been exhibited by Maione as if he were displaying the ampoule containing the miraculous blood of San Gennaro, Garzo laid his head back on the immaculate head cloth that covered the top of his armchair and shut his eyes. He seemed to be asleep, but there was a worrisome pink spot on his neck, under his now bloodless face.
After a minute or so, he opened his eyes and smiled.
“That doesn’t mean it was him.”
“What do you mean, it might not have been him, Dotto’? Even though the housemaid told us all the hows and whys and wherefores, and even brought in his bloodstained shoes?”
“Maione, calm down and listen to what I have to say.” And, counting off the points on his fingers: “The girl never actually saw the professor kill Calise; nor did she hear him explicitly state his intention to murder her. We also have no confession. Instead, we have an alibi: the Serras were at dinner with none other than His Excellency the Prefect of Naples that night. Last of all, a pair of muddy shoes are certainly not proof of murder. For all we know, that could be the blood of a dead dog, that is, if it’s blood at all.”
Ricciardi nodded.
“Fair enough, Dottore. You have a point. But you do have to admit that Serra had both the motive, which we can easily verify with testimonies from the other servants, and the opportunity, given that according to Doctor Modo, Calise was killed after 10:00 P.M., by which time the dinner at the prefect’s house would have long been over. Moreover, his evasiveness during the interview. .”
Garzo snorted in annoyance.
“Evasiveness is subject to your interpretation, Ricciardi. Let’s not forget that we’re talking about a person unaccustomed to being questioned like any common criminal. I don’t see any weak spots in the professor’s position with respect to Iodice’s. On the one hand, we have the accusations of a servant and an angry outburst, while on the other we have a debt that Iodice had been unable to pay and a suicide that is tantamount to a confession. Are you so sure that a court of law would find against Serra?”
Maione let out a muffled roar, like a caged lion. Ricciardi, in contrast, silently went over Garzo’s reasoning, which had a certain logic. He needed time. Deep down, he felt sure that given a choice between Iodice and Serra di Arpaja, the latter was more likely to have been the killer; but the way things stood right now, it was no contest.
“Well then, Dottore, how do you intend to proceed?”
Just as the commissario had expected, Garzo’s face went pale again.
“Me? What do I have to do with it? You’re in charge of the investigation, aren’t you? Why don’t you tell me what it is you intend to do.”
Checkmate, thought Ricciardi.
“Right, Dottore. Right. Well then, I think that we should go on investigating: check out what Teresa Scognamiglio told us, flesh out the information we already have. Just a few more days, to get a better idea of what happened, and to make sure headquarters is safe from this wretched individual.”
Garzo drummed his fingers briefly on the desktop.
“Fine, Ricciardi. I’ll give you a day, or actually two, since it’s still early morning. But I want charges brought by tomorrow night. The press has started putting pressure on the chief of police, who, as you know, is allergic to pressure.”
Ricciardi nodded and left the room, followed by a fuming Maione.
Filomena closed the shutters over the only window in the basso on Vico del Fico; a weak light filtered in through the slit over the door. She sat down at the table, smiled at the two people sitting with her, and with a firm hand and slow gestures, she removed her bandages.
Gaetano took a sudden sharp breath and moaned softly, as tears began streaking down his face. Rituccia, her pallor glowing in the darkness, watched calmly, her expression unchanged.
Filomena ran her fingertips over the scar, following its sharp, raised contours. She reached out for the old shard of mirror that she kept for brushing her hair. She looked at her reflection for a long time. Then she laid the mirror down and walked over to her son to give him a kiss. Gaetano took her face in his hands and started to sob.
Rituccia stood up, walked over to the woman, and solemnly kissed her on the slash across her face.