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.”
VIII
Ricciardi insisted on leaving with Doctor Modo. That surprised Maione, who asked:
“Commissa’, what’s this, aren’t you going to question the duke and the young master right away? If they were the only ones in the house, and they’re still here, wouldn’t it be best to hear what they have to say?”
His superior officer briefly shook his head, brushing the stray lock of hair from his forehead with his hand.
“No. First I need to know with some certainty what time the duchess was killed, and especially whether there are other findings from the autopsy. To question them now would only mean giving them advance warning. Anyway, you leave Camarda here, tell him to take note of who leaves the house. And to make sure that no one comes in, until ordered otherwise.”