Ricciardi broke in to ask:
“Is there no direct access, from his apartment to the second story? Is it absolutely necessary to take the stairs?”
“Yes, you absolutely have to take the stairs.”
They’d reached a landing, with a small wooden door. Maione asked:
“And who lives there?”
Before Concetta had time to answer, the wooden door swung open and a boy looked out. His resemblance to Mariuccia, the housemaid, was unmistakable. In one hand he held a book, in the other, a chunk of bread and tomato.
Glaring venomously at the snack, Maione answered his own question.
“Why did I even ask? The Sciarra family. You must be the eldest, no?”
The boy, intimidated by the uniform, nodded his head yes. He resembled his mother so distinctly that Maione practically expected him to start sobbing at any moment.
“Yessir, Vincenzo Sciarra, at your service. I’m going to the after-school tutoring session.”
“Well, then get going. But don’t your jaws get tired, chewing all the time like that? Go on, don’t just stand there.”
The boy took off, while Ricciardi looked at the brigadier and shook his head.
“This fasting you’re doing isn’t good for you: you’re becoming intractable.”
Gosh, thought Maione. By those standards, the commissario’s been on a fast since the day he was born.
They’d now come to a large ornamentally carved door, a few steps higher up.
Concetta, who had gone in to announce their arrival in the meanwhile, came back out.
“If you please, go right on in. It’s the door at the far end of the first room. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
They walked through a large messy room, a cross between a drawing room and a library. There was an imposing desk piled high with books, both open and closed, with sheets of paper scattered across it, covered with a close, slanted script; one wall was covered, floor to ceiling, with a bookcase made of dark wood, overflowing with books; there were two armchairs, and between them a small table on which sat a trumpet gramophone, while on the floor lay several 78 RPM disks. On another low table sat a bottle of liquor, with a few dirty glasses.
The impression was of a place where one or more persons lived every minute of the day, working, relaxing, and resting; and where someone who might tidy up was only rarely admitted. Light and an intense scent of flowers came in through a set of French doors, half open, along with the sound of someone whistling.
Ricciardi and Maione exchanged a glance and then headed toward the half-open door. The brigadier called out, asking leave to come in:
“È permesso?”
The whistling stopped and a low, musical voice said: “Prego, come right ahead. I’m out here, on the terrace.”
The setting was somewhat surprising. The light of the sun, at its zenith at that time of the day, was filtered through plants of every kind: the only thing missing was trees, even though some of the climbing vines had trunks of considerable size. Ricciardi was no botanist but he had grown up in the country, in regular contact with fields, orchards, and gardens, and he understood the attention and the immense love required to create that only apparently wild tangle of plants. Whoever cared for that open-air greenhouse had to devote a great deal of time to its cultivation, along with considerable enthusiasm.
From one corner a young man of pleasing appearance, about thirty, came toward them. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up onto his forearms; he was slender, with a dark complexion, and a hooked nose and a thin mustache. His black hair, parted in the middle, was wavy and neatly brushed. With a frank and open smile, he extended his hand.
“A pleasure. I’m Ettore Musso.”
“The pleasure is all ours, Signor Duca. I’m Brigadier Maione from Naples police headquarters, and this is my commanding officer, Commissario Ricciardi. Our sincerest condolences for your loss.”
The man looked at him vaguely, as if he hadn’t quite understood what Maione had just said. Then he burst out laughing.
“That’s rich! No, forgive me, gentlemen, but that’s truly rich. For my loss, did you say? Condolences?”
Maione stared at Ricciardi, nonplussed. The commissario, on the other hand, was looking at Ettore; his expression hadn’t altered. When he’d finished laughing, the man went on:
“Excuse me. I really am unforgivable. Please, make yourselves comfortable. Would you like something to drink? Or to eat, perhaps?”
He sat down on a wrought-iron chair, which stood with two other chairs like it around a small tile-top table. At the center of the table was a carafe of coffee and a dish of sweet rolls and a bowl of marmalade. With an apologetic air he added:
“I’m breakfasting late. I’m afraid I was up until very late last night; I’ve only just woken up. Now what can I do for you?”
The two policemen sat down. The man’s manner was certainly charming and the setting was pleasant. The plants, recently watered, provided shade and humidity, making it pleasantly cool. The corner with the table was free of buzzing insects, which could however be heard everywhere else on the terrace. Guessing what Ricciardi was thinking, Ettore said:
“Bravo, Commissario. So you noticed, eh? If you don’t want insects around you, you need only choose wisely when it comes to picking the plants you put near you. You must above all avoid flowers: they’re lovely to look at from a distance, too, and the scent will reach you just the same.”
While he was speaking he’d taken a roll, spread marmalade on it, and now he was nibbling at it eagerly. Maione felt his instinctive liking for Ettore melt away.
Ricciardi finally spoke:
“May I ask you to explain why you laughed, Duke? I failed to grasp what was funny about what the brigadier said. That may just be because I don’t have much of a sense of humor.”
Ettore stopped, then he laughed again, scattering bits of bread all over the table.
“No, forgive me again. The reason is quite simple: the death of my. . of my father’s wife is perhaps the best piece of news I’ve received in the last several years. And so it struck me as ridiculous to have you offer your condolences, that’s all.”
Ricciardi looked him hard in the eyes. He wanted to be very sure of what he was taking in.
“And why is that? News of a death, and a violent death at that, the death of a woman who was still young. How can that come as good news, Duke?”
Ettore waved his hand in front of his face, as if shooing away something unnecessary.
“I beg you, Commissario, please. Just call me Ettore, or Musso; but let’s dispense with titles. They couldn’t be any further from the way I think and feel, believe me. How can it come as good news, you ask? Nothing could be simpler: I hated that woman. I hated her with all my heart and all my soul. Didn’t they tell you that?”
A moment of awkward silence ensued, a moment that Ettore spent continuing imperturbably to eat and gracefully sip his coffee. To Maione and Ricciardi it seemed unbelievable that, on the day after a murder committed in his home, Ettore should candidly confess that he’d hated the victim. The man must have an ironclad alibi, they both concluded.
Ricciardi said:
“May I ask where you were on the night between Saturday and Sunday, between midnight and two in the morning?”
There was another moment of rapt silence. Ettore dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and got to his feet, stretching lazily. He walked over to an opening in the hedge through which it was possible to see the piazza; there was no one but a small knot of children playing, indifferent to the heat and the bright sunshine.
“This, as I’m sure you would tell me, is a strange city. Clamped between the sea, the hills, and the mountain, it continues to grow on top of itself. The vicoli get narrower, the buildings grow taller. Everyone on top of everyone else, more and more, just to keep from being pushed any further away. And so we’re all in constant contact, without respite. No one has any time to themselves. And why did I hate her, you may ask me? The answer is simple. Because she had nothing in common with me, with that weakling of a father of mine, and above all, with my mother, whose memory she besmirched with her mere presence. That’s why.”