Enrica stood up: she absolutely had to maintain her decorum. She felt like she was dying. The piano was still playing the same tune it had been when they’d walked in, only two minutes ago, but it seemed like an eternity. She turned to Sebastiano and said, in a firm voice:
“I have a headache. I need to get some fresh air. Take me for a walk outside, caro.”
And she, in her turn, left on the man’s arm, without a glance in Ricciardi’s direction.
XX
Maione was escorting Ricciardi back to police headquarters; it was still too early to go to the offices of the Roma to interview Capece, plus Garzo wanted to see the commissario before they talked to the journalist.
As they walked, the brigadier for once wasn’t thinking about the heat or his hunger, terrible though they both might be: he’d been happy to meet the tenor’s widow, who had already shown some interest in Ricciardi the last time; he remembered that he’d even taken the liberty, with some awkwardness and embarrassment, of recommending that Ricciardi open up a little bit and spend some time with the woman, who struck him as not only quite beautiful but also a decent person. He also remembered that Ricciardi hadn’t seemed entirely indifferent to her charms. Nothing had come of it and in the end she’d left.
All the same, he’d detected odd emotions in the air, at Gambrinus, as if the commissario were struggling with a difficult situation, almost as if he’d been caught red-handed. He wondered why, given the solitary life that he led. Perhaps he himself had been the cause of the awkwardness; perhaps the commissario would have preferred not to be seen on such a personal occasion. And so he’d chosen to make no comment about his meeting with the Signora.
When they got back to the office they found Ponte as always, anxiously awaiting them at the door so that he could accompany them to see Garzo. The man was pouncing back and forth in the throes of his usual anxiety and, as soon as he saw them, he started toward them.
“Commissario, Brigadier, buona sera. Dottor Garzo is waiting to see you, both of you; he says to come by his office before you go out again.”
Maione spoke as if the other man weren’t even there:
“Let’s go see him immediately, Commissa’. Otherwise I’m liable to beat this guy silly.”
They followed Ponte to Garzo’s office, where the deputy chief of police was waiting for them at his desk.
“Well, well, I know that you’re going to head over to the newspaper, now.”
The unceremonious start to the meeting was a clear indication of the deputy police chief’s concerns.
“Yessir, Dottore. This morning we were at Palazzo Camparino, and we spoke. .”
“. . with the duke and with his son, I heard. And I also heard that, as is unfortunately all too often the case, you were intrusive and rude. Now you tell me, Ricciardi, do I always have to tell you the same things? And every blessed time, do I have to get telephone calls from prominent people, complaining about your lack of respect?”
Garzo punctuated his tirade by pounding his fist on the top of his desk: he was irate, and he wanted the fact to be known. But the only one who jumped at the sound of it was Ponte, who had been standing in the doorway. There was a moment of silence, in which Maione glanced over at Ricciardi, his eyebrows knit and a look on his face that promised nothing good: he seemed ready, at a gesture from the commissario, to lunge at the deputy chief of police’s throat. Ricciardi spoke, and his voice was little more than a whisper.
“I’m going to repeat something that I’ve already told you, sir, since it would appear that you failed to understand it the first time: you are free to assign this damned investigation to whoever you please. But if it’s my investigation, then stop sticking your nose into my business. If we fail to catch the guilty party, you can certainly do whatever you think best. But in the meanwhile, you are not to question any of my decisions. None of them.”
It had been little more than a hiss, but the effect was that of a gunshot in a church. Ponte pulled his head down between his shoulders, as if he’d heard an explosion. Maione went on looking at Garzo with the same irritated expression. The deputy chief of police stood frozen, as if Ricciardi had suddenly slapped him in the face. As for the commissario, he hadn’t even taken his hands out of his pockets; his stray lock of hair dangled over his forehead, his eyes were focused on his superior officer’s face, and he never blinked an eye.
After what seemed like an endless lapse of time, Garzo took a deep breath:
“I’m not saying that. . unquestionably, you know what you’re doing. All the same, I believe that it’s my prerogative to expect you, when you interact with. . certain individuals, to show a minimum of. . well, damn it: you report to me, and I have to deal with the reckless nonsense you pull. I have every right, and it’s my duty, to ask you to take care how you operate! The duke, as I’ve told you before, is a very sick man; but his son is healthy as a horse, and he frequents. . he has very highly placed friends. Very. And the press. . the press is still powerful, even after the most recent directives.”
This wasn’t a day on which Ricciardi was likely to feel pity for Garzo. Too many things had happened.
“I don’t care in the slightest about the power of the press. If the duchess turns out to have been murdered by the editor-in-chief of the paper, I’ll bring him to you in leg irons. It’s up to you to decide what to do about it. That’s my duty. It’s what I’m expected to do, and it’s what I’ll do. May I go now?”
Garzo had a large red patch on his neck, directly above his tie, as he always did when two equal and opposite forces left him powerless: in the case in question, on the one hand he’d have happily relieved Ricciardi of the investigation and started a nice fat disciplinary proceeding against him; but on the other hand the chief of police was pushing him to come up with a rapid solution of the Camparino murder-all of Naples was talking about nothing else. It was the second of these pressures that prevailed, of course: the one that was most important to the advancement of his career. Still, he wasn’t going to miss the satisfaction of one parting dart.
“You can hardly expect awareness of social sensitivities from someone who has no life of his own. Do as you see best: but I swear, if you don’t solve this case, you’ll rue the words you’ve said here today. You’ll rue them bitterly.”
And he waved his hand in the air, as if he were shooing a fly away. Maione took a step forward: perhaps he had finally found someone on whom he could vent his irritation over his hunger, the heat, and the fruit vendor. Ricciardi laid a hand on his arm, and the two men left the room. Ponte softly shut the door.
Usually, Lucia enjoyed ironing: it felt as if she were caressing her loved ones, exploring the pleats and folds of their clothing and at the same time thinking of the expressions and the movements of her children and her husband. But now it really was too hot; the white hot coal enclosed in the iron sent scalding waves of heat up her sweat-drenched arm. She sighed, and sprinkled water from a small basin onto one of Raffaele’s shirts. She checked the stitching of a button right on a line with his belly and shook her head: she’d have to reinforce it. He’s still got a little too much belly, but it’ll slowly subside.
She smiled as she thought of him; after all the years they’d spent together she still liked him just as much, perhaps even more. Wiping her brow, she wondered how it had ever been possible, even in the horrible grief of those years, to forget how much she loved him and how her very life depended on her man. She felt a stab of pain at the thought that she could have lost him, by neglecting him as she had; just imagine how many other women would have been glad to take him, handsome and good-hearted as he was.