“Never once do they let you clean in peace; never a moment of calm and quiet, day and night,” she grumbled ungraciously, stepping aside to let them pass. Maione thought better of telling her he was there on official police business, but he shot her a hostile glare that she returned in full.
At the end of a hallway wallpapered in red silk there was a large room with sofas and chairs lining the walls, dominated at the center by a large wooden dais and desk. Behind it sat a middle-aged woman whose hair was dyed a red not found in nature and whose face was so made-up that it would have been impossible to recognize her when she woke up in the morning. As soon as she saw Maione and Bambinella walk in, she got out of her chair and strode toward them with a grim, furrowed brow.
“Buona sera, Brigadier. Excuse me, but I should inform you that in my house, only my own young ladies are allowed to work. If you’re here for a threesome, I can certainly let you choose two of my misses, but I absolutely cannot allow you to bring. .”
Maione broke in brusquely, stemming her flow of words:
“No, Signora, forgive me but you seem to have misunderstood. I’m not here to enjoy myself, I’m here strictly on police duty.”
The woman put on a worried face and took a step back.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. My operation is in strict compliance from every point of view: taxes, health certificates. The receipt book for all the services rendered and paid is available for your inspection, just say the word. .”
Maione started to lose his temper.
“Enough, Signora, be stilclass="underline" who asked you anything? I’m just here to talk with a signorina who I understand works here, according to what the signore-” pointing to Bambinella, who quickly corrected him: “Signorina. .”
The woman gave Bambinella a disgusted glare, and then turned back to Maione.
“Why, are you suggesting that one of my young ladies has broken the law? I can guarantee the utmost supervision under my roof, but once they’re outside of my control, responsibility for their actions. .”
The brigadier seriously considered leaving a five-fingered handprint on the thick layer of greasepaint that covered the madam’s face.
“Signora, no one’s done anything wrong here. Unless I decide that you’re trying to interfere with a police investigation, and if I do, then I’ll wrap you up, along with all your young ladies and that bad-mannered concierge sweeping out on the landing, and slap you behind bars for a while.”
His tone was abrupt; the woman lowered her head as if he’d just slapped her on the back of the head.
“At your orders, Brigadie’,” she said obediently.
Ricciardi had found the street door, though not without some difficulty. Nocturnal landmarks are provided by the lamplighter; in the light of day everything looks different. He stepped into the courtyard and the welcome shade, and noticed a doorman’s booth close to the main entrance. The doorman himself was walking toward him, a tall and powerful-looking young man, asking him in a peevish voice what he might be looking for. Ricciardi identified himself:
“I need some information. Who lives in this building?”
The young man looked him up and down. From inside came the sound of scales being practiced on a piano, frequently breaking off for mistakes. The answer was slow in coming; the two men looked each other in the eye. Finally, the doorman said:
“Why, who are you looking for?”
Ricciardi understood that he needed to eliminate this stumbling block promptly.
“Listen: if you want to answer my questions, we can get this over with and I’ll stop bothering you. If you want to play games, then I’ll come back on official business and we’ll take you someplace where I can make you talk whether you want to or not. That’s up to you.”
There weren’t many citizens out there likely to resist Ricciardi’s will when he hissed his determination eye-to-eye, with unwavering intensity. And the doorman certainly wasn’t one of them. He blinked once and replied:
“At your orders, Commissa’. Ask away.”
The policeman was duly informed that this apartment building, not far from the Conservatory, was occupied by two families with small children, an elderly retired widower, and several female music students from a small town in the southern region of Lucania.
“They’re the ones you can hear practicing,” the man pointed out.
On the second story were the offices of a shipping line, which were closed at that time of year.
“As far as you know,” Ricciardi inquired, “was there a party last night? Did someone have a reception, with music and guests, that might have gone on until quite late? With prominent guests?”
The doorman shrugged.
“I couldn’t say, Commissario. I don’t live here, and when I lock up at night I go straight home, I have little kids myself. Still, if you tell me that there was a party here until late, I would have thought someone would complain this morning. That seems odd to me.”
Ricciardi was starting to think that his exhaustion, the night before, had played a trick on him; or perhaps he might have misremembered the building. Just as he was about to thank the man and go looking for another similar front entrance, the man said:
“Unless. . sometimes they stay late, on the top floor. Still, music would strike me as odd.”
“Why, who lives on the top floor?”
Instinctively lowering his voice and looking up, the doorman murmured:
“The Fascist Party’s on the top floor. Fascist Party headquarters.”
Maione and Bambinella followed the expansive derriere of Annunziata Caputo, alias Madame Yvonne, up another steep flight of stairs; then they walked down a narrow corridor, with closed doors up and down both sides, at the end of which was a small room with a large window from which, if you craned your neck, you could glimpse the sea. The air was cool and clean and slightly briny, and in the distance you could hear the cries of children playing and seagulls swooping.
In the middle of the room there was a table, around which sat a few young women, laughing, smoking, and chatting. Some of them were bare-breasted, most of them were seeking a little cool air near the window. When the brigadier walked in, even though he was accompanied by the maîtresse, there were little squeals of fear; the girls covered themselves as best they could and retreated to the far end of the room. But Madame spoke to them in a reassuring voice:
“Don’t worry, young ladies, the brigadier isn’t here to arrest anyone. He just wants to talk to. .”
Maione interrupted her in a weary voice:
“Let me guess, Signora: that’s Juliette right there, no?”
Seated on a sofa against the wall, off to one side, a half-naked young blonde was hungrily consuming a large chunk of bread dripping with tomato sauce.
“Brigadie’, please forgive me, but this morning we literally had a parade through here. A freighter came in, and there were more than three hundred sailors who haven’t seen dry land for a year. Genoans, Portuguese, Russians: a veritable Babylonia! I haven’t managed to get a bite to eat all day, now I have a moment to recover. I hear that it’s the same in every bordello in Naples.”
Bambinella listened raptly to her friend, as if she were describing a safari in equatorial Africa, and darted proud glances at Maione from time to time.
“No, don’t think twice, in fact I hope you don’t mind that we showed up at this time of day without calling ahead. The brigadier, here, just wants to ask you a couple of questions, you answer freely, and don’t worry: I can vouch for him.”
Maione snorted in annoyance, shooting rapid, suffering glances at the uneaten chunks of bread and tomato still littering the table.
“Eh, so it’s come to this: I need a recommendation from Bambinella! Now then, Signorina: what’s your name?”