Ricciardi nodded. But Pivani still wasn’t done.
“And as long as I’m chatting with this ghost, I want to give him one other little tidbit of advice. I know that you’re fond of Dr. Bruno Modo, the medical examiner. You’re right, he’s a decent man, one who’s willing to treat someone in need, even if that someone can’t pay for his services. So if you want to help him out, tell him to be careful what he says in public; especially when he’s had a glass or two too much to drink. It really would be a pity if something bad were to happen to him.”
When he got back to police headquarters, everyone had left for the night, except for a very worried Maione, sitting on the bench outside his office door and fanning himself with his cap. As soon as he saw Ricciardi arrive, he leapt to his feet.
“Commissa’, what on earth happened to you? All this time! I sent Camarda to see if you were at Palazzo Camparino, I went back myself to the Capece home to see if you’d forgotten to ask them something. I even called your place, to see if by any chance you’d turned up there. By the way, Signora Rosa is waiting up for you, she says that she made you pasta and squash for dinner.”
Ricciardi grimaced and put his hand on his stomach.
“You just had to tell me that, didn’t you, to make me lose any desire to go home at the end of a long day? When Rosa makes squash, it takes me two days to digest it. You’re right, though, I forgot that you’d be here waiting for me; and I hadn’t noticed how late it had gotten. Come into my office, I’ll tell you the news.”
He rapidly brought the brigadier up to date on the information that was pertinent to the investigation. He told him nothing about the illicit relationship, nor did he even mention Pivani’s name, both because the less his friend knew about it, the less danger he was in, and because he wouldn’t have known how to reveal to him-out of shame and respect-the depth of that relationship and the suffering that accompanied it. He told him that he had been to the Fascist Party headquarters where, by chance, two nights earlier he had seen Ettore go in, and that he’d learned that the duke’s son was collaborating on a number of secret operations now underway, and that he had been told that Ettore was in those offices the night of the murder, as well.
Maione listened openmouthed; when Ricciardi was done he blurted out:
“Excuse me, Commissa’, but what were you doing in the middle of the street two nights ago, when you saw the young master going to visit the Fascists? And why didn’t you tell me about it, why didn’t you have me come with you? They’re very dangerous people to deal with. And who did you speak with, at Fascist headquarters? Those people take care of their own, it’s obvious that they gave him an alibi: it’s like asking a water vendor if the water is cool!”
Ricciardi raised both hands.
“Oh, oh, don’t jump on me! First of all, I didn’t think I’d be able to talk to anyone, I just swung by there to get it out of the way while you were going to get changed. And the other night, it was so hot out that I couldn’t get any sleep, and that’s why I was out walking. When I went by tonight, they finally let me speak with an important figure there, and it struck me that he didn’t even like Ettore very much, and I think he told me the truth. We’d have to check it out, let that be clear. But it would explain why Ettore wouldn’t tell us where he was. In any case, it’s late now, we’ll talk it over tomorrow. You go home and get yourself something to eat, you must be starving by now.”
Maione put on the expression of a suffering man:
“Commissa’, you can’t begin to imagine just how hungry I am. All right, good night. But do me a favor: the next time you think you might be going someplace dangerous, would you be so good as to let me know?”
In the drawing room, after dinner, Enrica did her best to avoid looking at Sebastiano as he was about to sip his coffee. From the very first evening he’d come to her home, she’d noticed a horrible thing: the man held the handle of the porcelain demitasse with two fingers, extending his pinky-that in itself struck her as intolerable-and then he pursed his lips as if he were about to kiss the rim of the cup, another equally ridiculous act, and finally he inhaled his coffee with a loud sucking noise. She could have strangled him.
What would everyone think if they knew that Enrica, the fragile, delicate, shy young woman whom they all loved for her gentle nature, was actually considering first-degree murder? The thought made her smile and the clueless Sebastiano interrupted Operation Espresso to respond with a loving glance. Conceited fool, thought Enrica, and smiled again. And to keep her mind off the sucking sound that was about to fill the room again, she recalled the conversation that she’d had that afternoon with the hairdresser, and all the questions that the woman had asked about Enrica’s supposed engagement, a piece of news that she’d denied categorically. That same hairdresser, she mused, also did the hair of Luigi Alfredo’s housekeeper; how nice it would be, if the woman’s curiosity had been prodded by him: that would mean that he was still interested in her, that the damned woman from the north was nothing more than a friend, and that she still had a prayer of a hope.
She shut her eyes, bracing herself for Sebastiano’s horrible sucking sound: she decided that there was no way that she could spend her life waiting, every time he drank a cup of espresso, to hear the gurgling of the unfortunate liquid as it flowed from the lovely demitasse down into the grotto of his gaping maw.
She was certain that when Luigi Alfredo drank a cup of coffee, he made no noise at all. And that he kept his pinky finger unextended, like a real man.
Lucia went to meet Raffaele the minute she heard the key turn in the lock. She’d sent the children to bed when she realized that he’d be home late, and she’d kept his dinner warm: a bowl of vegetable soup. He let himself drop into the chair, dripping with sweat from the long uphill climb from police headquarters and the stairs up to the top floor. She peered into his face with genuine concern: he seemed tense and nervous to her. She wondered what he had on his mind. Or who.
Instead, her husband looked at his soup bowl, sifting the vegetables with his spoon. After a while he asked her how she’d spent her day. She told him that she’d gone to do her grocery shopping and then she’d spent the afternoon cleaning and shelling the vegetables that she’d used to make that soup. By the way: Ciruzzo, the fruit and vegetable vendor, sent his regards.
He looked up at her as if he’d received an electric shock. He dropped his spoon into the soup and stood up, saying:
“This soup is revolting. Sometimes I think I ought to do like the commissario does and eat out more often. I’ve lost my appetite, I’m going to bed. Buona notte.”
Astonished and humiliated, Lucia watched him leave the room, wondering what on earth she had done wrong.
Ricciardi had hardly eaten a bite. He’d pushed the pasta around in the bowl for ten minutes or so, his mind clearly chasing after faraway thoughts. Rosa had watched him, standing at the threshold of the kitchen door, the whole time.
When he stood up from dinner, giving her a sidelong glance and bracing himself for the usual furious scolding, she astonished him by clearing the table in silence. To his astonishment, there was not so much as a single pointed comment on his lack of consideration for a weary old woman who had worked all day to put delicious food on the table for him when he got home.
Actually, his aged housekeeper was much less worried than she had been for the past few days; the hairdresser had come back to her, in accordance with her instructions. After all, the woman was eager to collect the second half of the tip that she’d been promised, and she came bearing good news. Excellent news, in fact: the young Colombo woman wasn’t engaged and, even better, had no intention of getting engaged. It was her parents, worried about the girl’s age, who were pushing her to get to know the son of the proprietors of the shop next door to theirs; they were hoping that sooner or later love might bloom, spontaneously.