Ricciardi looked at the deputy chief of police with his pen still in his hand, dripping ink onto the report.
“And why do you say that, Dottore? Brilliant seems like a strong word, I don’t think I’ve done anything remarkable.”
Garzo had no intention of letting his enthusiasm subside one inch:
“Brilliant is what I said and brilliant is what I meant! You have no idea how worried we were, the chief of police and I. We were afraid it would turn out that the murderer of the duchess of Musso di Camparino was actually a member of her family, one of the most important families in the city; perhaps even the son, Heaven forefend, who I hear has friends in very high places that. . well, enough said. Or else it could have been Capece, a prolific and indiscreet journalist who might even be a dissident, and then we would have been attacked by his fellow journalists, who are just champing at the bit. But instead, who do you nail for the murder? His wife! Which means he has to shut up and take it, and all his friends and colleagues can’t do anything else but pity him, while the Camparino family emerges scot-free. Bravo, Ricciardi! Once again, we’re proud of you!”
Maione emitted a faint hiss, like a steam boiler whose pressure was too high. Ricciardi replied coldly:
“I’m pleased to hear how happy it makes you, Dottore, that one woman is dead and that another, the mother of two childen and a faithful, loving wife, will be confined to a criminal asylum, possibly for the rest of her life. I’m pleased that it turns out to be a relief, for you, that two families have been ruined forever, and that shame will blot their names for many years to come. And I’m sorry to inform you that it wasn’t us who crafted this solution, but merely the demon of a corrupt and desperate passion.”
A profound silence followed the commissario’s words. Through the open window came the sound of a departing ship’s horn. Ponte had turned practically purple and was staring in fascination at a patch of peeling plaster on the wall. Garzo swallowed and turned to Maione, with an air of complicity:
“Always modest, eh, our man Ricciardi. Always refusing to take credit for a brilliant solution. Of course, it’s a pity that people die, and that there are still murderers, even in these times when we ought to be focusing on the luminous future that awaits us. Luckily for everyone, we’re here, taking care of things; we find the guilty parties and put them behind bars. You, too, Maione, you did a beautiful job. If you come to my office and you give me the details of what happened, I’m pretty sure that I’ll be able to arrange for you to receive a generous bonus.”
Diplomacy was not one of Maione’s gifts; his face seemed to be a billboard for disgust.
“No, Dotto’, forgive me but I’ve got something urgent to do.”
“And what would that be?” asked Garzo.
“I have no idea,” Maione replied, “but it must be urgent, whatever it is. With your permission, I’ll be going.”
And he left the room, touching his fingertips to the visor of his cap. Garzo, pigeon-chested and all smiles, turned and spoke once again to Ricciardi, who hadn’t moved in the meantime:
“All right, Ricciardi, I’ll be expecting that report. Again, congratulations, and on to bigger and better things. Come along, Ponte: we have a thousand things to do.”
Ricciardi’s sense of unease, increased considerably by the visit from the deputy chief of police, led him to go out into the street even before lunchtime. Pensive and unhappy, he found himself in front of the hospital, just as Doctor Modo was heading out for a bite to eat.
“There you go, the story of my life. All my colleagues are greeted at the front gate by lovely women, either enchanting girlfriends or loving wives. And here I am, awaited by you: a melancholy policeman, and ugly, to boot.”
“Stop complaining, Bruno: I don’t recall having to stand in line to buy you lunch.”
Modo tipped his hat to the back of his head and mopped his brow with his handkerchief.
“Better alone than in bad company. In any case, I swore an oath to fight suffering, and as far as I can tell you’re the unrivaled champion of misery; and so, though it’s with a heavy heart, I’m going to take you up on your offer. After all, you’re a wealthy man, and I’m just a penniless medical examiner. Where are you taking me for lunch?”
At the trattoria the doctor, as usual, ate for two; Ricciardi on the other hand, toyed listlessly with a forkful of pasta, responding monosyllabically to his friend’s efforts to draw him out in a conversation. His chosen topic, needless to say, was politics.
“Do you have any idea how low we’ve sunk? I find this young man in my waiting room, a student, as far as I could tell, glasses, clean but shabby clothing, the elbows of his jacket looked as thin and delicate as onionskin paper. A Calabrian, perhaps, or maybe from Lucania, I can never tell them apart. But a respectable polite young man. You know the kind, put themselves through school by working on the side, and even send a little extra money home. So I find him sitting in the waiting room, he hadn’t made a sound, patiently pressing a handkerchief against his forehead. So I say to him, yes, young man, how can I help? And he shows me a five-inch cut. Probably a knife wound, and they came this close to taking his eye out, just a hair to the left and he’d have been blind in one eye. I asked him, son, who did this to you? And he said: I fell and cut myself. He fell, my foot! There’d been a meeting of freethinkers, socialists, maybe, and those guys showed up, a squad of enforcers, probably ten of them. He’d been a straggler when everyone took to their heels. Getting the story out of him was like pulling teeth. But in the end, do you know what he said? Doctor, I’ll let you stitch up the cut only if you promise not to tell a soul. What kind of filthy world has this turned into? Can you answer me that?”
Ricciardi sadly shook his head.
“Bruno, I know that things aren’t going particularly well. Believe me: I’ve experienced it personally. But you’re important, for all the people you help and you protect. For once in your life, let me try to protect you, by asking you to take care. That’s right, I’m asking you-I’m begging you-to be careful what you say, especially in public places. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do: there are people keeping an eye on you. And if they locked you up, even if it would mean not having to look at your ugly face anymore, it would be a serious loss for everyone.”
Modo slammed his fist down on the table, making the silverware dance. Heads turned to look at them.
“What’s this, you too now? You’re starting to talk like them? Who did you talk to about me, if I may ask? Don’t I at least have the right to know my enemies?”
Ricciardi laid a hand on his arm, whispering: “There, you see: they’re watching us. These are exactly the kind of situations to avoid. During the course of the investigation into the duchess’s murder, you remember, your last autopsy, I had to question a person. A man who works for their secret police, to be exact: even if I find it repellent to dignify them with the name of police. Still, he wasn’t a bad person, at least, that was the impression I got. And he told me to give you some advice: try to stay out of trouble. Now I’ve done it, at my own risk and danger. Don’t make me regret it.”
Modo considered the matter and calmed down, just as Ricciardi had expected. He wouldn’t risk his friend’s life just to make a point. Plus, it warmed his heart to think that someone like the commissario actually worried about him.
“Fine, you’ve talked me into it. I’ll try to be more careful. By the way, I hear that you caught the duchess’s murderer, or perhaps I should say, her murderess, the wife of that journalist, what’s his name. .”
“Capece, that’s right. But I wanted to talk to you about that, too. Now then, this woman, Signora Capece, is crazy. Of course, there will be an expert evaluation and all the rest, but she’s certainly not of sound mind. So: in your experience, can a person like that do something and then remember only a part of what they’ve done?”