“No reason not to be, Leonardo. You’re being really helpful. Ten more minutes here is all, I promise.”
Leonardo closed his eyes. “The upstairs buzzer has one name only. It’s German or English. The downstairs one has two names. On the top is Romano, or Romagna, Romagnolo or something. The other name… No. Begins with an L: Or is it a C? That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Something happened to the guy on the third floor?”
Blume ignored the question and looked at his pad. “You’re in Block C, at the bottom of the stairs. What then?”
“I went straight to the top floor first.”
“You carried all the boxes up to the top floor?”
“No. Way I do it, I drop off the box of groceries and the mineral water for the apartment on the third floor landing on my way up to the top. I get to the last floor, deliver the other box. Then, on my way down again, I ring, guy opens the door, I push it in, he gives me a tip.”
“The apartment on the third floor. Is it always a man who answers?”
“Usually. Sometimes a house cleaner.”
“How do you know she’s a house cleaner?”
“Old. Older than him. Also, you can tell.”
Blume picked up his pen again, and said, “OK, what about the man? What’s he like?”
“Sometimes he chats, sometimes he pretends I don’t exist. I prefer it when he pretends I don’t exist, because then he usually tips. When he chats, he doesn’t tip.”
“And today, how did he behave today?”
“I never saw him today.”
“You never saw him?”
“Not today. I got to Apartment ten at the top, rang the doorbell, this skinny German guy who lives there answers, all dressed up in sportswear, like you.”
Blume looked down at his hairy legs. “Then the guy downstairs, can you tell me what we said his name was?”
“We didn’t,” said Leonardo.
“Right, we didn’t. Well, the name is Arturo Clemente.”
“I go back down the stairs with the trolley, and when I reach the landing outside Apartment six, the box and the water six-packs are gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone. I figure he must have opened the door, pulled them in by himself, and closed the door so as not to give me a tip. Stingy bastard.”
“You didn’t ring the bell to check?”
“What’s to check? Only reason would be to ask for my tip, but I’ve got some dignity.”
“Did he ever do that before?”
“Not tip? Yes, like I told you. But I don’t remember him ever pulling the groceries in off the landing.”
“How did he know they were there?”
“How the hell do I know? He opened his door, saw them. I just know they were gone. I rang the intercom downstairs, remember?”
Blume tapped the pen against his front teeth. It was a metal pen, and clacked as it hit the enamel.
“What then?”
“Nothing. I left.”
“What time was this?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, twenty to eleven, a quarter to.”
Blume asked, “Could anyone have come into the building without you hearing?”
“Sure they could.”
“So did anyone?”
Leonardo closed his eyes again. Then he opened them again. “I can’t remember.”
“Just think of the sounds you heard,” said Blume. It was almost a gentle invitation.
“Wait. Someone was playing piano.” Leonardo grinned, pleased with himself.
“Fast? Slow? Good playing? Maybe it was a CD?”
“Slow-but fast bits, too. It wasn’t a CD. The person went back and played the same piece a few times.”
“Just piano music?”
“Yes.”
“Can you hum the tune for me?”
“No.”
“Try.”
“I can’t. It was classical music.”
“OK. Any other sounds?”
“It’s was kind of a quiet, sleepy afternoon. I can’t remember any more sounds. Apart from the cicadas. Wait, there was another sound, like someone hitting woodwork.” He hit the table with the base of his palm. “Sort of like that. Three, four times.”
“From where?”
“From below, when I was sliding the box into the apartment upstairs.”
“OK, Leonardo. That’s good.”
6
FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 11 P.M.
Investigating Magistrate Filippo Principe was waiting when Blume came out.
Principe nodded at the door to the interrogation room. “No defense lawyer present, so his statements are legally worthless.”
“I know that,” said Blume. “But he’s not our man.”
“Is he likely to cause trouble about this interrogation?”
“No. He’s a nice guy.”
Blume went up to the ground floor where he found Zambotto leaning against the jamb of a door halfway down the corridor, staring at a vending machine like it was a TV screen. He called, and Zambotto came lumbering down the corridor, unhappy to be wanted.
“What?”
“I want you to prepare it as a voluntary witness statement. Did you ask the supermarket manager about pilfering?”
Zambotto looked at him without a hint of comprehension. Blume motioned him to follow him back downstairs. “Paoloni and I discovered some of the items in the grocery box were missing. I just thought we should ask the manager if the delivery people ever lift out items from the boxes-you know, pilfer.”
“What items?” asked Zambotto.
“Peanut butter.”
“What is peanut butter?”
“American food,” said Blume.
Zambotto stuck out a wide flat tongue in disgust.
“We found a list in the box of groceries,” said Blume. “There were two things missing. Peanut butter and Nutella.”
“Uh,” said Zambotto.
“I’m not saying it’s important. It’s just a fact. But if the killer took them, then it’s relevant. If he didn’t, then it’s not.”
“All deliverymen steal stuff,” said Zambotto as if quoting a well known proverb. “But the supermarket’s never going to admit that.”
“Depends how you ask, I suppose,” said Blume. “Did you ask?”
“No.”
Blume nodded. “No reason you should have. Did you get the supermarket manager’s home number?”
“I got his cell phone number. I have it here,” Zambotto unbuttoned his orange and brown jacket, fished out a notebook from his inside pocket.
“His name is Truffa.”
“Truffa, you say?” Blume pulled out his cell phone, pressed the numbers as Zambotto called them out. He dismissed Zambotto with a nod of the head. Zambotto went into the interrogation room.
“You going to call him now?” asked Principe.
“Why? Think we should wait?” Blume dialed the number, identified himself to the man who answered and apologized for calling so late, paused for a second, then made a weak joke about bad television. Two minutes later he hung up and shrugged.
“Well?” said Principe.
“OK. This supermarket manager-Truffa-just told me customers almost never try to pull a fast one or complain about missing items,” said Blume.
“Is that a breakthrough of some sort?” Principe wanted to know.
“Not at all,” said Blume. “Hardly makes any difference. But it means stuff doesn’t go missing. Customers would complain if it did. It doesn’t make sense to lose a job, even a lousy one, for the sake of a tin of beans.”
The door to the interrogation room burst open, and Zambotto appeared, breathing heavily, his enormous head hanging down as if he had just completed a round in the ring. “Had to get out of there, stop myself from strangling the fucker.”
“Why, what did he do?” said Principe.
“He denies everything. So maybe he didn’t do it, but he’s using this tone of voice, you know, like he was calling me stupid.”
Blume said, “You know what, Cristian? I think we can leave it there.”
“What?”
“He’s not who we’re after. Also, I want a break. Maybe you want one, too?”
Zambotto nodded.
“Fine,” said Blume. “Let’s send him back to his mother in time for supper. In one piece.”
Blume left the basement and went up to the serious crimes section on the second floor of the station in search of Paoloni, who was supposed to be setting out the investigative chronology. But instead of Paoloni in the office, he found the young deputy inspector, Marco Ferrucci, tongue out in concentration as he tapped something into his police computer on the desk. Blume had not intended to use Ferrucci until the following day.