By the time Maione and Ricciardi concluded their examination of the Teatro Splendor, it was past midnight. Despite the lateness of the hour, there was still a small knot of onlookers outside the theater; and there were even a pair of exasperated couples, objecting vociferously and waving their tickets for the last show, which had been, of course, canceled.
Several reporters approached Ricciardi asking questions, but Maione moved them away brusquely.
“Commissa’,” he said to his superior officer as they headed back toward police headquarters, “the dead woman is famous, like I explained. You’ll see, the newspapers are going to be a major annoyance. Let’s brace for it.”
Ricciardi shrugged.
“You know, Raffaele, we always work the same way. It won’t be very different.”
Maione made a face.
“You think, Commissa’? I beg to differ: I’m afraid we’re going to spend a nasty New Year’s.”
Later on, as he walked home alone through the city’s deserted streets, Ricciardi thought back on the strange scene of that crime, hovering somewhere between reality and make-believe, where death had burst rudely in, shattering dreams and illusions. That was why he had never much liked the theater: Ricciardi, who knew the range of human feelings and the catastrophes summoned down by their perversions, couldn’t stand to see them acted out on a brightly lit stage. Especially now that the barriers he’d built over the course of a lifetime had collapsed in the presence of Enrica’s smile.
He’d instinctively crossed to the opposite sidewalk after glimpsing through a distant window the ghostly image of a man dangling from a hook in the ceiling; he swung lazily back and forth, reminiscent of a salami hung up to age. The fragment of attention that he’d conceded to that scene yielded to his mind, like the buzz of an insect close to his ear, a few truncated words: Forgive me, beloved children of mine. Who could say what had driven that man to suicide? The last stages of some disease, perhaps, or debts, the unfortunate end of a love affair, a faithless wife.
Quickening his stride, he recalled his own stricken horror when he still believed that the German officer might succeed in his efforts to win Enrica’s acceptance of his proposal of marriage. In his thoughts, he harkened back to the woman who’d been murdered just a few hours before that on the stage of the Teatro Splendor. Why had her husband killed her? Was it a betrayal, an artistic rivalry, a bitter quarrel? And why do it so openly, so theatrically, in front of a packed audience, thus eliminating any doubt and ruling out any opportunity to make good one’s escape? Actors, as he’d had the chance to observe in the past, were peculiar people, possessed of strange mental processes. Make-believe, repeated day in and day out, got into their blood, persuading them that in real life tragedies could take on the same form as they had onstage.
Before getting in bed, and without turning on the light, he opened his bedroom window. The air was still warm, with the aid of that unusual tepid breeze. There was a cloying odor of dampness and mold. In the darkness, he thought he spotted a movement behind the window in Enrica’s kitchen. He found himself smiling, all alone, in the dark. Love of my life, Fedora Marra’s voice whispered to him. He got into bed, with a shiver.
The next morning, in the office, after Maione had brought him his usual espresso in a glass demitasse, Deputy Chief Garzo burst into the room.
It was a rare occurrence, because their superior officer almost never appeared in police headquarters before nine in the morning. He believed it was a prerogative of his position to arrive at work after all those who reported to him, allowing himself to garner a complete overview of the day’s necessities and thereby issue all the necessary organizational instructions; or at least, so he claimed. For that matter, the fact that he was married to the niece of His Excellency the Prefect of Salerno must certainly afford him a privilege or two.
What’s more, Angelo Garzo was maniacally obsessed with the formalities of his position, and whenever he wished to speak with Ricciardi, he made sure to send Ponte, the policeman whom he had transformed into his own personal valet and footman, to summon him in full pomp and regalia. Instead, this morning, there he was right in front of Ricciardi, and of course he had entered without knocking. Skinny and frail, Ponte trailed after him as usual, his eyes downcast.
Ricciardi continued to sip his espresso in utter relaxation. He knew that this nonchalant attitude got on Garzo’s nerves, and he found the fact amusing. Maione moved uneasily: he’d never made a secret of the low opinion he held of the deputy chief. Maione considered Garzo to be a mere bureaucrat, an idiot into the bargain, and someone who’d used family connections to win his position, always ready to blame others for his failures and claim their achievements as his own.
Garzo blinked rapidly, irritated by Ricciardi’s indifference. He was elegantly groomed and attired, as was his custom, and looked as if he was about to make his grand entrance into a drawing room for an exclusive party. His chestnut hair was combed back and the skin of his face was freshly shaved. His exquisitely tended mustache, a recent conceit that was his current pride and joy, betrayed his innermost thoughts even more eloquently than his eyes. And at that moment, that mustache was quivering with wounded pride.
“Buongiorno, Ricciardi. As you can see, I’m here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
The commissario set down his espresso, dabbed at his lips with his handkerchief, placed it back into the breast pocket of his jacket, and calmly rose to his feet.
“Buongiorno, sir. Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting a visit from you at such an early hour.”
Ponte, who had remained in the doorway, emitted a faint moan. Maione twisted his lips into a virtually imperceptible smile and spoke: “Ah, dotto’, buongiorno. Truth be told, I hadn’t even noticed that you’d come in. You were both so very silent.”
The neat little mustache pursed in a snort toward the brigadier.
“Ah, Maio’, buongiorno. Yes, I came down myself to speed things up, work waits for no one. Well, now, Ricciardi, I heard that you were summoned yesterday to the Teatro Splendor. I was informed of the fact at the home of Conte Castaldi, while my wife and I were there for a little after-dinner reception.”
“Yes, indeed, sir. I’ve already written my report, it’s a matter of . . .”
“Yes, Fedora Marra, no less, I know; no one’s talking about anything else in the whole city. And I expect that starting this morning both the press and my higher-ups are going to be asking me what I know about the murder, so I’m going to need some good answers. You, Ricciardi, probably don’t realize, and I see no reason why you should since it’s not the sort of thing that concerns you, lucky man that you are. You have no idea of the pressures I’m subjected to. It might seem as if I pay little mind to the things that happen here in the office, but . . .”
Maione murmured: “Well, yes, in fact . . .”
The other man gazed at Maione, blankly.
“What are you suggesting, Maione?”
The brigadier beat a hasty retreat.
“I meant to say that you have so many things to do, dotto’. That’s why we always do our best to settle matters ourselves.”
Garzo continued staring at him, sternly. He had the vague suspicion that the brigadier was mocking him subtly, but he couldn’t be sure. Behind him, Ponte coughed softly. Maione reached out a hand and slammed the door in the man’s face. Ponte emitted a soft complaint.
“Forgive me, dotto’,” the brigadier explained, “but there’s a draft. I shut the door, otherwise we’ll catch our death.”
The deputy chief ignored him and once again addressed Ricciardi: “I hear that you’ve arrested Michelangelo Gelmi, the late Marra’s husband, and that the man put up no resistance. He shot her in a theater full of people. Is that right?”
Ricciardi confirmed: “Yes, sir. It happened during the second performance, at the moment of the dramatized song. Gelmi fired two shots, one of which was a blank, aimed at another male actor, and the fatal shot, at the woman.”
Garzo tacitly agreed with small, nervous jerks of his chin.
“Indeed. And therefore we can now declare to the public that, with our usual rapid efficiency, we have solved the . . .”
Ricciardi shook his head.
“No, sir. I’d recommend due caution, as far as that goes.”
The other man’s jaw dropped in surprise. He turned to look at Maione, as if demanding an explanation or seeking approval, but the brigadier shrugged his shoulders.
“What are you trying to say?” Garzo demanded. “Did I mishear you, or did you yourself not just tell me that Gelmi shot the woman in front of everyone during a dramatized song?”
“That is what I said. But I haven’t yet informed you that Gelmi denies having loaded the handgun with the fatal bullet. Indeed, he admits that he shot his wife, but without any intention of killing her.”
The neat little mustache went back to quivering, in a mixture of indignation and irritation.
“Oh, my Lord, Ricciardi, do we want to have everyone in the city laughing at us? A man shoots and kills his wife, who is moreover a renowned actress, in front of a packed theater, and we set off in pursuit of ghosts?”
Or perhaps we should say, the commissario thought to himself, that it’s the ghosts who are chasing us. Love of my life.
“Certainly not, sir. In fact, we’ve arranged to place Gelmi under arrest, and truth be told, the man put up no resistance. Still, with all due respect, I’d like to suggest that we delve a little deeper into this matter, if for no other reason than to ward off the risk of evidence being introduced at trial that might hurt our chances. Precisely because this case is of such intense public interest, you will no doubt agree that we must ensure that our prosecutorial theory is airtight and bombproof.”
The neat little mustache relaxed into a brief, meditative pause.
“Yes, I see. You’re quite right, Ricciardi. But make sure you move quickly and without commotion, because if anyone were to notice that we’ve been devoting time and resources to an investigation into an episode that’s as clear as day, they’d be bound to crucify us. Do we have an understanding? Let’s get this done before the start of the new year. Let’s try to end the old year well and start the new one even better.”
Then he turned on his heel and without warning yanked the door open, slamming right into Ponte, who’d been intently eavesdropping. The two men then moved off together.
Maione shook his head.
“What an imbecile. He doesn’t even understand what idiotic drivel he’s spewing. But are you really determined to continue the investigation, Commissa’, or were you just saying that to keep him worried?”
Ricciardi had turned to look out the window; he stared at the city as it went about readying itself to enjoy New Year’s.
“I was deadly serious, Raffaele. I want to find out what really happened. If Gelmi had really been determined to murder his wife, there are a thousand other ways he could have done it. But if he really wanted to shoot her in front of an audience, then why bother denying it afterward? I think we need to do some more digging.”
Maione scratched his head.
“All right, Commissa’, after all, there’s not much other work to take care of right now. Nobody’s going to kill anyone between Christmas and New Year’s Day.”