In view of the pressure being levied by Garzo, Ricciardi decided to wait no longer for Maione’s arrival, but instead continue his investigation.
He wanted to go to Gelmi’s home, to take a look at the place where the victim and her husband had spent their daily lives, even if he had no real hope of finding any significant clues there.
He searched for the address on the report that had been drawn up when the actor was arrested and calculated that it would take him roughly a twenty-minute walk to reach the place. He didn’t mind the prospect, there was a shortage of fresh air in the office.
The fog shrouded him the minute he set foot outside the main entrance to police headquarters, and he found himself in a silent world, where voices and sounds arrived muffled, and people seemed to have suddenly disappeared. He proceeded down the street, surrounded by the phantoms of the dead and the spectral figures of the living as they appeared before him without warning. The smell of woodsmoke, car engines, horses, and rotting food left unsold now that the holidays were coming to an end had become heavy and redolent, permeating the air.
The commissario believed that once he got down to the water’s edge, that uniform mantle of mist would thin and lift, but instead it persisted dense and unbroken. As a result he came close to overshooting his destination, a venerable old palazzo on the Riviera di Chiaia. He identified himself to the doorman, a stern man, garbed in livery, who also seemed to have been cast, to perfection, in a dramatic role. Ricciardi climbed the broad and majestic stone staircase, built for the use of dignitaries of the Spanish court, and once he reached the third floor he stopped before a tall and ornately carved wooden door. On the brass plaque, elaborate letters spelled the surname “Gelmi.” He knocked and waited.
After a short wait, a skinny and nearly bald male servant answered the door. The man’s thin, wrinkled neck protruded from the collar of an oversized shirt.
The policeman introduced himself and stated his rank. The servant showed no sign of surprise, made a bow, and ushered him indoors.
The waiting room was large and luxuriously furnished and decorated, but the result was chilly and impersonal. The commissario had the distinct impression that he was in a place used for official functions and receptions far more than a lived-in home. That initial impression was further confirmed by the drawing room where sofas and armchairs, mirrors, items made of brass and gilded wood were displayed as if in a museum or a shop. The only features that conveyed even a bit of warmth were the photographs of Michelangelo, scattered all over the room, and portraying him and him alone, onstage and elsewhere, looking serious or posing next to fellow theater people and celebrities. In all those photographs, there wasn’t a trace of his wife.
The servant murmured: “If I may, I’ll go and summon the lady of the house.”
With another bow, the man withdrew before Ricciardi had a chance to ask who the lady of the house might be.
A few moments went by before a middle-aged woman, tall, austere, and dressed in black, made her entrance into the room. Ricciardi had the impression that he’d met her before, and recently. It was an intense and vivid recollection, but the commissario couldn’t seem to recall when or where.
The woman stepped forward, staring him in the eye, and extended her hand.
“Buongiorno,” she said. “I’m Marianna Gelmi.”
Ricciardi realized at that instant that he’d been deceived: the face before him was an incredible feminine version of the features of Michelangelo. She seemed to guess his thoughts, and a faint, sad smile danced over her lips.
“I know, we resemble each other closely; we’re twins and our parents even gave us names with the same initials.”
She invited Ricciardi to come in and make himself comfortable, and then sat down facing him. Then she spoke to her servant: “Achille, bring us some coffee, if you please. And two glasses of water. This fog is making me thirsty, though who knows why.”
The commissario cleared his throat.
“I apologize, I had no idea that anyone else lived here, otherwise I would have phoned ahead. I’m investigating the events at the Teatro Splendor and I meant this as nothing more than a walk around the premises.”
Marianna smiled again.
“Why, is there still anything to clear up, Commissa’? Michelangelo shot that woman. Period.”
Her tone of voice wasn’t lost on Ricciardi, who looked around.
“Do you live here, Signora?”
“No, I live upstairs. Once this was a single home, and it was owned by my family; but then we split it up. I was married before my brother; I’ve been a widow for five years now. Michelangelo and his wife lived here when they weren’t away performing elsewhere.”
This was the second time that Gelmi’s sister had chosen not to use her sister-in-law’s name. Ricciardi went back to studying the shelves and dressers covered with photographs of the actor and noticed several unmistakable empty spaces. Marianna once again guessed at the policeman’s thoughts.
“Yes, I removed them, I couldn’t stand to look at them. That woman, damn her even now that she’s dead, was his ruin.”
The commissario took the demitasse of espresso handed him by the servant and asked: “Why do you say that?”
The woman stood up, took a few steps toward the large window, and stood there, staring at the wall of fog.
“As you can see for yourself, Commissario, we were born into prosperity. And my father, had he not died too soon, would never have allowed Michelangelo to become an actor. That’s not a world befitting our station. Oh, don’t misunderstand me, my brother has a laudable talent, and he’s earned handsomely by it: but to be the subject of vulgar chatter, the talk of the town without privacy or respect, is an affront to our honor. I’ve told him so a thousand times, but he’s deaf to my words. He’s had this passion since he was a child, and he’s refused to desist.”
Ricciardi ventured: “But instead his wife . . .”
Marianna’s head snapped around.
“She’s always been a good-for nothing trollop; she was a servant to start with and a servant is what she remains. I’ve never understood why Michelangelo, who is a genuine aristocrat, would ever have wanted to marry her.”
“So you weren’t on speaking terms with Marra?”
“No, Commissario, that’s not the case. I tried to stay on speaking terms with her, because if I hadn’t I would have been forced to give up all ties with my brother, as well. Moreover, I have to admit that, strictly speaking in formal terms, Fedora’s behavior has always been impeccable. She was an actress, she knew how to perform a role, and with me she played the part of an affectionate sister-in-law.”
“If that’s the case, then why do you talk about her in these terms?”
Marianna sat down again.
“What happened makes everything clear, Commissario. Starting with the very reason that Michelangelo started drinking, something he’d never done in the past. And it explains why, in spite of the fact that she had offers of work coming in from all directions, she’d insisted on keeping the revue operating and staying here in this city for so long, in a medium-sized theater.”
“What do you mean?”
In the eyes of Marianna Gelmi, an ironic gleam flashed, and Ricciardi felt as if he was looking at Michelangelo Gelmi himself, acting in women’s clothing.
“She was cheating on him, I’m quite certain of it; I had talked to him about it, and he knew it, too. But he never wanted to delve too deep, he didn’t seem interested in finding out the truth. He was just willing to settle for having her at his side, accepting her help in that damned line of work that utterly ruined him.”
The policeman set down the demitasse and leaned forward.
“Did your brother have any suspicions as to who the other man might have been?”
She shook her head decisively.
“No, if he had, he would have been unable to go on pretending he knew nothing. He would have been forced to send her away. There are limits, you know. Our family name has already been bandied about to a fare-thee-well on account of that profession, the refuge of rogues and prostitutes. Michelangelo had no idea with whom Fedora was cheating on him; he was just afraid she might leave him.”
The commissario half shut his eyes, pensively.
“But this doesn’t fit with the murder. If he was afraid he might lose her, then why would he have killed her? It makes no sense.”
Marianna shrugged her shoulders.
“Perhaps he just couldn’t take it anymore. Or maybe she had made up her mind to leave him. Or else liquor might finally have fogged his mind. There are a thousand possible explanations.”
Ricciardi nodded, thinking deeply.
“When is the last time you saw them?”
“Three days ago, when I came back from the town in the province of Benevento where my poor late husband is buried. Michelangelo was sad, but calm. I can’t imagine how the situation could have deteriorated so sharply as to drive him to that act.”
The commissario pondered whether or not to tell her about her brother’s version of events, and specifically his claim that someone must have slipped the bullet into the pistol without his knowledge. In the end, he decided to keep that detail to himself. He was afraid he might sow seeds of hope that were altogether likely to prove unfounded.
He stood up and asked his host to accompany him on a rapid tour of the apartment. The woman nodded, stiffly, and led the way.
Like the front hall and the drawing room, the other rooms were impersonal and felt as if they’d never actually been lived in. The only two exceptions were the bedrooms, where husband and wife slept separately. Marianna Gelmi smirked, as if to emphasize what she had said previously concerning relations between the husband and wife.
In Fedora’s bedroom, there reigned the same cheerful disorder that he’d seen in her dressing room. Garishly hued shoes and outfits were piled up everywhere; articles of toiletry crowded shelves, tables, dressers, and even the floor. There was such a vivid impression of vitality that once again Ricciardi could easily imagine that the actress was on the verge of returning at any minute.
Marianna hissed: “I must remind Achille to get rid of all these possessions of that hussy. I don’t want the slightest trace of her to remain in the home where my mother once lived.”
Michelangelo’s room was very different. The single mattress indicated that he was the one who had moved out. The furnishings were spartan: a writing desk, a chair, a lamp, and a few books. No articles of clothing scattered around the room; the bed, too, was neatly made.
With a hint of pride, Marianna said: “You see, Commissario? Tidiness, cleanliness. My brother was a soldier to the bottom of his soul. You know that he was a captain in the Italian army and a war hero, right? He fought on the Piave in 1918. He was decorated, just look.”
She pointed at a picture frame that contained a medal, complete with ribbon. Next to it stood several other framed photographs; one portrayed a group of soldiers, at the center of which Gelmi enjoyed pride of place, young and proud, his face serious, his fingers in his belt, his helmet on his head. At his side, a skinny man held two rifles and gazed at him devotedly.
The woman continued: “The Gelmi family has a long military tradition. My father was a colonel, and he would have liked to see Michelangelo follow in his footsteps. But my brother refused and chose his own road to ruin. My God, the shame of it. The shame.”
Ricciardi studied the picture hanging on the wall. He thought about Marianna, so similar to her twin brother and so very different from him. And about Michelangelo as a young officer, so much the same as he was now, and so very different.
The commissario pondered the resemblances.