When they were alone again, Maione took off his cap and ran his hand over his bald head.
“Commissa’, the kind of plot twists you come up with, they can only dream about in real theaters! You made me jump! How on earth did you come up with this idea?”
Ricciardi threw both arms wide.
“I thought that if betrayal can make someone crazy, that doesn’t mean that the actions taken as a result need necessarily be deranged. Even a person driven mad by jealousy can assemble a complex plan.”
Maione was impressed.
“Certainly, if this turns out to be true . . . Now how can we find out, Commissa’? How do we close the circle?”
Ricciardi drummed his fingers on the desk.
“We need to move quickly and with total discretion. It’s fundamental that we assure they have no contact between them. Did you tell Camarda to keep Pittella’s home under surveillance?”
“Yes, exactly as you instructed. And I’ve already checked to make sure that the young man has no telephone; he lives in a furnished room in the Spanish Quarter, not far from here. Once he returns home, we can rest assured that he won’t be in touch with anyone else.”
“Very good. So we have a few hours. I want to talk to Erminia before she goes into the theater, around four in the afternoon, then the other person before the artists start getting ready for the show. Today there’s just one performance, is that right?”
The brigadier pulled his watch out of his pocket.
“Yes, Commissa’, the evening show, at 8:30. We’ll meet there and we can conclude this case, which will give you time to attend the party with the contessa.”
Ricciardi heaved a frustrated sigh: “I’d be so glad to skip it, I’m really not in the mood for it. But I’ve made the promise and I don’t imagine there’s any way to go back on my word. What about you, where are you going to be until four o’clock? Back home?”
“No, Commissa’. I have a personal matter to take care of.”
His superior officer stared at him, with a hint of anxiety.
“Do you want to tell me about it, Raffaele? The other day you arrived late, and you kept the automobile, and now you have a mid-morning appointment. Are you sure you don’t need anything?”
Maione smiled, touched by Ricciardi’s concern: “Oh, no, Commissa’. Dr. Modo asked me to look into something on his behalf, and I’d like to take care of it by this evening so I don’t have any lingering worries on New Year’s Eve.”
“Dr. Modo, eh? Let’s hope he doesn’t get himself into trouble and drag you into it with him. Do I need to worry?”
Maione snapped a very military salute.
“Don’t worry at all, Commissa’. We’ll see you at four o’clock in front of the Teatro Splendor. We’ll exchange a few words with Signora Erminia and we’ll ask about her family.”
Having taken care of the outstanding matters of the year’s end, Ricciardi discovered that he was suddenly quite hungry; so he ventured out in search of a vendor who sold fried pizzas.
Once he was out on the street, he heard a subdued voice calling from the entrance of a building a short distance from police headquarters. He turned and glimpsed a figure in the shadows.
He looked more carefully and recognized Livia’s chauffeur. The man wasn’t wearing his usual uniform, but a rather dented hat and a tiny, tight jacket. He stopped closer and asked: “Arturo? Is that you?”
The man looked around furtively. His behavior worried Ricciardi.
“Has something happened? Is Livia . . .”
The man lifted a finger to his lips.
“Please, Commissa’, no names. The lady asked . . . I was told to inquire whether you could come with me for a moment. It’ll only take half an hour.”
He was whispering, and seemed uneasy. Which only further alarmed Ricciardi.
Arturo added: “I’ll go ahead of you. You follow me to the corner of Piliero, past Mercadante. The car is parked there. Walk on the side of the street toward the sea, and then when I walk past you, you can get in. All right?”
Ricciardi furrowed his brow.
“Listen, Arturo, either you tell me what this is about, or else . . .”
The chauffeur begged him: “Please, Commissa’. Please.”
His tone was so desperate that Ricciardi finally gave in.
Ten minutes later he was in the car; Arturo drove for a few miles in silence before stopping in front of a nondescript out-of-the-way café. Ricciardi walked in and studied the room, and finally spotted Livia in a secluded corner, sitting at a small table.
He stepped closer. Even if she was dressed in dark clothing, as was customary for her, with a petite hat trimmed with a dark veil that covered her face, long gloves covering her forearms, and a fur stole over her shoulders, the woman still emanated an aura of elegance and sensuality. She was smoking nervously; in front of her sat an untasted demitasse of espresso, now cold.
The commissario took a seat. It had been quite some time since they’d last seen each other alone, and a great many disagreeable events had taken place over that span of time. The commissario greeted her with a nod of the head, studying her through her veil.
“Ciao, Livia. Would you care to explain the reason for this charade? I’d have listened to you even if you’d come directly to me.”
She crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray and pulled the veil away from her face. She’d lost weight and her features had sharpened a little, though they had lost none of their refined beauty. Her eyes, filled with a liquid melancholy, were now devoid of the old cheerful gleam that used to animate them whenever they lit on Ricciardi; but there was something else, now, too.
Fear.
“A charade, quite true. But discretion has nothing to do with it. It’s not to avoid the idle chatter of a gossipy city, or to keep people from spreading ugly rumors. The situation is serious, deadly serious.”
The commissario kept his gaze steady. Livia’s voice betrayed extreme anguish. He said to her: “Are you alright? If you need help, you know, I’m here and I always will be, for you.”
These words of reassurance and concern had the effect of touching her deeply. Her nostrils quivered and her lips compressed as she struggled to choke back tears.
“No, my dear man. I don’t need help, any more than I’ve ever needed it in my whole life, on account of . . . of the way I was born. You’re the one running a great risk, and that’s why I’ve chosen to see you, and in this unusual manner. To warn you.”
Ricciardi was bewildered: “Me? Rest assured, I’m very careful, don’t be afraid for me. The work I do is far less dangerous than you might suppose, and . . .”
Livia angrily slammed her fist down on the café table, overturning the demitasse. The viscous liquid filled the saucer and spattered the tablecloth. The waiter, from a distance, furrowed his brow but didn’t move.
“You don’t understand,” she hissed. “You don’t have the slightest idea of what I’m trying to tell you. You’re so presumptuous that you think you have everything under control, but the one who’s under control is you. They may already have us under surveillance, though more likely we still have a few—a very few—minutes.”
Ricciardi took a look around. Aside from the waiter, who had gone back to focusing on the sea, beyond the low wall on the other side of the street, and Arturo, who was standing by the door, there was no one in sight.
“Livia, you summon me here, after all this time and after what happened between us, just to tell me to be careful? Careful of what?”
The woman regained her composure, but her hands were trembling. Her state of agitation was unmistakable. She took a deep breath and murmured: “I can’t explain why, nor can I tell you about the circumstances, but I have to put you on the alert. There’s someone very powerful who might have an interest in getting rid of you. This Enrica . . .”
Ricciardi interrupted her, sadly: “Livia, I don’t believe that my relations with Signorina Colombo are any of your business.”
She grew so vehemently exercised that her cap tilted rakishly to one side. She straightened it with a brusque gesture.
“I’m not interested in what you do or with whom. It’s nothing to do with affairs of the heart, love, or marriage. It’s a matter of life and death. These people will stop at nothing. Establish your distance from the young woman and leave her to her fate. Otherwise they’ll . . .”
Ricciardi scrutinized her. She seemed to mean what she was saying, but the meaning of those words might trace back to the feelings she had nurtured for him and that, to all appearances, she still did.
“Listen to me, Livia, unless you’re clear with me, I can’t take what you’re telling me seriously.”
The woman’s face was an expressionless mask.
“I’m terrified of these people. You have no idea what they’re capable of. People disappear from dusk to dawn, as if by some horrible form of magic. Their families never hear from them again, and no one investigates. In Rome and Milan, it’s becoming increasingly frequent, and now it’s happening here, as well.”
Ricciardi thought he understood.
“I’m not involved or interested in politics, and I can’t see how this concerns Enrica.”
Livia lowered her voice even more, leaning forward as she did.
“There are important, high-level maneuvers. They don’t concern you, her, or me, but certain conditions in higher spheres of endeavor are affected by our actions. We are mere pawns on a chessboard: we’re not playing the game, we’re pieces in a larger game that they are playing. Does that make it any clearer?”
Ricciardi grimaced.
“No, and I have no intention of delving any deeper. Plots disgust me, and even in the most favorable circumstances, I take no interest in them. You must be more explicit or else . . .”
Livia stood up. Her fists were clenched. She smiled cheerlessly at Ricciardi.
“Convince her not to refuse the German’s courtship, and not to let him leave. If he were to leave, your life would be in danger. Just remember that.”
She lowered her veil and started to head away. Ricciardi put a hand on her arm; that contact released an electric spark that they both sensed, a spark that was still filled with profound significance.
He asked her: “Why did you warn me, Livia?”
She stared at him intensely, behind the thin layer of tulle.
“You know why, Ricciardi. You know perfectly well.”
And she left without looking back.