The award-winning company of Ventrone & Son operated in a beautiful shop with three display windows, right at the end of Via Chiaia.
The other specialized establishments were all concentrated in the streets adjacent to the bishop’s palace, the Palazzo del Vescovo, in Largo Donnaregina, not far from the city’s Duomo: instead Ventrone’s grandfather had guessed that most private chapels could actually be found in aristocratic palazzi in the city’s wealthiest quarter, and that’s where he decided to set up shop. The idea had proved to be a winning one, and three consecutive generations of Ventrones had prospered off the guilty consciences of the heads of titled families, using a new statue or an expensive ex-voto to absolve themselves of a wealth that was too often indifferent to the suffering of others.
Ricciardi and the brigadier stood on the street admiring the objects arranged in the windows. In one, a crucified Christ about six feet tall enjoyed pride of place in the center, while grief-stricken angels, hanging from hooks on the wall, seemed to fly overhead. The Christ’s expression was one of immense suffering and sacrifice. In the other windows, statues of saints alternated with various representations of the Virgin Mary, depicted with a light blue cape and a crown on her head, along with a great many silver ex-votos that recalled all the tragedies in human life that could call for divine intervention, including the pangs of love, for which a heart pierced by one or more swords was available.
The two policemen entered the store and found themselves in a huge room where hundreds of objects related to Catholicism were on display, including the unsettling presence of many life-sized statues whose dolorous eyes, both stern and pleading, looked down on them. Maione, somewhat irrationally, took off his cap and made the sign of the cross.
A tall and very slender young man, dressed in black, was assisting an elderly woman who wore a hat capped by a long black plume. With a demure air and a soothing voice, the young man was saying:
“. . . absolutely, Duchess: your poor late husband, who was, as you’ll surely recall, one of our faithful customers, will certainly like it very much. In an aristocratic chapel like yours, so spacious and elegant, an angel with a four-candle candelabrum is a lovely piece of decor. I assure you that, from the afterlife, he can hardly fail to send you a great many blessings.”
The duchess lifted a shaking, begloved hand to the young man’s cheek, as he made a slight bow, and said:
“You’re such a good boy, Augusto. Your late lamented mother would be proud of you. You deserve the best: you’ll see that everything will go back to normal, now that . . . You understand me, no?”
Ricciardi noticed a sudden blush spread over Augusto’s face, although he gave the old woman a tight smile and kissed her hand. Then she left the shop.
Once they were alone, he approached the two policemen.
“Buonasera, Signori. What can I do for you?”
Maione replied:
“Buonasera, Signor Ventrone, the son, correct? I am Brigadier Maione and this is Commissario Ricciardi, of the mobile squad. We’re here to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right.”
The young man stiffened.
“You want to ask me questions? Perhaps you’re looking for my father: I’m afraid he’s not here. He hasn’t been feeling well these past few days. If you like, I can get in touch with him and arrange for him to be available at a time of your choosing.”
Ricciardi took a step forward.
“No, we’re not looking for your father. Not right now, in any case. No, we wanted to speak to you, if you can spare us a few minutes.”
Ventrone thought it over in a hurry and realized that there was no good way out of this interview. He considered the fact that by now the street was practically empty and the shop deserted.
“All right. But if a customer happens to come in, you’ll have to excuse me.”
Ricciardi understood that he was talking to a thoughtful and intelligent young man.
“Why, of course. But why are you here alone? Your father . . .”
Augusto gave him a level stare.
“My father, as you know very well, has undergone a trauma. And it certainly didn’t do him any good to be taken to police headquarters early in the morning, as if he were some two-bit criminal. It’s been a few months since we were able to afford a shop clerk, we already have too many craftsmen in the workshop, and in any case our customers must be given the kind of service to which they’re accustomed. I’d prefer to take care of it myself.”
Ricciardi gave a slight shrug.
“Your father, since you speak of him so freely, happened to find a dead body. He ought to have reported the fact to us immediately but he didn’t: for us to go pick him up in such a discreet manner, believe me, was an act of courtesy. And even now, the fact that we’re talking here in your shop and not in my office is thanks to your good name.”
The young man took the point, blinking rapidly.
“Of course, of course. And I thank you for that. You certainly understand that our business is quite . . . singular, and a good reputation and sense of discretion are essential. Tell me, how can I be of assistance?”
Oh, at last, thought Maione: before people are ready to cooperate, you always have to give them a nice hard shake.
Ricciardi began:
“How’s business? I imagine you do pretty well around Easter, don’t you?”
Augusto grimaced.
“I wouldn’t say so. People are feeling the economic crisis, and even saints have become something that most households feel they can do without. There are fewer and fewer wealthy families every day, the large apartments are being subdivided and rented out, and the first things to go are usually the private chapels. Offerings to the churches have dropped, and even the parish priests prefer to go on using vestments and stoles until they’re threadbare, instead of buying new ones.”
Ricciardi feigned astonishment.
“Will you look at that! And I was positive that your father had plenty of money.”
The young man caught the subtle reference and blushed bright red. But his voice betrayed no emotion.
“I didn’t say that we were broke, though. Three years ago we started a, shall we say, parallel line of products that are earning quite well: we make flags, pennants, banners, and pennons for regiments and brigades. Just now, demand is high, and so we make up for the decline in the religious market.”
Maione underscored the point:
“So the army and war help prop up the church. We’d need the doctor here, who knows what he’d have to say.”
“Excuse me?” asked Ventrone.
Ricciardi gave the brigadier a look.
“Nothing, just a little office politics. Now then, in the absence of your father, you’re alone here at the shop.”
“Unfortunately, that’s right. Most of the time, anyway.”
“So you don’t have a lot of free time.”
Ventrone sighed.
“Not much. Certainly, every so often, for instance, if I absolutely have to use the lavatory, I lock the door temporarily and I leave: we don’t live far away from here, our place is midway up Via Filangieri, it only takes me a few minutes, at the very most half an hour.”
Ricciardi asked:
“And are there times when you need your father?”
“It can happen. Unfortunately, he’s the only one who can sign for merchandise from the various tradesmen.”
“I see. So then you would need to go call him.”
“That’s right,” the young man murmured. “I have to go call him. Good thing I’ve always known where he is. At least, until now.”
His tone of voice, cold and cutting, made Ricciardi’s ears perk up.
“Why do you say: until now?”
The young man answered brusquely:
“Commissario, let’s be frank. My father was, quite simply, obsessed with that woman. He couldn’t live without her. It would be pointless to deny it, and it would suggest I was trying to cover for him, and he doesn’t need me to do that. Running away after finding her dead was a mistake, as I’ve told him. But he didn’t kill her, he’d never have done such a thing. With time, perhaps, I might have convinced him of the absurdity of that relationship.”
There was an awkward silence. Then Ricciardi said:
“And now?”
“And now, I truly hope that it’s over. He’d always patronized that place, and I imagine that he’ll go back; but in a less intense way, that’s for sure. And that would be enough for me. It’s not just a matter of our good name, you understand, it’s also a matter of money. You can’t imagine how much money he gave that woman.”
Ricciardi was watching the young man.
“You hated her, didn’t you?”
A look of sadness came over Augusto’s face.
“No, I never hated her. But I can’t deny a sense of relief, as far as the fate of our family goes, at the fact that she . . . that she’s no longer around. You see, there’s someone I care for. She’s the granddaughter of the Duchess Ribaldini, the woman you saw leave a little while ago. We aren’t engaged, even if I hope that someday . . . in other words, if things had kept on going the way they were going, I wouldn’t have even been able to hope. So yes, I’m happy that it’s over, though I certainly wish it had happened in a very different way.”
Ricciardi was thinking about the power of love, and about money. He said:
“Where were you, when you learned of the murder? And exactly how were you informed?”
Ventrone furrowed his brow.
“I don’t understand your question, Commissario. And I don’t like it. I was here, in the shop, where I always am, as I was telling you. And I heard about it from the only person who could have told me: my father, who came back as gray as a corpse.”
“I see. For now we have no need of any further information, Signor Ventrone. Forgive the intrusion, and enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Once they were back in the street they noticed that nearly all the shops were closed.
Maione commented:
“Here’s another person who, if poor Viper had said no to Coppola, would have had an excellent motive for wanting to get rid of her. His father was not only bankrupting the company, he was also blowing the guy’s chance at a happy marriage.”
Ricciardi walked along, hands plunged into the pockets of his overcoat, while the wind tousled the lock of hair hanging over his forehead.
“Yes indeed. And seeing that he went so frequently to get his father at Il Paradiso, it’s entirely possible no one would even have noticed him going by. It seems incredible, but whoever we talk to, we seem to get new ideas about the motive for this murder.”
“True enough, Commissa’. So what do we do now?”
Ricciardi walked briskly to the sidewalk on the other side of the street to avoid the suicide in front of Gambrinus, and Maione, lost in thought, followed.
“We’ll need to go on a little outing to Vomero, tomorrow. Let’s go visit the dead woman’s family, and we’ll take a closer look at Coppola’s company too. I think that at this point, these are the pieces we’re missing, no?”
Maione sighed:
“Yes, and let’s hope it doesn’t rain, there’s no telling with this crazy weather. If I get my boots dirty one more time, my wife is going to shoot me with my own service revolver, at least that way the gun will get some use. Buonanotte, Commissa’.”