Ponte stuck his head in the office door and, with his eyes trained on the portrait of the king, said:
“If you please, Commissario, Deputy Chief of Police Dottor Garzo is ready to see you.”
Ricciardi sighed in annoyance. He didn’t know exactly why that little man was so uncomfortable around him, but the fact that Ponte could never bring himself to look him in the eye irritated Ricciardi in a way that few things could.
“Fine, Ponte. Would you do me a favor and let Maione know? I’d like him to come, too. We’ll meet in Garzo’s office.”
Taking those instructions as a dismissal, Ponte withdrew his head like a tortoise retreating into its shell, shutting the door behind him with unmistakable relief.
Ricciardi was hardly overjoyed to be meeting with “Deputy Chief of Police Dottor Garzo,” as Ponte pompously described him without fail. The commissario considered Garzo to be a fool, and a conceited one. The man cared about nothing but himself and his career, and was incompetent when it came to the challenging job of overseeing multiple investigations. Still, Ricciardi thought, perhaps that position really should be filled by someone like Garzo, who could act as an intermediary between the politicians and agents in the field, like himself. Even the police chief, whom he’d glimpsed only a few times, was nothing more than a government official. The war against criminals—criminals not entirely to blame for being such, or for being so numerous—was a war that had to be fought by beat cops and detectives.
Nevertheless, this time he really needed to talk to Garzo. He had to make it clear to him how important it was to get to the bottom of this case and find out what had really happened to that child. Of course, he couldn’t tell him the real reason for his convictions: as he walked down the corridor, he almost smiled at the thought of the face Garzo would make if Ricciardi told him that he wanted to continue with an investigation because he hadn’t seen the dead person’s ghost. But all the same, that’s the way things were, and he had to find a way to ascertain why the body had been moved, and from where, and above all, to conceal what.
As he reached the door of the deputy police chief’s office, an out-of-breath Maione caught up with him, and shot him an imploring look.
“Commissa’, it’s not too late. Let’s forget about this. I mean, if you insist, I can put out the word and see what comes of it, but on the q.t. Let’s not give this idiot a chance to pin us down. You know how I feel about him.”
Ricciardi squeezed Maione’s arm reassuringly and knocked on the door.
Garzo was at his desk, with a pen in his hand and a blank sheet of paper in front of him. Maione immediately suspected that the scene was staged, because his reading glasses were lying on the desktop. The official looked up. He was a little worried about this reversal of the usual course of events: he was generally the one who had to request the presence of the commissario so that he could be brought up-to-date on the progress of some investigation. Now it was Ricciardi who had requested a meeting. What the devil could he want? Garzo had wondered.
He didn’t like finding himself face-to-face with that man. His eyes seemed to burrow into him. And he always had that air of superiority, or at least of a disregard for Garzo’s authority: and that was something Garzo found intolerable.
“Oh, here you are. Well, Ricciardi, what is this about? Ponte tells me that you need to speak with me.”
While Ricciardi was perfectly at his ease with the man, he still didn’t count a conversation with Garzo among his favorite pastimes. He decided to come straight to the point.
“Dottore, I know you’re very busy and I don’t want to take up too much of your time . . . ”
Garzo was delighted to have this opportunity to lay out the extent and the nature of his present responsibilities.
“That’s certainly true, caro Ricciardi, it’s certainly true. This upcoming visit of the Duce, with all the officials and functionaries from the Ministry of the Interior who’ll be accompanying him, rests entirely on our shoulders. At least in terms of the city’s appearance and presentation, of course. You can’t even begin to imagine how many things need to be checked out, once, twice, as many times as necessary, to make sure that His Excellency doesn’t leave with a distorted impression of the state of law and order that we’ve managed to establish in this city. Luckily, the visit will be taking place at a time when there are no major investigations under way, no?”
Ricciardi noticed that on Garzo’s desk a pretentious solid silver desk set was on display: a letter tray with a mirrored base and an elegant little surround, an engraved inkpot, a penholder, and a boat-shaped blotter paper holder. Everything was gleaming and spotless, as if shining with a light all its own. He thought back to the paperweight made from a fragment of an artillery shell from the Great War, the only concession to aesthetics in his own office, and how glad he was to be so different from the deputy chief of police.
“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, Dottore. That’s not precisely the current situation, at least not as you’re describing it. There is one case that, in our opinion, would repay further investigation.”
A long vertical crease appeared immediately in Garzo’s forehead.
“What are you talking about? I can’t think of anything. Let me take a look . . . ” and he pulled out a pile of reports that he kept in a desk drawer, far from prying eyes, and began leafing through them: “You see, there’s nothing. Of course, run-of-the-mill administrative issues, a brawl in a tavern with a couple of patrons complaining of contusions, two tourists held up at Mergellina, but the stickup artist, a fisherman, was immediately arrested and everything he stole was recovered. Three horse-drawn carriages operating a taxi service outside the central train station without a license. But after all, this is a big city, it would seem strange if little things like these weren’t happening, wouldn’t it?”
Ricciardi was beside himself. Could it be that Matteo wasn’t even filed among the police reports that constituted run-of-the-mill administrative issues?
“There’s the case of the little boy who was found dead at Capodimonte, Dottore. I forwarded the report to you yesterday myself.”
At this point, Garzo put on his glasses, opened another drawer, and pulled out a file.
“Ah, yes. Here we are: Diotallevi, Matteo, officially identified by Don Antonio Mansi, parish priest at Santa Maria del Soccorso. But that’s another matter entirely; there’s nothing for us to do at all. This is a case of accidental death, and here I see the medical examiner’s report, from your friend, Dr. Modo: by the way, isn’t he a little bit of a—how shall we say—a dissident? In any case, this is something that doesn’t concern us. That’s why the report isn’t in the other drawer.”
Maione shook his head: as if the fact that a sheet of paper was in one drawer rather than another changed the material facts of the case. This deputy chief of police really is a cretin, he decided.
Ricciardi took a deep breath, reminding himself to be patient, and then went on calmly:
“Dottore, this little boy died of strychnine poisoning. I believe it’s important that we dig a little deeper into just how and where this poison was administered, also to ensure that such a misfortune doesn’t repeat itself. I feel sure that . . . ”
Out of nowhere, Garzo slammed the palm of his hand down on his desktop. The blast of noise was like an explosion, followed by the prolonged tinkling of all the newly purchased silver.
“What’s this I hear? ‘I believe,’ ‘I feel sure’? This is police headquarters, and we are policemen. We go by the facts, damn it! And all the facts are written right here: accidental death, due to the ingestion of poisonous bait for small animals. Rat poison! Ordinary rat poison! And you come into my office, to bother me while I’m trying to make sure the city is the very picture of order for the visit of no less than His Excellency the Duce, with these dreamed-up, nonexistent investigations?”
The commissario wasn’t even slightly intimidated by Garzo’s tantrum. He’d fully expected it.
“I don’t dream up investigations, Dottore. I simply think that when the root cause of something is unclear, it’s necessary to dig deeper, that’s all. On the other hand, if the fact that we’re talking about an orphan, with no one to care about whether he lives or . . . ”
Garzo turned red as a beet:
“How dare you suggest such a thing? I have two children of my own, you know!” and he pointed to his family portrait in a silver frame, temporarily moved from his desk to a shelf on the bookcase, to give a greater impression of efficiency. “I put children above all else! But I’m also a man who looks at the facts; and the facts tell me that this is a purely accidental death. I also read that from the first examination no signs of violence were found, and so I wonder, and I ask you: why was an autopsy ordered?”
Maione scraped his foot on the floor. Ricciardi replied:
“I decided that it was the best course of action. Precisely the fact that there were no visible marks of violence left considerable doubts about the cause of the child’s death.”
“Doubts? What about you, Maione, did you have these same doubts?”
Maione opened his mouth, shut it, and then opened it again.
“I’m with the commissario, Dotto’; and when the commissario makes a decision, it’s not my job to question it.”
Garzo snickered.
“That says it all, it seems to me. Not even the brigadier is willing to state unequivocally that he agrees with you: and that’s a new one on me. And not even Dr. Modo, in his report on the autopsy results, makes even the vaguest reference to anything intentional about the ingestion of the poison. Nothing at all. This time, Ricciardi, there’s a simple answer, and it’s backed up by the documents. The answer is no. You may no longer investigate this regrettable accident, because that’s what this was: an accident. I forbid you to waste any more time on it, especially at such a crucial time for our city and for the police department. You’d just be digging in vain.”
Maione looked at the floor. Ricciardi slowly shook his head; he’d taken into account the possibility of the official’s refusing his request outright.
“You’re right, Dottore. I probably just need a little rest, if you want to know the truth. To that end, I wonder if I could have your permission to take some time off, say a week or so. That way I won’t bother you at this crucial moment with my bad mood.”
Garzo was stunned by the request: as far back as he could remember, Ricciardi had never missed a day of work, either due to sickness or for a vacation, not even in the summer. It was just another one of the mysteries that made him dislike that man so heartily. In his uncertainty, he decided to do what he did best: he tiptoed gingerly around the question.
“Why on earth this request? It wouldn’t be because you’re planning something, would it? Ricciardi, let me remind you: even when you’re on vacation you remain a commissario of the royal Italian police of Naples, and anything you might do while not in the office will be subject to disciplinary sanctions, which could be serious; no, let me correct that: which could be dire. I’m inclined not to grant you this time off. It might be better to have you where I can keep an eye on you.”
But Ricciardi had foreseen this as well, and he knew what strings to pluck in Garzo’s soul.
“As you think best, Dottore. It’s too bad, because that means I’ll have to tell Signora Vezzi that I won’t be available to help her out. She’d asked if I would do some shopping with her and help draw up the guest list for some reception or other that she’s planning a few days from now. It seems to be something important.”
The deputy chief of police instantly sat up straight in his chair. His tone of voice altered, but remained cautious.
“Ah, I’ve heard about this reception. And just how is dear Signora Vezzi? Have you seen her recently?”
Maione disguised a chuckle with a loud cough.
Ricciardi replied:
“Yes, quite recently. Well then, Dottore? What do you say, about this time off I’m asking for?”
Garzo tapped his pen on the blank sheet of paper.
“All right, Ricciardi. But just one week; and I expect you to keep me . . . informed, concerning Signora Vezzi’s reception. You know how it is: we need to always be aware of everything that goes on in this city. Especially when it comes to certain events that might involve prominent individuals. We have to guarantee the utmost security.”
Maione took a step forward.
“Dottore, since we’re on the subject, could I have a few days off, too? That would give me time to take care of a few minor matters of my own.”
Garzo snorted in annoyance:
“No, Maione, not you. I need all the manpower available to me in the next few days. Moreover, you’ve already taken your holidays. And it seems to me that Ricciardi, here, won’t really need your help with whatever he’ll be doing on his days off. Am I right, Ricciardi?”
The commissario didn’t bother to respond to the broad hint.
“All right then, Dottore. I’ll see you in a week, here in the office—or perhaps sometime before that, on some other occasion. Have a pleasant day.”
Garzo smiled broadly.
“That’s right, perhaps on some other occasion. Arrivederci, Ricciardi. And listen closely: I don’t want to hear any news about you while you’re away; especially in connection with this poor dead little boy.”