And Dr. Modo arrived, his face bundled up in a scarf and his hat pulled down over his ears to ward off the biting winter wind, followed by the police photographer, and just as furious as ever.
“Ah, it’s you, I knew it; I knew it’d be the two of you behind this. Now then, gentlemen, it’s time for us to come to an understanding once and for all and put an end to these summonses by name. What have things come to when I have to be afraid of the switchboard operator at the hospital? When that devil of a telephone contraption goes off, ringing its bell, it always means trouble, and that trouble always seems to have your names on it!”
Maione snickered.
“Dotto’, what can we do about it, it’s your fault for always being around for us to call. Why don’t you try taking a few days off sometime; then we’ll have to work with one of your colleagues and we’ll finally get it through our skulls that there are better doctors than you around.”
Modo shook his fist in Maione’s direction.
“Well, then I’ll just have to shut up and take it, because there’s nobody around who’s a better doctor than me. But excuse me, did you make some kind of pact with Lucifer so that the bloodiest murders would always happen when it’s cold as a witch’s tit out? Or else when it’s pouring rain, like with that poor little boy two months ago, or when the wind is so icy it’ll slice your ears off your head? And every time, I have to walk clear across town, thanks to you two!”
Ricciardi hadn’t so much as blinked.
“Now, there’s an idea worth looking into. Maione, make a note: let’s arrange to have the next murder take place in the hospital waiting room, that way the good doctor won’t have to go out in the rain. The truth is that we ought to be more understanding when we’re dealing with white-haired senior citizens.”
The doctor stood, arms akimbo, in a combative stance.
“Listen here, Ricciardi. It just so happens that I’m one of those guys who just gets better with age; and my hair turned white before I turned forty. You on the other hand: I was hoping that the blow to your head might have set your sense of humor straight, but instead here I find that you’re no better off than you were before. Next time I have you under the scalpel I won’t be able to resist the temptation to open up your head so I can tidy things up in there.”
Ricciardi snorted dismissively.
“All you did was give me a few stitches. It’d take a lot more than a windshield to crack my head; I’m a country boy, and you know our skulls are a lot tougher than you city types’. But I have to say, Christmas hasn’t put you in a particularly good mood.”
“Aside from the fact that, as you know, I’m an atheist, I’ve always found Christmas to be sort of depressing, if you want to know the truth. All these families gathering together to pretend they love one another, whereas you and I see day after day how much they hate one another in actuality; all this exchanging of smiles and best wishes, only to insult one another and wish one another ill as soon as they turn their backs; this flaunting of wealth and prosperity, only to plunge back into the grimmest poverty in the days that follow. It disgusts me.”
Maione laughed.
“Oh, mamma mia, Dotto’—there’s a nice bit of optimism! Listen, come over to our house on Christmas Eve: we’ll see if you can resist the broccoli, the vermicelli with clam sauce, and the big pan of eel my Lucia makes, with a couple of liters of wine from Gragnano, which a friend of mine who works down there brings me. Shall we make it interesting, a little cash bet that the Maione family can make you like Christmas?”
“Grazie, Maio’. Thanks especially because, as far as I can tell, you don’t listen to a word I say: Haven’t I told you that gorging yourself like that is bad for your health? Will you get it through your head that you need to start living a healthier life?”
“I give up, Dotto’: there’s just no way to put a smile on your face today. Christmas must just really get you down.”
“It’s not Christmas, it’s humanity’s sheer evil that gets me down. This morning, before you called and invited me to join you at your murder victims’ social club here, I had to stitch up another couple of skulls because your friends from the Fascist Party were letting off steam by strolling around town cracking people over the head with bats. Whether you call this Year Nine of the Fascist Era or 1931, it doesn’t change the fact that those who have power use it to crush the powerless underfoot.”
Ricciardi looked at his watch.
“How about that: we’d been talking for almost three minutes and politics still hadn’t come up. That may be a record. Why can’t you get it through your head that if you keep talking like this you’ll wind up with a fractured skull yourself?”
Modo grinned, slyly.
“Because the police can’t protect me, that’s why. Neither me nor any other honest citizen. Speaking of which, would you care to show me your new clients, my dear Commissario Dracula? Your thirst for blood has brought us all down to the seashore: So who’s dead now, some fisherman? Or have you found a comely mermaid murderess?”
“Come with me, I’ll take you upstairs and introduce you to a handsome couple. I’ll also have you know that we have a brand-new orphan on our hands, an eight-year-old girl who still doesn’t know, so it’s nothing to joke about.”
Standing off to one side of the room while Modo, the photographer, Maione, and the two police officers performed the usual minuet that is always danced around corpses, Ricciardi mulled over the feelings that the murder scene filled him with. He was curious about the phrase that the dead woman kept uttering—Hat and gloves?—in a tone both affectionate and deferential; the commissario sensed a familiarity, a straightforward warmth underlying the formality of the words. The man in the bedroom, on the other hand, had been brusque and peremptory; his words—I don’t owe a thing, not a thing—clearly referred to a debt he refused to acknowledge. Money and affection, mistrust and warmth, scorn and reverence. It was a sharp contrast. The man had thought about money, the woman about cordially welcoming a visitor into their home.
The commissario had always recognized that hunger and love, and their various, countless derivations, were the root causes of every murder. Hunger gave rise to ambition, envy, and vendetta; love was the mother of jealousy, hatred, and rage. The two great enemies, allies until the first drop of blood was spilled. This time Ricciardi would have to wait for the evidence he needed to identify which of the two corrupt passions had played the leading role in the performance he was observing.
Maione called him, taking him out of his thoughts.
“Commissa’, come take a look.”
The brigadier’s voice reached Ricciardi from elsewhere in the apartment, a little sitting room next to the bedroom. The room was decorated for Christmas with garlands and cockades. In the center, on a wooden table, stood a large manger scene. It was really extraordinary, complete with all the traditional touches; Ricciardi was no expert, but he could appreciate a finely detailed landscape, with animals and human figures and architectural elements all arranged so as to give the impression that the scene covered more ground and was more expansive than it actually was. He spoke to Maione.
“Very nice. But what’s special about it, in particular?”
“According to tradition, the zampognari play the novena right in front of the manger scene,” the brigadier replied, “nine times, that is, in front of the Christ Child. Which means that the Lupos, father and son, would have been ushered into this very room. Now, we have no way of knowing with certainty, but it looks to me like nothing is missing. These Garofalos were well-to-do, the apartment is upscale, the furniture and decorations are new and handsome, there are even a number of pieces of silver serving ware still in their places. And aside from the mayhem visited upon the bodies, there’s nothing broken, no sign of forced entry.”
Ricciardi waited for the punch line.
“So? Why did you tell me to come over here?”
Maione smiled cunningly.
“The reason why is right here, Commissa’. Just crouch down and look under the tablecloth on the table with the manger scene.”
Ricciardi noticed that under the landscape constructed on the wooden table there was a heavy red linen tablecloth decorated with embroidered stars, the edges of which reached almost all the way to the floor. He kneeled down next to Maione, who lifted a section of tablecloth, and spotted some broken shards. He picked up a few of them and held them up to the light.
Among the other shards, he made out half a bearded face and the curved handle of a staff, with a small hand attached to it. He turned to look at the manger scene again, and before he could even articulate the question, Maione answered:
“That’s right, Commissa’. Everyone’s in the manger scene except for Saint Joseph.”