Wardrobe, on the fourth floor, could be reached via a narrow staircase or the utility lift. Ricciardi decided to inspect both routes, going up in the chugging cage, supported by creaking cables, and coming down the steep steps. From the landing there was a spectacular bird’s-eye view of both the stage and the orchestra pit. The view of the concert hall itself was obstructed by a heavy curtain. At the end of a long corridor was a door leading to a whole other world.
It looked like a dream factory. Silks and brocades, fabrics woven in gold and silver. Every colour imaginable, from red to purple, from yellow to blue to green. Headdresses from various eras, lined up one beside the other on large hat racks. Stovepipe hats, Roman and Viking helmets, complicated Egyptian hairpieces. Tulle, veils, delicate ballet slippers and heavy military boots. Among all these fabrics were numerous women all dressed the same, like Signora Lilla: blue smock with heavy scissors hanging from a ribbon around the neck, hair tied back and partially covered with a white cap. They moved skilfully through the seeming disorder, cutting, sewing and ironing. Outside, the wind howled, while the sun’s intermittent rays, broken by clouds that chased one another across the sky, filtered down from the high windows.
Ricciardi, with his grey overcoat and dark colouring, was the only bleak spot in that riot of colour. His steady gaze surveyed the large room from top to bottom as the theater director bounced up and down at his side.
Signora Lilla came towards them brusquely, looking annoyed. This was her realm and she did not tolerate interference. Her belligerent stance made her look even more mastodontic.
“Good morning. What can I do for you? We’re behind on our work, we have to adjust all of poor Vezzi’s costumes for his replacement.”
The theater director stepped forwards.
“Good morning. Madam, I must ask you to please place yourself, along with your co-workers, at the complete disposal of the Commissario, who requires you in order to complete his investigation. This should be your foremost duty.”
Signora Lilla shrugged.
“Just as long as you keep it in mind, when the costumes for tonight’s performance aren’t ready. What would you like to know?”
Ricciardi spoke to her, not bothering with a greeting, and keeping his hands in the pockets of his overcoat.
“How do you assign the work? Is there someone who looks after specific singers, for example?”
“No. Everyone has her own specialty: some sew, some prefer to cut. They can all do everything—the wardrobe department is the pride of this theater—but each of them can do something better than the others and I use her that way.”
“So then, Vezzi did not have a seamstress who saw to him in particular?”
“God forbid! Vezzi drove the girls crazy. If one of them had had to look after him all by herself, then I’d tell you who killed him. No, no: Maria and Addolorata did the fitting the other day. The clown costume, I mean. Canio’s costumes were already done, from the last time. The work was then completed by Lucia, who is the best at adding the finishing touches, and Maddalena whom you met. She had come down with me to deliver the costume. She made the final adjustment. She’s young but she’s getting to be quite good.”
“Where are these four? Can I see them?”
“Yes, but hopefully you won’t take up too much of our time. They’re back there.”
Ricciardi walked over to a large table where the four young women were sitting. The clown costume was on the tabletop and they were all working on it, eyes lowered. Seen like that, in uniform and with scissors and needles in hand, they all looked alike. The Commissario was barely able to recognize the pale girl whom he had seen the evening before, nearly staggering under the weight of the costume.
“Good day, everyone. How is the work going?”
A murmur of assent, but it was Signora Lilla who responded.
“It’s quite a job. Vezzi was a tall, heavyset man, with a belly. His replacement is short and thin: I don’t know where that voice of his comes from. We have to cut the costumes from scratch.”
Ricciardi spoke to the girls again.
“Does anyone remember having seen or heard anything unusual in Vezzi’s dressing room? A word, an object. A change in mood.”
One of the four, a brunette with lively eyes, looked up at the Commissario and gave a half-smile.
“Vezzi’s mood never changed, Commissario: it was always black, like this button. At best, he might give you a pat on the ass. At worst, it was as if you were invisible.”
“Maria! Be careful what you say!” Signora Lilla said. But you could tell she was amused. Ricciardi saw that they weren’t getting anywhere.
“If you should think of anything else, let me know: either come to the Questura, or tell Signora Lilla.”
Meanwhile, the stage manager had entered; his arrival triggered a dramatic change in Signora Lilla, who, blushing, lowered her eyes and nervously smoothed her wiry blonde hair with both hands.
Lasio spoke to Ricciardi: “Commissario, there’s a man asking for you at the front entrance, he says he’s Dr. Modo, the medical examiner. Good morning, Signora Lilla.”
The woman replied in a soft, velvety voice, very different to the sharp, brusque tone she’d been using until then.
“Good morning to you, my dear Signor Lasio. Gentlemen, we are at your disposal: come back whenever you like.”