Ricciardi slumped into the chair behind the desk. He looked glumly at Maione sitting in front of him.
“You hear that? So, either you’re a hero or you too are a criminal. No middle ground.”
Maione looked at him in silence. Ricciardi sighed.
“I have to take you off the case, Brigadier. From this point on, you will no longer be involved with the investigation. You deserve a nice bonus for the work you’ve done.”
Maione went on looking at him.
“So, Maione. You can go.”
“Commissa’, I’m not going anywhere. Aside from the fact that I don’t take orders from that guy,” he nodded toward the door, “but from my immediate supervisor, namely you, I know you by now: and I know when a job is finished and when it isn’t. And as I see it, we haven’t finished here yet. I realized it last night already and I was sure of it this morning when I saw your face. Besides, the urge to prove to that man and his little dog Ponte that he’s wrong is too strong for me to resist. Plus, I really don’t give a damn about the bonus: my kids aren’t used to having a lot of money. Those kids with too much money turn out bad. Finally,” he concluded, mimicking the Vice Questore and holding the tip of his left pinkie with two fingers of his right hand, “only one thing bothers me more than seeing a guilty party go free: seeing an innocent man go to prison.”
Ricciardi shook his head and sighed again.
“I knew you were a stubborn old man. One of these days remind me that I should make you retire. You’re right though: we haven’t finished here yet. There are some things that aren’t clear to me, that must be brought to light, then we can rest.’
Maione put the newspaper on the desk.
“As far as the paper is concerned, we’re already heroes. Listen to this: ‘The police, after only two days of tireless investigation, discover and bring to justice the brutal murderer of the tenor Vezzi. See the news section for details.’ If we’re tireless, we must continue slogging away. That’s what the word means, doesn’t it?”
“Right. However, we have to be wary of Garzo and his people, so here’s what we’ll do: you take a nice one-day leave, which I’ll approve, ostensibly to take your child to the doctor. Instead, see what you can do. Are you still in touch with that guy who lives above the Quartieri, what was his name . . . Bambinella? The one who has a finger in every pie, who knows everybody’s business.”
“The transvestite? Sure I am. Whenever we pick up a few hookers, that guy is always among them, dressed as a woman and, forgive me Commissa’, but he looks better than the real ones. He’s simpatico though, a million laughs.”
“That’s the one. Track him down right away, this morning. And ask him about this name.”
Ricciardi took a sheet of paper, and after dipping his pen in the inkwell, wrote a name and handed the note to the Brigadier.
“Everything you can find out. Everything. Then come to me and report.”
Maione read the name, nodded and smiled.
“So she’s the one, huh? I noticed that he looked at her strangely. I was sure you hadn’t missed it either. Okay, Commissa’. Don’t give it another thought.”
“One last thing, then you can go. Have them bring in Nespoli.”
*
It was obvious that Nespoli hadn’t slept a wink. He appeared with deep shadows under his eyes and dark stubble on his face, his thick head of hair in disarray. The spectre of his life’s failure had begun to dance around him again and this time, he knew, it would never stop. In the cell, his father and mother, siblings and fellow villagers had passed before his mind’s eye: all those who had given up a little or a lot to enable him to study, for the joy of seeing him sing at the San Carlo. And now that he had made it there, he had thrown it all away.
Yet he could not have done otherwise, and he knew this too. He had acted as he should, as was proper. And so he felt serene as he stared into the Commissario’s limpid green eyes, blinking in the strong morning light that came through the window. He thought that the investigator, despite the abominable work he did and the situation in which he found himself, was an honest man, worthy of respect. In the first place, he looked directly at you, looked you in the eye, and it was uncommon to meet people who did that. Then too, he felt that he had suffered, like him. And finally, he had called him back. Instead of being satisfied with the confession, he wanted to get to the bottom of it, to understand. And that meant that he was intelligent. An intelligent, honest cop: a rare and dangerous thing.
Ricciardi looked at Nespoli in silence. With a nod he had dismissed the policeman who had brought him in and had remained seated, hands clasped in front of his mouth, elbows leaning on the desk. Nespoli held his gaze, standing with his hands cuffed in front of him. After a long moment, Ricciardi spoke.
“Nespoli, I know everything. I figured it out. I realized it last night. I don’t know if you’re aware of what you’re doing, what’s in store for you. You’ll go to jail for thirty years, you’ll be an old man when you get out, that’s if you get out. A man like you isn’t capable of spending thirty years in the company of criminals.”
Nespoli stared at him. Not so much as a breath escaped him.
“You didn’t kill him. I know it. And I also know who did kill him.”
The singer blinked, but didn’t say a word.
“Think about those who love you: you must have a mother, brothers and sisters. I can’t believe you don’t have a reason, even just one, to want to live, to be free. Even if it were only to sing. You’re gifted; I heard you yesterday.”
Nespoli didn’t move a muscle. A tear ran from his right eye and began trickling down his cheek. He seemed not to be aware of it.
“Is your relationship with this woman that compelling? What has she done for you, to deserve this sacrifice? Why are you giving her your life?”
The man in handcuffs went on staring boldly into Ricciardi’s eyes; in the heat of the argument the Commissario leaned forwards.
“If you don’t help me, how can I help you? I can’t continue working on the case if you don’t retract your confession. Let me at least try. Don’t let me be the one to send an innocent man to prison. Please. Retract it.”
Nespoli gave a faint, sad smile and said nothing. After another long moment, Ricciardi sighed deeply.
“As you wish. I thought you would react this way.” He called the guard and said: “Take him away.”
On the way out, Nespoli paused in the doorway, turned and said softly: “Thank you, Commissario. If you’ve ever been in love, you understand me.”
I understand you, Ricciardi thought.
After a few minutes, Ponte knocked at the door.
“Excuse me, Commissario. The Vice Questore would like to speak with you in his office.”
Sighing wearily, Ricciardi got up and walked to the spacious office at the end of the hall. Even before he reached the partly open door he perceived the wild pungent scent of spices; by now he recognized it. Garzo had someone with him.
“Ah, my dear Ricciardi! Please, come in. Have a seat. You’ve already met Signora Vezzi, haven’t you?”
Sitting in front of the Vice Questore was Livia, legs crossed, dressed as usual in a sober yet sensual dark suit. The little veil on her hat was raised; she was smoking. Her splendid dark eyes gazed steadily at Ricciardi and her mouth bore the hint of a smile. She looked like a panther, ready to fall asleep or attack her prey, not caring which.
“Signora Vezzi saw the good news about the killer’s arrest in the newspaper,” Garzo said, “and came to offer her congratulations. She said she will express her satisfaction in the circles of Rome’s highest authorities, to which she has access. Even to our beloved Duce himself, since she is a friend of his and of his wife. She wanted to see you, to congratulate you.”
Ricciardi remained standing and looked straight at Livia. Continuing to stare at her, he addressed his words to Garzo.
“Signora Vezzi attributes excessive importance to the work we’ve done. We should have continued to investigate further, actually. Perhaps we were simply . . . fortunate, to come upon a confession.”
Garzo assumed a worried tone, giving Ricciardi a dirty look; it was lost on him, however, since the Commissario was still looking at the widow.
“What are you talking about? As usual, our Ricciardi is too modest. Actually, our arrest was the result of a very thorough and, as the newspaper says, tireless investigation. I myself—and the signora will be so kind as to keep it in mind so as to be able to report it—gave frequent procedural instructions to the Commissario and, on the basis of these instructions, we were able to catch the perpetrator; who confessed only when he found himself backed into a corner by the irrefutable evidence that we gathered. Isn’t that right, Ricciardi?”
Garzo’s tone was now definitely menacing. Livia went on smiling, smoking and watching Ricciardi.
“I have no doubt that your . . . teamwork, as they say, produced the result. But I myself have had the opportunity to observe Commissario Ricciardi first-hand and I can testify that nothing distracts him from his work. He is a topnotch man.”
Garzo was not willing to be shunted aside and tried to ride the wave as usual.
“Indeed, he is one of our best men. This success, a collaborative effort based on teamwork, as you noted, Signora, is due primarily to the ability to choose the right people to appoint to the right places. Isn’t that so, Ricciardi?”
The Commissario had not taken his eyes off Livia, who in turn had not stopped looking at him and smiling. Called upon once again, he couldn’t help but respond.
“Vice Questore Garzo is correct. Whatever he has said, may say or will say. As for me, the signora knows that I do what I must do. At least I try to. May I go now?”
Livia nodded, still smiling.
Garzo growled: “Yes, Ricciardi, go. And remember what we talked about before.”
Ricciardi briefly bowed his head by way of goodbye and left.