Maione didn’t trust his wife.
He felt guilty about it. In nearly twenty-five years of marriage, he’d never found himself doubting her word, and he’d never lied to her. They’d had their period of distance, from Luca’s tragic death until roughly a year ago when, convinced that her silence was irreversible, he’d started to think he had feelings for another woman. Luckily, though, that spring had awakened Lucia from the apathy of her grief, and they’d rediscovered each other, more united and in love than ever.
Almost without being aware of it, he’d strayed from the route that led to Bambinella’s apartment, and now he found himself standing outside the entrance to the apartment building he’d seen his wife emerge from the day before. Via Roma according to the official city registry of street names, Via Toledo to the populace at large; number 270. A building like many others: a tall, arched front entrance, topped by the carved stone coat of arms of who knows what long extinct family line; a dark red façade, which badly needed restoration; an atrium with a wooden concierge’s booth, behind which were the small rooms occupied by the doorman; a broad flight of stairs leading up to the second floor, and a narrower flight from there up to the higher stories; an interior courtyard with a flower bed in the middle and a tall shade tree.
Maione didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, he would have liked to overcome his doubts and convince himself that the woman he’d seen hastily leaving the apartment house and turning into the nearby vicolo hadn’t been Lucia at all, as she had assured him; on the other hand, he thought, he was a policeman. And a policeman, by his very nature, investigates and goes in search of evidence.
An irritating part of his brain commanded him not to kid himself, his profession had nothing to do with any of this: he was a jealous husband who wanted to find out why his wife had lied to him. Whatever the case, his feet had brought him here, and he might as well take one more step in that direction.
In the atrium the air was cool and damp. The doorman was dousing a hydrangea bush with pails full of water; it was a laborious job, because it meant shuttling between a spigot in the far corner and the flower bed at the center of the courtyard, and the man was rather elderly.
Maione walked over to him. The awareness that he was using his police uniform to further a private investigation, combined with a sense of defeat over the fact that he’d been unable to trust Lucia, made his manner fairly abrupt.
“Listen, you. What’s your name?”
The man stopped midway, holding the pail full of water with both hands.
“Oh, buongiorno. I’m the building’s doorman.”
“I didn’t ask you what job you do. I asked you your name.”
The man blinked, as if he’d been slapped in the face. He set down the pail and stood up, fearful: “Fanelli, Giovambattista Fanelli. At your orders, Brigadier . . .”
Maione chose not to introduce himself. The uniform alone authorized him to ask questions. And after all, he didn’t want to leave any trace of his identity in that interview. He coughed sharply. He should never have started this, but now here he was.
“This is a police investigation. I need to ask you some questions about the residents of this building.”
“But why, Brigadie’, what’s happened? There’s no trouble here, all the tenants are respectable citizens, and I . . .”
Maione grabbed him by the arm and dragged him toward his little booth.
“You have nothing to worry about. I just want to ask you a couple of questions, but it’s important, extremely important, that no one knows we’ve spoken. No one, understood?”
The man, slight and fearful, docilely followed the brigadier, stammering all the while: “But . . . but I don’t know anything, Brigadie’. I assure you that, whatever it is that’s happened, I know nothing.”
Maione cocked his head: “Let’s step into your place.”
Inside the glass door there was a tiny apartment consisting of a room with a table and two chairs and an even smaller bedroom with a bed pushed against the wall and a twin-door armoire.
In a conspiratorial tone, Maione whispered: “Are you all alone here? Is this where you live?”
Fanelli nodded, eyes wide with fright. The fact that Maione had lowered his voice had terrified him.
“Yes, Brigadie’. I’ve been a widower for many years now, and my children are married and live on their own. But can you tell me what’s happened? Something political, perhaps?”
Maione seized the opportunity.
“That’s right. Something political, you understood right off the bat. You’re an intelligent man. And seeing that you’re intelligent, you understand that these are highly confidential matters, things that must be kept secret. If someone, anyone, learns that you and I have had this conversation, then we’d be forced to arrest you and send you . . . send you somewhere far away, and who knows when you’d ever be able to see your children again.”
Fanelli’s lower lip began to tremble. Sweat streamed off his forehead.
“But why, Brigadie’? I haven’t done anything, I’ve never had the slightest interest in politics, which is why I never bothered to join the Fascist Party. But I’ll take care of that immediately, I’ll do it today, I swear. I’ve always been a loyal Fascist, right from the start, and . . .”
Maione raised his hand: “That’s enough. We know that you’re a respectable citizen, we have our sources. But we need information about the people who live in this building, and you’re going to have to give it to us . . .” The longer this thing dragged out, the more the policemen felt like a dirty impostor. He decided to cut things short: “So tell me: who lives in this building?”
Fanelli wet his lips and lowered his voice.
“Well, you see, Brigadie’, this whole building is the property of Count Morrone di Visaglia, who keeps the top floor for himself.”
“Describe this count for me.”
“He’s old, he’s sick, he’s pushing ninety, and he lives with two housekeepers who tend to him. He never gets out of bed and he no longer receives visitors. I doubt he’s the person you’re looking for.”
By now Fanelli had entered fully into his role as political informant. Maione wanted to get out of there as quick as he could.
“Who else lives here?”
“Well, let’s see: on the second floor is Signora Clelia’s dressmaker’s shop. She’s a renowned seamstress, and customers come from all over.”
Maione dismissed the information with a brusque gesture: “I don’t care about that. I’m only interested in the people who live in the building. People who’d be at home around seven in the evening.”
A cunning expression came over the doorman’s face: “Oh, I see what you mean. This is something that happens in the evening, is it? Maybe some exchange of information. Now, there are two families that live on the third floor: the Frezzas—the husband, who’s a clerk at city hall, his wife, and their eight children who make a tremendous ruckus from morning till night—and then a young married couple, the Marontis; he works in a factory, she stays home, and they have two children.”
Maione scratched his chin, listening intently. Two families with lots of small children. He was beginning to feel reassured.
“What about the fourth floor?”
“On the fourth floor are two unoccupied apartments, and on the fifth floor lives Dottor Pianese.”
Maione was suddenly alert: “Dottor Pianese? Does he live alone?”
“That’s right, Brigadie’. The man’s about forty; he’s a lawyer, but he must have plenty of money because I never see any clients. On the other hand, there are always plenty of friends who come and go, and every so often even a lovely lady.”
Maione felt his heart stop.
“What do you mean, a lovely lady? What lovely ladies? Why on earth would lovely ladies come call on him?”
The sudden change in the policeman’s complexion and expression frightened the doorman, who took a step back: “Are you all right, Brigadie’? Can I get you a glass of water? Can I make you a cup of ersatz coffee?”
“Fane’, talk! I asked you for information about this Pianese, now answer my questions, damn it! What’s his first name? And what does he do?”
Fanelli was terrified. He backed up until he was against the wall and said: “For the love of God, Brigadie’, I haven’t done a thing, remember? Don’t get mad at me! Pianese lives alone; he has a housekeeper, but at night she goes home. His name is Ferdinando. Everyone addresses him as Dottore and like I told you, he’s a lawyer, but I don’t know how he makes a living. He’s rich, he has a good time, and I couldn’t tell you whether there are foreign spies among the people who come to call on him. I can keep a close eye on him, if you like.”
Maione took a step forward and grabbed the doorman by both arms, practically lifting him off the floor. The man squeaked in fear.
“Fane’, I’ll tell you one last time: we never had this conversation, understood? Never! Keep an eye on Pianese; and in particular I want you to let me know if a blonde lady comes to call on him, very pretty, about forty years old. Blonde, you understand? Blonde hair, blue eyes. I’ll come back when you least expect me to get your report. And you’ll need to be ready when I come.”
Fanelli nodded vigorously, doing his best to break free of the policeman’s grip, and intoned dramatically: “At your orders, Brigadie’. If this is for the fatherland, never fear, I won’t let anything escape me.”
Maione gave him one last furious glare and then dropped him, letting him sag against a wall as if somebody had let all the air out of him. Then he left, but only after checking to make sure that there was no one in the atrium.
Outside, the city resounded with the cries of its thousands of busy inhabitants.