“Let’s get one thing clear: I will take you in and I will lock you up, for obstructing an investigation. So fast it will make your head spin. I don’t believe that you’re a doorman and yet you don’t know a thing. I know for sure that you come and go, that you venture out frequently into the world. So don’t talk nonsense, and most important of all, don’t waste my time.”
Sciarra folded over as if he were under a hail of fists and boots.
“Commissa’, understand me: I have to work here, I can’t lose this position. You can’t even imagine how much my children eat, where would I turn, where could I take them with me?”
“And if you want to keep your place here, then it’s in your best interests to tell me what I want to know.”
The little man heaved a deep sigh.
“Fine, if that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get. To tell the truth, I see little enough of him, he spends the whole day on his own, out on the terrace. He takes care of his plants, he waters them himself. He doesn’t want any help: one time my son, the eldest, looked in his door because he thought he’d heard him crying, and he rudely kicked him out, in fact my poor boy tumbled headlong all the way down the stairs. . He told him that he needs to stay in his place, that he should never dare to look into his apartment. That’s the way the young master is: sometimes he’ll give you a smile and a wink, or he’ll give candy to the children. Other times, you’d think he’d just killed someone, he’ll glare at you with pure hatred, so that the children go sobbing to hide under their mother’s skirts.”
Ricciardi wanted to know more.
“Aside from his moods, I want to know where he goes late at night, when he leaves.”
Sciarra stared at him, wide-eyed. Ricciardi could distinctly see the beads of sweat forming on his enormous nose.
“But I don’t know that! I can tell you that sometimes. . that he goes out often, at night, yes, that’s true. While I’m watering his hydrangeas, he gives me certain lectures, he says that flowers ought to be watered in the morning, at dawn, or in the late afternoon, but I’m already up at six, and in the evening if I’m not there the children don’t eat and I go to bed late. .”
“He goes out, you say. Where does he go?”
“I don’t know that, like I told you. One thing’s for certain, he doesn’t come and tell me about it. And he sure doesn’t tell his father; in fact, he never even goes to see him at all. One time he said to Donna Concetta: if the old man dies at night, don’t come looking for me. And for that matter, the duke doesn’t want to see his son either. He doesn’t give him a thought; he says that the boy is dead, just like the first duchess.”
Ricciardi had no intention of following the doorman’s ramblings.
“By any chance, did you ever see anyone come to pick him up? Or did he ever come home with anyone?”
Sciarra furrowed his brow with the effort of remembering.
“One night, this last winter, it was raining hard. I’d closed the front door, and no one had the keys but the duchess and the young master. That night someone started pounding on the door, fists and boots, and I woke up and opened the door. There was a car outside, with someone in it, waiting. And a chauffeur who told me to go at once to summon the young master. I went upstairs, and the door was open. I called once, twice. He came out, with a face on him. . it looked to me like he’d been crying. He didn’t say a word to me, he just went out, climbed into the car, and drove off into the rain. But I couldn’t see who was inside, Commissa’, I swear to you.”
Ricciardi nodded, as if that was exactly what he’d been expecting.
“Can you describe the car? Was it marked in any way, I don’t know, official insignia?”
Sciarra looked away.
“No. I don’t remember, but I don’t think so. But the car was black, in any case. Big and black.”
After a moment’s thought, Ricciardi asked another question: “One last thing, Sciarra. The padlock. Are you sure that no one had the keys but the two of them?”
The little man looked the commissario in the face again.
“Yes, Commissa’. The duchess, to lock up at night, when she came in; and the young master has an extra set, in case he needs to come in late, for whatever reason. And in the morning, it looked as if the duchess had opened the padlock: it was fastened and hanging next to the chain.”
Ricciardi stood up.
“Fine. Now take me up to talk to young master Ettore again.”
XXXI
Concetta walked into the duke’s bedroom, as if she were walking on air. She waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the dark, listening attentively for any variation in the deep wheezing rattle that came from the bed. She was sure that she hadn’t made a sound, not even the faintest rustle. She waited. A pigeon cooed on the windowsill. Out of the sound of the death rattle surfaced a raspy voice, as if the dying man were talking in his sleep:
“He’s back, isn’t he? The commissario, the young one. The one with the pale green eyes.”
In the darkness, Concetta nodded, her fingers knitted together in her lap, looking straight ahead. He couldn’t have seen her, he couldn’t have heard her. But he knew she was there, and how long she’d been there; she’d long ago ceased to be astonished at the old man’s abilities.
“It’ll all come out. We can’t prevent it.”
Concetta considered the matter. Then she said: “Not necessarily. He’s always been so careful.”
The duke said nothing for several long seconds. His cough shook his chest; his hand scrabbled around on the nightstand, cluttered with phials and ampules of medicine, and snatched up a filthy handkerchief, which he pressed to his mouth; after which he looked at it with his rheumy eyes.
“Blood. But how long is it going to take, the damned sickness? How long will it take to carry me off?”
Concetta tried to steer him away from that thought.
“What should we do? How can we protect him?”
After another fit of coughing, the duke replied:
“There’s nothing we can do. Not now. It’ll have to go the way it goes; after all, better this than. . complete ruin.”
Concetta bowed her head and left the room.
At the door of Ettore’s apartment, Sciarra and Ricciardi found Concetta waiting for them, still and silent as a statue. As soon as he saw her, Sciarra shot a begging glance at the commissario and, at his nod, took to his heels with unmistakable relief.
The woman said: “Please wait here,” and started in to announce the new arrivals. Ricciardi stopped her, firmly, with one hand on her forearm.
“Grazie, Signora, there’s no need. I know the way.”
And he walked past her, striding into the apartment.
Ettore, in shirtsleeves and wearing a gardener’s apron, was squatting down next to a vase, clipping away. From the gramophone came symphonic music which he hummed along to, frowning. He looked up when he sensed a presence and found Ricciardi standing in front of him, just as an unusually frantic Concetta arrived on the scene. He turned and spoke to her:
“Damn it. Can’t a man be left in peace in his own home, now? What the devil’s come over you, don’t you even know how to do your job anymore?”
The woman gasped, openmouthed, as if she’d been punched in the stomach, her face red with shame. Ricciardi felt it was his duty to weigh in:
“No, in fact, she tried to stop me. But I wouldn’t let her come to warn you.”
Ettore had gotten to his feet. He’d reacquired his self-control, and now he was smiling sardonically.
“If I may ask, where did you get this haughtiness of yours? You’ve got nerve, Commissario. I thought it the first time I saw you.”
“Nerve? Why, does it take nerve to question a suspect? Or maybe there’s something else I should be worried about? What else should I be afraid of?”
Ettore continued to smile, but his eyes were shooting flames.
“Can we speak openly, Commissario? I think so, otherwise you wouldn’t have come alone. I know people who can send you into internal exile before nightfall. Or who can arrange for you to be transferred to Sicily, Calabria, or the Veneto. People who can send you to a dark little office somewhere to fill out forms eight hours a day for the next thirty years. Do you know that?”