"Maid? A nice-looking girl, at last!" Ingravallo grumbled. He set the statements in order, grumbled for another minute. The three ladies were dismissed.
"You mean, we can go?" la Bertola asked then, still pale.
"Yes, Signora. Please. ."
Donna Manuela, with a trembling of breasts that filled her blouse completely, unleashed merulanian smiles: "Well, good-bye for now, Officer. And I leave our Signor Filippo in your hands. Take good care of him for me."
Don Ciccio, mute, remained standing, the statements on the table, face to face with the subject: like a dark shrike its wings half-opened, its prey not yet in its talons.
But he insisted still, under that black poodle-coat that he had on his head, stubborn as he was.
The Commendatore took refuge behind the barricade of "experience of this world."
"Ah, women," he whimpered, "if you expect them to put in a good word. ." He was short of breath, gasping at times; his eye sockets were like two caverns: exhausted.
"What do you mean? What would this good word be, that upsets you so much? Let's hear. What's troubling you? Tell me. You can confide. ."
"In my position, Doctor, what could I do? Go around Rome with a ham on my shoulder? If you ask me, it's just downright nastiness, trying to argue whether the one who fired the shots was a delivery boy or wasn't a delivery boy, or whether he was the lookout for that other one, or whether he wasn't. What do I know about it? You see? Just put yourself in my shoes for a minute. Could I let people say: we saw Commendatore Angeloni climbing up Via Panisperna with a cheese around his neck, and with two flasks of wine, one tucked under each arm, like a pair of twins, carried by their wet-nurse. .?"
Ingravallo swung his head up and down, his gaze rooted on the typed statements. He seemed to lose his patience. He raised his voice, separating his words and their syllables: "The con-ci-erge has stated: that the other delivery boy has also come to your house a number of times. The one that was more of a kid. Is that clear? Two or three months ago, which is hardly an eternity, whatever you say. And since I am interested in this kid, since they swear that he looks very much like the other one, the one this morning— am I clear? So, if you don't mind. ."
"I understand. I understand," the Commendatore whimpered.
"Well, then, why don't you do me a favor?. . I'm anxious to make his acquaintance, this kid's."
It was written that number two hundred and nineteen of Via Merulana, the palace of gold, or of the profiteers, or of the sharks, as the case might be — it was written that from it, too, a lovely flower was to blossom, as from so many other buildings in this world, for that matter. The great, scarlet carnation of "well, did you ever?" With great murmurings of the tenants and of his colleagues in the Economy, not to mention the whispers of Signora Manuela, Commendatore Angeloni was kept at the police station until nine o'clock in the evening.
*** *** ***
From some faint hint, that is to say a word or two, from the two policemen, and from Blondie in particular, via Manuela — Menegazzi — Bottafavi — Alda Pernetti and brother (Stairway A), or else via Manuela — Orestino Bozzi — Signora Elodia — Elia Gabbi (Stairway B), it seemed, or rather one guessed, that the police suspected in this business an indirect though, of course, involuntary (and moreover, hardly demonstrable) responsibility on the part of Commendatore Angeloni: the prime mover of that coming and going of ham-bearers to the house. "He doesn't want to talk; and they're giving him the full treatment." The police had got it into their heads that Commendatore Angeloni must perforce know the grocer's boy who hadn't rung anyone's bell but had simply "flung himself down the steps the minute we heard the shots": but for some special, incomprehensible reason of his own, the Commendatore was pretending to be completely taken by surprise. His whole attitude, his obstinate melancholy reticence, with those turns of phrase which came to nothing, tapering off, vague and dilatory, his timidity more or less feigned, calculated, those sudden flushes of the dripping nose, those imploring and shifting eyes, at first, then those two poor eyelets lost in two caverns of fear, a confusion at times real and at times strangely ambiguous had finally enraged the two officials: Ingravallo and Doctor Fumi, the head of the Investigation Squad. Naturally, they measured all the seriousness, and the slight grounds for their. . distrust, based on such elusive indications, of that excellent Grade Six of the National Economy. A Grade Six of unquestioned morality, of unbesmirched reputation. "Hmph!" Don Ciccio thought, to console himself, "every mother's son is pure as the driven snow… till he has his first fling.. with the police."
And besides, it wasn't a question of suspicion, not at all. He only had to explain himself, say what he thought, to talk, sing out, loud and clear. If he thought something, why didn't he spill it? It was obvious enough: the burglar had rung the Balduccis' bell by mistake: perhaps, in his nervousness, or because he had misunderstood the directions of a third party, insufficient directions. This idea of the mistaken door. . Ingravallo couldn't get it out of his head: the two doors were exactly alike, a twohundrednineteenish brown color, both of them, the number high up, invisible, in view of the darkness (of the landings). Receiving no answer and recovering himself, he had then rung the door opposite, the correct one. Doctor Fumi took a different view: the character had rung the Balducci bell to make sure nobody was at home: Signora Liliana usually went out at that hour, around ten: Assunta, Assuntina, was away, at home, with her "poor old father" who was about to pass on: the nondiminutive Assunta with those tits and that monument of an ass! Gina was with the sisters, at schooclass="underline" Signor Balducci at the office, or rather, off on a business trip, as he often was, in Vicenza, or in Milan. When Signora Liliana was also questioned — and it was Don Ciccio who questioned her, with great respect, that evening, at her home — nothing emerged. She shuddered at the thought of their being alone, she and little Gina, so she had asked Cristoforo, her husband's clerk, to come to supper and spend the night, and she had settled him in the room of the absent maid. She couldn't stop offering him blankets or comforters: ". . if you feel cold. ." He was a huge man who could scare off a thief with a puff of his breath: a good man with dogs, rabbits, shotguns.
Countess Menegazzi had gone one floor heavenward, guest of the Bottafavis, who had a "made in England" lock on their door, which could be turned eight times, good enough for the front door of Buckingham Palace. Signor Bottafavi, indeed, when he had wolfed down certain favorite dishes, dreamed of it at night; he dreamed he had that chain on his stomach. It was on such occasions that he was heard to cry "help! help!" in his sleep. From which he was awakened by his own cries. He had cleaned the revolver: he had greased it with vaseline, taken off the safety: the chamber now spun like a reeclass="underline" the barrel was ready to fire, at the slightest hint of an excuse.
Ingravallo was surprised not to hear Lulu bark and he asked for news of her. Liliana Balducci's face became gently sad. Vanished! Over two weeks ago now. On a Saturday. How? Who knows? Somebody probably put her in his pocket. In the little gardens in front of San Giovanni where Assuntina took the dog for a walk, that scatterbrained girclass="underline" and instead of paying attention to the animal, there were all sorts of idlers who paid attentions to her, to Assunta. "Such a showy sort of girl. . And the way things are nowadays!" An inquiry among the garbage collectors, two ads in the Messaggero, questions and reproaches to Assuntina, implorations to more or less everybody, but of no avail as far as bringing her back was concerned, alas, poor Lulu!