The Bottom of Your Heart (37 page)

“The brigadier has a point, Signorina. Even if the victim's intention had been to give you a gift, it's quite unlikely that you'll ever lay hands on it. Still, we need to get some other information from you. Are you willing to answer our questions?”

Sisinella seemed touched by Ricciardi's courtesy and nodded, though not without giving Maione an angry sidelong glare.

The commissario went on: “The professor spent his free time with you; as much as he was able, anyway. He was with you, we believe, roughly a month ago, when some men came to get him for . . .”

“Of course he was, Commissa', I remember that night. We were . . . we were fast asleep, when we heard a car braking and right after that the sound of shouting in the courtyard. They'd woken up Firmino, the doorman, and were asking him where Tullio was. Not even a minute later, just enough time to throw something on, they started pounding on my door:
open up!
they were shouting,
open up!
I unlocked the door and they knocked me aside; two of them, ugly, dirty hooligans, grabbed poor Tullio by the shoulders and marched him off.”

Maione broke in: “Do you remember if they explained who they were and on whose behalf they had come?”

“No, no. They kept insulting him, they told him that if anything happened it would go all the worse for him, that kind of thing. He told me over and over to stay calm, not to get upset. Two or three days later he came back, relaxed, as if nothing had happened, and that was the end of that.”

Ricciardi asked: “And you didn't ask him what had happened?”

“Of course I asked him, but he just told me: one of my patients wasn't well, nothing important. Then, ten days or so later, he wanted to know whether anyone had come around bothering me, but no one had.”

The details matched up with what the Wolf had told them; and the professor's display of nonchalance might have just been because he wanted to keep the girl from worrying.

Ricciardi said: “Signorina, I know that you're not going to be happy about this, but we also need to talk to your boyfriend: it's crucial to our investigation.”

Sisinella looked startled: “But why? What has he done? Commissa', he has nothing to do with all this. And after all, he never even met Tullio or saw him, I don't see what . . .”

Maione took a step forward, menacingly: “Hey, sweetheart, watch out how you talk, understood? We can toss you into jail, you and him both, and keep you there as long as we like. Don't you dare try to interfere with who we choose to talk to!”

Ricciardi grabbed his arm gently: “Raffaele, calm down now. Let me do the talking, please.”

He'd used a gentle tone of voice, but it had the desired effect. Maione quieted down, sighed, and said to him, without once taking his eyes off Sisinella: “Sorry, Commissa'. You're right. I let my anger get the better of me. But you, girlie, watch your step!”

The girl hissed defiantly: “You don't scare me, Brigadie'. You don't scare me. I've known people who would gut you like a fish for the fun of the thing, so just imagine how scared I am of you.”

Ricciardi felt he needed to intervene again.

“Signorina, if we have made up our minds to track down a person—whose first and last name we know, by the way—we can look for him by questioning people on the street. That would do your sweetheart far more damage than if you helped us to get in touch with him directly. We only want to talk to him, that's all. It's up to you: all you can do is cause us some minor inconvenience and a slight waste of our time.”

The girl considered Ricciardi's words. She was young, but life had already taught her to evaluate the pros and cons of every situation in the most objective way. In a voice so low that it was barely audible, she said: “He has a
pianino
. He strolls through the city, but he keeps to a specific route. Usually, around noon, you can find him at the Belvedere di San Martino, because that's where people from out of town come to see the museum and the view. Today is a beautiful day, that's where you're likely to find him.”

Ricciardi bowed slightly: “
Grazie
, Signorina. May I ask what you plan to do with this apartment?”

“What can I say, Commissa'? I'll wait for them to evict me.”

Ricciardi left, followed by Maione. The brigadier shot one last grim glare at Sisinella, who responded ironically by blowing him a kiss.

R
icciardi and Maione were ahead of schedule and the walk to Piazzale di San Martino was a short one, so they took their time, and even stopped off at a café with a terrace that overlooked the city's rooftops.

The volcano was silhouetted against the blue sky and together they looked like a painted backdrop, the kind you could see in the stage sets at the Salone Margherita music hall. From above, the streets and buildings of the center of town resembled a manger scene, wood and terra-cotta models built for children, with tiny automobiles and carriages moving along silently. The air was steeped in the pungent odor of horse manure and sunbaked vegetation.

Ricciardi sat waiting for Maione to say something, hoping he might reveal the reason for his jangled nerves, but the brigadier did not seem inclined to confide his thoughts; he just pushed the tiny spoon around in his demitasse and looked out at the panorama.

At that point, the commissario tried coming at it in a roundabout way: “I feel sorry for that girl, you know? She was confident that she'd closed the door on her previous life, and now she's in danger of slipping back into it. Unless it turns out that this Cortese actually has honorable intentions.”

Maione replied without taking his eyes off the gridwork of tiny buildings: “You really think so, Commissa'? Women like her have only one thing in mind: their own self-interest. They're like animals, like dogs and cats, eager to eat, and once they have, off they go, with not another thought about you.”

“Are you sure that's the way things work? Just think about the doctor's little dog, the one we found with the little boy up at Capodimonte. That child certainly can't have been giving him much food, but the dog never left his side, even after he was dead.”

The brigadier shrugged his shoulders: “There are always exceptions. But believe me, Commissa', that's how women are. They look for economic security, for comfort. And if you can't give it to them anymore, they'll go looking somewhere else.”

“What are you talking about? That's something you of all people can't say. You've shared your whole life—its pains and its joys—with Lucia. By supporting each other you've survived despair, you've overcome a tragedy that would have destroyed almost anyone else I know.”

Maione spoke in a broken voice.

“Things change, Commissa'. Things change. Well, we'd better get going, it's practically noon.”

And he got brusquely to his feet.

 

The large piazza in front of the Charterhouse of San Martino was broad, practically circular, its surface almost entirely covered with packed earth. One reached it by climbing a handsome, not especially steep road, which was busy with carriages that took visitors up to one of the most enchanting overlooks in the city. The contrast between the peaceful hilltop hermitage and the frenzy that reigned at the foot of the hill was accentuated by the presence of a herd of goats, whose tinkling bells contributed to the bucolic atmosphere.

A number of street vendors had taken up positions with their merchandise; at a certain distance, as if to emphasize the difference in what was on offer, stood a
pianino
drawn by a mule that had seen better days. Turning the handle, surrounded by an audience of a dozen or so people, mostly women, was a young man who accompanied the music in a tenor voice. As he sang, he stared at a young foreign female tourist who was dressed in white and carried a fetching parasol. The young woman, who had a horsey face, listened with a look of enchantment, her eyes sparkling, her mouth half open, revealing a set of buckteeth.

 

Chisto è 'o paese d'o sole,

chisto è 'o paese d'o mare,

chisto è 'o paese addò tutt'e pparole

so' doce e so' amare,

so' sempe parole d'ammore!

 

This is the land of sun,

this is the land of the sea.

It's the land where words,

whether sweet or bitter,

are always words of love.

 

To give further emphasis to his performance, the musician underscored his lyrics with his free hand. Ricciardi studied him: not particularly tall, skinny and lithe, wearing a shirt under his waistcoat, the collar buttons unfastened, his cap pushed back on his forehead, curly black locks poking out from beneath it, gleaming white teeth, a cleft in his chin, and a bronzed neck. The classical Neapolitan type who always manages to insinuate himself into women's hearts.

The young tourist turned to speak to an older woman, whom Maione identified with some confidence as her mother, given the similarity in dental configuration: “Wasn't he wonderful, Mother? Did you hear him? Such a fantastic voice, and he's so gorgeous . . .”

The young man smiled at her, oozing connivance from every pore: “Do you like, madame? I'll be happy to sing again, don't you worry.”

Maione coughed meaningfully: “Maybe in a little while. Right now the commissario and I want to talk to you.”

The other man grimaced in disappointment: “Can't it wait, Brigadie'? You're going to make me miss my opportunity with the signorina, here.”

“No, it can't. And don't worry, even if chipmunk girl leaves, there'll be plenty more later. But perhaps you'd rather come have our little conversation at police headquarters. Your choice.”

The young man sent a morose sigh in the direction of the young Englishwoman, made a smiling apology, and blew her a kiss. The young woman blushed as her mother grabbed her arm and dragged her off.

While the audience that had been listening to the
pianino
drifted away, the three men moved off to the side.

“At your orders, Brigadie'. What can I do for you?”

“Are you Salvatore Cortese, also known as Tore 'o Pianino?

“Yessir, Brigadie'. But what have I done wrong?”

Maione snorted: “I don't get it: every time I speak with someone, they always think they must necessarily have done something wrong. Nothing, you haven't done anything wrong. At least I hope that's true, for your sake. I'm only interested in getting some information. Do you know a certain Luongo, Teresa Luongo?”

“Who, Sisinella? Of course I know her. Why?”

Ricciardi took over from Maione: “Where were you on the night between last Thursday and Friday? It was the 7th, to be exact.”

Cortese narrowed his eyes: “Commissa', what are you trying to say? Is that when the guy died, the one who was with Sisinella, the one who gave her money? You wouldn't by some chance be thinking that . . .”

Maione interrupted sternly: “Just answer the commissario's question.”

Cortese remained cautious: “I . . . Commissa', I don't really remember. I think that . . . I believe that I was in Vomero, anyway. I live in Arenella, not far away, I was on the street, or else maybe . . .”

Ricciardi stepped in quickly, forestalling Maione's furious reaction: “Cortese, listen to me, this is a serious matter and we can't stand around here wasting time. Either you tell us or we're taking you with us.”

“No, no, now I remember. I was with Sisinella, in her apartment. I spent the night there, like I frequently do when . . . when we're certain that no one else is going to be coming, in other words.”

Maione nodded: “Got it. So Sisinella is covering for you. She's your alibi.”

Tore began whining, on the verge of tears: “But Brigadie', what on earth are you talking about? What alibi? I don't need any alibi, I never even met this professor, I've only seen him once, and that was from a distance, because he showed up one day when he wasn't expected and I had to escape over the balcony, half naked, with my clothes clutched under my arm; it's a good thing it was at night, or they would have arrested me. What do I know about what happened? Take pity on me, I'm just an honest, hardworking . . .”

Ricciardi cut him off: “So you never met the professor. But weren't you jealous of him?”

The young man seemed sincerely surprised: “What? Why on earth should I have been jealous of him?”

Maione glared at him angrily: “And why do you think? The man was spending time with your sweetheart, he came to see her whenever he wanted, and when he did you had to scurry out the window, he'd lie down in your bed, and you weren't jealous of him?”

Tore darted his eyes a couple of times from Maione to Ricciardi and back again.

“My sweetheart? . . . No, no, no, Brigadie', you've got it all mixed up. Or else someone told you everything backwards, completely backwards. I don't have a sweetheart, and I don't plan to get one! Sisinella is a pretty girl, I'm very fond of her, and we have plenty of fun together, but come on, Sisinella is a whore. Do you think that a young man like me, an upright, hardworking Christian would get serious with a whore?”

Ricciardi said: “As far as I know, she's no longer a prostitute. She even left the bordello.”

The other man burst out laughing uncontrollably: “What does that have to do with it, Commissa'? Once a whore, always a whore. I go to see her, I have myself a good time . . . And after all, as long as she had that fool paying for everything, lavishing gifts on her and even giving her hundred-lire banknotes, it was worth my while. Where do you think I got the money to buy this mule? Before I got the mule, I had to drag the
pianino
all the way up here myself. But I'm planning to spend the rest of my life with something better, not some whore.”