Antonio looked carefully at the samples of Roberto Passalacqua’s handwriting. The characters were long, narrow, and crowded together, with a strong slant to the right, nothing like the handwriting in the threatening letters, whose characters were round, fat, and slanted slightly backwards. He decided, nonetheless, that he needed the testimony of a witness before discharging Roberto completely.
He said, “I can understand your concern, Mister Passalacqua. Why don’t you get dressed and follow me to the Mayor’s residence? He might be still awake. We’ll hear what he has to say and, if all is well, you’ll be able to go home and sleep tight.”
“Perhaps,” Roberto suggested as uneasiness blurred his speech, “we could use the telephone? Across the street—”
“I like to look at people’s faces when I ask questions,” Antonio said firmly.
Roberto rose from the sofa. “It’ll be a minute,” he said, rushing to his bedroom to change into street clothes.
While Antonio drove up Via San Vincenzo, Roberto said, “The Mayor is not at home tonight.”
“Where is he?” Antonio asked.
Roberto hesitated. “He went to a party. Sort of.”
“Would you mind telling me where this party is so we can go there and end this matter?” Antonio asked, beginning to show his irritation.
“I don’t know how to say this,” Roberto babbled.
“Say it, damn it!” Antonio shouted. “It’s eleven-thirty at night!”
“He’s at the Luna,” Roberto murmured.
“The brothel?” Antonio exclaimed.
Roberto nodded. “There’s a birthday party there, and he’s the guest of honor.”
Antonio couldn’t hold back a smile. He was well aware of Cesare Cortmiglia’s famous brothel life, but he thought he had given it up when he had become Mayor.
“It’s not what you think,” Roberto said, noticing the sarcasm on the policeman’s face. “He’s only there for the birthday party. He’s not
using
the brothel.”
“Fine,” Antonio said, stifling a laugh. “Let’s go to the Luna and find out how the party is playing out.”
Two hundred meters from the corner of Vico del Pepe, Antonio parked the car—the
caruggi
were far too narrow to continue driving. Hastily, the two men followed the silent streets, shortly stopping in front of the Luna door. Their knocks were answered by Madam C, the brothel owner, who grimaced at the sight of a high police functionary standing at her door. Then she recognized Roberto.
“Is something the matter?” she asked, surprised, as odors of food, liquor, and cigarette smoke made their way out into the street.
“Sorry to bother you, Madam,” Roberto babbled. “I need to talk to the Mayor for a moment.”
Cesare Cortimiglia arrived at the door with his pipe in his mouth and a look of confusion on his face. “It’d better be good, Roberto,” he said, “for interrupting me like this.” Then he noticed Antonio. “What’s going on?”
Antonio stepped forward. “Good evening, Mayor. Would you mind telling me where your secretary was between eight and eight-thirty tonight?”
Cesare thought a moment. “He was at City Hall, with me. I left the office at eight-thirty and came directly here. Why?”
“Never mind, Mayor,” Antonio said humorously. “Enjoy your party.”
Cesare shook his head, turned around, and closed the Luna door behind him.
Back at the car, Antonio said to Roberto, “You can go home now. Do you need a ride?”
“I’ll walk,” Roberto said, heading on foot down the road.
Antonio nodded, started the car, and drove west, toward Piazza della Nunziata.
He spotted the bakery from across the street. Its window was dark, and its door tightly shut. “To be expected,” he muttered as he glanced once more at the sheet with the suspects’ addresses written on it. After a cautious look about, he walked two short blocks to Via Lomellini, stopping in front of a somber apartment building with a portal decorated with the relief of a sun and a moon. He took his watch out his pocket: it was past midnight. He placed the tips of his fingers on the portal and pushed twice: the portal didn’t budge. So he lifted the knocker, a baton in the shape of a ship anchor, and let it drop. A loud bang echoed inside and outside the building. Antonio waited a moment then dropped the knocker one more time. Soon, he heard the muffled sounds of a human voice and the shuffle of steps approaching the portal from inside.
“Who is it?” the voice said. “Open the door. Police.”
There was a clanking of chains and a jangling of keys then the door opened with a long squeak. Antonio saw an old man with flaming hawk eyes. His hair was long and white, and he was wearing a threadbare night gown cut at the calves. His feet were tucked into black shoes torn open at the toes, and his hands were long and scrawny, like talons. One of them was holding a lamp.
“What do you want?” the man asked in a hoarse voice.
Antonio noticed that the man’s breath stank of alcohol. “Are you the janitor?” he asked.
“Maybe. Who are you?”
“I’m looking for Ivano Bo, the baker’s son. He lives in apartment 6C.”
The janitor glared at Antonio. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Antonio Sobrero, Chief of Police. Is Ivano Bo here?”
The man gave Antonio a look of mistrust. Then he pointed a finger towards the stairs. “He sure lives here. Apartment 6C, like you said, but you won’t find him.”
Antonio asked, “What does he do instead of sleeping?”
“Women. Bars.
La bella vita
.”
So Ivano is a libertine, Antonio mused. He felt sympathy for Giuseppe. No father would want his daughter to befriend a man of such habits. “Where does Mister Bo meet his women?” he asked.
The janitor opened the palm of his hand. “I don’t remember.”
Antonio understood the gesture. He reached for his wallet and slipped out two banknotes. “Does this refresh your memory?”
The man hid the banknotes in the sleeve of his night gown. “Maybe,” he said. “Ivano goes to one of two places. Caffe’ del Gambero is one.”
“Caffe’ del Gambero?” Antonio repeated, intrigued. He was acquainted with the owner of that bar, a ruthless woman named Francesca Barone, suspected of running an under-age prostitution ring out of her establishment. The police had never been able to find a shred of proof against her, so her place was still open. The fact that Ivano was a regular at Caffe’ del Gambero didn’t speak in the man’s favor. Antonio cleared his throat. “What about the second place?”
The janitor shook his head. “My memory isn’t doing well tonight.”
Antonio slipped another banknote out of his wallet.
The man snatched it with the greed of a magpie. “Taverna del Marinaio,” he said.
“Where is that?” Antonio asked.
“Go to Piazza Banchi then walk towards the port. The place will be fifty meters down the first
caruggio
on your right.” He stifled a laugh. “You won’t miss it.”
“Would you happen to know in which of the two places Mister Bo could be right now?”
“No.”
Antonio looked straight at the man. “I was told that his father, Corrado Bo, also lives in this building. Is that true?”
The man nodded. “Same apartment, 6C.”
“Is he in now?”
“Maybe.”
Antonio stepped in. “Thank you,” he said then headed towards one of three stairwells, the one labeled with a large C.
Upstairs, he knocked on the door of apartment six. The door opened immediately.
“Antonio Sobrero, Chief of Police,” Antonio told the small man who was looking at him through the open doorway.
The man had curly gray hair. The tip of his nose was turned up, and his thick dry lips were marked in places by deep cracks. His face was a web of wrinkles.
“I’m sorry about the late hour,” Antonio said kindly. “I’d like to ask you a simple question.”
“What question?” Corrado inquired. Then he added, “I thought you were my son.”
“This
is
about your son, Mister Bo.”
Corrado flinched. His voice was faint when he asked, “Something happened to him?”
“Not necessarily, but I need to know where he was tonight between eight and eight-thirty. Do you have any idea?”
Corrado gave Antonio a lost look. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“I’m trying to establish that, Mister Bo. Please answer my question. Do you know where your son was between eight and eight-thirty?”
Corrado took a moment to think. Then he said, “He was at the bakery with me, preparing the dough for the morning loaves.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Corrado said decisively. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know, Mister Bo. I was hoping he’d be here.” He started down the stairs. “Thanks for your help. Sorry for waking you up.”
“You didn’t wake me up,” Corrado murmured, closing the door. “I only sleep one hour per night.”
Out in the street, Antonio reviewed his encounter with Corrado Bo. Perhaps the baker had lied to protect his son. Or perhaps he had told the truth. No question, he had reacted strongly when he had heard that the police visit concerned his son. His face had blanched and his eyes had become fearful, as if he had been expecting bad news that night. Fear of the inevitable, that’s what Antonio had read in the man’s eyes, and he was determined to find out why. Time to meet young Ivano, he said to himself as he walked back to Piazza della Nunziata. He decided to leave his car parked in the
piazza
and hire a carriage: where he was headed the streets were much too narrow for an automobile, and he was better off unnoticed. He waved to a coachman. “Caffe’ del Gambero,” he said, jumping aboard.
The coachman gave him a clever look. “Looking for fun, sir?”
“It’s a police matter,” Antonio said coldly.
“Ah, police,” the coachman chanted. “I suppose policemen are entitled to some fun too, right?”
Antonio sighed, “Just drive.”
“As you say, sir,” the coachman chuckled with amusement. Soon the horse began to walk.
The carriage crossed Piazza della Nunziata and clopped its way through the tight passageways of the
caruggi
. The silence was heavy, and the light of the moon made the cobblestones shine. The horse suddenly neighed, and the coachman quieted it with an aaah. He turned to face his passenger. “You after some bum?”
Antonio Sobrero squinted his eyes. He said, “I’m not sure.”
As the horse continued its solitary nightly walk, Antonio wondered what kind of person Ivano Bo was to frequent such objectionable locales. Caffe’ del Gambero was not a place for everyone, and although he didn’t know Taverna del Marinaio, he was ready to bet it wasn’t the kind of establishment a respectable man would bring his wife to for espresso and brioche on Sunday. Perhaps Giuseppe had been correct in assuming Ivano might be the perpetrator. There was, however, Corrado Bo’s testimony that his son was at the bakery at the time the cat was being placed on the Berillis’ door. Antonio shook his head in puzzlement. He yawned. He was starting to feel tired.
“If Ivano Bo is not at Caffe’ del Gambero,” he grumbled, “I’ll go straight to sleep. There’s a limit to what a man can do in one night.”
When the coachman stopped the horse, Antonio exited the vehicle and said, “Wait here. Don’t leave without me.”
“I won’t, Mister Policeman. I need my dough. I don’t work for free. No, sir.”
Antonio gave the coachman a stare. On foot, he followed a narrow, dark road, seemingly quiet to the untrained eye. From experience, Antonio knew there was bound to be action behind its closed doors. He was glad to be in his street clothes rather than in his uniform, as the police were not welcome in that part of town. It wasn’t long before he stopped in front of a doorway guarded by a man with large shoulders and an unshaven red beard.
“May I?” Antonio said, pointing at the door.
The man stepped aside. “Welcome to Caffe’ del Gambero,” he said in a deep voice.
Nodding, Antonio stepped in.
He entered a dimly lit, large room with a dozen round tables spread about the floor. Half the tables were occupied by male customers of various ages, drinking and talking or playing cards. The free tables were covered with empty bottles and used glasses. The only women on the floor were the waitresses, who were busy serving and cleaning. On the right side of the room was the bar counter, lined up with stools and more men drinking and talking. The smoke was thick, the air heavy with the smell of tobacco and wine. Behind the counter were two waitresses and a mature woman—thin, short, and draped in a tight and revealing green dress. Her features were not clearly visible in the soft light and through the curtain of smoke, but Antonio knew she was Francesca Barone. He walked up to her and said, “Good evening. Are you the owner of this establishment?”
She looked at Antonio with suspicious eyes. “Have we met?” She adjusted her curly black hair, which hung loose on her shoulders. Her makeup was heavy, failing nonetheless to hide the signs of aging: deep wrinkles framed her mouth, and two vertical lines engraved a frown.
“Maybe,” Antonio replied. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Aren’t we all,” she said, placing an empty glass in front of Antonio. “Wine?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what this man looks like,” Antonio went on, “but I was told he’s a regular here.”
“Why would I want to give you information?”
“Because I’m the Chief of Police,” Antonio whispered. “I tend to remember who helps me and who doesn’t.”
She paled and said nothing as she poured herself whiskey.
“Who’s he?” she murmured when her glass was full.
He spoke slowly, in a deep voice. “Ivano Bo.”
“The baker?”
He nodded. “Is he here tonight?”
She pointed a finger at a table in the far corner. “There. Curly black hair. What did he do? I don’t like customers who make trouble.”
“I only need to ask him a couple of questions. At what time did he arrive?”
She pondered a moment. “Half an hour ago, more or less.”
“Thank you,” Antonio said. He started towards Ivano Bo’s table, but then turned around. “Miss Barone, you wouldn’t happen to have a sample of his handwriting by any chance? Card scores, checks …”
“It will cost you …” Francesca teased.
“You have no idea how much it will cost
you
if you don’t cooperate. I hear you hire very young girls. And exploit them.”