Vipers (9 page)

“Right you are. Still, for the time being, until we get a clear idea of the dynamics in there, I'd prefer not to introduce outside factors. Let's walk over. And do me a favor, call Dr. Modo on the telephone and ask him to come along. It strikes me we're going to need our own Virgil, in that inferno they call Paradiso.”

 

No one would have admitted it, but the rainstorm that Holy Tuesday really had been a stinging disappointment. Everyone had become happily accustomed to the scent of spring, the warmth of sunshine on their skin, the fresh new light: and instead here again was the wind, the rain, and the smell of damp soil.

What's more, those who had optimistically put away their winter clothing were caught unprepared, and they wrapped the collars of their light jackets close around their throats, trying to find some scarves and walking gingerly to keep from ruining their shoes. The umbrella repairmen, on the other hand, were reinvigorated, because among other things the rain came accompanied by gusting winds, scourge of umbrella handles and ribs; they hawked their services: “
'O conciambrelle, 'o conciambrelle
!” They'd taken the place of the vendors hawking balloons and wooden toys that the Festa di San Giuseppe had brought swarming out into the Villa Nazionale and the parks and playgrounds, to the disappointment of the city's children, who knew that Lent meant no more sweets.

Ricciardi and Maione weren't too drenched when they arrived at their destination, both because the distance they had to cover wasn't all that far and because as much as possible they walked beneath the overhanging cornices. The street door was shut, and a few well-dressed gentlemen stood holding umbrellas and chatting in undertones, right out front; the minute they spotted Maione's uniform, they hurried away. Ricciardi decided that Madame Yvonne had a point when she complained about the damage that an extended closure of her business would cause.

A few minutes later, Dr. Modo came down the street, hopping to avoid the puddles, and then hastening to seek shelter in the building's entryway; the dog came trotting after him, shaking the water off its back and settling down just a short distance away.

“Well, well, my friends, here we are again. Have you finally decided to have some fun? I understand now why you ordered Il Paradiso shut down: you want the whole place to yourselves. Thanks for inviting me to the party, in any case.”

Maione laughed.

“Now, Dotto', whatever gave you that idea! We just thought you'd want to get a hatful of rain along with us, it's no fun getting drenched all by ourselves.
Grazie
, now that you're good and sopping and you've ruined your two-tone shoes, you can go. We don't need anything else from you.”

The doctor waggled his forefinger under the brigadier's nose:

“It's just a matter of time, Brigadie'. Just a matter of time. Sooner or later, everyone winds up under the blade of my scalpel: and when that happens, I'll be sure to have some fun with you, or what's left of you!”

While Maione went through a complicated series of gestures to ward off death and bad luck, Ricciardi got to the point.

“Bruno, I need some information about the way this establishment works, and you're the only person I know who admits to patronizing it. I'd like to know exactly what to ask to avoid false answers I might not be able to pick out.”

“Understood, I'm entirely at your service. By the way, since I was working the night shift, I was able to complete my autopsy of poor Viper and I can give you my findings in advance, though of course I'll also forward them to you in writing via the usual delightful bureaucratic channels. Provided, that is, you'll buy me lunch.”

Ricciardi sighed:

“Why, of course, after all, I can officially claim you as a dependent. Lunch at Gambrinus, as soon as we're done here. But for now, what can you tell me about how this place runs, especially when it comes to the people who work here?”

Modo shrugged his shoulders.

“First of all, it's a mistake to think that a bordello is just a place where men go to buy sex; at least not a classy bordello like this one. It's usually not allowed, but here you can dine—the place has a first-class kitchen—you can order drinks, you can play cards. There are even older men who come here who haven't been interested in women for years, because it's always a pleasure to be surrounded by beautiful girls.”

Maione snickered.

“Ah, now I understand why you come here, Dotto'; this thing about the old guys who like to watch had escaped me.”

Modo smacked his foot down hard into a puddle, splashing a jet of muddy water onto the leg of the brigadier's uniform.

“Uh, so sorry, Brigadie'. You understand how it is, I'm an old man, and my legs make these uncontrollable movments.”

Ricciardi tried to bring the conversation back to the point at hand:

“What about the girls? Where do they find them?”

“Most of them change establishment every fifteen days. That serves two purposes: first, it keeps the clients from getting too attached to any one girl, which might lead to relationships that can result in jealousy and violence; second, it keeps them expecting novelties and surprises, you understand: let's go over to see what's new at Il Paradiso. Other girls, though, do stay for a long time, sometimes for years.”

“Which is what happened with Viper and Lily, no? And why would that be?”

Modo thought it over.

“For Viper, I told you before, she was famous and Madame made use of her to attract the customers' curiosity. She was much more expensive, she had a rate sheet all her own, and there were lots of men who came in just to see her walk the balcony. I suppose I talked to her a couple of times, she was friendly and stunning. Lily too, in her way, is attractive. Her breasts, you saw for yourself: they can do everything but talk! Sure, she's no Viper, but she has her admirers.”

“And as far as you know, how did the two girls get along?”

The doctor tried to recall:

“I don't remember seeing them much together, but as far as that goes, when there are clients around the girls tend not to interact much. Still, if you can stand to hear a secret without running screaming from the room, I can tell you that I know a guy whose friends, for his birthday, bought him a couple of hours alone with both girls, and according to what the guy had to say later, there was no apparent friction between the two of them. Quite the contrary. The birthday boy couldn't stop laughing like an idiot for two days.”

Maione went on brushing his trousers:

“So right, then, just out of curiosity, how much could one of those little parties cost? Just to get an idea of how long a doctor's salary could last.”

Ricciardi didn't want to encourage digressions.

“What about the hours? How do the schedules work?”

Modo laid out what he knew:

“Let's see . . . generally speaking the girls have the mornings free until lunchtime. Some of them see their boyfriends, you'd be surprised to know how many of them lead ordinary lives; they rarely go out to do any shopping, for the most part they ask those who work in the at the bordello to buy them cosmetics, undergarments, and so on. Around three in the afternoon, they start getting ready; half an hour later the bordello opens its doors, and they start parading on the balcony you've already seen.”

“Which means,” the commissario commented, “the girl's murder took place just as the establishment opened for business. This restricts the possible ring of suspects to those who were there in that short span of time.”

Maione explained further:

“And therefore, the last two clients: Coppola, who says he left her alive, and Ventrone, who says he found her dead.”

Ricciardi added:

“They're not the only ones . . . Any of the bordello's employees could have come in, or any of the other girls, or even one of the other girls' clients. The circle is still too large.”

Modo broke in:

“You're right, Ricciardi. Also because pressing a pillow down on someone's face by surprise doesn't take all that much strength, and the lesions that I found could have been inflicted by a woman.”

Good point, thought Ricciardi.

“All right, Bruno. I'm going up to have a chat with the ladies and the girls. You go ahead to Gambrinus and I'll be along in half an hour: I promised you lunch, didn't I? Come on, Maione. Let's go have some fun.”

I
n the large drawing room of Il Paradiso, the atmosphere was quite different from the last time. Horror, fear, and grief had given way to boredom and worry.

The boredom was all on the part of the young ladies, who lolled about smoking and talking, moving from one chaise longue to another. The pianist Amedeo was tickling the ivories halfheartedly, and a couple of the girls were pretending to dance to the waltz he was playing, sketching out off-kilter ellipses across the carpet.

Worry, on the other hand, was concentrated in the imposing person of Madame Yvonne, who hurried over the moment she saw them.

“Commissa', you absolutely must allow us to open for business, and immediately! You don't have any idea of the damage you're inflicting on us! Yesterday we had to throw away a huge amount of food, the tradesmen keep coming with their deliveries, we can hardly send them away. And I can't tell you how many phone calls we've received, our clients are bound to go elsewhere, you can't imagine how little it takes to lose a customer, it's enough for them to go to another establishment and have a good time once, and they'll never set foot here again! And what's more . . .”

Ricciardi raised one hand to halt the flood of words:

“Signora, please calm down. We need some information and then, if everything works out, you'll be able to open up again. After all, we only closed you down yesterday and there was a dead girl in a room here. That hardly strikes me as excessive, no?”

Madame had no intention of ceasing her litany of complaints.

“Are you dismissing the losses that we've suffered? The grief for Viper, who was like a daughter to me—dearer than a daughter!—besides, she was also the star of Il Paradiso. It was for her, just to see her, that many of our customers came! Not only is she gone and I have no idea who could ever replace her, but now you've also shut us down.”

Ricciardi listened impassively, then said:

“I fully realize. That means it's all the more important for you to supply us with the information we need, and as quickly as possible.”

Yvonne spread her arms wide in resignation.

“Ask away, Commissa'. We're at your service.”

“Yesterday I asked you to give me the names of Viper's most devoted customers, and Signorina Lily commented that that was an easy one. What did she mean?”

The woman answered quickly:

“Nothing to hide there, even if we always try to avoid these kind of situations because of the dangers that they can entail. Viper had only two clients: two people who paid for all her available time.”

“And was that expensive?”

“Certainly, it was very expensive. Viper's rates were quite different from the numbers you've seen posted on the wall, Commissa'. And her percentage was very different too, she kept nearly all the money for herself, we scarcely made back our money on the room, her food, and her cosmetics.”

Ricciardi listened with keen interest.

“In that case, what was in it for you?”

“Like I told you, Viper was important. People came here just to see her—if you only knew how many tourists passing through the city. They'd ask at their hotels: who is the most beautiful whore in Naples? And they all got the same answer. Then, once they came in here, they'd choose one of the other girls, and we'd get their money. As for having her, it was those two and no one else.”

“And that didn't bother you?”

Madame shrugged her ample shoulders.

“Why on earth should it? They paid, she was happy, and in a certain sense it was fascinating to see something beautiful and not to be able to have it. The other men let off steam by drinking, eating, and taking other girls to bed.”

Ricciardi decided to try a sudden lunge.

“Were you aware that Viper had received a proposal of marriage from one of her two clients?”

Madame didn't blink.

“Certainly. She told us herself that the blond guy, Peppe' a Frusta, the one who sells fruit and vegetables, had asked her to marry him. We laughed and laughed about it!”

“You laughed? But why?”

“Because why on earth would Viper, the most famous whore in all Naples, want to give up her earnings, the veneration of so many men, and the lovely life she was leading just to be a housewife in a shanty in Vomero, to bring up children surrounded by steaming piles of horseshit? She would never have agreed to that.”

Ricciardi wanted to understand fully:

“Still, my information suggests she didn't turn him down immediately. Apparently she asked Coppola for a few days to think it over.”

“I'm sure she didn't want to hurt his feelings. After all they knew each other as children, Viper had told me that story. Still, he was just a tradesman, even if he spends—or rather spent—lots of money here. Maybe Viper, before telling him to go to hell, wanted to wring more cash out of him. Maybe she was afraid that when she told him no, he'd never come back. But no question, she was going to turn him down.”

The commissario thought back to the sight of Coppola sobbing.

“What about her other client, Ventrone?”

“Ah, certainly, he's a real gentleman. A discreet and respected man, unfailingly polite. Also, he has plenty of money; his business selling saints and madonnas is very profitable and his company is well-known. He'd been our client for many years, then once he'd seen Viper he refused to go to bed with anyone else, except for every now and then.”