A Florentine Death (7 page)

'I noticed his height and build, obviously. He was tall, I'm sure of that, about six feet tall. Good build, slim, athletic. Quite short hair - at least it looked that way from behind, I mean it was thick but didn't touch the top of his collar. He was wearing a dark suit, and I had the impression he was very young. And obviously not from round here.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Because of his clothes. The young men around here wear jeans and waterproof jackets all year long. It's like a uniform. But this man was wearing a smart, well-cut suit, dark, maybe even black. He wasn't wearing a coat.'

A black suit? You mean like a dinner jacket and trousers? Or the kind of thing priests wear? You don't see many black suits these days.'

'No, no. I don't think so. Definitely not a dinner jacket, and not a priest's suit either, I'd say . . . though, thinking about it, I couldn't completely rule it out. I'm not even very sure it was black, like I said. It could have been dark grey, or dark blue. The street's in the shade, and at that time of day it's not easy to see things clearly'

'But you're sure it was a man?'

'Oh, yes. If it had been a woman, she'd have had to be very tall and athletic, and very well disguised.'

'But we can't rule it out completely,' Ferrara remarked, almost to himself. 'And what about the hair? Dark, fair? Smooth, curly?'

'Wavy and fair. I already said that, it must be in my statement.'

'Of course, but you know how it is, I like to hear things for myself. Please bear with me just a little while longer. Do you remember anything else about him? Was he wearing glasses, for instance?'

'I couldn't see that. Like I said, I only saw him briefly and in passing. I don't put my nose into other people's business, obviously' The woman sounded as if she was losing patience.

And obviously that's the window.' He couldn't help himself.

'Yes, that one,' the woman replied curtly, responding to his involuntary provocation.

Ferrara went to the window and looked down at the shop. There was a good view from here, so good that you could tell whether or not the interior of the shop was lit. From that height, though, the angle could be deceptive, and it wasn't easy to judge how tall a person was.

If only the woman had been nosier, he thought. Or had opened the window a few minutes later, when the person was coming out. . .

'Thank you for your help,' he said. 'Please don't trouble yourself, I know the way out.'

Wrapped up warm in his overcoat and scarf, he strode along the Via Santo Spirito and stopped at the first bar-tobacconist's he found. It was already nearly one o'clock and the place was crowded with tourists and locals.

At the tables and the counter, the main topic of conversation was the murder of Alfredo Lupi.

'I always thought there was something not quite right about that one,' an elegant-looking woman was saying.

'He was a bit strange, that's for sure,' her friend replied. 'But
i
talked to him a few times and he seemed decent enough.'

'If you ask me, he was mixed up in something,' a man said. 'It happens all the time in that line of business.'

'A small thief shouldn't steal, because the big thief makes sure he swings for it,' the barman said, quoting an old Tuscan proverb.

A beer and a roll,' Ferrara ordered. 'Ham and cheese okay?'

'That's fine. Did you know the young man who was murdered?'

'He had a bite to eat here a few times, like everyone.' 'What kind of man was he?'

'Fairly average. Quiet, kept himself to himself. I don't think he had any friends around here, I never saw him with anyone.'

'Did you notice anything unusual lately? Any strangers lurking around?'

'Everyone here's a stranger. Foreigners, Italians, they're all tourists. Are you a journalist?'

'No, just curious.'

He went to the cash desk, asked for two boxes of Antico Toscano cigars, paid and left.

As it was not raining, he decided to go back to Headquarters on foot, by way of the Via Tornabuoni, San Lorenzo, the Piazza del Mercato and the Via Santa Reparata. A half-hour's walk would do him good.

Halfway across the Ponte Santa Trinita he stopped to look at the Arno, swollen by the recent rains. The water swept along, as if trying to wash away every remnant of nature. But it could not wash away the mysteries that continued to shroud Florence as they had always done.

A strange city, Florence, he reflected. One of the most beautiful, most beloved cities in the world, steeped in history and full of art treasures, it offers itself to visitors like a generous courtesan. But if on the one hand it flaunts itself, on the other it shuts itself up behind the heavy doors of its palatial houses, jealously guarding a privacy that has to remain inviolable, and leaving us to wonder what is concealed within those walls, what memories of past plots and betrayals.

These were the two faces of Florence. They had cast a spell on him as soon as he had arrived, and he knew they would keep him here to the end of his days - an event someone had decided to bring about sooner than anticipated.

Perhaps, he thought, if the Latin warning turned out to be accurate, his death, too, would be ascribed to the vortex of mysteries that seethe beneath the city and only occasionally bubble to the surface, almost as if to remind the world that evil, and only evil, is immortal and never fades. Not even if you cover it with the pure, virginal grace of a Botticelli Venus or try to crush it beneath the weight of Michelangelo's David.

When he got back to Headquarters he sent for Rizzo.

'Welcome back, chief,' Rizzo said, coming into the office. 'How was Vienna?'

'Like a dream. But now it's over. Nice way to start the new millennium, eh?'

'We certainly finished the old one in style,' Rizzo commented laconically. His mood seemed even grimmer than Ferrara's.

'So, nothing new on the Micali case, I gather.' 'Nothing at all. We checked everything we could. His friends, his bank account, even his relations with suppliers.

We turned his apartment upside down, examined every address book, notebook, every piece of paper. We questioned his neighbours - nobody has the faintest idea about anything.'

'What about the priest? Does his alibi still hold?'

'The parish priest confirmed that from one o'clock to just after two they went through the accounts together, then Don Sergio went off to get candles for the altar. We haven't found anything to contradict that. As for whether Don Sergio is gay, nobody's saying anything, and there's no way of proving it. If you want the truth, chief, I'm just about ready to throw in the towel. With everything else on my plate, I can't keep putting resources into this. When you get down to it, the man was a queer, pardon my language, and nobody except the priest seems at all sorry he died.'

'That's the curse of our profession, Rizzo. There's never time to concentrate on one thing, there's always something else to do. But we don't give up. Unsolved cases should never be closed. They should always stay with you, somewhere at the back of your mind. Sometimes a clue turns up out of nowhere after months or years, and you'd better be ready to grab it when it does. And anyway, the city is sorry he died, even if it doesn't know it. It's important to remember that deep down, Florence is scared. Because whatever you think of the case, there's still a killer at large. Maybe it was an 'accident', let's put it like that, and won't be repeated. But let's not forget how Micali was killed, the way the killer kept stabbing him. There was something too savage about it. It wasn't just some private settling of scores. That's my feeling, anyway'

'Mine, too. But what should I do? Hope that the killer strikes again? And how many times?' There was bitterness in his voice.

'Keep your eyes open. That's all I'm asking. What do you know about the two murders yesterday?'

'Everything. I was with Alfonsi at the old man's place. We only just got back. Poor guy made a full confession. The case is in the hands of the judges now . . . The other murder, now that's a different story. It might turn out to be as much of a mystery as the Micali case.'

'In this case, too, the killer stabbed his victim in the face and the upper part of the body'

'But the murder weapon was a gun. And there's no gay aspect, which I'm sure is at the root of the Micali murder. Alfredo Lupi was a married man with a little child.'

'That's true. Let's call in Violante and Serpico and have a brainstorming session. I don't know if you were told, but I've already been to the Via Santo Spirito.'

'Okay. I'll call them.'

While they were waiting, Ferrara asked Rizzo how he had spent the Christmas holidays, and he was about to reply when the telephone rang.

'There's someone called Beccalossi on the line,' the switchboard operator announced. 'He asked to speak to you or Superintendent Rizzo.'

'Beccalossi? Who's that?'

'The owner of the shop where Micali worked,' Rizzo whispered, his eyes lighting up with a sudden interest.

'Put him on,' Ferrara said, switching on the loudspeaker. 'Hello?'

'This is Superintendent Ferrara.' 'I can't hear you very well.'

'I put on the loudspeaker so that Superintendent Rizzo, who's here with me, can hear you,' Ferrara said, making sure he covered the rules for the protection of privacy.

'You sound distant.'

The advantages of technology!

'Don't worry, I can hear you perfectly well. Please go ahead.'

'I know it may not be important, but— well, you did say to let you know if . . . Anyway, I've just discovered there's something missing from the shop. I've been doing the end-of-year stocktake, and it turns out one of the black notebooks with a cross on the cover has vanished. The day before Micali died, there were twenty-two - he wrote it down in the ledger, he was very finicky. Since then I've sold four, and one ended up under poor Stefano's body, as I'm sure you remember. But there are only sixteen left.'

'I see. Anything else?'

'No, that's all. Is it any help to you?'

Anything might be of help. Thank you very much. And don't hesitate to call if you think of anything else. You've been a great help.'

He hung up. He remembered the forensics report, how they'd had to scrape the blood off what they'd thought at first was a little Bible or prayer book, but had turned out to be only a notebook with blank pages.

The two superintendents looked at each other disconsolately. The gleam had gone from Rizzo's eyes.

'Let's begin with the motive,' Ferrara said to start the ball rolling. 'There's always a motive, however obscure. It may just be insanity, but there's always something that drives a man to commit murder. Once we pin down the motive, we're halfway there.'

They were again sitting round the rectangular meeting table, which was near the wall opposite Ferrara's desk.

'I'd rule out theft,' Chief Inspector Violante said. 'The victim's wallet was untouched, and nothing had been taken from the till.'

And a thief wouldn't have butchered the guy like that,' Rizzo said. 'Maybe it was the work of a religious fanatic, or a psychopath, maybe someone who went inside the shop because one of the religious objects on display reminded him of some terrible thing in his past. Once he was inside, he saw the assistant and for some reason he was like the embodiment of whatever it was that had happened to him. He flew into a rage and killed him.'

'I don't like it,' Ferrara said. 'It's too literary, too much like a novel. But we can't rule it out completely. It could provide a connection between the murder in the Via Santo Spirito and the one in Greve. The latest victim also worked in a shop full of religious objects. Though the fact that the killer used a gun in this case rather contradicts the idea of a sudden fit of rage. But I wouldn't rule out the idea that there's a homicidal religious fanatic walking the streets. Maybe he carries a gun for self defence.'

'In my opinion, Alfredo Lupi was the intended victim,' Rizzo said. 'I think the murder was premeditated. Let's look into his private life, find out if it's true that he had no enemies.'

'Good idea. What about you, Sergi, what do you think?'

So far Serpico had remained silent, seeming slightly embarrassed in front of his superiors. Ferrara had noticed, and was anxious to bring him into the discussion.