By My Hand (9 page)

Maione was the first to recover.

“Signor Consul, thank you for agreeing to see us. I'm Brigadier Maione of the mobile squad of the royal police, and this is my direct superior, Commissario Ricciardi. We're here about . . .”

The consul interrupted him:

“Yes, yes, Brigadier. Unfortunately, I know why you're here. And I'd like to thank you first of all for what you're doing to bring justice to bear on the cowardly murderers who have made that poor little girl an orphan.”

Ricciardi studied the officer's face, trying to work out his real intentions; but all he saw was what the man's words had already expressed.

“Signor Consul, that's why we're here. You must be well aware that the work that Garofalo . . . that Centurion Garofalo did, his work could have been . . . in fact, in all likelihood
was
the reason for which he and his wife were so savagely murdered. That's why we're starting from this office. We'd be grateful for any information about him: names of colleagues, a list of the most recent cases he'd worked on, any eventual disagreements or quarrels, threats he might have received. Everything.”

Freda nodded. Then, unexpectedly, he got to his feet and, hands clasped behind his back, walked over to the balcony, from which could be seen the salt water of the harbor. The cargos of several ships were being unloaded.

“Commissario, what do you know about our organization? About the port militia, I mean to say?”

Ricciardi looked at Maione, then shrugged his shoulders.

“No more than what everyone knows. That you oversee the loading and unloading of freight as well as fishing. That you're a corps of judicial police, operating in the port and along the coast.”

“No, that's not what I was asking. How we recruit, do you know anything about that? Who we are, in other words.”

“I know that young men can opt to join the militia, as an alternative to the draft. That you're paid a daily indemnity, which makes it easier for you to staff your ranks. That you're fairly selective as far as the criteria for enlistment are concerned.”

Freda continued to look out at the sea.

“Yes, everything you've said is true. But there's more.” He turned to look at his two guests, without moving from where he stood by the balcony. “You know that this is a relatively new corps, founded only in 1923. In the immediate aftermath of the March on Rome, in other words. ‘Mussolini's military prosthesis,' as one journalist described it. Of course, that journalist is no longer writing.”

“I imagined as much,” Maione murmured.

Freda smiled.

“Exactly right. Il Duce said that
squadrismo
, the uncontrolled strong-arm activism which was the heart and soul of the March on Rome and of the very birth of the Fascist movement, must be kept alive. And so he founded this corps, the militia, which was then divided into its various forms: the forestry militia, the railroad militia, the postal and telegraphic militia. And us, the port militia.”

Ricciardi wondered where the consul was heading with all this.

“Alongside the volunteers, who often had no military experience, and the pioneers of Fascism, who were full of ardor but also, from certain points of view, potentially dangerous, it was decided that genuine soldiers were needed to lead the corps. I for example was a captain in the Italian navy. I had commanded a cruiser, and my life was out there, on the open sea. You can't imagine how much I miss it, the fresh salt air.”

“If I'm not being indiscreet, Consul, why did you accept?” Maione asked.

“Do you really need to ask, Brigadier?” Freda replied, looking out again at the sea. “There are certain . . . proposals that you can't refuse. I was told in no uncertain terms that in any case I'd be assigned to administrative duties, on shore. And that my indemnity would be sufficient, if I chose to accept, to keep my family in a manner far better than what they'd been accustomed to. I was told that it would only be for a few months, perhaps a year, and then I could return to sea, with a more prestigious command. But it's been six years now, and I don't see any changes in the offing.”

Maione and Ricciardi exchanged another glance. They'd hadn't even expected to be received, and now here they were, the recipients of the personal confidences of the commandant of the legion.

“This is just to make it clear to you that ours is no ordinary corps of volunteers, much less an auxiliary structure attached to the port authority. Other . . . organizations collaborate with us, and report to the same high officials, in Rome. We have very special duties, of which not everyone is aware.”

Ricciardi wondered once again just where the consul was heading with this line of conversation.

“Forgive me, Signor Consul; our visit today has nothing to do with any inquiry into your operations here, nor into those of the late Signor Garofalo. We just wanted to ask a few questions to find out whether anyone had any resentment toward him. That's all.”

Freda nodded, in the direction of the water. Then he turned around and looked at the commissario, expressionless.

“How are you feeling, Ricciardi? The accident on the Day of the Dead didn't have any unfortunate consequences, aside from the wound to the back of your head that Dr. Modo sewed up with six stitches?”

L
ast night I dreamed. It must have been because of all that wine.

I dreamed that I was climbing the stairs to your apartment; that strange doorman was out cold, drunk as usual, and he didn't see me go by. My steps didn't make a sound, as if I were barefoot.

I was knocking at your door. Your wife came to answer; she recognized me, and she smiled at me. Oh, how furious that smile made me: it was as if she didn't know what had happened, what you had done to me.

I dreamed that I had the knife in my hand, the regulation knife. And I got your wife out of the way with a single slash, without pleasure, but also without remorse. Then I found you, in your bedroom, with my bloody knife dripping on the floor. And you looked at me, and you laughed, unafraid. You were telling me that that's life, that those who can take will take. That's what you always said.

And I stabbed you. Once, ten times, a hundred times I stabbed you. And every cut was an arrow, just like the ones piercing Saint Sebastian's body, you remember? We wondered that a hundred times, why they had chosen Saint Sebastian.

At the end of the dream, you were dead, but you went on laughing anyway. I woke up, and there was no blood on my hands.

God, what a lovely dream. It must have been the wine.

 

 

 

A
leaden silence followed the consul's words. From the window came the sound of a siren announcing an arrival or departure in the harbor.

Maione's mouth snapped shut and he swallowed with a gulp. Then he said:

“Just what is that supposed to mean? What do you know about the commissario's accident?”

Freda approached the desk and sat down calmly, then put on a pair of half-lens reading glasses with a gilt frame and, picking up a sheet of paper, read in a faint voice:

“Now, let's see: Raffaele Maione, fifty-one years of age. Promoted to brigadier five years ago. Three distinguished service citations, one meritorious service notice, and two favorable mentions. Congratulations, that's an outstanding record. Married to Signora Lucia Caputo, resident at Vico Concordia, 16. Five living children, three sons and two daughters. The eldest, Luca, likewise a member of the police force, deceased three and a half years ago in the line of duty, during a police roundup—I'm very sorry, please accept my condolences. Weaknesses: he likes to eat with gusto and drink, in moderation. There's also a note about a friend of yours, a signora who lives in Vico del Fico, the victim of a face-slashing in the spring of this year, but just a friend.”

Maione had had the wind knocked out of him. He went on staring at the consul, wide-eyed and breathing heavily. The man went on.

“You're the favorite associate, the only one apparently, of Commissario Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi, thirty-one years of age, born in Fortino, in the province of Salerno, near the Lucania border. Your details, Commissario, are even more interesting. You're wealthy, quite wealthy indeed; but your funds, your farmland, and the properties you own in your hometown are all under the management of Rosa Vaglio, your childhood nanny, who also lives with you. All the same, a couple of foremen are embezzling freely; the poor woman can't catch everything. If you like, I have the names, and I'd be glad to give them to you.”

Ricciardi looked the man in the face, expressionless, both hands clenching the armrests of his chair. Freda continued.

“Particularly brilliant on the job, no friendships with any of your colleagues as far as we know; in fact, they don't much like you, as far as we can tell, with the exception of Brigadier Maione here. No career ambitions, to the delight of your superior officer, Deputy Chief of Police Garzo, who is an incompetent.”

Maione, who was just recovering, murmured:

“That's in the report, too?”

“Yes, that's in here, too. As well as the friendship . . . the devotion, I dare say . . . of the Signora Lucani Vezzi, who is a personal friend of the Mussolini family no less, and a former opera singer. That's something that plays to your advantage; whereas something that plays to your distinct disadvantage, in contrast—and in fact it's even underscored in red—is your friendship with Dr. Bruno Modo, suspected of militant anti-Fascism, though he is a respected doctor at the Pellegrini hospital. You have successfully solved a number of noteworthy cases, such as for instance the murder of the tenor Vezzi, who was the husband of the lady I just mentioned; the case of the Duchess Musso di Camparino; and so on. I imagine everything here is correct.”

Ricciardi replied promptly:

“Why this display of information, Consul? What is it you're trying to tell us?”

Freda held his gaze for quite some time, then replied:

“This report, addressed to my personal attention, was delivered by a man dressed in black, about an hour ago. He told the guard downstairs that you'd be here in forty minutes, and you arrived exactly thirty-eight minutes later. The man said that it would be best to receive you immediately. This is how they do it, every time: to report some fraud that bears investigation, to alert us to some transaction that might appear aboveboard but which in fact conceals something. Other times, we're only asked to monitor a shipment, or else the movements of a particular person: a specific name departing for a given destination, someone else passing through the port.”

Maione was disconcerted.

“And they don't even tell you why? And who are they, for that matter? Who are these people who know everybody's business?”

“No one's ever told me explicitly, Brigadier. Neither me nor any of the other commandants of the legion. Officially they don't exist, and they never will; but in reality, they are the ones pulling the strings of a great many marionettes. Commissario, I simply wanted to show you that this murder, which took place here, on our home turf, is a much more serious case even than it appears; because it's actually an assault on the uniform, this uniform, and against the very regime this uniform represents.”

Ricciardi drilled in.

“So just what is all this supposed to mean? In what way should the scope of this crime weigh on our investigation?”

Freda fiddled with his spectacles, then replied:

“If, as we believe, the murder has to do with Garofalo's work, the performance of his duties, then I would ask you to report that to us; that would give us a chance to put things back where they belong, to make sure that the outside world doesn't get the impression that there might be any flaws in our operation. That would be serious, very grave indeed.”

Ricciardi shook his head.

“So that you can do what, exactly, Signor Consul? To give you, or the gentleman dressed in black who brings you these dispatches, an opportunity to beat the law to the punch, thus avoiding a trial that might make public some inconvenient details and lead to riots in the streets?”

Freda suddenly slammed his fist down on his desk, causing pens, inkwell, and blotter to rattle. Maione leaped in his chair, while Ricciardi, as usual, didn't bat an eye.

“Ah, then you refuse to understand! Let me explain to you: This is the most important port in the nation, the busiest in terms of both passengers and freight. We must supervise the wharves, the warehouses, the adjoining waters, and the ocean liners and steamers as they arrive and depart. It is our duty to monitor all the cargo before it's loaded aboard, including railroad cars; we perform political surveillance on both crews and passengers, and we're responsible for public safety during boarding and disembarking. We are the first face of the nation's armed forces that foreigners encounter, and the last when they leave. When one of our officers is murdered, it isn't a common street crime; it's an affair of state!”

Ricciardi didn't change his tone.

“And what is that supposed to mean? Every murder victim is a very serious matter to us. Every single murder victim screams out for help, and demands that we set things right. If you want to push us aside, you only need to call Rome and arrange for the case to be assigned to the military police. Why don't you?”

Now Freda had lost his aplomb.

“You know perfectly well that that's not possible!” he roared. “On paper my men are volunteers, no different in status from any other civilians. This was a choice made by the party to avoid being subjected to the rules of recruitment that apply to the army and the navy. Also, Garofalo wasn't murdered in the barracks, he was killed at home, in his bed. This places the murder entirely outside of our jurisdiction, blast it!”