Vipers Read online

  At that point, Augusto had felt it was his duty to have a man-to-man talk with his father, in part because he’d recently noticed a slight drop in the number of customers, and he was a very keen observer of these kinds of things, having inerhited from his mother a certain, let’s say, attention to the practical side of life. He’d said to him, not in so many words: Papà, if you want to have fun, that’s your business; but discretion, in a business like ours, is a necessity. Given that, I have to beg you to stop letting people see you enter and leave that place, which after all is only a few hundred yards from our shop.

  That fool had looked at him and said: my son, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not doing anything wrong, I’ll spend my money and I’ll go wherever I want. And after all, I only play cards there. You know that I live for the memory of your sainted mother.

  Augusto was left with no alternative but to pray that Vincenzo would come to his senses, while every day more and more people came to see him, feigning compassion, to tell him the details of his father’s affair with the famous Viper, the most notorious prostitute in town.

  That day, however, something new must have happened. His father had come home much earlier than he usually did, pale as a ghost and trembling, the very opposite of how he’d looked when he’d walked out, frisky and fragrant, into the fresh spring air. He’d muttered something about not feeling well and needing to go to bed (his own bed, for once). Augusto had told him not to worry, that he’d look after the store. As if that were somehow a novelty.

  Dusting off angels and saints, the young man indulged in the second smile of the day: a real record. And he decided that there are times when prayers are even answered.

  Especially if you lend a hand.

  Maione had understood perfectly what the commissario wanted him to check up on, when he’d nodded his head in the direction of the door to Lily’s room—she was the woman who’d claimed to have found Viper’s body—and he’d understood exactly what doubts his superior officer was entertaining.

  They went back down to the main hall, followed by an increasingly concerned Madame Yvonne. They went over to the group that had clustered in the corner furthest from the staircase, as if death was contagious, as if its miasma might condemn them too.

  There were about a dozen girls, of varying ages: there were very young ones, no more than twenty, and women who were probably past thirty, the marks of hard living just beginning to appear on their faces, their expressions hard and suspicious.

  All different in their features and origins, brunettes, blondes, and redheads, dyed hair and natural colors, shapely and lean. Clothing and makeup designed to titillate and attract, and in that new and terrible context it all seemed like a grotesque masquerade. A few of them were weeping softly, blowing their noses every so often.

  There were also three men. One was introduced by Yvonne as Amedeo, the piano player: a fidgety little man with tapered fingers and a wispy mustache that was being shaken by terrified shivers. A dapper, elderly gentleman in a tailcoat was announced as Armando, the butler, who actually made a formal bow, as if he were at a ball. The third, a strapping, shifty young man who grunted hello, was Tullio, Madame Yvonne’s son: the woman explained that he was a handyman, in charge of maintenance, and also took care of security. All three of them swore that they hadn’t left the main hall all morning.

  Once they’d taken names and gathered what little information was forthcoming, Ricciardi summoned Lily.

  The girl hadn’t changed expression or attitude; now that he’d seen all the girls, including the victim, the commissario had made up his mind that the blond was the most attractive, with the possible exception of Viper herself: but her physical beauty clashed with the girl’s hard and determined features.

  “Signorina, can you confirm the statements you made earlier? That you found the body, by looking through the half-open door in the victim’s room, while you were walking to the balcony for a new customer?”

  The woman held Ricciardi’s gaze confidently; that didn’t happen often.

  “Yes, that’s what happened. I found her. Around three.”

  “And did you call for help immediately, calling for Madame?”

  “Certainly.”

  Ricciardi exchanged a glance with Maione, who was desperately trying to keep his eyes from resting on Lily’s spectacular breasts.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  The young woman betrayed no surprise.

  “Ah, no? And why don’t you believe me, Commissa’?”

  “First: because Viper’s bedroom is at the end of the hallway, and you wouldn’t have gone by it on the way from your room to the balcony. Second: because you said that you had finished and that you normally tidy up your room before bringing in another customer, and Maione saw for himself that your bed is rumpled and unmade. Third: because through the gap of the half-opened door you can’t see the leg dangling from the bed, but only the fingertips of one hand.”

  Lily had listened to Ricciardi’s tirade without blinking, her hands on her hips.

  The commissario said:

  “Who are you covering for, Signorina? And why?”

  The question was met with silence. The girls looked at one another, no longer weeping. Madame Yvonne was twisting her hands, in a state of anxiety. Ricciardi said loudly:

  “If that’s the way things are, then this establishment is going to remain shuttered and you won’t get to leave until I’ve discovered who actually found the body and in what circumstances; this is necessary information, and without it you all can’t get back to business. On the other hand, I want to be clear that finding a corpse does not amount to the commission of a crime, and therefore this stance may only be casting suspicion on an innocent person. We have all the time in the world. We can wait.”

  Madame Yvonne took a step forward, her eyes on Lily, and said in a broken voice:

  “I can’t allow this, if we have to stay closed, we’ll be finished. Already, having a death in here is a terrible tragedy for our establishment’s good name: our only hope is to get right back to work. Commissa’, Viper’s body was found by one of our clients: Cavalier Vincenzo Ventrone, proprietor of the sacred art shop.”

  VI

  Dr. Bruno Modo entered the large drawing room panting, his collar unbuttoned, his hat askew, and his bag in hand.

  “Here I am, what’s happened? Which girl was it?”

  Ricciardi and Maione could hardly help but notice that the doctor’s demeanor was quite different from his usual: normally, even in the presence of the most heinous murders, he remained detached and ironic, even as he brought to bear his vast and impassioned expertise, which is why the police continued to request his personal assistance.

  This time the doctor’s brow was furrowed by a deep crease under the shock of snow-white hair. He seemed pained and frightened, the way one would be when summoned to rush to a family member’s aid.

  Maione walked toward him.

  “Dotto’, buonasera. Unfortunately, there’s no need to hurry. That girl’s not going anywhere ever again. Her name is, or was, Cennamo. Maria Rosaria Cennamo.”

  Modo gave him a bewildered stare:

  “Cennamo? Who’s that?”

  Madame Yvonne took a step forward as if she were stepping onto center stage, and intoned dramatically:

  “Viper, Doctor. Viper, our own Viper, is dead.”

  The doctor took off his hat and scratched his head.

  “Viper. Poor girl. Where is she?”

  Ricciardi walked slowly over to him.

  “Ciao, Bruno. So you knew her, this signorina?”

  The doctor grimaced wearily.

  “Oh, ciao, Ricciardi. At least it’s you, on this case, and not one of your incompetent colleagues. Yes, of course I knew her. Everyone in the city knew her. In her way, she was a celebrity. And after all, I’m someone who kn
ows all of these girls.”

  He waved to the group of women in nightgowns, who all responded affectionately in return.

  Ricciardi sighed.

  “I’m well aware that you’re familiar with this place.”

  The doctor was preparing a retort when Maione broke in:

  “Speaking of family members, Dotto’, is that famous dog still with you?”

  “Of course he is, Brigadie’. Why on earth would he leave me, with what I feed him? Sure, his ideal meal would be ground policeman, but he finds that all too rarely in his bowl.”

  Maione snorted.

  “My flesh would be too tough to chew, Dotto’. You’d probably blunt the edge of your scalpel if you tried.”

  “In any case, the dog is downstairs. He’s just like Ricciardi, he doesn’t like to come into places like this. He waits for me, and if I’m in here too long, he even starts to howl. I’ve acquired a mother-in-law, not a dog.”

  Ricciardi pointed upstairs.

  “Come on, let’s go take a look at the young lady. After all, this lovely reception is being held in her honor.”

  While Modo was focusing on the corpse, Ricciardi examined the bedroom more carefully.

  It seemed that nothing was missing nor, at first glance, was there any reason to suppose that theft had been the motive. The drawers were all shut, the jewelry box on the dresser was full, and in any case, none of the baubles inside seemed especially valuable, junk for the most part, gaudy but made of cheap metals. The chaos that reigned in the room was only the result of the girl’s messiness.

  He started searching more carefully.

  He looked in the dresser drawers, turning up nothing other than a vast assortment of elegant unmentionables, culottes, brassieres, stockings, and negligees of every cut and color. No letters, no documents.

  And no whips.

  He looked on the floor, under the carpet, beneath the bed. He noticed that everything was very clean. But he found nothing.

  He realized that in all likelihood there’d been a brief struggle: whatever had been atop the nightstand had been swept off, possibly by the woman herself as she thrashed frantically, seeing as her left leg had been very nearby; apart from a few hairpins and a nail file, there was nothing on the nightstand. It must not have made much noise, because some of the objects had fallen on the bed and the rest onto the thick carpet that covered the floor; nothing had broken.

  The commissario focused on the objects that had been knocked off the nightstand, but here too nothing seemed out of the ordinary: a bottle of glycerine, a container of talcum that hadn’t burst open as it fell; nail polish, a small mirror with a handle, a small bottle of perfume with the name “Fleurs Parisiennes”; a round tin of face powder without a lid, but practically empty; a brush made of inlaid wood, a comb, and a cigarette case. All of them scattered across the carpet, with the exception of the face powder, the perfume, and the brush, which were on the bed.

  Ricciardi reflected on how grotesque it was to see all this makeup and cosmetics in the grim presence of death. Beauty, cared for, cultivated, and then wiped out with a single act of violence.

  He noticed that on the pillow that had been used to suffocate the girl there were a number of blond hairs, as well as on the brush; he filed away that detail.

  Modo called him: the doctor had completed his initial summary examination. In the meanwhile, the photographer too had arrived; the commissario warned him take particular care with his shots.

  VII

  Modo shook his head sadly.

  “Mamma mia, what a shame. Believe me, Ricciardi, Viper was a very beautiful woman. So beautiful. I’m so sorry that you had to see her so beat up. She had dark deep eyes, glittering with life, plump lips, and a graceful way of moving that drove men mad.”

  Ricciardi was impressed: he’d never heard his friend so raptly absorbed in a description.

  “What about you, Bruno, were you . . . I mean, did you see her?”

  A melancholy expression appeared on Modo’s face.

  “No, no. I come here to have fun, to drink and to play cards. The young ladies who warm my skin are more cheerful and unassuming than Viper. Also, from what I heard, she had very few clients. For Madame Yvonne she was like a kind of publicity, a flesh-and-blood advertisement. Certainly, this is a major loss for her.”

  “Yes, so she told me. I might have some more questions for you about life in this place, that way you can raise yourself from necrophiliac butcher to police informant. But tell me something else: did you notice anything about the girl’s body?”

  Modo, in spite of himself, chuckled briefly.

  “There, now I recognize you: the real Ricciardi, the one who, as soon as the conversation veers onto lighthearted topics, steers it straight back to his world of blood. Well, no, little more than what you’ve certainly already guessed: it must have been over quickly, the murderer or murderess shoved her onto the bed and put a pillow over her face, and that was that. Death by suffocation; nasal septum fractured, bleeding of the upper and lower lips due to pressure against the teeth. She didn’t have a chance to cry out to anyone. She kicked a little: there’s a small ecchymosis on her foot, it must have hit the nightstand.”

  Ricciardi decided that the picture he’d developed matched perfectly.

  “What about her hands? Did she try to defend herself, did she manage to . . .”

  “No, no scratches on the murderer, there aren’t any traces of skin under the fingernails. Unfortunately, there aren’t any fingerprints: she struggled to get the pillow off her face, that’s the only thing she touched.”

  Modo had immediately caught Ricciardi’s drift: the presence of scratches and cuts on the hands or forearms could certainly have helped to identify the murderer.

  “Of course, I reserve the right to come back to you with more information after the autopsy, which I intend to perform with extreme care: anyone capable of murdering such a beautiful woman, a woman who definitely freshened the foul air of this city, deserves the worst punishment possible.”

  Ricciardi shrugged.

  “That’s the kind of attention that we give all murderers. One last thing, Bruno: I’ve heard that in places like this they sometimes, let’s say, play games that can turn a little rough. That some people, in other words, like to use . . . things that could hurt. Sometimes, the games can get out of hand, and lead to uncontrolled violence, even to death.”

  Modo was staring at him, arms folded, and with an ironic glint in his eyes.

  “Well, lookie here: the monastic Ricciardi, the high priest of self-mortification himself, the man who never has fun, not even by accident, is all caught up on sadomasochistic practices. Yes, of course, people like the oddest things: and in places like this one, people come to try out things that they’d never have the nerve to suggest at home. And I certainly can’t rule out that poor Viper might have been particularly gifted in this sector, in fact, I think I even heard something to that effect, some time ago, in the waiting room. But I can rule that out as a contributing factor to the crime.”

  “And how can you be so sure?”

  “Simple. As you saw for yourself, she was still wearing her undergarments. There was no sexual intercourse underway, nor was there afterward.”

  They walked downstairs to the large drawing room. Ricciardi addressed Madame.

  “Signora, for now I’d ask you not to move anything, and of course, we can’t allow you to reopen for business. An officer will remain here until the morgue attendants arrive. No one will be allowed to enter the bedroom.”

  The woman put a hand to her forehead and clutched at the side of the desk, as if she were about to faint.

  “Commissa’, you’re going to ruin me! Already this is Holy Week and we get little enough business as it is, but if we shut down then we’ll lose even those few customers and that’s the end! How am I supposed to fe
ed my girls and my employees?”

  Ricciardi didn’t blink an eye:

  “I’m very sorry, but that’s the way it is and that’s the way it’s going to have to be. A murder is a serious thing, you know. The most serious thing that can happen. I need more information: you are to draw up a list of the clients that were present here when it happened, aside from this Ventrone. Now, tell me: apart from the entrance where we came in, are there any other ways in or out?”

  Yvonne shook her head no, to the sound of jangling earrings.

  “Only the tradesmen’s entrance, but that leads directly into the kitchen. They use the little side door, off the vicolo, but if a stranger or someone unusual had come in that way, the cook and his assistants would have to have seen him.”

  Ricciardi nodded.

  “Fine. No one is to leave town without asking permission from police headquarters, and you, Signorina Lily, you are not even to leave the building or talk on the phone. Officer Cesarano will stay here to keep an eye out, and you, Maione, remember to send someone to relieve him, at least for the day tomorrow. That goes until you make up your mind to tell the truth.”

  The young woman smirked sarcastically.

  “So it’s more or less like being under house arrest. Hardly new to me.”

  Ricciardi looked at the girl’s long blond hair, tied up in a bun.