Death in a Serene City (10 page)

“Barbara, nothing can be done now. I'll go to the Questura tomorrow to make a statement.”

“I'm not talking about doing something at this moment, Urbino, and I'm certainly not talking about making a statement at the Questura. I think it would be disloyal to make a statement anyway.”

“Disloyal? To whom?”

“Can't you see? To Carlo. And not only to Carlo but to Maria, too. She loved her son, no one will convince me any different—and he loved her.” She paused. “And there's someone else to take into consideration, in case it hasn't occurred to you.”

“Who?”

“Me! I'll never forgive you if you do anything to prevent the return of Santa Teodora.”

How his friend had reached this point in her logic was far beyond him, but he had come to expect such things of her.

“Aren't you being a bit extreme, Barbara? I'm only going to make a statement at the Questura. That can only help everyone concerned. At any rate, I don't have any choice, do I? I'm sure it's required by law.”

“Oh, the law!” she said angrily. It was a few moments before he realized she had hung up.

7

EARLY the next morning he went to the Questura to make his statement. On his walk to the plain building in the quarter beyond the Bridge of Sighs he put from his mind any thoughts of disloyalty. He was a man going to do his duty, something he would have done with just as clear a conscience back in New Orleans.

He gave his statement to Gemelli and a stenographer as gulls screeched outside the windows. The sound startled him, making him realize he was more on edge than he had thought. When he finished describing what had happened the night before, the stenographer left to have his statement typed for signing.

Alone with Gemelli, a dark, good-looking man in his early forties, with a military bearing, Urbino decided to take a direct approach.

“For what my opinion is worth, Commissario, I don't believe Carlo Galuppi is the culprit here.”

Gemelli raised his eyebrows.

“‘Culprit,' Signor Macintyre? Come, come, you know our language very well. I prefer ‘murderer.'”

“But he wasn't acting like a criminal at all. He was afraid, yes, but in a pathetic kind of way. His speech impediment was more pronounced than usual. No, Commissario, I don't believe it. In all these years I've known him I—”

He broke off as Gemelli shook his head.

“Murderers are seldom strangers to others, Signor Macintyre. In fact, they usually know their victims very well. And believe me, they have family and friends like everyone else. They can even give to charities and love children and animals.”

“What I meant, Commissario, is that Carlo Galuppi is not the kind of person who would do something like this.”

“I am well aware of what you meant, but let me say again that I disagree. Galuppi is our primary suspect precisely because he
could
have done something like this, as you express it. Once again your euphemism is amusing. ‘Something like this' happens to be the brutal murder of an old woman and the theft of the body of a so-called saint. I call it theft, but perhaps I could just as easily call it body snatching or grave robbing or the kidnapping of a prominent figure, we've seen enough of that in this country lately.”

“But what motive could he possibly have had?”

“Forget about motive for a minute. Galuppi had opportunity. He's one of the few people who can come and go freely in that church at any time. Despite his deformity many parishioners have probably stopped seeing him. He's just part of the scene. As for motive, he hated his mother, for one thing.”

“Hated her? If my observation of human nature means anything, Carlo Galuppi—”

Gemelli waved his hand in the air.

“All right, maybe hate is too strong. Call it resentment, deep resentment. I've already had two phone calls from people who, understandably, want to remain anonymous. But both said the same thing: Galuppi had good reason to hate his mother.”

“What exactly did they say?”

For the first time since Urbino had come into his office Gemelli looked uncomfortable. “Excuse me, Signor Macintyre, but I shouldn't have mentioned the calls at all. I only did it to impress on you that Galuppi might have had reason to kill his mother. I don't want to frighten you but it's not at all inconceivable that you might be in danger yourself. Perhaps you don't know as much about our Italy as you should. How could you? But we understand crimes like this. A wife poisons her husband, a father shoots his daughter, a sister stabs her brother.”

“But a son killing his mother?”

“Ah yes, this is perhaps a little more difficult to understand in our country of
la mamma
, but such a son, such a mother?”

Urbino rose from his chair.

“Excuse me, Commissario, but I don't think you should be so quick to form judgments about these people or the crime itself. It's not the best procedure for someone in your position, I would think. Isn't it just as logical to assume that Maria was there in the church when someone came in to steal the relic? Why would Carlo want to take the body of Santa Teodora? And why would he take it after he had already struck out at his mother? No, I'm not Italian but it's possible I know more about these people than you do. Maria Galuppi was a simple woman who loved her son and Carlo, despite his appearance, is a gentle soul, more to be pitied than feared. You speak of crimes of passion, Commissario, but Venice isn't Sicily.”

Gemelli had risen too. A flush was creeping over his face. As Urbino knew from the Contessa, Gemelli was originally from Sicily.

“I'd appreciate if it you wouldn't imply that I don't know my job, Signor Macintyre. What you are giving is your opinion. We will take it into consideration along with all the others but so far yours is in the minority. Our two callers both said that Maria Galuppi mistreated her son, at least verbally, and even Don Marcantonio has told us that Carlo seemed afraid of her at times. In fact, he's heard them arguing in the sacristy on one or two occasions, he thinks he even heard them mention Santa Teodora. And don't forget that Carlo did show up at your door last night with a pillow slip stained with blood, the same blood type as Maria's and, I might add, blood that came from a female, not a male. I've just received the laboratory report.”

Gemelli shook his head. The flush was gone now. In its place was a slightly irritated, weary expression.

“Listen, Signor Macintyre, we appreciate your concern. Not everyone would be so quick to defend an old washerwoman and her son who's something of a frightful joke in the Cannaregio. But Galuppi is all we have to go on at the moment. He's our primary suspect and until we get more evidence—something the scene-of-crime unit comes up with or perhaps a ransom note or information about someone suspicious in and around San Gabriele—well, until then my report must reflect the information we have up to this point. We know that Galuppi was in San Gabriele shortly before his mother's body was found. We also know that he appeared a short time later at the Palazzo Uccello with the bloodied pillow slip. He's nowhere to be found. He's fled, he's hiding somewhere. You mentioned that I shouldn't be too quick to form judgments but here in Italy we move differently than you do in America.” A smile came over his face as he said, “I have a cousin, an
avvocato
in New Jersey. He visits us maybe once every two, three years, and we always end up arguing about the differences between the handling of crime and punishment in our two countries. We never reach a conclusion, we never convince each other. What more can I say, Signor Macintyre? Galuppi is all we have at the moment. This doesn't make him guilty, but neither does it make him innocent. If we are lucky—and luck plays a larger role in these cases than you might imagine, luck and informers, that is—yes, if we are lucky then this affair will be cleared up by
carnevale.
”

“Or else it might be bad for business, mightn't it?”

“The Questura isn't concerned about business. We leave that to you Americans, along with some decidedly naïve notions about guilt and innocence.”

Assuming that this was his dismissal, Urbino started to put on his coat.

“Excuse me, Signor Macintyre, but you aren't finished yet. We need your identification.”

“My identification? But surely someone else has already—”

“Not the body, Signor Macintyre, your laundry.” There was a hint of a smile on Gemelli's handsome face. “Come with me.”

Urbino followed Gemelli to a small, dark room at the end of the hall. It was filled with file cabinets, bookcases, and wooden and cardboard boxes. Gemelli pointed to a carton on top of a file cabinet.

“If you wouldn't mind going through it, we would appreciate it.” As Urbino approached the carton, Gemelli added, “The bloodstained pieces are still at the laboratory. There were several. You'll get everything back eventually.”

Urbino examined a few pieces, then turned to Gemelli.

“They're mine.”

“But is it all there? Not counting the bloodstained pillow slip, a white monogrammed towel, and two pieces of underwear—unmonogrammed.”

“Commissario, there is no way for me to be sure everything is here. I wasn't in the habit of making out a laundry list. Perhaps I'll notice something missing later when I need it.”

“Like another pillow slip? People usually have at least two.”

Urbino went through the laundry piece by piece.

“There were two.”

“We have only the one. May I ask why you have such large pillow slips, Signor Macintyre? Three, four times the usual size?”

“Because I have such large pillows, Commissario. Both the pillows and the pillow slips are custom-made in Milan. But I don't see what importance their size has.”

“In addition to indicating a man who likes his peculiar comforts, it gave the murderer a convenient way to carry away the body of Santa Teodora.”

“But surely her body could never have fit!”

“From what can be determined there probably isn't much substance left to the body. Even a body five years old would have been in poor condition in Venice's damp atmosphere, but one from the tenth century—even given a miracle if you believe in such things—would probably be only dust by now, dust and some bones. Who really knows what condition that body was in? Don Marcantonio has resisted any attempt to have it examined since he's been at San Gabriele. Even throwing in the garments, the shoes, the mask, and—who knows?—those legendary jewels, it's not hard to imagine everything fitting into one of your pillow slips.”

After helping put the laundry back into the carton, Gemelli detained Urbino in the hallway for a few more minutes.

“Try to understand our position here at the Questura, Signor Macintyre. We have a delicate situation. It's not just the murder of a defenseless old woman. That would be bad enough. We don't have many violent crimes here in Venice—thefts, yes, frauds, purse-snatchings, graft, the city is rife with these. We handle them as a matter of course, and sometimes we feel we're going crazy, especially during the tourist season. Murder is an ugly thing. I'll never become accustomed to it and I never want to. If I had my way—which, contrary to what you Americans might think, the police in this country definitely do not have—but if I did, I would go after whoever killed Maria Galuppi with every one of my men here.

“But there's another factor, the relic. The Vatican has already contacted us twice and they're sending an official from something called the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. And, believe me, the Vatican won't be satisfied until that relic is returned and although they won't go on record, you can be sure, they seem much more concerned about finding the relic than the murderer.”

“Is that so much of a conflict, Commissario? Whoever took the relic also murdered Maria Galuppi. Find the relic and you'll find the murderer.” It all seemed so clear to him.

Gemelli shook his head and smiled.

“I'm not so sure of that. You see, Signor Macintyre, I'm not as quick to form judgments as you think. If you need to speak with me, my secretary will put you through right away. Good day.”

8

ON the way to the Piazza Urbino bought a copy of
Il Gazzettino
. There were several front-page articles about Maria's murder but he only glanced at the headlines before putting the paper in his coat pocket. He would read it at Florian's over a much-needed cup of coffee.

As he passed the café-bars with their stacks of sweet rolls and small crustless sandwiches or
tramezzini
, the boutiques, souvenir stands, and pastry shops, he barely glanced in their direction, and returned the occasional greetings absently. He thought only about his conversation with Gemelli.

When a young couple asked him to take their picture with the Bridge of Sighs in the background, he just stared at them for a few blank moments until they repeated the request. Then he took the camera and pointed it vaguely in their direction, handing it back without a word.

Almost everything Gemelli had said was disturbing, and not only what he had said but also the way he had said it. Although Urbino understood that under the circumstances Carlo couldn't be anything but the prime suspect, he also realized that for Gemelli to be so self-satisfied about it was far from professional behavior in a high-ranking officer of the Questura.

But maybe Gemelli hadn't been completely straightforward. Last year in the same office with the gulls screaming outside he had made a point of telling Urbino just how little he understood the laws protecting the buildings in the city, although Urbino had known that it was Gemelli himself who was either misinformed or hoping his version would be believed. There had been a strain between them from the time they had first met and today's encounter hadn't helped any. He wouldn't be surprised if the man had some ulterior motive for making it seem he believed Carlo was the murderer, for misleading him. Perhaps he even—