The Bottom of Your Heart (42 page)

Suddenly it was painfully clear to him what Enrica had been asking, when she wrote about that Friday appointment with Manfred.

It was a plea for help.

R
icciardi stared at Nicola Coviello's apprentice in surprise: “Ex-voto? What do you mean, an ex-voto?

“Yes, Commissa'. What do you call them? Those objects that you donate to the church, dedicated to saints, for a grace received or in order to ask for one.”

Maione broke in: “The commissario knows perfectly well what ex-votos are. He wants to know what kind of ex-voto.”

Sergio lowered his voice, tense, as if anxious not to let his boss overhear him. The morgue attendants had untied the corpse from the rafter and laid it on the floor, where the physician was performing a rapid examination. The noises made the boy jump, though he continued to obstinately face the wall, so he wouldn't have to look.

“I saw that he'd just started working on the engravings, Commissa'. But it was very beautiful. He . . . he had a kind of magic in his hands. There was no one else like him.”

Ricciardi was starting to run out of patience: “Yes, but what was it? What did it depict, what was it shaped like?”

“A heart, Commissa'. It was a heart with a flame over it, big, and all in solid gold. It must have been worth a lot of money.”

An object of great value, and a man in a great mood who had killed himself after being the last person to see a murder victim alive. The picture was getting complicated.

Maione asked: “Who has the key to the safe now?”

“I don't know, now. He . . . he kept the keys to everything, to the shop, the safe, and his apartment, in his pocket, hooked with a fob chain to his waistcoat pocket. They were always on him. I didn't check to see if . . . if he still has them.”

Maione and Ricciardi turned to look at the corpse, which the young physician was still examining. The brigadier went over to him: “Dotto', forgive me: can I ask if you're almost done?”

The young man got to his feet, adjusted the gold-rimmed spectacles on his nose, and cleared his throat. He was thin, looked younger than thirty, and the center part in his hair was so perfect it seemed it had been drawn with a ruler.

“It's certainly a suicide, Brigadie'. There are no signs of a fight, nor are there contusions of any kind. The rope seems to be the kind used to moor boats, it was neither greased nor soaped, so it jammed, and the poor man died of suffocation. Not a nice death. He hauled himself up by himself, using his own bare hands, which show marks from his grip on the rope: he must have had exceptionally powerful arms. Sure, he was light, skinny as he was, but still, it took considerable strength. In any case, based on the stiffness of the corpse and the hypostatic stains, I would say that death took place three or four hours ago, at most.”

Ricciardi asked: “Doctor, do you see any signs of disease or illness? Anything that might have led him to . . .”

“. . . to actually kill himself? No, Commissa', I really don't think so. Certainly a quick glance at these deformities, his kyphosis, suggests his life can't have been easy, but I don't think he was suffering from any extreme pain. He was healthy. I'll be able to tell you more after the autopsy, of course.”

Maione had gone over to take a look at the clothing: “Ah, here they are, the keys. Just like the boy told us.”

He picked them up and shook them so they jangled. The apprentice jumped and put both hands on his face. Ricciardi nodded, and Maione headed over to the heavy safe in the corner of the room. He opened the massive door and bent over to peer inside. Then he turned around: “Nothing, Commissa'. There are just a couple of empty boxes, some notes with columns of numbers, and that's all.”

Ricciardi looked at the boy: “When did you last see him working on that object?”

“Last night, when I left. I think he must have been putting the finishing touches on it: there were certain noises he made, clucking noises, whenever he was putting the finishing touches on something, Commissa'.”

“And he was cheerful, you said.”

“And how. I'd never seen him like that.”

There was just no figuring it out. Who had ordered the object from Coviello? And when had Coviello delivered it? Was there a connection to Iovine's death? And most important of all, why did the goldsmith kill himself, taking all the answers with him to the grave?

The corpse was loaded into a wooden casket and then into the morgue's van, under the curious eyes of the many windows overlooking the
vicolo
, as well as of Donna Enza and Donna Amalia, those watchful sentinels. Ricciardi touched the apprentice's shoulder: “He's gone. You can turn around now. I'd like you to examine the workshop carefully and tell me if there's anything there now that wasn't there before, or if anything that should be there is missing, aside from the ex-voto we were discussing.”

The young man slowly turned around. His eyes went immediately to the rafter at the center of the ceiling, from which his employer had hanged himself. Perhaps at that moment, thought Ricciardi, the boy was able to picture the man as, in the dim light, he grabbed the rope, hoisted himself up, and slipped his head through the noose, only to let himself drop; and perhaps he felt pity for that deformed body, those powerful, sensitive hands, that silent, grieving soul.

The apprentice began to cry. Maione coughed, touched. Ricciardi, saddened, allowed himself a glance at the shadow in the corner that kept repeating, from the mouth with its bulging black tongue and the rivulet of red drool:
the bottom of your heart
.

But whose heart?

After blowing his nose on his sleeve, the boy began exploring the workshop. He moved objects aside, lifted benches and stools, checked racks on the wall.

Then he came to a stop behind the workbench, in the exact spot where Coviello sat when he was working, in the cone of light from the oil lamp. He reached out a hand, then drew it back. Then, he pointed with a trembling finger: “Right here, Commissa'. Here. This wasn't here, I'm sure of it.”

Ricciardi drew closer. At the edge of the workbench, carved with some pointed tool so masterfully that it appeared to have been written with pen and ink, a few words stood out in all capital letters:

 

AT LAST I CAN DEPART

 

The commissario raised his eyes and found himself staring at the facing wall, at the old calendar with its faded drawing of a steamship. Behind him, equally faded, Our Lady of Mount Carmel was tenderly caressing Her child.

What could have made the goldsmith feel he was
finally
free to make that last, definitive departure? Ricciardi turned to the boy, the only person he knew of who had been in contact with that shy, silent man, with the exception of the late professor: “Listen, Sergio. Do you remember Iovine, who commissioned the jewelry from Coviello?”

“Yessir, Commissa', I remember him. He's the one who wanted the two identical rings. Those are major rings, they cost as much as an apartment: the diamonds are large and pure, especially the diamond on the second ring, the one that was made afterward. He must have been very rich, that professor. It was after he finished those rings that my master stopped taking on new work.”

“And do you remember how many times he came, and what was said?”

Sergio concentrated: “Twice when I was here, Commissa'. He said that his wife had been given Mastro Nicola's name by some girlfriends of hers, and that was why he had come to ask him to do this work for him. Then, when he came back, he said that he needed another ring for another person, and that he was relying on my master's discretion.”

That matched what they already knew. Ricciardi sighed, defeated.

Then Sergio said: “I remember it clearly, because the first time he came, it was the day after the lady with the veil.”

Maione practically jumped into the air: “What lady with the veil?”

“She came here late one evening, Mastro Nicola was teaching me how to work with coral. She knocked on the door, she was wearing a hat with a dark veil, and I couldn't see her face. Mastro Nicola said: we're closed, come back tomorrow. And she said: tomorrow, there are no steamships departing. Then Mastro Nicola told me to leave immediately.”

The brigadier asked: “What was this lady like? Tall, short, young, old? And what did Coviello do?”

The apprentice shifted uneasily.

“She was normal, neither young nor old, neither tall nor short. But Mastro Nicola turned white as a sheet, and his graver dropped out of his hand. I asked whether he felt all right: he looked as if he'd seen a ghost. But he just told me again to leave, and in a hurry.”

Ricciardi pressed further: “And the next day, did he say anything?”

“Nothing. A few days later I asked him if the lady had commissioned some new work from him, and he raised his voice: what lady? There's no lady. You must have dreamed her. That's why I remember her: because of what Mastro Nicola said to me.”

At last I can depart
, Ricciardi read on the edge of the workbench in the silence that followed.
The bottom of your heart
, the image of the dead goldsmith murmured from the shadowy corner.

He felt exhausted. Maybe it was that heavy air. He needed to get out of the workshop.

Outside, in the heat of the rising sun, Ricciardi decided that at last he had a lead.

O
n the way back to police headquarters, Ricciardi and Maione found themselves plunged back into the dark thoughts and glum moods that had oppressed them that morning. They were both wrapped up in the same fear. How little of themselves had they devoted to that investigation? How badly had they been distracted by their personal problems?

Ricciardi had the impression he now possessed all the elements he needed to arrive at the solution, but he couldn't find the thread, the connection between the individual fragments that would allow him to put together the picture.

Maione said: “I can't imagine why Coviello killed himself. He was untroubled, in fact he was downright cheerful, according to what the boy told us. He was completing a major project, so major he was even keeping it a secret from his own apprentice, then he finished it and killed himself. But why?”

Ricciardi was walking with his head down, his hands stuffed in his pockets. An unruly lock of hair dangled over his forehead.

“I don't know, Raffaele. I wonder whether there could be some connection between the veiled woman and this ex-voto. Whether the secret client was her. But if she was the one who commissioned such a significant project, why didn't she go to Coviello's workshop more than once, to see how the work was coming along?”

Maione mopped the sweat from his brow every three paces or so. The sun beat down mercilessly.

“And another thing, Commissa', is there some connection between Coviello's suicide and the professor's murder? There's no suicide note, and he didn't say anything to anyone. Maybe they're two unrelated incidents.”

Ricciardi made a face: “One man delivers jewelry to another, who is tossed out a window a few minutes later; the first man is the last person to see the other man alive, and he has probably met or glimpsed the murderer who was waiting outside the office, and then he kills himself. I don't believe in coincidences, Raffaele. Two fatal events just a few days apart and a single person as the common denominator: Coviello. It seems unlikely to me that there are no correlations. We just need to identify them.”

They'd reached the door to Ricciardi's office. As he opened it, the commissario perceived a vague, spicy scent of perfume and the thought of Livia was promptly confirmed by her physical presence. She was sitting in front of his desk.

He felt annoyed at that invasion of his personal space: how dare she enter his office in his absence?

“What are you doing here? Who let you in?”

Livia turned a hesitant smile in Riccardi's direction, but the spoken answer came from the occupant of the other chair, concealed behind the coat rack: “Oh, here he is, our man Ricciardi, at last! It's a good thing I happened to meet the lovely lady, who was wandering the halls; while you, Ricciardi, spend your time pursuing yet another criminal, such an important visitor—and let me repeat:
important
—is forced to wait for you here. What on earth were you thinking?”

At the sound of Garzo's voice, Maione, behind Ricciardi's back, emitted a dull snarl, like a dog would, sighting a cat.

The commissario replied, courteous and cold: “
Buongiorno
, Dottore. Yes, in fact we were out on duty. I don't know if you've heard about the suicide of the prime witness in the Iovine case, but we'd been to examine the scene and . . .”

Garzo waved one hand in the air, as if he were shooing away a fly: “Yes, yes, I know. Work. But it's also your job to look out for the safety of the important individuals who live in our city. And to ensure that the events, let me repeat, the events that are being held here go off without a hitch, so that they can bask in the prominence they deserve. That's why Signora Livia came to visit us—to come to an understanding about these security measures.”

Ricciardi's tone remained dry: “With all due respect, Dottore, I believe that a murder and a suicide are slightly more urgent than a masquerade ball that . . .”

He was interrupted by a falsetto shriek: “What? A masquerade ball? But . . . but you never told me
that
, my dear lady! What a wonderful idea, this party will go down in city history! I would imagine that even in Rome the personalities—and let me repeat: the
personalities
—that you've invited will be over the moon with delight! I have to tell you that when I received the invitation, for which I must thank you again, I felt honored and happy, and I felt even more keenly than before a responsibility to ensure the highest possible level of security by means of a surveillance plan that I worked on myself and which I will submit for your perusal.”