FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 10:30 P.M.
AT HALF PAST ten in the evening, after repeating his alibi for the umpteenth time, Leonardo Ulmo told Inspector Paoloni that he could no longer take it. Paoloni nodded as if he understood, said he would see what he could do.
But they kept him there.
Leonardo said all he had done all day was deliver boxes of groceries in the Monteverde neighborhood. Blume nodded appreciatively and wrote this down. Leonardo became more specific about his day. Blume asked about his delivery to the apartments at No 7 Via Generale Regola.
Leonardo explained he had had two deliveries to make at this address.
Two boxes of groceries to Block C, Apartments six and ten on the third and fifth floors. Also two packs of Nepi mineral water for Apartment six.
Block C had no elevator. Most of the deliveries he made were to apartment buildings with no elevators.
“Yeah? How’s that?” asked Blume.
“The people who live in buildings without one often have their groceries delivered. That way they don’t have to carry them up the stairs. I do.”
Blume peered at him from over the tips of his fingers. “OK,” he said finally. “That makes sense. Go on.”
“So I’m bringing up the boxes on the . . .”
Blume held up a hand. “What’s with this getting right into the middle of things? First of all, who sent you?”
“My manager at the supermarket,” Leonardo explained.
“Described by my colleague as a sweaty bastard who wears a striped shirt and white belt?”
“That’s the one.”
“Did you deliver anything before Via Regola?”
“Yes. To Via Regnoli, Carini, Quattro Venti.”
“And after?”
“Piazza Cucchi.”
“You can give me the exact address?”
Leonardo could. Blume wrote it down, then said, “Are you thirsty?”
“I’m dying of thirst,” said Leonardo.
“Be right back,” said Blume and left the interrogation room. He got the number from the address Leonardo had given him and called. A woman answered, and was quickly able to confirm her groceries had been delivered at precisely eleven o’clock that morning. It was during the news, she said, just before her favorite comedy DJs came on Radio 2.
It was not a total alibi, but it was close. Blume went up to the ground floor, bought two bottles of water, drinking his own on the way back, cursing himself for being fooled yet again into paying a euro for stuff that ran free from the taps. He stuck the empty bottle into his pocket. He would use it for refills.
He handed the other bottle to Leonardo, who drank it in a single draught.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. So, after the delivery to Piazza Cucchi, you went back to the supermarket?”
“Yes. My arrival time is logged, so you can check that.”
“OK. Let’s go back. What time did you get to Via Regola?”
“Must have been half past ten.”
“Must have been or was?”
“Was, must have been. I don’t know. A bit later. Ten forty, OK?”
Blume drew three circles around ten forty on his pad.
“I parked the Iveco alongside a row of cars, opened the back doors, took out the porter’s trolley and two boxes and the water.”
“A porter’s trolley?”
“For carrying the boxes and the mineral water.”
“You pull the boxes all the way up the stairs using this metal trolley thing, bouncing from step to step all the way to the top? Wouldn’t it be quicker just carrying them yourself?”
“Maybe, until my back caves in.”
“OK.”
“So I got to the apartment block, pulled in the trolley with two boxes and two packs of mineral water.”
“Who let you in?”
“I don’t know. The front door was open, anyway.”
But Blume had not reached the front door yet in his mind’s eye. He was still standing on the street outside the apartment lot. “The front gate to the courtyard was open?”
“Yes,” said Leonardo.
“Was the porter on duty?”
Leonardo thought about it for a moment. “No. I don’t think he was. No. It was very quiet. Hot. A lot of shutters closed because they’re all on holiday.”
“So you get to Apartment Block C. And the front door is already open. Why is that?”
“It’s got a faulty lock. It doesn’t always snap shut.”
“So in you go.”
“No. First I buzz on the squawk box to announce I’m on my way.”
“Which intercom?”
“Both. Top apartment, which is number ten and the one on the third floor, which is number six. I pressed both buttons together.”
“Who answered?”
“I don’t know. When I heard the intercom being picked up, I just yelled ‘groceries.’ I was already half in the door by then.”
“How come you remember the numbers of the apartments?”
“I’ve been doing the job for eighteen months. These guys are regulars.”
“Do they always get deliveries on Fridays?”
“One of them does. The other is more irregular. I suppose I remember them also because they’re both men. Most of the deliveries are to women.”
Blume placed his fists on the table and leaned in closer. “Can you remember the names on the door? Relax, close your eyes, think about it calmly.”
“I’m not calm.”
“No reason not to be, Leonardo. You’re being really helpful. Ten more minutes here is all, I promise.”
Leonardo closed his eyes. “The upstairs buzzer has one name only. It’s German or English. The downstairs one has two names. On the top is Romano, or Romagna, Romagnolo or something. The other name . . . No. Begins with an L: Or is it a C? That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Something happened to the guy on the third floor?”
Blume ignored the question and looked at his pad. “You’re in Block C, at the bottom of the stairs. What then?”
“I went straight to the top floor first.”
“You carried all the boxes up to the top floor?”
“No. Way I do it, I drop off the box of groceries and the mineral water for the apartment on the third floor landing on my way up to the top. I get to the last floor, deliver the other box. Then, on my way down again, I ring, guy opens the door, I push it in, he gives me a tip.”
“The apartment on the third floor. Is it always a man who answers?”
“Usually. Sometimes a house cleaner.”
“How do you know she’s a house cleaner?”
“Old. Older than him. Also, you can tell.”
Blume picked up his pen again, and said, “OK, what about the man? What’s he like?”
“Sometimes he chats, sometimes he pretends I don’t exist. I prefer it when he pretends I don’t exist, because then he usually tips. When he chats, he doesn’t tip.”
“And today, how did he behave today?”
“I never saw him today.”
“You never saw him?”
“Not today. I got to Apartment ten at the top, rang the doorbell, this skinny German guy who lives there answers, all dressed up in sportswear, like you.”
Blume looked down at his hairy legs. “Then the guy downstairs, can you tell me what we said his name was?”
“We didn’t,” said Leonardo.
“Right, we didn’t. Well, the name is Arturo Clemente.”
“I go back down the stairs with the trolley, and when I reach the landing outside Apartment six, the box and the water six-packs are gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone. I figure he must have opened the door, pulled them in by himself, and closed the door so as not to give me a tip. Stingy bastard.”
“You didn’t ring the bell to check?”
“What’s to check? Only reason would be to ask for my tip, but I’ve got some dignity.”
“Did he ever do that before?”
“Not tip? Yes, like I told you. But I don’t remember him ever pulling the groceries in off the landing.”
“How did he know they were there?”
“How the hell do I know? He opened his door, saw them. I just know they were gone. I rang the intercom downstairs, remember?”
Blume tapped the pen against his front teeth. It was a metal pen, and clacked as it hit the enamel.
“What then?”
“Nothing. I left.”
“What time was this?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, twenty to eleven, a quarter to.”
Blume asked, “Could anyone have come into the building without you hearing?”
“Sure they could.”
“So did anyone?”
Leonardo closed his eyes again. Then he opened them again. “I can’t remember.”
“Just think of the sounds you heard,” said Blume. It was almost a gentle invitation.
“Wait. Someone was playing piano.” Leonardo grinned, pleased with himself.
“Fast? Slow? Good playing? Maybe it was a CD?”
“Slow—but fast bits, too. It wasn’t a CD. The person went back and played the same piece a few times.”
“Just piano music?”
“Yes.”
“Can you hum the tune for me?”
“No.”
“Try.”
“I can’t. It was classical music.”
“OK. Any other sounds?”
“It’s was kind of a quiet, sleepy afternoon. I can’t remember any more sounds. Apart from the cicadas. Wait, there was another sound, like someone hitting woodwork.” He hit the table with the base of his palm. “Sort of like that. Three, four times.”
“From where?”
“From below, when I was sliding the box into the apartment upstairs.”
“OK, Leonardo. That’s good.”