Susan Anderson - No More Brothers

When he finished, he tossed it on the desk. “All here, as you say. Signed by the prisoner, dated yesterday. I can only imagine what Colonna promised Abatti.”

“And later, when the thrill of Abatti’s capture fades and the whispers begin about bad blood between the brothers, what happens then? If it’s discovered that there are holes in Abatti’s confession, that the shoemaker arranged for Ugo’s murder-even helped his hired man by poisoning Ugo’s wine-it will look like our investigative techniques are expedient and slapdash. Journalists will crucify us. The public will feel duped and rightfully so.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Your arguments are sound.” For a moment, he gazed at nothing, nodding his head up and down. “Then, my dear, you must continue your investigation. Be quiet. Be discreet. Be quick-faster than those inky fingers can fan the flames of public sentiment. Our reputation is at stake.”

“To say nothing of justice.”

“Precisely.”

“I’ll talk to Colonna.”

He sighed. “Colonna is a trusted investigator, but he’s a straightforward man. Doesn’t believe in hunches or in a wizard’s canny leap. Doesn’t do well with digging. One day, I want to see you both working together, but not just yet, and certainly not now.”

“But I could use the help.”

“Not his.”

She bit her lower lip.

As he spoke, he took a letter from his middle drawer, folded it, and affixed his seal. “Killing by using the hands of another is hard to prove, but it happens more often than we like to admit-a favorite with the new bandits. In this case, when Abatti takes all the credit for the killing and his motive is so strong-it might be impossible to support. Unless, of course, the shoemaker confesses.”

Handing her the vellum, he continued. “This identifies you as my special agent. You’ve earned it. If Abatti were to recant his confession, or if you find enough evidence implicating the brother, take the shoemaker in for questioning, and we’ll give the town something to talk about. In the meantime, let the people mourn their loss. Let me see…” He riffled through the papers on his desk. “The funeral is Tuesday the 19 th.”

Straightening his sash, he turned from her and considered the scene out his window.

A film of water covered the skins of things down here, Serafina thought. It beaded on her upper lip and in her armpits as she followed a guard down the circular staircase of Oltramari’s jail. Moisture dampened the flame on her torch so that she could see no more than a few centimeters ahead. It was like being wrapped in a foul-smelling dream. She saw a dark form scurry past, perhaps Ugo’s shade, here to exact its revenge.

When Serafina entered the room, the guards said in unison, “Rise, please.” A shackled Abatti stood with difficulty, eyed Serafina, said nothing. She breathed in audibly. The pity she felt for him was unexpected and strong. His face was haggard. His shirt was torn, yet he looked like a man unafraid of death.

She handed her torch to a guard and sat down, motioning for Abatti to take his seat. Her eyes studied his face, looking for an involuntary grimace, a tremble in his hands, a sidelong glance. She found no signs of fear.

“You confessed to the murder of Ugo Pandolfina.”

“Proud of it. I’d murder Ugo a hundred times over, that bastard.”

“You had help.”

He shook his head.

“Was there another who wanted his death?”

“Hundreds. Thousands.”

“Name them.”

He didn’t answer. She waited.

“To my comrades who survived Milazzo, I’m a hero.”

She knew it was hopeless, yet something perverse made her persist. “What was his name, the one who poisoned Ugo’s wine?”

A long moment passed. They seemed like hours. The torch sputtered and the guards grew impatient, but she let silence bore into the layers of his courage before asking again, “Who poisoned him?”

“I did.”

“When?”

“While we drank that evening.”

“What evening?”

“Evening I killed him. Sunday.”

“Where?”

“Killed him in a grove in the foot of the Madonie Mountains.”

“You know what I mean. Where did you poison him?”

“Café down the street, Boffo’s.”

“Boffo’s is closed on Sundays.”

He said nothing.

“Who helped you, Abatti? Who gave you the Marsala Medal?”

“It’s mine!” He glared at her. “I earned it.”

“I didn’t find your name on the list of recipients.”

She saw beads of sweat run down his face and lose themselves in the folds of his neck. The guards moved from side to side.

“Where is your Marsala Medal now?”

“Guards have it.”

“And you think they’ll bury it with you? Don’t be naive.”

She watched a new shadow cross his face.

“I want his name, Ugo’s poisoner.”

“Abatti is his name, Ezzo Abatti.”

She waited a few moments in silence. Convinced, finally, that Abatti would never talk, she gathered up her reticule and said, “If you change your mind, have the guards send for me.”

Walking home, she was glad for the drying sun on her face and the smells of early spring.

Despite the commissioner’s advice, Serafina entered the wing of the Municipal Building reserved for police, detectives, and inspectors. Why did the commissioner consider Colonna a good detective? He had nothing but kind words for him. She felt her cheeks burn and her step quicken. Men stick together, she decided.

Was her judgment of Colonna too harsh? Did she want all the glory as Carlo had warned her last week? Should she confide in Colonna, ask for advice? She’d shivered at the thought, but she’d meet with him. She’d show her son. After all, she couldn’t continue acting alone and now she could use the fat inspector’s help.

He was seated behind his desk when she knocked on his door.

Colonna bit on a toothpick while he listened to Serafina’s arguments implicating the shoemaker’s direct involvement in his brother’s death.

“Do you mean Abatti’s not the killer? You found the murder weapon on his person. He confessed. Would you like to read it?”

“He lied about poisoning Ugo.”

“An insignificant detail. The commissioner is happy with your work-the murder of a military hero solved in a day or two. Townspeople will see the killer pay for Ugo’s murder.”

“We’ll hang the wrong man and there’s not much time. We’ve got to stop him.”

“Who?” Colonna looked amused with himself.

“The shoemaker, of course. He planned the murder, contracted Abatti to do the deed, and helped his hired man by adding a small amount of arsenic to Ugo’s wine.”

“How do you know? Were you there? Does the shoemaker know Abatti?”

For an instant, a half-formed image flickered in her mind before it died. She reminded Colonna of the evidence found in Ugo’s home-the wine glass and napkin with traces of arsenic that Abatti knew nothing about. She told him of the shoemaker’s suspicious behavior during her interview with him. “Told me he hadn’t seen his brother in six or seven years when in fact he met with him each month.”

Colonna leaned forward and she could smell stale garlic. “A bit of advice. You are a good investigator. In time, you may approach my expertise, but you need to learn when to quit.”

“And Ugo’s gold and silver?”

The inspector looked around to make sure the shadows had no ears. “I called him in. The shoemaker and I came to a little understanding. I helped him with the red tape. He took the pot of gold-most of it-and I found a dealer for the silver. Not strictly my duties, I admit. And, all right, meddling in your case a bit, I grant you, but…you need experience in these matters and I knew I could help, just like I did with Abatti’s confession.”