Conor Fitzgerald: The dogs of Rome

“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.”

FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 11 P.M.

Investigating Magistrate Filippo Principe was waiting when Blume came out.

Principe nodded at the door to the interrogation room. “No defense lawyer present, so his statements are legally worthless.”

“I know that,” said Blume. “But he’s not our man.”

“Is he likely to cause trouble about this interrogation?”

“No. He’s a nice guy.”

Blume went up to the ground floor where he found Zambotto leaning against the jamb of a door halfway down the corridor, staring at a vending machine like it was a TV screen. He called, and Zambotto came lumbering down the corridor, unhappy to be wanted.

“What?”

“I want you to prepare it as a voluntary witness statement. Did you ask the supermarket manager about pilfering?”

Zambotto looked at him without a hint of comprehension. Blume motioned him to follow him back downstairs. “Paoloni and I discovered some of the items in the grocery box were missing. I just thought we should ask the manager if the delivery people ever lift out items from the boxes-you know, pilfer.”

“What items?” asked Zambotto.

“Peanut butter.”

“What is peanut butter?”

“American food,” said Blume.

Zambotto stuck out a wide flat tongue in disgust.

“We found a list in the box of groceries,” said Blume. “There were two things missing. Peanut butter and Nutella.”

“Uh,” said Zambotto.

“I’m not saying it’s important. It’s just a fact. But if the killer took them, then it’s relevant. If he didn’t, then it’s not.”

“All deliverymen steal stuff,” said Zambotto as if quoting a well known proverb. “But the supermarket’s never going to admit that.”

“Depends how you ask, I suppose,” said Blume. “Did you ask?”

“No.”

Blume nodded. “No reason you should have. Did you get the supermarket manager’s home number?”

“I got his cell phone number. I have it here,” Zambotto unbuttoned his orange and brown jacket, fished out a notebook from his inside pocket.