sofa. “Very well, then. Let’s go.” He stopped in his tracks. “Where’s Raimondo?”
“He left half an hour ago,” Matilda said.
Umberto shook his head. He asked, “Why does he always act like he’s not part of this family?” No one replied.
Suddenly, Costanza, who had remained at Giuseppe’s bedside, called from the top of the staircase. “Mister Sobrero!”
Everyone turned around.
“Mister Berilli wishes to see you now.”
Doctor Sciaccaluga shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Mister Berilli deems it very important that he speaks to the Chief of Police tonight,” Costanza said in a soft but unusually determined voice.
Recalling the afternoon conversation and the lawyer’s reticence to talk about Ivano Bo, Antonio turned to Doctor Sciaccaluga. “It may be crucial that I see Mister Berilli now,” he said. “I’ll keep the conversation to a minimum, I promise.”
“All right then,” Damiano agreed. “I trust your good judgment, Antonio. Remember. Mister Berilli must rest.”
“Understood,” Antonio said, taking the staircase. On the second step, he let out a moan. He was starting to dislike this family. First, that odd call in the middle of the day, while he was tending to important matters at the police headquarters; then a second call when he was about to finish dinner and move on to his smoking room to try a new pipe. And if the untimely calls weren’t enough, he had a feeling that what he had heard so far might not be the whole truth.
Upstairs, he stopped past the bedroom door. “Mister Berilli? You wanted to see me, I understand.”
“Oh, yes, Antonio,” Giuseppe whispered. “Come closer.”
Antonio tiptoed in the somberness of the large room, the sound of his steps deadened by the thick Oriental rug that hid most of the hardwood floor. Only a small lamp was lit, shedding dim light in a far corner. Yet, when he arrived at the canopy bed he saw that the lawyer was pale like the moon at dawn.
Giuseppe spoke faintly. “Will you put another pillow under my head? I can’t talk well lying down like this. Help me lift my chest a bit. Yes, like this. Thank you, Antonio. Thank you.”
“How are you feeling, Mister Berilli? That cat must have been a very unpleasant sight.”
“It was horrible, Antonio. A vision from hell.”
“Doctor Sciaccaluga wants you to rest,” Antonio said. “I’ll stay only a few moments.”
Giuseppe coughed. “Sit down, Antonio. This will take longer than a few moments.”
Antonio pulled up a chair. “I’m listening.”
Giuseppe breathed deeply. He ran his tongue on his lips twice. “Do you remember what I told you this afternoon about Ivano Bo?”
“I remember.”
“I’ll now tell you the rest of the story.” He paused then spoke with vehemence. “I want you to find him and put him in jail. I’m sure this was his idea—”
“Calm down, Mister Berilli,” Antonio urged him, “or we’ll have to postpone this conversation.”
“No, it must be tonight,” Giuseppe wheezed, “because he’ll try again. He’ll keep trying to kill me until he succeeds. He wants to see me in a coffin, Antonio. You must stop him before it’s too late. I want you to know everything about him, so you can put him away for good. He’s a dangerous individual. Dangerous and mad.”
“Mad? How?”
“Very, very mad. See, Antonio, this afternoon I told you about a woman Ivano Bo claimed to love and who died.”
“Yes,” said Antonio.
Giuseppe spoke faltering. “That woman … was my daughter. Caterina.”
“Your daughter?” Antonio marveled. “I don’t understand. Didn’t she die of tuberculosis? You told me this afternoon that Ivano Bo deemed you responsible for the woman’s death. It doesn’t make any sense!”
Giuseppe waited several seconds before uttering his reply. “I’ll tell you what happened,” he said, “but, please, I’m asking you from the bottom of my heart, keep what I’m about to tell you a secret.”
Antonio thought a moment then decided to give Giuseppe the answer he wanted to hear. “All right. I’ll keep it a secret.”
“Good,” Giuseppe murmured. His voice was barely audible when he began his tale. “Yes, my daughter died of tuberculosis. Mister Bo, however, thinks that Caterina became ill because I prevented her from marrying him. See, approximately three months before Caterina’s death, Caterina told me and Matilda that she had fallen in love with some Ivano and that Ivano’s father was a baker. Caterina was only seventeen, and what she said made no sense at all. No reasonable person of her class would fall in love with the son a baker. Matilda and I couldn’t even figure out how those two had met,