said then headed towards one of three stairwells, the one labeled with a large C.
Upstairs, he knocked on the door of apartment six. The door opened immediately.
“Antonio Sobrero, Chief of Police,” Antonio told the small man who was looking at him through the open doorway.
The man had curly gray hair. The tip of his nose was turned up, and his thick dry lips were marked in places by deep cracks. His face was a web of wrinkles.
“I’m sorry about the late hour,” Antonio said kindly. “I’d like to ask you a simple question.”
“What question?” Corrado inquired. Then he added, “I thought you were my son.”
“This is about your son, Mister Bo.”
Corrado flinched. His voice was faint when he asked, “Something happened to him?”
“Not necessarily, but I need to know where he was tonight between eight and eight-thirty. Do you have any idea?”
Corrado gave Antonio a lost look. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“I’m trying to establish that, Mister Bo. Please answer my question. Do you know where your son was between eight and eight-thirty?”
Corrado took a moment to think. Then he said, “He was at the bakery with me, preparing the dough for the morning loaves.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Corrado said decisively. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know, Mister Bo. I was hoping he’d be here.” He started down the stairs. “Thanks for your help. Sorry for waking you up.”
“You didn’t wake me up,” Corrado murmured, closing the door. “I only sleep one hour per night.”
Out in the street, Antonio reviewed his encounter with Corrado Bo. Perhaps the baker had lied to protect his son. Or perhaps he had told the truth. No question, he had reacted strongly when he had heard that the police visit concerned his son. His face had blanched and his eyes had become fearful, as if he had been expecting bad news that night. Fear of the inevitable, that’s what Antonio had read in the man’s eyes, and he was determined to find out why. Time to meet young Ivano, he said to himself as he walked back to Piazza della Nunziata. He decided to leave his car parked in the piazza and hire a carriage: where he was headed the streets were much too narrow for an automobile, and he was better off unnoticed. He waved to a coachman. “Caffe’ del Gambero,” he said, jumping aboard.
The coachman gave him a clever look. “Looking for fun, sir?”
“It’s a police matter,” Antonio said coldly.
“Ah, police,” the coachman chanted. “I suppose policemen are entitled to some fun too, right?”
Antonio sighed, “Just drive.”
“As you say, sir,” the coachman chuckled with amusement. Soon the horse began to walk.
The carriage crossed Piazza della Nunziata and clopped its way through the tight passageways of the caruggi. The silence was heavy, and the light of the moon made the cobblestones shine. The horse suddenly neighed, and the coachman quieted it with an aaah. He turned to face his passenger. “You after some bum?”
Antonio Sobrero squinted his eyes. He said, “I’m not sure.”
As the horse continued its solitary nightly walk, Antonio wondered what kind of person Ivano Bo was to frequent such objectionable locales. Caffe’ del Gambero was not a place for everyone, and although he didn’t know Taverna del Marinaio, he was ready to bet it wasn’t the kind of establishment a respectable man would bring his wife to for espresso and brioche on Sunday. Perhaps Giuseppe had been correct in assuming Ivano might be the perpetrator. There was, however, Corrado Bo’s testimony that his son was at the bakery at the time the cat was being placed on the Berillis’ door. Antonio shook his head in puzzlement. He yawned. He was starting to feel tired.
“If Ivano Bo is not at Caffe’ del Gambero,” he grumbled, “I’ll go straight to sleep. There’s a limit to what a man can do in one night.”
When the coachman stopped the horse, Antonio exited the vehicle and said, “Wait here. Don’t leave without me.”
“I won’t, Mister Policeman. I need my dough. I don’t work for free. No, sir.”
Antonio gave the coachman a stare. On foot, he followed a narrow, dark road, seemingly quiet to the untrained eye. From experience, Antonio knew there was bound to be action behind its closed doors. He was glad to be in his street clothes rather than in his uniform, as the police were not welcome in that part of town. It wasn’t long before he stopped in front of a doorway guarded by a man with large shoulders and an