Free The House of Serenades by Lina Simoni Page A

your clients and that you were behind it. Was Guido Orengo the blackmailer?”
    “I never found out,” Giuseppe admitted, “but I know for a fact that after Orengo was arrested, the anonymous letters ceased to arrive at my client’s residence. It may have been a coincidence, but, as a lawyer, I regard coincidences with mistrust.”
    “So do I,” Antonio said thoughtfully. “It looks as though I should pay Orengo a visit, although I don’t know how he would have found out that you were involved in his arrest. If we assume, nonetheless, that he was the one blackmailing your client, then we can also assume that he may have gotten into the habit and sent these two letters as well. Not personally, of course, given that he’s in jail. Perhaps at the hand of one of his men. That’s two suspects. Anyone else on your list?”
    Giuseppe looked away. Suddenly he stood up and walked to the fireplace. From the nearby rack, he took an iron poker and prodded the unlit logs several times. He replaced the stick in the rack and coughed.
    In silence, Antonio observed Giuseppe’s aimless moves: the lawyer was obviously buying himself time. He decided against urging him to talk, for he didn’t want to indispose him and lose his trust. So he waited patiently in his seat.
    One full minute went by, during which Giuseppe walked from the fireplace to the window, where he stood still, staring at the glass pane. Outside, the silvery leaves of a tall oleander flickered in the breeze. He took no notice of them, as his stare was absent and glazed. When he turned around, he cleared his throat before saying, “I’ve been wondering about someone, although the events I’m thinking about happened over two years ago.”
    “Let’s not dismiss clues only because they’re old,” Antonio said. “Hate, experience tells me, can bottle up a long time and then explode all of a sudden, when one least expects it. Whom are you thinking of, Mister Berilli?”
    Giuseppe sat down, lowered his voice. “There’s a man. Ivano Bo. He lost the woman he claimed to love. He blamed me for that and swore he’d take his revenge on me before he died.”
    “Who’s Ivano Bo?” Antonio asked. “And who’s the woman he lost?”
    “Ivano Bo is a baker,” Giuseppe explained. “At least he was one at the time the events took place. His father owns a bakery on Piazza della Nunziata. As for the woman in question, I’m afraid I can’t tell you who she is.”
    Antonio shook his head. “You must tell me the entire story, without holding back, if you want me to investigate.”
    “I can’t tell you more than I already have,” Giuseppe said firmly. He became agitated. “You can talk to Ivano Bo, can you not? You could track his moves of the past days. Retrace his steps.”
    Antonio shook his head again. “If you want me to investigate and find out if Ivano Bo is the author of the two letters, you must tell me what business you had with him. What did you mean when you said that he lost the woman he claimed to love? Is the woman dead?”
    “Yes. The woman is dead.”
    “What was your role in her death?” Antonio asked.
    “I can’t tell you,” Giuseppe said. “Sorry.”
    Antonio stood up. “Then I should probably leave. I see that I can be of no help to you.”
    Stone-faced, Giuseppe observed Antonio walking to the door and turning the handle. The moment the policeman took one step out of the reading room, he sprung from the armchair. “Don’t leave!” he shouted. He placed a hand on his heart. “I’m afraid, don’t you see?” he whined. “Please, help me. Please.”
    Antonio turned around. He spoke dryly. “I can’t help you, Mister Berilli, unless you tell me everything you know.”
    “I told you all I know about Ivano Bo. About the woman, I can’t say any more.”
    “I don’t understand,” Antonio said, waving his hands in frustration. “You want my help, but you give me only half the story. How can I do my job?”
    “Please, Antonio,”