Intrigue In Milan

Chapter 9-1

Milan, 22 October 1816, 11.30 a.m.

Andegari Barracks

During the brief journey from Piazza Scala to the nearby contrada Andegari, which is now via Andegari, Ziani ran through Sangalli’s report about the testimony of the Hotel Bella Venezia’s clientèle.

The carriage having stopped before the Andegari barracks, headquarters of the local constabulary, a gloomy and decrepit building of darkened brick, Ziani presented himself in a sure step to an office to the right of the entrance. Sangalli lingered in the atrium with the young officer Biraghi on guard duty.

‘Is Second Lieutenant Spreafico at quarters?’ asked the sergeant.

‘At your service!’ answered a haughty voice over his shoulder. Sangalli turned towards two men with poorly kept beards and shabby, oily uniforms in green of the local constabulary.

Spreafico, a stout man of forty or so with greying black hair and sideburns, pointed to his companion who was his equal in build, but with red hair.

‘This is Sergeant Gobetti, but you – if I’m not mistaken – are Sergeant Sangalli, former non-commissioned officer in the Napoleonic army’.

‘From the Directorate-General of Police, sir!’ Sangalli clarified.

‘Very well, very well! Here we have a truly intrepid criminal investigator to tell us how to do our jobs, eh, Gobetti?’ Spreafico hissed teasingly, causing his adjutant and passing officers to laugh.

Sangalli deigned not to answer, but could be seen to clench his fists.

Suddenly with a serious air, Spreafico obstructed his path, muttered through clenched teeth:

‘Here, sergeants tend to bring us coffee!’

‘And what, pray, do second lieutenants do?’ asked a manly voice over his shoulder with irony. Recognising who had just entered, Spreafico turned as white as a sheet, but Ziani ignored him as if he were a spirit and turned to Sangalli to say:

‘Have the internal investigation squadron visit, Paolo. These barracks disgust more than a battlefield latrine and normal means of airing are unobserved, to say nothing of hygiene! This is a coven for rats needing serious and precise work’.

Still ignoring Spreafico, Ziani turned to the red-haired adjutant:

‘Sergeant …. Gobetti? One B, not two, is that right?’

‘To the letter!’ the latter replied to attention.

‘Sangalli will have a coffee with two sugar lumps, me with none!’

‘I’ll see to it forthwith,’ answered Gobetti, his face reddening with head bowed.

Ziani seemed to notice Spreafico at last, intent on concealing his ire with great effort.

‘Now, Egidio, how are things? Have you managed to obtain from those girls of yours a higher percentage or have you had to seek new means?’

‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your unexpected visit?’ hissed his colleague in a low voice, but brimming with rage.

‘The Marais case’.

‘The … what?’

‘Octave Marais, dead last night at the Tombone di San Marco and considered a suicide with two dagger wounds to the back. Were you not told?’

‘I … I didn’t think …"

‘I’ve come to this paradise on Earth to hear your preliminary report as to the findings. As of now, it’s only me to deal with this!’

‘I’ve only just completed it, but you can’t just enter this place and...’

‘Ah! The coffee! Thank you, Gobetti. Regarding this latrine of a barracks, Egidio, you have three days to put it in order. For the time being, we’ll not report this and, if you’ve been up to par, you’ll not have an inspection from Konrad’.

‘Does that mean I should thank you?’ stammered Spreafico.

‘Not at all. I’m the affable sort; I take no offence. Good day, gentlemen!’

Milan, 22 October 1816, 12.15 p.m.

Ospedale Maggiore (General Infirmary)

After fifteen minutes or so of delay to the schedule, both officers were able to reach the crowded hospital hall in which Doctor Vercesi would expound the results of the autopsy to the realm’s magistrate, Count Sormani.

‘I can affirm with full certainty that, on the basis of the direction taken by the two dagger blows and the depth of the wound, the assassin used his left hand’.

‘The left!’ whispered Ziani. ‘He was meant to have found that out when I’d left the crypt. Let us furnish him with the written account’.

‘And I’m to give him the vial with the little blood that has been collected from the bridge!’ answered Sangalli.

As Vercesi proceeded with his oral report, Ziani noticed a short man aged thirty or so with thinning hair and a bowler hat, intent on the frenetic taking of notes.

‘That man I must have seen before, but I know not where or when, Paolo’.

‘He’s a chronicler for the Gazetta di Milano named Beniamino Bassi’.

‘Low by name and by nature, from where I’m standing! But where have I seen him?’

‘He’s the scribe who requested from you an account of last month’s tumult’.

‘How did I answer?’

‘You had him fulfil … an important bodily necessity!’

‘Buy the latest edition of the Gazette’.

‘Why not you? It’s always me to pay!’

‘Have it repaid at quarters as an expense of the judicial authorities’.

‘Capital idea! They’ll do it with fingers through the eyes,’ Sangalli said, adding a Lombard turn of phrase: ‘He who works is not paid for what he does!’

‘Quiet now, the magistrate is about to question our friend, the Catalan’.

‘Doctor Vercesi, were the blows dealt methodically or under the grip of fury or of drunkenness?’ asked Count Sormani.

‘The assassin knew well how to wound. Both of them were fatal!’

‘Therefore, a man hired to kill or a former soldier!’ whispered Sangalli as the magistrate tried to quieten the murmurs of the curious crowd within the hall.

At the close of Vercesi’s testimony, Ziani approached the magistrate.

‘Your Excellency, I am the police officer responsible for the evidence and would like to request from you an adjournment’.

‘Do you possess further evidence?’

‘I’ve not had but a few hours to procure it, sir’.

‘I am myself surprised by the speed at which this tribunal has been arranged, Lieutenant. Permission is granted!’

‘Thank you, sir!’ answered Ziani, saluting him militarily before parting.

Having assembled the records for the governor, the magistrate turned to the assembled:

‘This inquest is adjourned sine die, pending the inquiries of the police to allow them to procure further evidence’.

As the crowd left the hospital, Vercesi turned to Ziani.

‘There you have it, but now you’ve dragged me into a sea of problems!’

At that very moment, in fact, Spreafico and Gobetti came out of the room muttering.

‘He’s asked for an adjournment,’ asked Gobetti. ‘What the devil is he thinking of?’

‘Something to ruin him. Send me a carriage!’ answered Spreafico.

‘Where do you wish to go, sir?’

"To his superior!"

Milan, 22 October 1816, 5 p.m.

Palazzo Diotti in Borgo Monforte, seat of the Austrian State

Built between 1780 and 1785 from the ruins of a church on borgo Monforte beyond the Naviglio of San Damiano, the Palazzo Diotti was turned from a private residence into the headquarters of the Ministry of the Interior for the Bonapartist Kingdom of Italy in 1803, then becoming the seat of the Austrian government in 1814.

The imposing primary façade of the building comprised of two lateral avant-corps and a rearward central body, the site of a portal with four Doric columns to support the balcony, with the remainder of the ground floor decorated in smooth ashlar.

Within the building and a room embellished with crystal chandeliers and paintings by Andrea Appiani, two functionaries were in a discussion.

The younger of the two wore the old white uniform with red breeches of an Austrian army officer.

The older wore a white linen shirt, a blue jacket with a cravat and waistcoat of the same hue.

‘The magistrate has consented to an indefinite adjournment of the inquest on Ziani’s request,’ Konrad, head of police, explained to Governor Saurau.

He conveyed the official report of the forensic scientist from Cà Granda and that of the local constabulary.

‘How attentive is that second lieutenant … Sperafico?’ asked Saurau, having avidly read both documents. Konrad answered with brows furrowed:

‘Spreafico, you mean, Excellency? You don’t wish to withdraw Ziani from this case, I hope!’

‘Should he be intent on making a Shakespearean tragedy of this, “Out, damned spot!” it is and the sooner the better!’

‘May I express my opinion, Governor, sir?’

‘Do speak freely, Chief Commissioner!’

‘Ziani has become very popular amongst the Milanese for having vanquished the black market in bread. Were we to withdraw him from the case, the people would ask why and the local and foreign press would drive themselves mad with talk of conspiracies’.

‘Which is what they’re already doing, Herr Konrad!’ answered Saurau, beating down an evening edition of the Gazzetta di Milano.

All colour left the Commissioner’s face on reading the title:

Have the police lost control? What is the meaning of this?

‘We’re betwixt hammer and anvil! Read the first lines for me to hear!’

‘“In just one week, Milan is besieged by chaos: assaults on the city bakeries, long lines of protesters singing to the return of the French and of the Kingdom of Italy, thefts and robberies hitherto unseen during twenty years of Napoleonic rule and, last but not least, a terrible murder mistaken for suicide by the short-sighted constabulary. Can we be sure, however, that this is incompetence alone? In the coming days, we will be looking deeper into...”’

‘Enough, enough! Do you understand why I want to close this case as a matter of promptness?’

‘Of course, but all the more reason for us to leave the inquiry to Ziani. If not, the author of this article, Bassi, will have more fodder for the elaboration of these conspiracy theories and to expound them no end, your Excellency’.

‘I’ll bear that intriguing scrivener in mind; don’t let’s forget the Gazette is the newspaper of Empire’.

‘Will you seek his dismissal?’

‘I’ll determine the best solution when I’ve spoken with my friend Vicenzo Butti, one of the directors and an abbot. However, you do realise that Vienna is overseeing our operations with their magnifying glass and that, in a few days" time, Bellegarde will be here and ─ as if that wasn’t enough ─ he’s coming with the minister Von Metternich in person?’

‘What? I was completely unaware of this; are you sure?’ asked Konrad, now blue in the face.

‘Fortunately, the Field Marshal told me of this in an off-the-record letter’.

‘How much time have we, Your Excellency!"

‘A fortnight, maybe just one week. We must show that the Lombard capital of this Kingdom has never been so tranquil and that the articles in the Gazette have been written by a journalist in search of notoriety, guilty of having distorted the reality of facts and made a mountain from this molehill of a case, thereby influencing the press abroad. I am to meet with Butti this evening for dinner, he’ll think of how to take care of this Bassi’.

‘In the meantime, I’ll go to the Directorate-General at once to speak with Lieutenant Ziani’.

‘And what if he won’t listen to you?’ asked a Count Saurau in worry.

‘He will listen to me, Governor, I assure you he’ll listen!’

Milan, 22 October 1816, 7.30 p.m.

Seat of the Directorate-General of the Austrian Police

Passers-by on the contrada Santa Margherita suddenly paused around police headquarters to listen to the shouts from the Commissioner from within the building.

‘Time? What time? We haven’t any time! The governor wants there to be arrests! Do you know why he wants this? There, see here, and enjoy reading it: “The police have lost control”! We are the laughing stock of all Europe!’

Konrad struck Ziani on the chest with an opportunely rolled-up edition of the Gazzetta di Milano.

With equal force, he whipped an English, a French, a German and a Viennese journal onto Ziani’s hand.

He then began to cry out ever the stronger:

‘Has the police therefore lost control? Are we all idiots to a man or, worse still, corrupt and idiotic? Are we incapable of maintaining law and order in a new kingdom? What are you doing all day, keeping a chair warm?!’

Quiet up to that point, Ziani defended himself before his superior.

‘When I’m not risking my life at the end of a smuggler’s blade as they speculate on famine and an increase in grain prices, I go to arrest people who wrongly celebrate Napoleon’s memory or to put drunkards in the clink. What’s more, I’m wasting time by dealing with a murder that these dunderheads in the constabulary ─ not me, I may add ─ had mistaken for a suicide. Moreover, Chief Commissioner, I don’t feel responsible for the cretinous writings in the newspapers of all Europe!’ he shouted in a voice raised higher than that of Konrad.

‘No, but you are answerable to me and I want you to conclude this case promptly, are we clear?’

‘But why this, Chief Commissioner? Octave Marais was a wine merchant without either enemies or debts to anyone here in Milan. He didn’t visit others’ wives or women of ill repute and nothing was stolen from him, ─ the poverty and want here notwithstanding ─ yet still he was murdered like a dog: stabbed twice in the back and left to have his life beaten out of him in the Tombone di San Marco!’

‘Then see to it that he’s found!’ Konrad concluded, turning away from him.

By now about to leave, he was stopped by the dry barb of a question from Ziani:

‘Do you want me to bring you the assassin or just any auld soul, sir?’

Petrified and mortified, the commissioner bowed his head.

He produced a small flask of grappa from his pocket, with his hand shaking, and sat down before offering it to his subordinate, with his voice now lowered, relaxed and amicable, saying:

‘Forgive me, Marco, it’s not your fault. Would you care for a drop? It’s from the best grapes’.

‘No, sir; I no longer drink!’

‘We are both the same, Marco; we have had the same apprenticeship. We were shaped by the cannon fire of the Napoleonic artillery and against the charges of Murat’s cavalry. For how many years have you been Oberleutnant?’

‘Twelve, sir’.

‘You’re a decorated war hero of the field, but you never show your trophies. You were the youngest officer in our army during the war, but have since not been promoted. By now, you should’ve already been Hauptmann, a captain; all you needed do was to keep your feet in two stirrups’.

‘And this is what you’re doing?’ asked Ziani, lowering his sights.

Konrad sighed.

‘You and I are both naught, simply knaves on a chessboard amongst emperors, kings, queens, princes, viceroys and ministers. Those as we are never win and you should very well know that by now!’

Ziani kept staring at the floor and didn’t answer.

Again rising, Konrad offered a hand on his shoulder as a sign of friendship.

‘Resolve this case for my sake, Marco, and as quickly as you can!’

The commissioner having left, Ziani stayed seated with his head in his hands and staring at the table until he heard a strong knock on the office door.

‘Lieutenant, sir!’ shouted Dei Cas who’d suddenly opened it.

‘Who is that i***t thumping away?! I’m sorry, corporal, I was away with the fairies!’

‘The fairies? I don’t see anyone flying higher than you, I must say, Lieutenant!’

‘Never mind, Dei Cas, otherwise I’ll be back in the infirmary! What is it?’

‘Of the three witnesses as called, two ─ Messrs Gatti and Köhler ─ have arrived. The sergeant is questioning Köhler’.

‘What are waiting for, not interrogating Gatti?’

‘Regulations dictate the use of an office like that of Sergeant Sangalli!’

‘Not all the offices are occupied by Sergeant Sangalli. Choose one and...’

‘What you’re asking of me is absolutely impossible, sir!’

‘For why?’ asked Ziani, smoke now blowing from his ears.

‘Because Austrian police regulations of 1770, with modifications subsequent to the Congress of Vienna, dictate that no police officer lower in rank than a non-commissioned officer use the office of a superior...’

‘...without authority from aforesaid superior, understood. I give you the authority to do so; take whatever room you want’.

‘Regulations dictate that, after seven in the evening, only the duty officer in charge of the offices can, and in writing, …"

‘Corporal Dei Cas!’

‘Sir?’

‘I order you at once to question the witness in my office or I’ll second you at once to Livigno!’

Having rid himself of Dei Cas and signor Gatti, Ziani chanced upon Anna Molinari struggling with a large pile of dossiers.

‘Allow me; I’ll see to these’.

‘Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ve just finished collecting the records on all the people as Sangalli requested, but there’s an issue: Octave Marais was not registered anywhere, not even in the Napoleonic archive’.

‘Have you found that Irina Varga or Verga as mentioned in the sheet belonging to the victim?’

‘Nothing so far. Nonetheless, I’ll stay here tonight and tomorrow at eight a.m., you’ll have my written report’.

‘Tomorrow morning, I’ll come to you with breakfast and I’ll hear you tell me it,’ answered Ziani.

He left headquarters in a hurry and in desperate need of fresh air.