The Disappearance of Signora Giulia by Piero Chiara Page B
Authors: Piero Chiara
gone to Esengrini’s office to lay out the facts and request him to act on their behalf. It wasn’t just Egidio Rossinelli; his wife and sister-in-law also remembered having been there for nearly an hour and having helped draft the complaint, which Esengrini dictated to the typist.
Egidio recalled that as he was going into the office, Berrini was coming out of it. One of those ideal witnesses who end up remembering too much, he recalled that Demetrio was in the office as well – indeed that it had been Demetrio who’d advised him to lodge the suit the day before. He then found in the recesses of his prodigious memory that there had alsobeen a very elegant man in the office that Saturday morning – something no one else remembered.
The surveyor Chiodetti remembered having provided Esengrini with an estimate for a property that day, and he found the evidence in his diary. Yet another one with a good memory, he managed to recall that the lawyer had been out of his office; he’d had to wait for him.
It wasn’t difficult for the intelligent magistrate to finalize the deposition by doing a little sleuthing: Esengrini had presented the Rossinelli suit in person in court that Saturday. So the lawyer had drafted the lawsuit, gone with his clients to court to present it and returned to his office, where he’d found Chiodetti waiting for him.
With these final witness examinations and his files on the investigation, the magistrate went to the prison in M—— to wring the final revelations from Esengrini.
Esengrini was satisfied and said to him in a very friendly manner: ‘I told you I have no faith in the law; in abstract justice, that is. And you – without taking offence, you had faith in me, the accused. If only it were always like this!’
The magistrate accepted the compliment. But then he sat down and told Esengrini it was time to come clean.
‘So it is,’ Esengrini accepted. ‘I’ll tell you everything, apart from the name of the killer. Prepare to have a bit more patience and another measure of faith in the accused. You should know that even before our diligent Sciancalepre, I was convinced my wife couldn’t have fled, but had been killed. I was certain of it after Sciancalepre’s famous trip to Rome, when he learnt about the letter Barsanti had received, which I was sure I’d never written.
‘It was the killer who wrote that letter. But only I could think so; as far as everyone else was concerned, the letter was written by me. So I would have had to be aware of the relationship between my wife and Barsanti, and hence the jealousy, the threats, the midday skirmish with my wife that Thursday, the murder, the faked escape. I’ve asked myself a thousand times why you didn’t arrest me! The logical proof was nearly there… I wanted to deny having written the letter! I repeat: I wondered how you could close the file.’
‘Esengrini, it was not only the letter that was missing, but also the body.’
‘You’re right; they were both missing. And they were the first things I looked for. The body couldn’t be far away. The murder took place in the house and the spot most suited for hiding the body was in the grounds. When I found out that the grounds had been searched with a dog (Demetrio told me), I shuddered. She wasn’t buried in the grounds, thank goodness. And if she had been, I can tell you that I would have changed the spot if I’d been able, since it would have spelt my death sentence: I didn’t yet have the proof to hand that you now have in the file!’
‘But what proof!’ exclaimed the judge.
‘What’s there now. All of it, apart from one thing: I don’t know where her jewellery is. About six months ago, I found a letter in the post from Panelli, the lawyer from Milan. A mysterious hand was helping me. I’m not a believer, still less am I superstitious, but that discovery, so unexpected, seemed like a sign from the heavens. I came to believe that that poor little thing wanted
Egidio recalled that as he was going into the office, Berrini was coming out of it. One of those ideal witnesses who end up remembering too much, he recalled that Demetrio was in the office as well – indeed that it had been Demetrio who’d advised him to lodge the suit the day before. He then found in the recesses of his prodigious memory that there had alsobeen a very elegant man in the office that Saturday morning – something no one else remembered.
The surveyor Chiodetti remembered having provided Esengrini with an estimate for a property that day, and he found the evidence in his diary. Yet another one with a good memory, he managed to recall that the lawyer had been out of his office; he’d had to wait for him.
It wasn’t difficult for the intelligent magistrate to finalize the deposition by doing a little sleuthing: Esengrini had presented the Rossinelli suit in person in court that Saturday. So the lawyer had drafted the lawsuit, gone with his clients to court to present it and returned to his office, where he’d found Chiodetti waiting for him.
With these final witness examinations and his files on the investigation, the magistrate went to the prison in M—— to wring the final revelations from Esengrini.
Esengrini was satisfied and said to him in a very friendly manner: ‘I told you I have no faith in the law; in abstract justice, that is. And you – without taking offence, you had faith in me, the accused. If only it were always like this!’
The magistrate accepted the compliment. But then he sat down and told Esengrini it was time to come clean.
‘So it is,’ Esengrini accepted. ‘I’ll tell you everything, apart from the name of the killer. Prepare to have a bit more patience and another measure of faith in the accused. You should know that even before our diligent Sciancalepre, I was convinced my wife couldn’t have fled, but had been killed. I was certain of it after Sciancalepre’s famous trip to Rome, when he learnt about the letter Barsanti had received, which I was sure I’d never written.
‘It was the killer who wrote that letter. But only I could think so; as far as everyone else was concerned, the letter was written by me. So I would have had to be aware of the relationship between my wife and Barsanti, and hence the jealousy, the threats, the midday skirmish with my wife that Thursday, the murder, the faked escape. I’ve asked myself a thousand times why you didn’t arrest me! The logical proof was nearly there… I wanted to deny having written the letter! I repeat: I wondered how you could close the file.’
‘Esengrini, it was not only the letter that was missing, but also the body.’
‘You’re right; they were both missing. And they were the first things I looked for. The body couldn’t be far away. The murder took place in the house and the spot most suited for hiding the body was in the grounds. When I found out that the grounds had been searched with a dog (Demetrio told me), I shuddered. She wasn’t buried in the grounds, thank goodness. And if she had been, I can tell you that I would have changed the spot if I’d been able, since it would have spelt my death sentence: I didn’t yet have the proof to hand that you now have in the file!’
‘But what proof!’ exclaimed the judge.
‘What’s there now. All of it, apart from one thing: I don’t know where her jewellery is. About six months ago, I found a letter in the post from Panelli, the lawyer from Milan. A mysterious hand was helping me. I’m not a believer, still less am I superstitious, but that discovery, so unexpected, seemed like a sign from the heavens. I came to believe that that poor little thing wanted