The Bottom of Your Heart by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar Read Free Book Online Page B

nun carrying a metal container; Maione raised his fingers to his cap and the nun replied by bowing her head, but continued hurrying down the stairs. On the last landing, they found Rispoli waiting for them with the young female nurse, who had finally stopped crying, though her eyes were still red.
    Rispoli said: “Unfortunately the news is starting to get around. When something of this sort happens, people get upset, it’s inevitable. Come this way, please. Allow me to lead the way.”
    They turned down a hallway at the end of which stood a desk and a large closed door. The nurse said: “That’s my desk. I greet people and send them in as soon as it’s their turn.”
    Ricciardi pointed at the door: “That’s the professor’s office, right? Has anyone been in here since you arrived?”
    â€œNo, Commissario. I didn’t even go in. It’s too upsetting. I left last night at ten o’clock and the door was shut, and that’s the way I found it when I came in at six this morning, after I saw . . .”
    She was about to start crying again, but mastered the impulse.
    Ricciardi asked her: “Did you say goodnight, yesterday, before leaving? Did he speak to you? Did he seem agitated to you, or worried, or . . .”
    â€œNo, he was the same as always. The director . . . wasn’t a man who talked a lot, and understandably he didn’t confide in me. I asked him if he needed me, whether he’d be staying much longer, and he told me: No, Maria Rosaria, you can go. I’m expecting someone. And I left.”
    Maione perked up: “Expecting someone? He didn’t say who?”
    â€œNo. That’s all he said: I’m expecting someone.”
    Ricciardi nodded.
    â€œSo he had an appointment. After ten o’clock, which is the time when you left, Signorina. Was that normal for him, to receive visitors at such a late hour?”
    Zupo seemed uncomfortable; from time to time she’d shoot a glance at Rispoli, who remained impassive.
    â€œThe director worked very hard, you know. Basically he was always here. So yes, sometimes he’d have someone come in very late. And not just for professional matters, friends would come too. When you stay in the office all day, that happens.”
    â€œI understand. All right, let’s go in.”
    On the other side of the door was a very spacious room; the most noteworthy piece of furniture was the desk, a veritable mahogany catafalque, elaborately inlaid, a venerable antique that emanated power and prestige from every ounce of its bulk. Behind it stood an office chair with a broad backrest; to afford ease of access to the work surface, the chair stood atop a dais. Sitting in front of the desk were two more chairs; behind them was a bookshelf loaded with volumes that occupied the whole wall. Next to it was an examination table that terminated in a pair of stirrups. Ricciardi, pointing to the equipment, asked the nurse: “Did the director examine patients here?”
    The nurse shrugged: “Not usually, there are rooms in the wards downstairs for that; but sometimes, if he wanted to get a quick impression, yes, he might.”
    Facing the desk, against the wall with the office door, were a sofa and two small armchairs and a coffee table. On the remaining wall was the window.
    It was wide open. There was no wind, and clearly there had been none during the night, because there were no signs of disarray on the desktop, which was piled with papers. Ricciardi walked over to the window. The sill was low, but still it seemed unlikely that the doctor had accidentally tripped over it and fallen out because he was himself so short. He’d have had to climb onto the sill intentionally, and it would have taken some effort, because there were no step stools; unless someone had moved the step stool after using it.
    Maione went over to the desk; Ricciardi walked toward him with a quizzical