and who for that reason he had taken for his personal assistant.
“You might have warned me sooner.”
“Your mobile is turned off.”
The commissario checked. He had switched it off after the umpteenth call, or maybe had never had it on. “Any idea who it could be?”
“Certainly — I know who it is.”
Soneri raised his eyes heavenwards.
“Well, get on with it!” He was in a highly excitable state of mind. Whenever he embarked on a case which promised from the outset to be murky, he felt like an addict suffering withdrawal symptoms.
“Tonna, Decimo Tonna.”
The name meant nothing to Soneri.
“Age?”
“Seventy-six.”
He stood there with his cigar in his mouth, staring at a diagram of the digestive system on the wall behind Juvara. His own digestive system had been feeling the pinch for about an hour, but this promised to be another day when he was going to have to go without lunch.
“Any ideas?”
“Suicide, most likely.” He had a mania for statistics.
“Have you called forensics?”
“Yes, Nanetti will be along any minute.”
“Close off that cubbyhole, will you? No-one is to be allowed in before they complete their inquiries.”
Soneri set off towards the consulting rooms, but halfway along he stopped in his tracks, turned back and went in the opposite direction towards the nurses’ room. He looked like a man unsure of the way out.
The ward sister glowered at the cigar until she was certain it was not lit. The commissario stood facing her for a few seconds without speaking, his head spinning. It was she who began: “We heard a thump and the sound of glass shattering, and when we got here we saw the window wide open. I didn’t think much of it. Then I heard people in the courtyard shouting, I looked out and…” Her voice trailed off. She shrugged in a fatalistic gesture.
“You all ran immediately to the window?”
“Actually, no. I was on the phone to Casualty and my colleagues were busy elsewhere on the ward.”
“How long between your hearing the noise and your getting here?”
The telephone started ringing again, but the woman ignored it.
“A couple of minutes at the most. We thought it was the wind rattling the windows. Those shutters are always kept half-closed.”
“But you didn’t see anyone?”
The sister pursed her lips and gave a look over her shoulder.
“No, no-one comes that way except when the doctors are doing their rounds.”
“Will they do their rounds today?”
“Until 11.00. Then some patients hang around, but never more than a quarter of an hour.”
“Does the name Tonna mean anything to you? Decimo Tonna.”
“Tonna? Was it Tonna who threw himself out the window?”
“Do you know him?”
“Who doesn’t know him? A strange creature. He used to turn up in the waiting room for the pleasure of chatting to the patients. He would come here the same way other men go to a bar.”
“How often?”
“Once or twice a week. I believe he used to go to other departments as well.”
“So you all knew him well?”
“No, not well. For us he was a bit of an oddball, we passed the time of day with him, but we knew nothing about him. He spoke only about illnesses, even if he himself seemed in good health.”
Soneri nodded in assent. Odd facts and traits were always invaluable sources of information for him.
“Did he seem to you…” and he tapped his index finger against the side of his head.
“What do you think?” The sister laughed. “Someone like that seems normal to you?”
Soneri nodded several more times as though to apologize. His mind had now soared off into distant realms, causing him to take a few steps back and give a cursory greeting to a group of curious nurses who had gathered round.
In the corridor, he found Nanetti, the head of the forensic squad, who came straight to the point: “Not one of those who land on their feet, was he?”
“Have you seen the corpse?”
“I had a quick look in the hearse before it was taken off to the mortuary.”
“What do you make of those broken panes of glass?”
“I’d say it was not usual for a suicide. And then there is that dent…”
The two looked at each other, instantly on the same wavelength.
“I reckon that everything will be cleared up by the post-mortem.”
“So do I,” Soneri said, “even if…” But suddenly he fell silent. It was never easy for him to find the right words to articulate his concerns.
He called Juvara over. “Find out everything you can in this unit, and collect all the information you can get about this Tonna. He used to spend whole mornings here.” His voice tailed off in what seemed strangely like an apology.
He left the hospital and walked towards the city centre. He felt the need to walk and smoke half a cigar to calm himself. That collection of odd facts had upset him and curiosity had the same impact on him as caffeine. What was there to talk about while waiting to consult a doctor? And what on earth did Tonna find so interesting there? Cutting through the narrow streets of the Oltretorrente quarter, he almost walked into a newspaper billboard across his path: transport barge adrift on flooded po. Seconds later his mobile rang with the triumphal march from “Aida”. Ever since they had saddled him with that telephone, he had been trying and failing to alter the ring tone.
“Have you seen that story about the barge?” Angela asked him, synchronizing perfectly with his thoughts.
“I’ve just seen the billboard but haven’t had a chance to look at the paper.”
“There could be a headline saying you had robbed a bank, and still you wouldn’t notice,” she said, laughing.
“There’s a wodge of notes in the office…”
“Anyway, you had better know that the barge did about forty kilometres and went aground on the embankment at Luzzara, and there was no-one on board.”
“Somebody didn’t take enough trouble with the mooring cables,” Soneri said carelessly. He was not much interested.
“In point of fact, one of the cables was cut clean through,” Angela told him. “They were talking about nothing else today in court.”
“They’ll all be busting themselves to land the insurance case.”
“Nonsense. They say that the owner, a man called Tonna, loved that barge more than anything else in the world.”
“What did you say his name was?”
“Tonna! Apparently he’s famous on the river. That’s what my colleagues are saying. A transporter. There can’t be many of them.”
The commissario’s head began buzzing like a beehive in May. Angela was almost shouting down the line but the swirl of thoughts had made him nearly deaf.
“Are you listening to me or have you fallen down a manhole?”
“The man who committed suicide today was also a Tonna,” he murmured, as if in a dream, talking more to himself than to Angela.
“O.K., I’m in court in a while. I’m the duty lawyer and have to defend some poor soul or other. Call me later,” she said, cutting him off.
