The Disappearance of Signora Giulia Read Free Page A

so they can follow not only the lives of their children, but also what’s going on where they used to live – somewhere they’re sure to have shocked with their actions.
     
    The sign Sciancalepre was looking for came from the least expected corner. On the Monday morning following Signora Giulia’s flight, who should appear in his office but the gardener’s wife, Teresa Foletti. She was forty-eight and lived with her husband in a lodge across from the villa Zaccagni-Lamberti.
    The Commissario sat with clasped hands, as if begging for a telling revelation, while the woman made this confession.
    ‘Sir, I’ve not slept for three days, ever since the sudden departure of my employer. I have a secret that may not amount to much, but my conscience tells me it’s time to reveal it. It’s something not even my husband knows.
    ‘About a year ago, Signora Giulia entrusted me with a delicate matter. I’ve been receiving letters from Milan; in each one, there was a letter addressed only to “Giulia”. I’d let her know whenever one arrived, and she’d come to my house to read it hurriedly. After that she’d burn it in my fireplace.’
    ‘How was the address written?’
    ‘By hand – and by Signora Giulia herself.’
    ‘So what are you trying to tell me?’ asked the Commissario, his eyes bulging.
    ‘I’ll explain,’ Teresa responded. ‘Signora Giulia told me that her daughter, Emilia, was sending her these letters from school.’
    ‘But she was seeing Emilia every Thursday!’
    ‘Yes, but at least twice a month, Emilia wrote her a letter. Signora Giulia said that her daughter was letting off steam in the letters, something she hid from her father and from the nuns. The daughter offloaded onto her mother. What can I say? The signora explained to me that every now and then she’d leave her daughter a packet of envelopes addressed to me in her handwriting, and an equal number of smaller envelopes with only “Giulia” written on them, also in her handwriting. I assure you that the handwriting is definitely hers. I’ve always kept this secret, and if I’ve decided to speak now, it’s because the signora’s disappearance has left me with an anxiety that I can’t explain. I would hate for anything to happen to her! You read such awful things in the papers…’
     
    Sciancalepre had finally scored a point. And the clues were starting to add up.
    Two days later the gardener’s wife returned to his office, again in the morning, while her husband was busy in Esengrini’s office, where he sometimes served as a clerk, sometimes as his right-hand man.
    She’d barely stepped into the office before silently putting a letter down on the table. Sciancalepre grabbed the envelope, read the address and looked at Teresa.
    ‘What’s this! Another letter?’ He looked at it, sniffed it, turned it every which way and read the franking mark: Rome, 22 May 1955, XII-17.
    ‘The twenty-second of the fifth month in the year nineteen fifty-five, twelfth postal district at five o’clock. What a lot of fives!’ he exclaimed. ‘Should have added an eleven – the sign of the cuckold’s horns – and divided it by a double set of three – or rather, one of those and a set of four, because an eleven is needed on both sides!’ *
    Teresa didn’t understand this numbers game but she agreed that the Commissario should be authorized to open the letter. Inside was the small envelope addressed to ‘Giulia’.
    ‘As usual!’ she remarked.
    ‘Is it always the same handwriting?’ asked the Commissario.
    ‘Yes,’ said Signora Foletti. ‘The only difference is that the others came from Milan, while this one seems to have come from Rome.’
    At this point the Commissario let Teresa go. He didn’t need her continuing presence or her authorization to open the enclosed letter. But before dismissing her, he warned her with all the severity he could muster: ‘Not a word about this to a single soul, not for any reason in the world!