A Long Finish - 6 (17 page)

She handed the list back.

‘What does your anonymous caller want, anyway?’

‘I don’t know. But he knows who I am, and …’

‘Speaking of which, we should introduce ourselves.’

She turned the list around and pointed to the name ‘Carla Arduini’.

‘And you must be Aurelio Zen.’

He looked at her, frowning.

‘How did you know that?’

‘It was in all the local papers, along with a photograph,’ she replied airily. ‘“Ministry sends top man from Rome to investigate Vincenzo case,” that sort of thing. Perhaps that’s how your caller found out, too.’

‘Perhaps.’

Zen felt slightly put out that this idea hadn’t occurred to him.

‘But why does he bother phoning you, if he’s staying here? If he’s too timid to go to your room, he could always accost you in the bar. After all, I have!’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea,
signorina
. That’s what makes it so unsettling. But enough about that. What are you doing here? Or is it too private to discuss?’

Carla Arduini appeared to consider this question for a moment.

‘I’m trying to trace a relative.’

Zen looked away.

‘A few years ago, a relative traced me. And without even trying,’ he said.

‘What sort of relative?’

‘My father.’

He corrected himself with a gesture of the hand.

‘My mother’s husband.’

‘Is there a distinction?’

Zen did not reply. Carla Arduini got to her feet.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m being tactless and tiresome. I think it’s this place. It seems to be driving me mad.’

Zen stood up, smiling.

‘I know what you mean. Look, perhaps we could have dinner together some time. When are you leaving?’

Carla Arduini looked at him intently, as though considering this proposition.

‘Don’t worry,’ Zen went on. ‘I’m not going to pat your bottom. That’s not my style, and, besides, you’re young enough to be my daughter.’

The woman unexpectedly burst into laughter.

‘Yes, I am!’

‘I’ll give you a call. Which room are you in?’

He glanced at the list.

‘312? Right next to mine. And how long are you staying?’

She looked at him with her disconcertingly candid green eyes.

‘As long as it takes.’ 

When he emerged from his hotel the next morning, the sky had settled back into a grey, overcast mode which brought it down to a point where it seemed to graze the rooftops. Having stopped in a bar for an eye-opening shot of caffeine, Zen made his way along Via Maestra to the house to which Tullio Legna had led him earlier, ascended to the first floor and rang the bell.

There was no answer. He rang twice more before the door was opened by a young woman in the silk dressing-gown which the doctor had been wearing on Zen’s previous visit. He introduced himself and asked apologetically if it were possible to see Lucchese.

‘Is it about moths, medicine or music?’ the woman demanded.

‘Medicine. Your father treated me for …’

‘My father is dead and has nothing to do with it.’

She pulled back the door with a yawn which was echoed by the silk gown, the two sides gaping open to reveal the upper slope of her breasts.

‘Wait in there,’ she said, pointing to a doorway on the other side of the hall. ‘I’ll tell the prince that you’re here.’

She strode off down the corridor, her bare feet as soundless as an angel’s on the terracotta tiles.

The room in which Zen had been directed to wait appeared to be a library. Taking the only seat visible, a wooden stool positioned in front of a writing desk, he waited.

And waited. And waited. Outside, the sun broke through for a brief and jagged moment, darting in and out of the room like a fugitive memory. Not daring to smoke, Zen got up and started to look over the volumes on the shelves. Old and heavily worn by use, they all seemed to be about musical instruments. There were pictures of pianos and organs, weirdly contorted wind instruments, and stringed ones the shape of a pregnant woman.

‘My apologies for keeping you waiting,
dottore
.’

He turned to find Lucchese in the doorway, immaculate in a black suit and tie.

‘I have to attend a funeral this morning. One of my relatives has apparently managed to kill himself by falling into a vat of wine. Quite exceptionally inept, even by the standards of the family, but there it is. Hence the delay.’

Zen stood up.

‘Please excuse me for disturbing you so early in the morning,
principe
.’

Lucchese sighed loudly.

‘Oh dear, has Irena been trying to impress you? That’s one of the problems of fucking down, I’m afraid. There are, of course, compensations. Anyway, what can I do for you? Is it about your head, or is it about your head? I mean, sutures or psychoanalysis? Am I babbling? Irena, who studies music at the Academy in Turin, by the way, brought some exceptionally fine hashish with her and I’m afraid that we rather over-indulged last night – in more ways than one, in fact. Sorry, wrong thing to say to a policeman. Look, why don’t I just shut up and let you talk instead?’

Zen smiled nervously.

‘Actually, I just wondered if there was any chance of getting these stitches out. They make me look like Frankenstein’s monster, besides attracting some attention I could do without. But if you’re incapacitated,
principe
…’

‘Incapacitated? I fancy that Irena could vouch for me in that respect.’

He went over to the window, grasping the frame at either side with his pale, articulate hands. As if in response, the sunlight returned in full strength, revealing shoals of dust like minnows in the air.

‘It was harpsichords that brought us together,’ the prince continued. ‘I happen to own two particularly fine models, both seventeenth century. We have since moved on from one form of plucked instrument to … No, I don’t think I’ll finish that thought. As for your stitches, there’s no question of removing them yet. The wound would merely reopen and look even worse than it does now.’

Zen nodded meekly.

‘Well, thank you for receiving me, and, once again, please excuse the disturbance.’

‘Not at all.’

Zen started to leave, then turned back.

‘Would the name of the relative whose funeral you’re attending be Bruno Scorrone, by any chance?’ he enquired.

‘That’s him. My cousin twice removed,
da parte di madre
. I never liked the man in the first place and haven’t seen him for over a decade, but one’s expected to turn out for these things.’

‘I’d like you to see him now.’

Lucchese peered at him.

‘He’s dead,
dottore
. Or so I’ve been reliably informed.’

‘That’s precisely why I’d like you to see him. What time is the funeral?’

‘Eleven.’

‘Here in town?’

‘In Palazzuole, the village where he lived. But why should you be interested? God knows I’m not, and I’m family.’

Zen lowered his voice.

‘I was sent here to investigate the death of Aldo Vincenzo. Since my arrival, two other men have died violently. In a quiet, rural community like this, it is statistically improbable that three such incidents should occur without there being a connection between them. There is therefore a possibility, to put it no higher, that your cousin’s death may not have been an accident. My only chance of proving this is to examine the cadaver before it is buried or cremated. To do so officially, I would need the family’s permission, which almost certainly would not be granted. A judicial order would take too long, so I have to improvise. Do you have any insuperable objection to performing a post-mortem examination on a relative?’

Lucchese’s lips spread in a wicked smile.

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure! In fact, I can think of three or four kinsmen whom I would be glad to eviscerate without the formalities of a death certificate.’

He frowned.

‘But in this case it’s impossible. The corpse is laid out at Scorrone’s house, closely watched over by the allegedly grieving widow and an indeterminate number of offspring summoned from their niches in Molino.’

‘Where?’

‘I beg your pardon. My term for the megalopolis which bestraddles us to the north. Torino plus Milano equals Molino.’

Zen nodded sadly.

‘I understand. Oh, well, it was worth a try.’

‘However, thanks to an ancient family tradition which I have just remembered, there should be no problem.’

Lucchese moved a tall ladder attached to a rail along the shelving, climbed up and produced a large spike made of some dull-coloured metal.

‘Careful!’ he cried, dropping it down to Zen, who made the catch. ‘Apart from anything else, it’s solid silver.’

Leaning further out from the ladder, Lucchese retrieved from a still higher shelf a large rubber mallet.

‘You’re not squeamish, I hope?’ he said as he climbed back down the ladder.

‘Why?’

Lucchese smiled enigmatically.

‘Breaking hearts is a gory business. I’ll just get my bag of tricks, and we’ll be off.’

Aurelio Zen’s second journey to Palazzuole was a marked improvement over his first. They travelled in a pre-war Bugatti exhumed from a former stable in the courtyard of the Palazzo Lucchese and driven by Irena, now clad in a minimalistic black skirt and jacket. Zen reclined on the spacious rear seat with the prince, who proceeded to pursue a discussion which he and Irena had apparently been having earlier, involving quilling techniques in early eighteenth-century harpsichords, with particular reference to the relative merits of raven and crow feathers.

As they crossed the smoky ridge of hills surrounding Alba, Lucchese leant forward and pushed a button on the fascia of the rear compartment. An inlaid rosewood panel opened to reveal a drinks cabinet containing several thick glass decanters. Most appeared to be empty, or reduced to an unappetizing syrupy residue. Lucchese sniffed the two that looked most promising.

‘Cognac, query. And something that might once have been whisky.’

Irena passed back what looked like a fat twist of paper.

‘Try some of this.’

‘Is this wise?’ asked Lucchese. ‘You may not be aware, my dear, that Dottor Zen is an officer of the law.’

The massive car slowed majestically to a halt.

‘You want to walk?’ asked Irena pointedly.

Zen glanced confusedly at Lucchese.

‘Because the prince and I are planning to smoke some hash,’ Irena continued, ‘so if you don’t want to be a party to a crime, you’d better get out now.’

Zen gave her his most intimidating glare, with no discernible effect whatsoever.

‘Kindly drive on,’ he replied.

Lucchese lit the roll-up, took a few pungent puffs and then offered it politely to his fellow-passenger, who shook his head.

‘So who killed Aldo Vincenzo?’ asked the prince, passing the joint back to Irena.

Zen looked at him in astonishment.

‘
I
don’t know!’

‘Really? Everyone else seems to.’

‘They do?’

The hash-laden cigarette passed back again.

‘So who was it?’ Zen demanded.

The prince was otherwise engaged for some time.

‘Ah, but we’re not telling!’ he said when he finally exhaled. ‘Around here, we like to hoard our little secrets. Keep them dark, like truffles. They’re the only thing we have, you see.’

‘
Cherchez la femme
,’ commented Irena.

The car was now filled with fragrant dark smoke. Zen tried to open the window, but the handle spun round without effect.

‘So everyone knows, eh?’

The prince laughed merrily.

‘Of course! If they didn’t, it wouldn’t be knowledge.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Do you agree that things are either knowable or unknowable?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘In that case, the identity of the killer is either unknowable, in which case your question makes no sense, or it is knowable and therefore by definition known. I really don’t see your problem,
dottore
. To me it’s all as clear as day.’

He broke into another helpless fit of giggles and passed the joint back to Irena, who swerved to avoid a truck which had suddenly materialized in front of them.

‘Take the conversation which my protégée and I were having before you raised this interesting philosophical issue. Thanks to his treatise
L’art de toucher le clavecin,
we know a considerable amount about Couperin’s preferences in quilling and other matters, but we have no idea at all what Scarlatti expected of his instruments – or even if he gave a damn one way or the other. The man was clearly a total degenerate, probably an obsessive gambler, quite possibly a drug addict.’

More gales of giggles.

‘But nevertheless he was harpsichord tutor to the Infanta of Spain, and the molecular structure of the stone used to build several rooms in the Escorial must be impregnated with the sounds produced from whatever instruments he used. It’s like this eclipse this morning.
We
know how, why and when it will happen, but people used to think it was caused by a dragon eating the sun.’

‘The what?’

‘
The sun!
’ Lucchese replied loudly, as though to a deaf person.

‘What son?’

Outside the window, the landscape had started to ripple and break into waves, curling lazily over like the slow, spent wash of Adriatic storms fetching up on a mudbank in Zen’s native lagoons. But the sky looked threatening, the light had waned and the wind might get up at any minute.

‘Speaking of
L’art de toucher
,’ said Irena, hurling the Bugatti round a tight bend, ‘how long will it take to plant this relative of yours? Or maybe we could have a quickie at the cemetery? I’ve always wanted to do it on a grave.’

‘
What son
?’ Zen shouted at Lucchese. ‘I never told you I had a son! And I don’t. He’s dead. She killed him, and I wasn’t even there!’

Eons passed in the blink of a celestial eye.

‘Right at the next turning, Irena,’ said a voice.

Everything came to a stop. There was a house and lots of cars. People, too, all wearing black.