Death al Dente (19 page)

“Other than that, we didn’t learn much as far as the investigation is concerned, did we?” I said.

“We are not entirely empty-handed.” Cataldo replied. We waited for some amplification. To break the silence, I asked, “How did you know the man was an ex-convict?”

“When I talked to Dorigo on the phone yesterday evening and told him we were coming out today to talk to him, he gave me the name of one of his men who had disappeared. I ran an immediate check.”

Francesca and I waited again for some elucidation but Cataldo merely looked at us with the merest hint of a smile on his face.

At our request, the police car dropped us at the Capodimonte. I wanted to take another look at the place and this time visit the kitchens. It was early for lunch but Francesca put on her most charming smile and the maître d’ remembered us from the earlier visit. He became very eager to please and gave us an excellent table.

“He probably wants to see Giacomo get the job in London so that he can take over here,” she said shrewdly.

After consultation with the sommelier—who, if he recognized us, made no comment—I chose a Terlano from the wine-growing region west of Bolzano. This is the Alto Adige, the German-speaking part of Italy which was under Austrian rule until the end of World War I and called by Germans the South Tyrol. These wines are not readily found, as most of them are exported to Germany. They need to be drunk young and resemble a good Riesling. Francesca had suggested a light white as it was lunch. She opened her purse and took out some sheets of paper. She smoothed them out between glasses.

“My cousin finally got me the information on the three chefs,” she said, sounding exasperated that he had taken so long.

“He did an extraordinarily rapid job, I think. If you paid for that information in London, it would still take a week or more.”

“He is my cousin,” she said peremptorily. I assumed that meant the poor fellow didn’t stand a chance.

She studied the sheets. “First, Giacomo Ferrero … he is half-owner of a vegetable distribution chain, he has stock in a company with a fleet of delivery trucks, and … let’s see, what else? Ah, his other holdings are in Italtel, the telephone company, IBM Italia, Alitalia airlines, and some government bonds. Next, there is Ottavio. He owns half a hair-dressing salon—”

“Pity he never goes there himself,” I commented, but she went on unheeding.

“He has part, about a third, it looks like, of a bakery, and, h’m, about two-thirds of a garage.”

“A garage?” I queried.

She shook her head. “Doesn’t mean anything. It’s run by his brother. Ottavio just has money in it. Then we have Bernardo, the plant and flower chef. He has been very cautious in his investments. They’re mostly blue chip and some bonds in the city of Bologna.”

She set most of the sheets aside.

“It doesn’t tell us much,” I said, disappointed.

“No,” she agreed, but there was a tone in the one word that invited me to ask her, “Go on, what else?”

She curved her lips in a satisfied smile. “Where the three chefs have their money is not helpful but what is helpful”—she tapped the sheets still in front of her—”are these. They tell us where Pellegrini had
his
money.”

“I remember at the funeral when Ottavio said he wasn’t sorry that Pellegrini was dead because now he might not have to pay back the money he owed him.”

“I remember that too,” Francesca said. “But it’s not just Ottavio, look.” She pushed the sheets over to me.

“Bernardo too—good heavens, Giacomo as well! All three owed him money!”

“Like my cousin Enrico said, though, it’s not surprising. See, Signor Pellegrini has financed several restaurants over the years. Some have paid him off, some still owe him.”

I looked again. “All three of our chefs still owe him.”

“Enrico says it’s common for a supplier to help support his customers financially. By keeping the restaurant in business, he makes sure he keeps a customer.”

“True enough. Then the question arises, is any one of these debts worth killing for?”

She looked thoughtful. “No, I suppose not. Wait! What if there was another motive too?”

“Such as … ? Ah, some marital infidelity perhaps?”

She looked amused. “Is that what you call it in English? Yes, very polite. I was thinking of that. You remember last night at the Fica.”

“Yes, there was some straying going on there. I wonder how many other of the people involved in this might be straying too?”

She was mentally ticking off names in her mind and examining possible pairings. I gave her something else to think about.

“Or what about all three chefs together?”

She laughed gaily. “Impossible! Those three!” Then her expression became more serious. “You can’t be suggesting that Ottavio, Bernardo, and Giacomo would plot together—no, no.” But I could see that she was considering it.

“It’s an improbable conspiracy, I admit.”

“It is,” she agreed, “very improbable. Still …” her voice trailed away. “I wonder if Carlo has thought of it.”

“We’ll ask him. Meantime, I want to ask you, have you dried out the gun?”

“Yes, I put it in the oven.”

“I hope you—”

“Of course I took the bullets out first. I dried them too, with a hairdryer.”

She was a resourceful girl and I congratulated her on it. “Did you dry out your phone too?”

“It was ruined. I had to get another.”

“So once again, we are armed and dangerous.”

“You don’t expect to need a gun here at the Capodimonte, do you?” Her eyes were widening.

“No, I have enough money to pay for the meal.”

Yet another way of rating a restaurant is to sample its midday menu. As prices are lower, attendances possibly less, and customers not as demanding, there can be a tendency to lower standards.

There was no sign of the bearded, burly, and boisterous Giacomo but we overheard a patron ask for him and be told that he was picking up some produce on his way. Most of the clientele were tourists and the staff was handling them with speed and efficiency.

For a starter, Francesca ordered
garmucia,
a vegetable soup with broad beans, peas, artichoke hearts, and asparagus tips. I had a soup that was one I had never encountered before, a specialty of the Garfagnana district of Tuscany. It was called
infarinata,
a reference to the maize flour that thickens it to the consistency of a porridge. White beans, bacon, and black cabbage were the main ingredients, and it was rich and creamy, almost like a polenta.

“I feel adventurous today,” Francesca said. “Haven’t had these for ages.”
Lumache di San Giovanni
was the menu name and it was snails cooked with chili peppers and tomatoes. I had the
quaglie rincartata.
That was something I had not eaten in ages: quails baked in bread dough. It was a specialty of Orvieto, said the waiter, and reflected the home town of the sous-chef whose creation it was.

“So the renowned Giacomo gives his sous-chefs opportunity to express themselves, does he?” I asked, and the waiter said that he was very supportive in the kitchen and encouraged his staff. Another point in Giacomo’s favor, I noted. The wine was fresh and lively. It was well able to stand up to the snails and the quails.

It was a meal that cramped conversation, especially discussion of murderous monks, untraceable poisons, and deadly airplanes. We agreed on a
cafe correto
to complete the meal. This is an espresso which contains a generous splash of a favorite liqueur. Francesca selected amaretto, the almond-flavored drink that is very popular in Italy and I ordered
aurum,
which is gold in color and orange flavored.

That was when Giacomo arrived. The maître d’ must have told him we were there, for when he came into the restaurant, he came straight to our table. His greeting was effusive and he was concerned that we had enjoyed our meal. He beamed when we assured him that we had.

“Professionalism. That is the secret,” he said in his deep booming voice. “Every single act in the kitchen is important. Nothing can be overlooked.”

“We didn’t see your kitchen on our previous visit,” I said. “May we do so now?”

“But of course! Please come this way.”

The kitchen counters were white-tiled. When a drop of sauce was spilled, a hand was there to wipe it away. Giacomo waved a proud hand to show it to us.

“When I was a poor boy in Milan, I got my first glimpse of a restaurant kitchen at the age of thirteen. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. The sparkling white jackets, the tall hats, the delicious smell of food—I knew there and then that was what I wanted to be, a chef.”

“You started to work in a kitchen at that age?” asked Francesca.

“Yes, and I have never done anything else. Nor have I regretted a second of it. I am here every day the restaurant is open. I am involved in the buying and preparation of all the ingredients.”

He took us to stand at the side of a sous-chef preparing a sauce. “This is the way it is done,” he said. “Whisk, taste, add, whisk, taste, and on and on till it is exactly right. To do better than your competitors, you have to work harder and better than they do.” He took a spoon and tasted, nodding to the young chef who gave us both tastes too. It was a sauce for veal, tantalizingly flavored. “The kitchen of a restaurant is a place for hard workers with a desire for precision,” he went on. “It is no place for prima donnas.” He rolled his eyes, leaving us in no doubt as to whom he was referring.

We continued on the tour. He made no effort to impress us, but it was an impressive demonstration nevertheless and Giacomo knew it. “Perfect food and flawless service,” he said without arrogance.

We strolled around further. It was hard to find any fault, and he beamed still wider when I told him so. He escorted us back to our table and before we had said farewells, the wine waiter came with our fortified coffees. It was another example of the fine service.

“Naturally, he’s going out of his way to please you,” Francesca said.

“Of course but you can’t fake a kitchen like that even if you know someone is coming.”

We were taking our last sips of coffee when Francesca’s purse began to buzz. She took out her phone and answered. I could hear deep male tones at the other end of the line. She snapped it off.

“Carlo wants to see us in his office.”

“Now?”

“The way he said it was
now!”

C
APTAIN CATALDO LOOKED GRIM
. His manner was cold as he greeted us, and we were barely seated when he fired his first barrage.

“If there is anything you want to tell me about this case, now is the time to tell it,” he said, his voice harsh.

“I’ve told you everything that’s relevant,” I said.

“Relevant, ah, I see. So what have you not told me because you didn’t think it was relevant?”

“I haven’t kept anything from you,” I insisted. “I’ve told you the truth.”

“The truth! Well, now—”

“Carlo,” said Francesca in her sweetest tones. “Will you tell us what your problem is?”

He leaned back and surveyed us. “Very well. We have established that Brother Angelo was not a member of any monastic order. Furthermore, under his monastic robes, Brother Angelo was wearing a suit made in London. His shirt too was made there and so were his shoes. Our forensic expert in dentistry identifies Brother Angelo’s teeth as exhibiting signs of work done in the English style.”

His mood was mellowing just a little, probably because he noted my discomfiture. “Do you have any comment on this?” he demanded.

“No, I don’t.”

“You and I will go see him,” said Cataldo.

The morgue in the back of the Questura building was not as forbidding as it might have been. It was attached to the police hospital and looked much like one of the wards there. Cataldo insisted on Francesca staying in his office even though she wheedled and cajoled to be included. He led the way with his long, official stride, and we went through the hospital to a long room with white-tiled floors and walls and the smell of disinfectant.

The body had already been wheeled out to await our inspection. Cataldo nodded to the white-uniformed attendant who whipped aside the sheet. It revealed a pale-faced man in his late thirties or early forties. He had a longish nose and a pronounced chin.

“He is the man I found on the floor of my room in the hotel,” I confirmed.

“Was that the first time you saw him?”

“I have told you of the encounters in the duomo and in front of the Questura,” I said, “but on both occasions, he was wearing brown robes and the cowl was pulled forward so as to obscure the face. He might be the same man but I could not swear to it.”

The attendant replaced the sheet as Cataldo took me back to his office.

Francesca was waiting impatiently. “Well?” she asked.

Cataldo took his place behind the desk. He motioned for the two of us to sit but it was me he addressed.

“This man looks English, wears English clothes and shoes, has been treated by English dentists. He may have tried to kill you twice. He apparently wanted to give you information. Yet you say you don’t know him.”

“There are lots of Englishmen I don’t know.”

“You realize that you are the only person who claims to have seen this man before, don’t you?”

“The nun whom he told to send me up to the bell tower might remember him,” I suggested. “The guards on duty that day might remember him.”

“The guards recall seeing a monk, but they are not uncommon. We have not been able to trace the nun.” He pointed a finger at me. “He spoke to you, both on the phone and in person. Didn’t you recognize his voice as being English?”

“His accent varied—I mean, it wasn’t consistent. But I didn’t assume he was English.”

“Did he have a passport?” Francesca wanted to know.

He paused as if deciding whether to include her in the interrogation. He evidently concluded it would be impossible to keep her out of it. “Not on his person. Nor have we been able to find out where he has been living here.”

“You have checked the hotels?”

Again Cataldo paused then said, “We tried that. He would have had to show his passport in order to register. None of them recognize him and none of them has an unclaimed passport.”