The Art of Killing Well (11 page)

At that moment, there was a knock at the door, and Parisina fell silent.

“Who is it?” barked the inspector.

“It is I, Ispettore. Fabrizio Ciceri. I have the developed plate with me.”

“Come in. Parisina, I must ask you to leave us alone. Go back to the kitchen.”

“Oh, yes, I'm going back to the kitchen. And don't worry, I'm not coming out again.”

As the cook left the room with all the dignity of which she was
capable, Signor Ciceri approached the inspector with a conspiratorial air. In his hand, he held a black box.

Without saying a word, he solemnly placed the box on the table and slowly lifted the flat lid, as if afraid to startle the image with the sudden light.

The photograph was quite sharp. In close up, the baron in an upright pose, with his chin up and a rifle slung over his shoulder, his eyes keen and alert. Next to him, Lapo in a shooting jacket and a ridiculous but fashionable plumed hat, also carrying a rifle, and Gaddo leaning on his rifle, the stock of which rested on the ground, and looking the least threatening of the three.

Behind them, a girl with light-coloured hair could be seen through the hedge, holding a double-barrelled firearm.

If it was not Agatina, it was her twin sister.

Ispettore Artistico was on fire.

On the one hand, he was certain who had shot the baron, and therefore who had unwittingly killed poor Teodoro instead of poisoning the designated victim.

On the other hand, this certainty was not enough. After all, once you have correctly identified the illness afflicting your patient as appendicitis, you can't just fold your arms and hope the fellow will cure himself because you have told him exactly what he has. If you don't operate on him, he'll kick the bucket all the same.

So, before the inspector could get too overjoyed, he still had to catch Agatina. In order to help him do so, he had summoned to the castle the only two men he had at his disposal, Chosen Officer Asmodeo Bacci (chosen by whom and to do what, God alone knew) and Regular Officer Ivo Ferretti, and set them the task of scouring the countryside in search of the fugitive.

As he walked quickly across country, trying to spot the black dress and golden hair of the housemaid with the itchy trigger finger, the inspector saw fragments of his future life passing in front of his eyes.

Invitations from the baron to dine at the castle of Roccapendente for the man who had saved his life and the lives of his family.

Christmases when his father-in-law's stale, overblown story, which rose every year like the dough for the panettone, would be put in the shade by the hunt for the beautiful markswoman, and the photograph (of which the inspector would demand a copy) showing the Junoesque poisoner getting ready to bring her mission to its conclusion would pass from hand to hand, while the inspector smiled knowingly, and his father-in-law—

A gunshot interrupted the inspector's mental Christmas, and he turned.

From the top of a hill, Officer Bacci was waving his rifle and yelling.

The inspector set off at a run.

Coming within ten metres of the officer, he cried, “Did you get her?”

By way of reply, Bacci approached the inspector and pointed to the plain below them, where a black-clad figure was running across a field of sunflowers. Behind, some twenty metres away, Ferretti was following it at a growing distance, given that Ferretti was about fifty years of age and weighed some hundred kilos and cross-country running was not exactly his speciality.

“Ferretti will catch her now.”

The inspector cursed silently. Reaching Bacci, he snatched the rifle from his hands. “And what are you doing here?”

“I'm keeping the situation under control.”

The inspector raised his eyes to heaven, which he held responsible for landing him with someone like Bacci. “Listen to me carefully,
you blockhead,” he said without even looking at him. “You and I are going to run after that woman. You don't need your rifle, it would only weigh you down. If you stop even for a moment, I'll stop, too. But after I stop I'll take aim and shoot you. Got that?”

In the castle, the few residents not directly involved in what had happened were waiting for news of the wounded man. The atmosphere was so laden with tension that not even Signorina Bonaiuti Ferro uttered a word. At last, preceded by the shuffling of feet, Dottore Bertini came in, followed by Cecilia. Given the thickness of the doctor's glasses and the luxuriance of the vegetation on his face, it was impossible to tell how the wounded man was from his expression. Turning his myopic gaze around the room, he spotted the dowager baroness and turned to her.

“Baronessa …”

“I know I'm Baronessa, Dottore,” said old Speranza, the harshness of her voice just a little cracked with tension. “Please get to the point.”

“The baron has a number of wounds to his shoulder and neck, caused by the bullets. None of them have affected any vital organs. I extracted from the wounds various fragments of shirt, which all match the holes left in the garment by the bullets. There should be no more extraneous fabric left in the wound. I then proceeded—”

“Dottore, nobody here doubts your competence. Forgive us, but we do not want a description. What we want is to know how my son is.”

“Your son is well. He will have to rest for a few days, and keep his arm still, but he is not in any mortal danger.”

The room heaved a sigh of relief.

It was not easy to catch Agatina. Nor was it especially glorious. In the end, Bacci, having been well motivated by the inspector, managed to throw himself on her just as she was about to jump down from a scar into a little grove of acacias. By the time the inspector arrived, the girl had already been handcuffed and Officer Ferretti had sat down on her, with obvious satisfaction. Without saying a word, the inspector clasped his hands together.

It was over.

The doctor's announcement was followed by a moment of euphoria. The dowager baroness had given orders to the servants to bring tea with fruit tarts, and everyone had stood up and was now chatting. The arrival of the tea and the carbohydrates further contributed towards enlivening the room. Apart from anything else, the denizens of the castle had skipped lunch for two days in a row and it is a well-known fact that when the stomach opens up after a period of being tight with tension, it needs to be satisfied.

Artusi had just polished off his third tart when Signorina Cosima crept up behind him.

“Signor Artusi, have you seen what wonderful tarts our Parisina makes?”

Artusi nodded and tried to say something, but was overtaken by her.

“They hardly need chewing, they melt so in the mouth, not like the sweets at Ussero's café in the village, the one with the silvered windows, although he does make a tiramisù you must taste, but not now in summer because mascarpone is heavy in summer, as you know, and if you eat it then the same thing may happen to you that happened to the poor bishop two years ago when he drank hot chocolate on the twelfth of August and then took part in the procession carrying the Holy Sacrament, and well, what with the weight and the chocolate he had a natural disaster and also had to be carried in the procession, the poor man, you could smell him from a long way away …”

While the signorina prattled on, Artusi had remained motionless, without even removing the tart crumbs from his whiskers. All around, the others were happily chatting away, without offering him the slightest bit of help. He tried two or three times to open his mouth, but immediately resigned himself. After what seemed an infinite length of time, the signorina mounted a direct attack.

“Do you like Japanese carp, Signor Artusi?”

“I'm afraid I've never tasted it, signorina.”

“No, no, what are you saying? My cousin the baron has an ornamental pond not far from here, and a short while ago some Japanese carp were put in it, kai they are called, they're very colourful and really beautiful to look at. If you've never seen them, would you like to go with me to the pond? They are really exceptional fish, you will see, and I can even tell you the habits of some of them. For example, there's one of them that—”

“Cosima,” said the dowager baroness with the resignation of
someone explaining things to the mentally deficient, “a hunt for a murderess is in progress outside. We even heard shooting some time ago. I don't think it would be such a good idea to get in the way of the chase and expose our guest to the risk of being shot. Signor Artusi, don't you agree that now may not be the opportune moment?”

“Indeed, Baronessa, I fear you are absolutely right. Signorina Cosima, I'm sorry, but I believe it may be necessary to postpone this pleasant excursion.”

Artusi looked at the baroness for a moment. No, it was just a fleeting impression. Elderly baronesses do not wink.

“So you won't be making the acquaintance of the Japanese carp today. All to the good, trust me. I have the impression you would have found them somewhat inedible.”

“Please don't joke, Signorina Cecilia.”

“Who's joking? The last man my aunt Cosima took to see the carp, Signor Giacinto Fioroni, left that very evening, claiming that his brother, the commander, was dying and had telegraphed asking to see him. The visit must have done him good, because my brother Lapo saw old Commander Fioroni two days later, I leave you to guess where.”

As she spoke, Cecilia avoided looking at Artusi: she felt too much like laughing. And it was not possible to laugh today, it would not have been appropriate.

“Anyway, as soon as Agatina is captured, I'd advise you to tread carefully.”

“Speaking of which, signorina, I must thank you. Now that the burden of suspicion has been lifted, I must tell you how grateful I am to you for having shown me your trust. It was of great comfort to me. Just as, it must be said, Signor Ciceri's passion for photography was of great help to the police.”

“Yes, you're right.”

Hold on, Pellegrino. There's something going on here.

One of Pellegrino Artusi's main gifts was his ability to read people's expressions and gestures, a natural talent which he had refined in his long years spent selling silk to half of Tuscany. To observe the customer moment by moment as you speak to him, to see his reactions: unlike the mouth, the body never lies. Eyes that narrow, arms that are folded, feet that point in a different direction from you, and all the other clues that you need to fear, because they indicate that the customer is unhappy, distrustful, bored.