The Art of Killing Well (18 page)

And here the inspector's tone of voice changed noticeably. “The bookmaker clearly remembers receiving only one bet from Signor Teodoro Banti. And, besides, the idea that Teodoro could have placed two big bets on the same horse makes no sense. Signor Paglianti, would you be so kind as to explain why?”

“No, I … You said …”

“Signor Paglianti, please finish what you've started.”

Cecilia had read only in books that there existed a tone that brooked no objection. Now, listening to the inspector, she realised that this kind of tone also existed in the real world.

“Alright, then. Teodoro had to place a big bet, because everybody knew he was betting for the baron. The baron often bet large sums of money on stupid horses, begging your pardon, Barone. I can't even bet, they won't accept my bets. It was important to bet quite a bit of money, otherwise people would suspect that Monte
Santo wasn't your average kind of horse, which was what they all thought.”

“I understand. So it was easy for Teodoro to place his bet.”

The baron coughed, like someone trying to appear composed. “I'm sorry, Ispettore,” he interjected, “but this is madness. Teodoro worked for me. Why wouldn't he have told me about Monte Santo?”

“Because then you would also have bet on him. Two big bets simultaneously, not just one. That would have made the bookmakers and the habitual gamblers suspicious, and would have brought down the odds on the horse. It was quite common for you to bet lots of money on horses considered terrible hacks, hoping for a miracle. But Teodoro rarely gambled. On the contrary. Isn't that so, Signor Paglianti?”

“That's right. He never gambled. What would he have gambled with?”

The baron did not lose his smile. “Ispettore, I don't think I understand. Could you explain to me then how the betting slip came to be in my possession?”

“Because you stole it from Teodoro's pocket after discovering that he was to collect a big win on Saturday morning. Teodoro had come to see you after he won and revealed his intention to leave your employment, explaining to you that he had won a lot of money, not realising that you are no longer as indifferent as you once were to the subject. Having got into a good deal of debt, you found it a not inconsiderable sum, especially this weekend when you were expecting someone who was going to hold you to account.”

The inspector paused for breath. The last round was starting.

“Unaware of this fact and wanting to share his joy with you, Teodoro told you about his win. In so doing, he gave you the opportunity to get hold of the money you needed.”

“I understand,” said the baron, looking at the others in the room as if begging forgiveness for this poor madman. “So, when Teodoro came to see me, I nimbly picked his pocket. He noticed and decided to poison me, but being a little distracted he knocked back the very poison he had prepared for me. Signor Artusi, I'd ask you not to leave those detective stories of yours lying about in future. You see” – he gestured toward the inspector – “what damage too much imagination can do to a zealous spirit.”

Artusi was looking now at the baron, now at the inspector. As were all the others, in fact, with the expressions of people who find themselves witnessing an encounter of major importance but of whose rules they are completely ignorant. A bit like finding oneself in the middle of the final of the world cricket championship.

“No, Barone, I don't think that's the way it happened,” said the inspector. “I think you poisoned your own glass, knowing perfectly well that Teodoro usually finished off your port, and that you went down to the cellar during the night to steal the betting slip from the corpse.”

A hit.

“Oh, that's what you think, is it?” replied the baron, his voice cracking. “And how, pray, would I have got into the cellar, given that the door was bolted?”

“Just as you did when you were little. Moving the iron bolt from its place with a magnet.”

On the ropes.

“But this is madness! Who told you such nonsense? Another wretched stableman you picked up in the village?”

“No, Romualdo. It was I.”

The baron turned like someone who has been told by the fireman that the house in flames up there on the hill is actually his. Just outside the room was the dowager baroness, framed clearly in the doorway like a painting: Whistler's mother, perhaps.

The baroness' words seemed to strip the baron of his noble title. With an angry look, he made one last vulgar, plebeian attempt to wriggle his way out. “You have no way of proving any of your assertions.”

“For the moment, no, Barone. But, as you perhaps know, I consider that whoever used the chamber pot in Teodoro's room is responsible for the crime. And the contents of the pot, which are still preserved in my office, will be analysed. Tell me, Dottore, you prepare the drugs for the baron's dyspepsia, don't you? What exactly do you prescribe to your patient for that affliction?”

“Cocaine, Ispettore. A mixture extracted from the leaves of
Erythroxylum coca
in a ten per cent solution of ethyl alcohol. To be taken in extremely moderate quantities.”

Before the readers start thinking that the inspector is about to arrest the doctor for drug-dealing, it may be useful to explain that the use of cocaine for therapeutic purposes was perfectly normal at the end of the nineteenth century, and that it was one of the
remedies favoured by the nobility and the upper middle classes of Italy for curing the symptoms of stomachache. The so-called
Vin Mariani
, prepared by a Corsican pharmacist exactly as the doctor has explained, but with Bordeaux instead of the alcohol solution, numbered among its most convinced and enthusiastic admirers His Holiness Pope Leo XIII, who bestowed a gold medal on the producer and even agreed to appear on posters advertising the product. The fact that a pope should attach such importance to a remedy for indigestion may lead the more malicious among you to wonder if he really did suffer from it to that extent and, if so, why? But let's not wander off the subject: we were in the Maremma, so let's go back there.

The inspector nodded solemnly in response to the doctor's answer, and moved as much as he needed to in order to have the doctor's face directly in front of him, and the baron's face quite visible in a mirror above the writing desk. “So, Dottore,” he said after a carefully timed pause, “you prescribe this somewhat characteristic remedy for dyspepsia. Tell me, are the active principles of this preparation found in urine?”

“Er, yes.”

“And is it possible to verify their presence by a chemical process?”

“Yes, certainly.”

The inspector studied the baron's face in the mirror, without turning to look at him directly.

“Have you ever prescribed these drugs to anyone other than the baron?”

“Er, no. No. Only to him.”

Knockout.

The silence increased in density, while the inspector wondered how he was going to conduct the baron out of the room. He had done well, but he did not feel like declaring a person under arrest in the name of His Excellency the King when the king was not in the room. By way of compensation, though, the mother and children of the guilty party were.

“Barone …”

Nailed by a chamber pot. What an indignity.

The sun was slowly sinking towards the sea opposite the castle of Roccapendente.

If this had been a day like any other, the baron would have sat down on the terrace in front of his house to admire – and make sure his guests admired – that grandiose spectacle. Unfortunately, this was not a day like any other: the baron had been escorted off the premises by officers Ferretti and Bacci, and it was likely that from now on, if all went well, he would be seeing the sunset through prison bars.

The members of the family had remained in the drawing room, while Artusi, Ciceri and Ispettore Artistico had slipped out and were strolling in the garden.

“Well, now, Signor Artusi, I have to thank you.”

“Indeed, Ispettore?”

“Very much so. When you mentioned your magnetic personality, and the need to keep it under lock and key, it was as if I had been slapped in the face.”

And it was true. At these words, the inspector had been struck by a vision: that of young Romualdo Bonaiuti, not yet a baron, in short trousers, drawing a magical groove on the cellar door with a magnet, opening the door, and shutting himself inside, safe in
his lair. He himself, when he was small, had built himself a secret refuge that was closed in a similar manner, with a small iron hook which slipped into an eye. To open the door, you had to know where the hook was and draw an arc with the precious magnet, which, together with a little knife, constituted his personal treasure.

“And now I also understand the cook's words.”

“The words you mentioned to me this morning? The precious thing that Teodoro was keeping in his wallet. That, too, was of help to me.”

“Precious thing?” asked Ciceri.

“Yes, the poor fellow talked about it on the day he died. And the cook, knowing that a photograph of Agatina had been found in his pocket, was really moved, thinking of the romance between Teodoro and his girl. But actually, Teodoro was referring to something quite different.”

“Yes,” replied Artusi. “Which now even I realise. The betting slip.”

“Well, anyway,” said Signor Ciceri, “this matter is no longer any concern of ours. Now that Ispettore Artistico has handed the guilty party over to the law, it's up to the judge. We can all go home. And justice will be done. Am I right, Ispettore?”

I'd gladly strangle you, said the look in Ispettore Artistico's eyes.

“No, Signor Ciceri. Justice will not be done. The law will be applied.”

“Isn't that the same thing?”

“No. It's a profoundly different concept. If I could really dispense justice, I would force you to give back those ten thousand lire the baron gave you, and which did not belong to him. To all intents and purposes, that money was Signor Teodoro Banti's.”

“Indeed? And how am I to give it back to him? Not an easy task, I'm sure you'll agree. And the dead don't even need money, as far as I know.”

“The dead, no, but the living, yes. And Agatina is alive, even though guilty of attempted murder, just as the dead man's child will be alive and the legitimate heir of its father's property.”

“I'm happy for the child, but it'll have to do without my money.”

“Signor Ciceri, I ask you one last time: give back that money.”

“And I reply, one last time, that the money is mine. You have no way to make me give it to anybody at all.”

“Ispettore Artistico doesn't,” said Artusi. “But I do.”

“Forgive me, Signor Ciceri,” continued Artusi, while the inspector looked at him in amazement, “but at heart I'm still a merchant, and I think you have to give back that money, so that the dead man's unborn child can use it. It isn't yours.”

“It's nice to see the two of you are in agreement. Unfortunately—”

“You're a photographer, Signor Ciceri. Tell me, in what kind of photographs do you specialise?”

Ciceri frowned. When someone changes the subject so abruptly, he is usually trying to take you by surprise. “Landscapes, mainly. But what pays best are portraits.”

“What kind of portraits, if you don't mind my asking?”

“All kinds, whatever the customer desires.”

“And what if the customer doesn't desire or isn't capable of imposing his own desire?”

“What is this all about?” the inspector cut in.

“I'll tell you what it's about, Ispettore. If you search through Signor Ciceri's personal effects, among the photographs he has developed you will find several that depict naked young people and children, of both sexes, in lascivious poses.”

The inspector froze. The way in which he looked at Ciceri was not exactly friendly.

Unconcerned, Ciceri sustained his gaze. “They are artistic photographs. Anyone who understands a modicum about photography will be able to tell you that.”

“That may well be. But I don't think the baron's estate manager, Signor Primo Amidei, is terribly interested in photography.”

“What has the estate manager to do with it?”

“Oh, he has a lot to do with it, Ispettore. You see, some of these photographs are of his eldest son Cecco, and were taken on this very property. As you will remember, Signor Ciceri liked to have the boy go with him to see the most picturesque spots, and must have persuaded the young man in some way – with money, I assume – to indulge him in this hobby of his.”

“And how do you know all this?”

“A little bird told me, Ispettore. But if you don't believe me …”

If the inspector had not believed him, it would have sufficed to look at Ciceri's face, which had literally turned white.

“Are you joking or what? Do you really plan to tell the estate manager?”

“What of it? Didn't you yourself tell me it's art? Perhaps he'll appreciate it.”

“But … but if he sees … he'll kill me … he'll beat me to death.”

“Yes, that's possible,” said Artusi philosophically. “Even quite likely, I'd say.”

“But … Ispettore!”

“Go on.”

“I hope you will take steps. This is my life we're talking about. Wouldn't it be a crime if the estate manager beat me to death?”

“Of course it would. But let me reassure you. Should Amidei cause your death, or any permanent injury, it would be my duty to arrest him and make sure that the full force of the penal code is brought to bear against him. But until that happens, there's almost nothing I can do.”

About an hour had passed. The coachman had just taken away Ispettore Artistico, who bore with him the twelve thousand six hundred lire won by Teodoro, with which he intended to open an interest-yielding account in the name of Agatina and her unborn child, taking the cook as a trustee, which would allow the child to grow up in some comfort, even though it might have to do without its mother for a while. Not that this was a foregone conclusion: there was the question of honour, there was the fact that Agatina was beautiful and prosperous, and this, although it
shouldn't, would make an impression. At any rate, the inspector had done his job. Now it was up to the judge.

The most pitiful part of it had been telling Gaddo, the new potential master of Roccapendente, what would happen now.

When the inspector had finished his explanation, Gaddo had risen from his father's armchair and had looked at the inspector incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“Signorino Gaddo, do you really think I would joke about this?”

“No, of course not. Forgive me. So, by staining his hands with this … this … my father
de facto
loses his noble title. And the financial privileges linked to it, too.”

“That is correct, Signorino Gaddo.”

Gaddo stopped looking at the inspector. “In other words, I will pay for a sin committed by my father. I woke up this morning an heir and rich. In the course of the day, I find myself bourgeois and poor. Does that seem fair to you?”

Poverty, my friend, is not having enough to eat. And you won't have to deal with that just yet.

While the inspector was searching for a reply, he heard Gaddo continue, “Although it isn't true to say I'm entirely without blame. Like Lapo, I could have asked about the money, I could have asked why some objects were being sold. There were so many signs, now I realise it, but I just stayed quietly in my own world, writing poetry. I sinned by omission, and now I'm paying the price. With what, I don't know, but I'm paying. There is one big difficulty in all this.”

“And what is that?”

“It's the fact, my dear Ispettore, that I don't know how to do a damned thing. Pardon my coarseness, but now I am about to become a plebeian and I will have to get used to it. I've never worked a day in my life, and even if I wanted to, I don't know how. Yesterday I was a poet and a future baron, today I'm an idiot who's good for nothing.”

“You have a castle and many loyal servants.”

“And with what am I to maintain these loyal servants? The walls of the castle can't be cooked and eaten.”

“No, Signorino Gaddo. But they can house other people, who would be only too pleased to pay to stay here.”

Gaddo looked at the inspector as if he had just been kicked in the head.

“You have greater assets than most people in the kingdom today. It won't be difficult for you to settle your father's debts with a small part of this property. After which, this place could become a high-class hotel.”

“In other words, you're suggesting that I live by making other people pay to enter my house?”

“It's what your father was thinking of doing, you know.”

“In the house where I grew up? I don't know if I'd be able to do that. You really—”

“Listen to me, Signor Gaddo, because I'm about to speak to you very sincerely. Where I come from, there are whole villages and parts of towns that are ruled by outlaws, who impose their own justice.
Camorristi
, we call them. In order to rule these little
empires of theirs well, they have to keep them isolated, remote, difficult to reach and impossible to penetrate. And that is why what these people are actually ruling over is a heap of rubbish. These places are falling to pieces and have no future.” The inspector rose to his feet, and smoothed his trousers. “Signorino Gaddo, you can be lord and master, without any title, of a castle which will become a pile of rubble, or you can be a citizen of an open world, which everyone can enter and which you can administer. The choice is yours. But at least you have a choice. There are people who don't have that choice, and never will.”

Now, only Artusi had yet to leave the castle. He was standing on the lawn with a large case, waiting for the coachman, his top hat in one hand and the basket with his cats in the other.

As he looked around, Artusi saw a familiar figure in the distance. Not knowing what to do, he put on his top hat, then took it off again. He was pleased to see Signorina Cecilia, but now might not be the time to appear too cheerful in the presence of someone whose father had just been arrested.