The Art of Killing Well (13 page)

“Barone, nobody shoots people without a motive.”

“And why should you care about the motive? Isn't it enough that someone shot me in the back?”

“No, Barone, it isn't. I'd like to—”

“You'd like. I opened my doors to you, I let you conduct your investigations even though I had guests, and I bore your questions and your meddling. And now, after telling me that you have
found and arrested the person who shot me, you … What's that you're holding?”

“A letter, Barone. But before showing you the contents, I should like to ask you a question.”

That's all I needed, said the baron's eyes. Ask it quickly and then get out of my noble sight.

“I have to ask you, Barone, about the current state of your finances.”

The baron looked at the inspector stupidly. “Would you mind repeating that?”

“I asked you, Barone, in what situation your income is at the moment.”

“How dare you? I do not tolerate such questions in my house! I have been assaulted, attacked, and you come here and ask me if I am rich. Everybody knows I am rich! Look around you, and then tell me if a pauper could afford all this. Have you understood, you damned—”

“Careful, Barone. Don't even think of finishing that sentence with the word ‘Southerner'.”

“Or what? What would you do? Who the devil do you think you are? I …”

The baron tried to rein in the very plebeian fit of rage that had overwhelmed him. He fell back for a moment on the pillows, then pulled himself up again on one elbow.

“This is my home, Ispettore. My name has been law on these lands for more than three centuries.”

“I understand, Barone. Although it might be more accurate to
say ‘was law'. I must point out that we are no longer in your private fiefdom, Barone, we are in Italy. You no longer have the power of life and death over your tenants, and you no longer make the rules. Your name entitles you to a place in history, not to privileges.”

If the baron had been in full health, the conversation would certainly not have ended there. However, the fact that one of the two interlocutors had been riddled with bullets a few hours earlier, and therefore was not at the height of his strength, decided the matter in practical terms. As so often, the fact that the inspector's arguments were objectively stronger had made no difference to the debate.

While the baron was recovering from the effort he had made, the inspector opened the envelope and took out a letter which he handed to the baron. On the letter, in shaky handwriting, was the following message:

The signature was an illegible scrawl.

“Where did you find this letter?”

“It was given to me by your son Lapo.”

The baron said nothing, but the way in which he looked at the inspector was sufficient. If I had gone to the brothel that day, said those eyes, I would have spared myself a mountain of troubles in the days to come.

“Annoyed because you always refused his requests for money, your son searched in your drawers to see what he could filch, but what he found was this. From it he deduced that one of the two guests due to come here for the weekend was the author of the letter.”

“That son of mine …” said the baron with a sigh. “When it comes to money, then he knows how to use his head. Alright, what do you want me to say? I've had a few bad years recently. I admit I borrowed money.”

“Was that why you toasted your victory on Friday? You had just won the sum that allowed you to settle your debts before there were serious consequences.”

“Exactly,” said the baron very softly, almost imperceptibly. “Now would you be so kind as to leave me in peace?”

“First, Barone, I need to ask you one more question.”

“Alright. Go on.”

The inspector took a deep breath.

“You're mad.”

“We're not talking about me, Barone. Please answer the question.”

“But good heavens, man, do you really believe—?”

“Barone, I asked you a question.”

“No, no, no and once again no!” A brief pause to violate the Second Commandment, about which there is no need to write in detail.

“Barone—”

“Barone my arse! Stop reminding me of my title every few seconds, seeing that you don't show me the slightest respect. I will tell you this once and once only: I have never had carnal relations with that housemaid. Never. I didn't even know she was pregnant. I can't be the father of any child that creature is carrying in her womb, and I don't even care for her. Now get out of my sight and out of my house, otherwise I'll have you thrown off the top of the hill, whether this is Italy or the Grand Duchy or whatever.”

On Sunday evening, dinner was served in the Olympus room, as always, but the analogies with the previous evenings, it must be said, ended there.

In the first place, the master of the house was not present. The baron had in fact remained in his room, partly because he was still feverish from his wounds and partly because he had been told that his mother had invited the inspector to remain for dinner and it was impossible to withdraw an invitation, let alone go against one's own mother. So the baron had remained in his room and was not eating. This evening he was not even hungry.

The one eating slowly and circumspectly was Lapo, who in spite of the serious injury to his head (actually a mere graze, but as well as being spoilt and vain this noble scion was also a bit of a cry-baby) had presented himself at dinner looking as spruce as he could.

The one eating with renewed gusto was Signorina Barbarici, who was quite back to normal now that she was no longer at the centre of attention and people had other things to think about, and she
could again withdraw to the comfort of her own invisibility.

The one eating listlessly was Cecilia, who was wondering why she was still thinking about the doctor's beard and hands, while the conversation flowed around her without, for once, tripping over her interpolated comments.

The one eating with great pleasure was Ispettore Artistico, because he was proud of how his work was coming along and equally proud, unlike Signorina Barbarici, of being the centre of attention, even though he was not terribly impressed by the food. That might have been explained by the fact that for every dish emerging from Parisina's kitchen, it was noted which was the inspector's plate and an extra handful of salt was added.

The one whom it was quite a surprise to see eating was Baronessa Speranza, who looked about her as she ate, aware of the fact that once again the house had resisted the revolutionary assault of the mob.

The one eating placidly was Signor Ciceri, who was actually the hero of the moment in a way, a fact which pleased him greatly.

The one eating with little birdlike bites was Signorina Cosima Bonaiuti Ferro, who was wondering if it might be better to take her supposed suitor for a walk in the woods tomorrow or to keep the pond with the Japanese carp as a destination, and look how
heartily he eats and how manly he is, or should she suggest they take a tour of the estate in the trap, of course the road will be quite muddy but perhaps it's better that way because if the trap stops where I tell the coachman to stop then ha ha hah that would be a laugh, etc., etc., sorry if we cut her off here but following Signorina Cosimo's stream of consciousness might give us a headache.

The one eating slowly was Signor Pellegrino, because a question was buzzing around in his head and when that happened he found it hard to eat, and he was trying to summon up the courage to ask a question of the inspector but still couldn't, and just when he had decided not to ask it he heard his own voice say to the inspector, “So what will happen now, Ispettore?”

“What do you mean, Signor Artusi?”

“Well, you know, about the girl … I mean, what will happen to her?”

Lapo laughed. “Why, do you sell rope as well as silk?”

“I don't follow you, Signorino Lapo.”

“Well, I assume she'll be hanged, as befits a murderess. We're in Italy now, and if there's at least one thing we can thank that unification nonsense for, it's the fact that we're able to hang murderers again. Isn't that so, Ispettore?”

“No, it isn't, Signorino Lapo.” The inspector wiped his chin (it isn't right to speak about certain subjects with your chin greasy with sauce) and explained: “The new Zanardelli penal code does not prescribe the death penalty for any kind of offence, thus falling
in line with the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, the only region of Italy as you rightly observe where such a penalty was long ago abolished.”

“So we don't have the right to hang murderers?”

“I'm sorry, Signorino Lapo, but I fear not. If you really haven't had enough of corpses and want to see someone give up the ghost to Our Lord according to the law, you will have to wait for the next war.”

“But that's absurd. So now if someone kills someone else, not only can he not be executed, we also have to take care of him. And you call that progress?”

“No, Signorino Lapo. I call it the law. As to whether or not it is progress, that is not for me to say.”

“In any case,” said the dowager baroness, making the only gesture that was still allowed her, in other words, opening her mouth, “it is unlikely that the situation will improve now that the government is again in the hands of Signor Crispi.”

“I gather, Baronessa,” said the inspector, “that Signor Crispi does not inspire confidence in you.”

“I don't see how he could. He's a socialist, born in Sicily to parents who, or so I've been told, were not even Sicilians, but Albanians. A person of loose morals, who maintains three families at the same time, and when he's not busy with affairs of state spends his time making children.”

“That's his private life though,” said the doctor. “In affairs of government, he seems to be tireless and unequalled. In his first term, he passed more laws in six months than Depretis did in all
his terms. He speaks constantly in Parliament, and spurs his party to work for unity.”