‘How do you mean?’
He lifted the receiver of his own phone and dialled.
‘The Vincenzo line has been tapped ever since the crime. Any calls received there today should have been logged. This was at lunchtime, you said?’
Nanni Morino spent over five minutes talking to various police personnel in Asti, running through a repertoire of stock phrases such as those he had used in his previous phone conversation. Then he hung up and turned to Zen.
‘That’s odd,’ he said. ‘There was only one call recorded to the Vincenzo house at that time today. It was made at twelve fifty-two.’
‘That sounds right. Where was it from?’
‘That’s what’s odd. It was made from the hotel you mentioned, the one where you’re staying. The Alba Palace.’
There was a long pause. Then Zen slapped his forehead.
‘I’m an idiot. My apologies again for the interruption.’
‘Don’t mention it, dottore.’
At the door, Zen turned, suddenly recalling Tullio Legna’s warning about the consequences of Manlio Vincenzo’s release.
‘That accident you mentioned …’
‘Yes?’
‘Who was involved?’
‘A man called Scorrone. He ran a big commercial operation out near Palazzuole and was found dead there earlier this evening.’
‘You’re sure it was an accident?’
‘No question about it! It’s something we’re all too familiar with around here. He was found floating in a vat of fermenting grapes. Apparently he’d been to a local restaurant and had a long and well-lubricated lunch, then drove straight to his winery to check on some wine he’d started up the day before. He must have leaned over too far and fallen in. The atmosphere above those vats is heavy with carbon dioxide and alcohol fumes. One slip and you drown or suffocate, or both.’
Zen nodded absently.
‘Scorrone, you said?’
‘Bruno Scorrone. Do you know him?’
‘I’ve heard the name.’
He turned towards the door.
‘About that phone tap …’ Morino said.
‘That won’t be necessary, thank you. Good night.’
At the main entrance downstairs, Dario was explaining in an authoritative tone to the assembled fans that if only Del Piero had taken down that long ball from Conte late in the second period with the inside of his foot and then got in the cross to Inzaghi, who was wide open … Zen slipped unnoticed through the opinionated throng and made his way back to the hotel.
The night clerk on duty was the same one who had been there when Zen arrived on the train from Rome, a short balding man with an expression which mingled anxiety, humiliation and aggression, as if he were perpetually haunted by the suspicion that everyone secretly despised him for his frailty and incompetence and was defying them to come right out and admit it.
Zen flashed his identification card.
‘Show me a list of everyone staying here,’ he said.
‘Staying here?’ asked the clerk, wide-eyed, as though the idea of anyone staying at a hotel was a bizarre and slightly disturbing notion which had never occurred to him before.
‘Everyone currently registered at the hotel,’ Zen explained.
‘Staying here now?’
‘What do you think I mean, April the first next year? Just show me the book.’
The clerk shook his head violently.
‘There isn’t one! No one has a book any more! Books are finished.’
He turned away, pressing a series of buttons on a computer keyboard. Paper unrolled to a staccato rhythm from a printer on the shelf beside him. The clerk tore it off and handed it to Zen.
‘There! Everyone who’s here now! All of them, every one!’
He stared at Zen with a manic intensity which suggested that there were in fact a number of guests not named on the list whose bodies were concealed in the cellar. Zen walked through an archway into the bar and sat down at a corner table, scanning the list. It was more or less what he had expected. Apart from the ten foreigners – three Swiss, four Germans, two Americans and a Frenchman – there was a woman, three couples and four single men, excluding himself. None of the names meant anything to him, but tomorrow he would return to the Commissariato di Polizia and ask them to run a search of the records.
‘Have you got a light?’
He looked up, his right hand already reaching automatically for his lighter. The speaker was a young woman in black leggings and a leather blouson. Zen vaguely remembered having seen her leaving the room next to his when he got back the previous evening. She lit her cigarette, then slumped down in the armchair opposite him.
‘Do you mind if I sit here?’
Zen glanced at her curiously. The bar was empty, and there was no shortage of available seats.
‘Suit yourself.’
The woman took a few puffs at her cigarette, then ground it out in the ashtray. Her hair was cropped short in layers, she wore no make-up and the expression of her green eyes was uncompromisingly direct.
‘I don’t usually do things like this,’ she said.
Zen smiled politely.
‘No.’
‘The truth is, I’m going out of my mind with boredom.’
‘I see.’
‘Alba is fantastically boring, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so.’
It couldn’t be a pick-up, he decided. She was too straightforward to be anything other than a professional, in which case she would have got to the point by now. Besides, it was hard to imagine that sort of action in the bar of the Alba Palace.
The young woman’s eyes met his.
‘You’re here on business?’
Zen nodded.
‘And you?’
‘The worst kind. Family business.’
Silence fell. Zen had decided to make no attempt to keep the conversation going. The woman was quite pretty, he supposed, in a rangy, sharp-featured way, but he wasn’t attracted to her. For him, the voice was always the key to such things, and hers lacked that special resonance.
‘You’re a policeman,’ she said.
He hesitated just a second.
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘I heard you talking to the desk clerk. Something about wanting a list of guests at the hotel. He seemed quite amazed, but then he always does.’
She pointed to the scroll of paper on the table.
‘Is that it?’
Zen regarded her in pointed silence.
‘I suppose I’m being indiscreet,’ she said. ‘It’s just that the idea that anyone in this dump might be of interest to the police seemed irresistibly … well, interesting.’
Zen thought briefly of telling her to mind her own business. Then it occurred to him that she might be of use.
‘It’s not an official matter. At least, not yet. Someone’s been making anonymous phone calls. I have reason to believe that it’s one of the people staying here.’
He handed over the list.
‘Have you met any of the men whose names I’ve marked?’
‘This one tried to chat me up in the restaurant last night and then gave me his card. He’s a commercial traveller in wines and seems to sample a lot of the product. And one of the others patted my bottom in the lift yesterday. I don’t know his name.’
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.
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