The Art of Killing Well

by Marco Malvaldi

  “I see. So the only person who wasn’t there was Agatina the housemaid.”

  “No, Agatina wasn’t …” She broke off. “Ispettore, don’t even think about it.”

  “Pardon me, but what exactly am I not supposed to think about?”

  “Don’t play the fool, Ispettore. First you tell me it was a woman who shot the baron. Now you’re asking me if Agatina was there when we found poor Teo dead in the cellar. Why all this interest in Agatina?”

  “I get the feeling you understand perfectly well. The person who shot the baron and then ran off through the cornfield was seen from behind. It was a woman. A woman with blonde hair.”

  “Oh, I can just imagine Agatina running in her condition!”

  “Forgive me, but what condition is that?”

  “No, I mean … with that maid’s dress all the way down to her feet, and those little shoes …”

  The inspector lifted his gaze from the cook’s mouth and looked her straight in the eyes. “As a cook, I am sure you are exceptional, Parisina. As a liar, you leave a lot to be desired.”

  The cook said nothing, merely looked angrily at the inspector. Next time I serve you boar it’ll be poisoned, said Parisina’s expression.

  “In what condition is Agatina?”

  “What condition do you suppose she’s in, the poor thing? She’s pregnant.”

  Bull’s eye, thought the inspector.

  “Do you have any idea who the father is?”

  “Agatina was engaged to—”

  “I didn’t ask who she was planning to walk down the aisle with. I asked if you know who usually slept with Agatina.”

  “How on earth should I know? Good Lord, I stay in the kitchen, cutting, skinning and gutting, and pretty much minding my own business. This is a castle, Ispettore, full of nobles and servants. And ever since the world began, the nobles stand up straight and the servants bend. Agatina, though, is a bit stiff and doesn’t bend easily. Ask Signorino Lapo, he knows what I mean. Last year he tried to get her in a corner, and she gave him a blow with her knee below the belt that he still remembers. If his testicles were meatballs before, she turned them into pork chops. And you know what—”

  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.

  Sunday, teatime, more or less

  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, w
ith 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.

  When Artusi had mentioned Signor Ciceri, Cecilia had folded her arms and clenched her fists, simultaneously turning a few degrees towards Artusi – and, as he immediately verified, in such a way as to point her feet away from Signor Ciceri.

  Anger, contempt and fear.

  After which, she had lowered her eyes and begun carefully removing imaginary crumbs from her dress.

  For reasons known only to me, I don’t like what I’ve just heard, screamed Cecilia’s behaviour.

  “Signorina …”

  “Go on.”

  “May I ask you if you have a problem with Signor Ciceri?”

  “A problem? No, not at all.”

  Now it was the turn of imaginary hairs to be removed from her dress.

  “Signorina, permit me to be frank, since it seems to me that frankness is something you appreciate. Your own honesty and lack of guile make it impossible for you to conceal feelings of approval or disapproval. I am somewhat older than you, signorina, and I owe my wealth and indeed my life to the fact that I am not easy to deceive. Having said that, I have no wish to force you to tell me anything, but only to let you know that if there is some way in which I can be of help to you, it would be an honour and a duty for me to do so.”

  Cecilia straightened her back and smiled. “Forgive me, Signor Pellegrino. It was not my intention to deceive you. There is a specific reason why I trust and respect you. For the same reason I do not trust Signor Ciceri at all.”

  “On this, signorina, we harbour similar feelings.”

  “They are not merely feelings, Signor Pellegrino. I don’t know if I should tell you this.”

  “I cannot oblige you to do anything, signorina. You must judge for yourself.”

  “Then let’s do it this way,” said Cecilia looking at Artusi with a conspiratorial air. “I will tell you the reason if you explain to me what tommasei are.”

  For a moment, Artusi was stunned. Then the clue, having gone through his brain, was transformed into an explanation and reached his eyes. Which opened wide.

  Now he’s going to kill me, thought Cecilia.

  After half a second, Artusi broke into a smile that lifted his whiskers, and looked at Cecilia with surprised amusement.

  Clever girl. What initiative.

  “I had to see who I could trust,” continued Cecilia. “Of my family, of course, I was certain. Of the guests, one never knows. The world is full of wicked people. The surest way I could think of was to see if you kept a diary, and, having found it, to read it.”

  “I see. And I imagine you found Signor Ciceri’s diary, too.”

  “Not exactly, Signor Pellegrino.”

  “What, then?”

  Cecilia told him.

  By the time Ispettore Artistico reached the castle, the news had already arrived. That was why the moment he appeared in the doorway of the drawing room, even though somewhat muddy and unpresentable from his cross-country run, he was greeted by spontaneous applause.

  Amid smiles, handshakes and pats on the back, the inspector received various offers of tea and tart, which he gratefully accepted. But those who yearned for a thrilling account of the chase across the fields were destined to be disappointed.

  “I am sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” he said as soon as he had swallowed his last enormous b
ite of fruit tart, “but at the moment my first wish is to make sure of the condition of the two casualties. Once I have done that, and carried out certain formalities, we will be able to speak.”

  “We want at least to know that you will stay for dinner, my dear inspector,” said Baronessa Speranza with dignity. “I am stuck here in my wheelchair, so you won’t deny me the right to a little adventure, even if only at second hand.”

  “I shouldn’t like to be too much trouble …”

  “It’s no trouble at all. Please be reasonable. My son owes you his life, and here you are talking about trouble. I shall have the cook informed immediately.”

  “Baronessa, I am honoured. Now could I pay a visit to the two patients?”

  It was not so much out of Christian charity or any hankering to be a Red Cross nurse that the inspector wanted to see the baron and his extremely spoilt son as to satisfy his curiosity on a number of points. Or rather, to gain a clearer understanding of what had happened.

  Where he came from, it was not unusual for one of the members of a band of cutthroats to shoot the leader. Usually that happened because the brigand in question wanted to become the new leader, and the torch was not passed from one thief to another by holding a board meeting and passing a vote of no confidence in the managing director, as happens nowadays. Therefore, there was always a valid motive to shoot someone within one’s own band.

  But what possible motive could a housemaid have to shoot a baron? She could hardly proclaim herself baroness. There had to be a reason to attempt to murder someone: jealousy, self-interest, revenge; you certainly didn’t shoot your own master without a motive. Ergo, before bringing the guilty party to trial, the inspector needed to see things clearly.

  “How are you feeling, Signorino Lapo?”

  “Not at all well, believe me. My head has been aching all day, and if I try to get up I am overcome with dizziness. Have you arrested him?”