“Yes, Signorino Lapo, we have arrested the culprit. And it’s not a him, it’s a her. Your housemaid, Agatina.”
“What? Agatina?”
“Haven’t they told you anything?”
“No, I dozed off after they brought me here. The doctor must have given me something to make me sleep … But how can you be sure it was Agatina?”
“She was seen, Signorino Lapo. And photographed by Signor Ciceri, in the act of firing. A real stroke of luck.”
“Agatina … Incredible. Although the girl does have a certain inclination to violence, I think.”
“Really? Do you know that from experience?”
“No, of course not. It’s just an impression. And so you say the usurer had nothing to do with it?”
“Signorino Lapo, whatever gave you the idea that Signor Artusi is a usurer?”
“Good Lord, Ispettore. I told you the other day—”
“The other day you told me a heap of nonsense. I did not pick you up on it only because I had promised myself to return to the subject later. So, do you want to tell me why you have reason to believe that your father borrowed money from a usurer?”
“What are you talking about? My head really hurts. Would you mind—”
“Signorino Lapo, I have no intention of moving from here until you have told me how you found out about these things.”
Lapo sighed, then, pulling himself up onto his two elbows, he pointed the inspector in the direction of a writing desk. “Open that drawer.”
The inspector did as he was told.
“Inside, under the smoking things, there is a letter on un-headed paper. I found it among my father’s things two days ago. Take it, read it, and then go to hell.”
“Good evening to you too, Signorino Lapo.”
“May I come in?”
Entering the room, the inspector saw the baron lying in bed, his back raised on several pillows. The room smelt of alcohol and sickness. As he closed the door behind him, Artistico had the impression that the baron was more or less asleep. Probably the effect of morphine, and the sudden reduction of excitement following all these events – after all, it doesn’t happen every day that people shoot at you, unless you are at the front. Better this way, the inspector thought. If he’s a little dazed, he won’t show so much resistance. Of course, clothes and demeanour count for a lot. Lying in bed with a cloth on his forehead, breathing in a laboured fashion, he did not seem so much like a baron. Obviously, a noble title did not protect one from the consequences of bullets.
“Oh, Ispettore.” The baron opened his eyes, squinting to see better. “Come in, come in. It’s a pleasure to see you.”
“Thank you, Barone.”
Let’s see if you still think that way in half an hour.
“I heard a big commotion and even some applause coming from the drawing room,” said the baron, trying with some difficulty to sit up. “Did what I think happened actually happen?”
“Indeed it did, Barone. We have captured and arrested the person who shot you.”
At this point, it seemed to the inspector, the baron should have asked who could possibly have dared take him as a target, or some such magniloquent expression. Not a bit of it. The baron panted briefly, then said weakly, “My congratulations. You have done well. Better than well, superbly.”
“Aren’t you curious to know who it was?”
The baron looked at the inspector as if only now becoming aware of his presence, and after clearing his throat a few times said, “I am somewhat afraid to ask.”
“Afraid?”
“Afraid, fearful, terrified, call it what the devil you like,” said the baron, gradually regaining his command of speech as well as his nobility of appearance. “This morning I was shot in the back, and now you are about to tell me that a guest of mine, or one of my servants, had no qualms about trying to kill me, and more than once. Yesterday, when you spoke to me, I confess I could hardly believe you. I was convinced that you and the doctor were mistaken, or perhaps I was confusing my hopes with my beliefs. Now …”
“I’m sorry, Barone.”
I did warn you, my friend. You could have been a little careful before handing out all those rifles.
“Go on, then, Ispettore. Who was it?”
“Agatina.”
“Who?”
“Agatina, Barone. Your housemaid.”
“Agatina?” The baron seemed dumbfounded. “But she doesn’t even know how to shoot …”
“Luckily for you, Barone. Being a woman, and untrained in the use of firearms, she could not know what happens when one shoots. The recoil probably deflected the trajectory of the bullets.”
“Agatina. I can’t believe it.”
“Nor can I, Barone. Or rather, I do believe it, because I saw her with my own eyes. The trouble is, I can’t explain it. That’s why I’m here.”
“I don’t think I quite follow.”
“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:
Florence, 10 June, 1895
My dear Barone,
I am writing to remind you that two months ago, on 10 April of the current year, I lent you the sum of ten thousand lire in cash after you had revealed to me that you needed money to conclude certain business affairs in the city.
Having asked twice and with the greatest courtesy, and not having received any reply, I now find myself in the position of having to ask you to settle your debt in person.
Certain of your understandin
g,
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.”
Sunday, at dinner
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.”
The dinner guests looked at one another for a moment with a touch of dismay in their eyes.
It was well known that when the doctor, already quite prolix by nature, started talking about socialism and government you couldn’t shut him up. In fact the only way to reduce him to silence would have been to throw him out of the house. But that seemed less feasible now, after he had treated the baron, which was why most of those at the table (who, by the way, did not care a fig about politics) were overcome with anxiety.
“Just
now, you were talking about the penal code: May I remind you that the Zanardelli code that people are talking about was actually passed in the early months of the Crispi government? And it was at last a code based on humanitarian principles, which mentions the divisibility of punishment, not a collection of laws drawn up specially to execute whoever commits an offence, and is equally applicable to all the regions of the kingdom. It is thanks to this that we can at last call ourselves a truly united country, by God. But you know …”
From the end of the table came a sudden snort, a kind of strangled laugh, as if it had remained entangled in the imposing whiskers belonging to the man responsible.
“Are you alright, Signor Artusi?”
Artusi made an affirmative sign with his hand, then turned red in the face and began to move his head up and down like a big turkey.
“Oh, my God, did a bone stick in your throat?” said Signorina Cosima anxiously, rising from her chair.
Artusi nodded.
“Wait, here I am … Please remain calm and don’t move a muscle. The best thing to do in this case … If you’ll allow me to give you a few pats on the back …”
At the idea, perhaps, of being touched by Signorina Cosima, Artusi had such a violent hiccup that the trapped morsel broke free of his illustrious gullet and went down the right way, thus sparing the dinner guests the inconvenience of two deaths in the same weekend. Then he knocked back a large glass of water with great pleasure while the gathering, heartened by this diversion which had strangled the doctor’s speech at birth, clustered around him, full of concern.
“Did you get it out?”
“Oh, my poor dear.”
“Are you feeling better now?”
“Can you breathe freely?”
“Here, have some more water. Little sips, please.”
Artusi obeyed, while Signorina Cosima looked at him with amorous anxiety.
“Please forgive me, I’m mortified. I became distracted because I was so absorbed and interested in our doctor’s speech that …”
The Art of Killing Well Page 9