by Peter King
I had two reasons for my visit. One was to talk to Bernardo about his plants and flowers, the other was to see his kitchen and assess how he operated it. The timing was good, for it was about an hour before opening for lunch. It was convenient too, for Bernardo was in the kitchen directing operations, busy but willing to talk to me at the same time.
His tonsure, his clipped beard, and his sad eyes gave him a serious demeanor normally, but the death of Pellegrini made him even more austere. “I have been through the list of every flower and every plant that I used in the food for that party,” he said vehemently. “Not one of them was harmful—they couldn’t have been!”
“You are the expert,” I told him “but a man has died and it’s better to face some of these questions now.”
He stopped chopping radicchio and said earnestly, “Very well. What questions?”
“Plants that look alike, for example. One is harmless, the other is dangerous. Take jasmine. I know the Arabian variety is used widely but the Carolina variety—which looks very similar—is poisonous.”
“I know the difference,” Bernardo said simply. “I know too that certain food combinations can affect certain individuals—there was a woman who got violently ill whenever she ate vanilla and orange in the same meal. There are other food combinations that have been reported as harmful—beetroot and rhubarb for instance. Salmon and strawberries are another. But these incidents are rare,” he went on, becoming more ardent, “and they only affect something like one person in several hundred thousand. They are no more common when the food intake includes flowers and plants than in everyday foods.”
I nodded sympathetically. “I agree. Tomatoes, coffee, sugarcane, pears, spinach, almonds, strawberries—all contain toxins and are potentially harmful. But people eat them every day— and still they can be dangerous in large quantities or to people with rare allergies.”
“Exactly. I would like to use sunflowers, the seeds are delicious and the petals and the buds are very tasty. I don’t use them, though, as they cause allergic reactions in some people.” Bernardo was cooling down as he realized I was on his side.
“Still,” I went on, “we have this unfortunate circumstance of Signor Pellegrini’s death, and questions will continue to be asked.”
“And I will give answers,” he said earnestly. “I know that there is the suspicion that I may have picked a toxic flower and mixed it in with the others. There are so many of these. Azaleas, buttercups, marigolds, oleanders, rhododendrons—all are poisonous. Anyone who wants to kill a—” He paused as he realized where this was taking him. “But I have made a life study of plants and flowers and I know which are dangerous …”
I picked up on his previous words. “You were about to say that anyone who wants to kill a person can readily do so with a plant or a flower.”
He became more animated than I had seen him. “I didn’t kill Signor Pellegrini. I had no reason to do so.”
“But someone may have—and they could have done it by putting a hallucinatory flower or plant into the food.”
“It would have to be someone with a certain knowledge …”
“Like another chef?”
Several reactions to that question flitted across his face, which was more responsive now and no longer the clerical mask of innocence. “I—I am not suggesting that.” Further thoughts were occurring to him. He said, “That would mean deliberately throwing suspicion on me.”
I tried to look as if I had not already thought of that. He flicked his short beard with a finger. “You seem to know something about plants,” he hurried on to say. “You must know that many are hallucinatory but have no other effect.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“So how could a murderer know that Silvio, in an hallucinated state, would fall into the waterwheel pool and drown?”
I gave him a sage look, cocked my head on one side, and looked pensive.
“Then there are other plants or flowers that are hallucinatory in the immediate early stages and then become deadly,” I pointed out.
“The police would find them in Pellegrini’s stomach.”
I gave him an infinitesimal head movement meaning “Yes, the police would.” I had, in fact, considered that very problem and both those points, getting nowhere with them.
I knew something he didn’t though—namely that the police lab had not found any substance in Pellegrini’s stomach that should not be there. How did that help? I asked myself and got no answer there either.
“The police will come up with something very soon, I’m sure,” I told him. When all else fails, a platitude is soothing. “Captain Cataldo appears to be a very efficient officer.”
“He has a good record for solving crimes,” said Bernardo. That made the score 1-1 in platitudes.
“If you want to go ahead and prepare for lunch, please do,” I said. “Do you mind if I watch?”
“For your report?” he asked blandly.
I gave him a meaningless smile. Everybody else seemed to know, there was no reason that Bernardo shouldn’t know too. He went off to chop some turkeys.
This is a popular meat in Italy and not at all limited to feast days as it is in the U.S.A. and Britain. Bernardo was separating some of them—the breasts, which would have slices of prosciutto and mozzarella laid on them; the legs, which would be boned and filled with forcemeat and then braised; and the wings, which would be baked in sauce. He was removing the livers, for to some connoisseurs, these are more prized than chicken livers. He was also removing the head, the feet, the kidneys, and the gizzard for one of the classic garnishes such as financiere.
He was setting aside the giblets, which are of special importance as they are popular in a number of ways: fried in butter, fricasseed, boiled with vegetables, in a ragu (the Italian version of a ragout), browned with chipolata sausages, or boiled farmhouse style, perhaps in a strong red Italian wine. His staff worked industriously and expertly. Unlike the mercurial Ottavio, Bernardo clearly saw no need to stand over them with a whip—his tongue.
I thought of Ottavio’s complaint that his kitchen fell apart when he was not there, which I disbelieved completely. I contrived to take a look at Bernardo’s meat grinders. That much-favored Italian dish, polpettone, contains a mixture of ground meats—beef, veal, and pork. The meat grinders used are difficult to keep clean, and they are a good indication of a kitchen’s condition. Bernardo had four grinders, the fourth for ham, and all gleamed clean metal.
I looked at the stock pots, but there was no indication that these were reused and topped up—another kitchen economy. I noticed that raw meat and poultry were separate from other foods, avoiding cross-contamination. Similarly, raw meat was kept well away from cooked foods. All in all, the place got high marks, and after looking through the storage, I thanked Bernardo and went back to my hotel.
Italian hotels are fond of a very large room key that discourages the guest from taking it with them. Always eager to adopt new technology, they were among the first in Europe to introduce electronic cards as door openers, but too many complaints resulted and the large key made a comeback. Consequently, I had to go to the desk to claim mine, and the woman at the desk pulled out a note along with the key.
“You have had two phone calls, ‘urgent,’ it says.”
“Did they leave a name?”
She looked at the note. “They will call again at four o’clock.”
Above the desk, clocks displayed the time in a dozen cities from New York to Tokyo. When I found the one that said “Bologna,” it showed five minutes to four. As I entered the room, the phone rang and I picked it up.
“It’s Brother Angelo,” said the voice.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“YOU HAVE GOT ONE HELL of a nerve!” I yelled angrily.
“Don’t hang up—”
“Why should I listen to you? The last time I did, you tried to kill me!”
“No, I didn’t—”
“Does the Vatican know you carry a knife?
” I demanded.
“I want to explain—”
“Surely a knife is not standard equipment for Dominican monks, is it?”
“I wasn’t going to use it.” The voice was the same but more hesitant, even nervous.
“Not to kill me maybe but to force me over the parapet. Isn’t that breaking at least one of the Ten Commandments?”
“That was not my intention either. You must listen to me—” The voice went up and, angry as I was, I noticed that the accent on the English words was less noticeable now. There was still that Italian inflection but it sounded different. “I want you to meet me and I’ll explain everything.”
“Meet you! You must think I’m crazy! First, you phone me, tell me you’re a Dominican monk, say you have important information about a murder, ask me to meet you then you try to kill me in two different ways. Neither of them works so now you want to try again!”
“You’ll understand if you’ll only listen to me.” His tone was almost pleading.
“Go ahead then, explain.”
“Not on the phone. It’s too dangerous.”
I couldn’t believe him. “You think this is dangerous? What about cathedrals? What about bell tower platforms and parapets? Now they are dangerous!”
“It is much more important to talk now.” There was a slight tremor in his voice.
“Important to who?” I demanded. My grammar always suffers when I am under stress. To me.
“I take back what I said about you thinking I’m crazy! You must be the one who’s crazy! You mean you want me to meet you?
“Yes.”
“When?” I asked, knowing that I had not the least intention of doing any such thing.
“This evening.”
I laughed. “After dark, I suppose?”
“No, about seven.”
“You really are crazy—”
“Anywhere—I’ll meet you anywhere.” His voice quivered slightly. He was certainly a good actor, but I had no desire to play the corpse in one of his melodramas.
“Not in a cathedral,” I said, recalling Thomas à Becket.
“Anywhere,” he repeated.
“Give me one good reason why I should,” I suggested, just digging for clues but still firm about avoiding the murderous Brother Angelo at all costs.
“I can tell you about Pellegrini and the three chefs.”
That stopped me in midbreath.
“What about them?” I asked the question before I could stop myself.
“Not on the telephone, I told you. Where can we meet? Anywhere …”
“All right,” I found myself saying, leaving my better judgment laying there in fragments. “In front of the Questura.”
I heard a swift gasp. “The police headquarters! There are guards in front!”
“I know. They can guard me.”
Silence. That’s stymied him, I thought. He won’t go for that.
“All right,” he said abruptly. “Seven o’clock.”
He hung up. I stood there, looking stupidly at the dead phone in my hand.
In many of the detective stories I’ve read, when the investigator goes to keep a dubious rendezvous with a suspicious character, he shows up very early to look over the area. I was there by five o’clock, standing across the street and studying the Questura building.
Somewhere inside, Captain Cataldo was probably pondering the Pellegrini case, reviewing evidence, and studying forensic reports. I tried to remember the view from his office window. Did it look this way? If he saw me talking to a figure in the robes of a Dominican monk, he’d be down in a flash. It was not likely that the person I was going to meet would be wearing that disguise again, though. Maybe he would be a mailman this time. Instinctively, I looked for mailmen but none were in sight. All I could see were the two guards in front of the building. I didn’t want to be too paranoid but I did watch them for a minute or two. They passed the inspection.
The passersby all looked harmless. Nobody was loitering. No one stood with a face behind a newspaper. A man and a woman got out of a taxi and went into the building. A furgoncini passed me—these three-wheeled bicycles are still used for local, light deliveries. A big blue bus stopped, not at its marked stopping place because that was filled with cars. I watched passengers get off, and they all scurried in various directions. I watched passengers getting on and there was no one left behind. Nothing suspicious. No monks.
Two men stood in front of the Questura building, arguing but not loud enough for me to hear them from across the street. I didn’t need to, for it was like watching a mime contest. The gestures used by Italians are known all over the world. They use them mainly to emphasize meanings or feelings but also to express a thought that is better not put into words.
One of the two across the street was now rubbing the back of one hand horizontally under his chin, to and fro. It means, I couldn’t care less, nothing to do with me. The other tapped the side of his nose—a gesture that has been adopted by many other nations to imply secrecy or information withheld. The response to this was a closing of both eyes and a slight raising of the head. This means, I did all I could. It’s out of my hands. I watched them use a whole repertoire of others. Some I recognized, some I didn’t, and yet others probably passed unnoticed by my unaccustomed eye. Finally they went into the building, and I wondered how many of those gestures would be brought out in a courtroom to help seal the verdict of the jury.
I looked in all directions for a little while longer. There was no other sidewalk entertainment to match that, and all appeared peaceful and unthreatening. Fleetingly placated, I walked along to the corner and across the Piazza Verdi where I knew several restaurants could be found. Whatever I was going to face, I would face it on a full stomach. The. Albergo Solferino was one of the few eating places that were open this early. It was near the Teatro Municipale and evidently catered to people working there and audiences before and after performances.
It was a pleasant place with an array of tempting antipasti just inside the door so that you had to walk past it to reach your table. Paintings and photos adorned the ocher walls, and I noticed that the same man was smiling and waving in many of the photos. “Our former mayor,” explained the waiter when he handed me the menu. “He still eats here.” Judging from the hammer and sickle flag fluttering prominently, all the photos were taken during the period when Bologna was the bastion of Communism in Italy.
The antipasto table proved to be irresistible and I sampled the green gnocchi filled with gorgonzola, some salmon mousse, a few garlic shrimp, and some mushrooms stuffed with truffles. The veal scallopine with fresh asparagus made an admirable main course and a bowl of fresh cherries completed the meal. A bottle of Sangiovese was smooth and ruby red—then I remembered that the name means the blood of Jove; I really didn’t want any mentions of blood as I contemplated the coming encounter.
I had stretched out the meal with a cup of espresso and I returned to the Questura where I stood again, across the street and ten minutes early. Italian cities are slowly coming to life at seven o’clock but it is still too early for the crowds. Some were leaving offices and shops, and the flow of buses, cars, and taxis was thickening. In front of the Questura, all looked calm and peaceful. Long may it continue, I thought fervently.
At seven-fifteen. I was ready to conclude that it had all been some kind of hoax. I was taking one last look up and down the street before leaving my post when I saw him. The brown robes of a Dominican monk with the cowl pulled up around the head and face. He paused in front of one of the guards outside the Questura, then walked along until he was in front of the other. He stopped and surveyed the surroundings.
He made no move as he saw me approaching from across the street. I dodged a bus seeking a place to stop. A taxi blared its horn, then I reached the sidewalk. I stayed a few paces away from him. The nearer of the two guards was about the same distance.
“If you have something to say, say it,” I invited.
He stood the
re immobile. His hands were hidden inside his robes and I kept a sharp eye on them. His face was a pale blur inside the cowl that was drawn well forward. The proximity of the guard seemed to intimidate him, which was just what I wanted. His head turned marginally in that direction then back to me. He came a few steps closer.
“I didn’t try to kill you,” he said. It was almost comical in the way he was trying to speak so I could hear him but keep his words from being heard by the guard.
“What did you want to do? Scare me away?”
“Of course not.” He was very definite. It baffled me.
“Why then?”
“The buffalo were stampeded to kill Pellegrini. If they had killed you too, that would have made it look like an obvious accident. If they had killed Pellegrini only then any suspicion would have fallen on you.”
Again I had that nagging feeling that the voice should be telling me something about its owner but I could not determine what it was. The accent was back, Italian surely … but something about it was not quite right.
“What about the incident at the duomo?”
“That was to make it look as if Pellegrini’s death in his house was an accident. All the other attempts would appear to be against you.”
“You mean Pellegrini’s death was not an accident?” I raised my voice in incredulity at this revelation, and he glanced apprehensively at the guard but his eyes still looked straight ahead. “Who killed him?” I asked.
The cowl twitched and pasty features were partially revealed, but before I could see more a nervous convulsion went through the robed frame. He seemed to be looking past me and I turned. I had an ephemeral thought that it was the oldest trick in the book, but then I saw a black car with the window down and a face looking out directly at us.
I was about to dive for the pavement, having seen enough gangster movies to know about drive-by shootings but by then I was aware of “Brother Angelo” running past me on sandaled feet. I heard him gasp—it sounded like fear. My gaze swung to the car but the ugly snout of a weapon had not appeared. The face was still there though, and observing the robed figure racing towards a bus that had stopped by a rank of motorscooters as the only available place. He flung himself inside just as the door snapped shut.