Death al Dente

by Peter King

  “What about Immigration?”

  At this point, most policemen would have told her to mind her own business and stay out of the investigation, but the family connection was probably too strong.

  Cataldo said, “They have checked all single men arriving from England during the past week. Most are here on business and easy to trace. One eludes us so far. Of course, he could be staying with a family. His name, incidentally, is Hamilton. We have not been able to locate him yet.” He fixed me with an inquiring look. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “Hamilton? No, nobody I can think of.”

  He leaned back and studied us both, then turned his attention back to me. “Can it be that you and Signor Desmond are trying some trick here?”

  “Absolutely not!” I said vigorously. “I certainly am not, nor do I know of any trick. I don’t believe Lansdown is involved in any such thing either.”

  “Do you agree that this looks very strange?” Cataldo asked, marginally less aggressive.

  “I do. It looks very strange.”

  “Do you think it is possible that Signor Desmond sent this man here for some purpose connected with your mission for him?”

  “Checking on me, you mean? I doubt it. Even if he had, all this monk’s robes disguise and the knife and so on? No. I don’t believe it.”

  “What about the Ambasciatore Imperiale Hotel?” asked Francesca. “How did he get into the room?”

  “I had a man look into that. The night clerk left the lobby briefly, he says. He admits to two or three times so it could have been more. The key could easily have been taken.”

  “By Brother Angelo,” I said swiftly. “Who would be above suspicion. The person who killed him could have been following him.”

  “Another possibility is that the killer was really waiting for you but the chance to eliminate Brother Angelo was too good to let pass. Killing him in your room put you under suspicion and would neutralize you until the killer could find another chance for an attempt on you.”

  “That’s an unpleasant possibility,” I complained.

  Cataldo shrugged.

  “Have your forensic people come up with any new thoughts on untraceable poisons?” I asked.

  “How can they trace a poison that is untraceable? That is their position.”

  “I suppose you know about Pellegrini’s wife studying plants and flowers?”

  “Tell me,” he invited. I told him of my conversation with Elena Pellegrini. He nodded. “Unfortunately, that does not add anything to theories about untraceable poisons.” Then he surprised me.

  “Modern criminology originated in Italy, did you know that?”

  He rapped out the question and I caught a glimpse of Francesca’s puzzled look, which was probably mirrored in mine.

  “No, I didn’t know that,” I said obediently.

  He shifted his position to a more comfortable one. “An eighteenth-century lawyer named Cesare Beccaria did not agree with the opinion of the time, namely that only the circumstances surrounding a criminal case were of importance. He had an original approach—he believed that the crime itself was of primary importance. His book, Crimes and Punishment, was the foundation of a new approach to crime and the law.”

  “Fascinating,” I murmured, wondering what this had to do with me.

  Francesca was listening attentively but I could see she was just as curious.

  “Beccaria founded what is today called the Classical School of Criminology. A hundred years later, three other Italian lawyers, Enrico Ferri, Cesare Lombroso, and Rafaele Garofalo, established what is now called the Positive School of Criminology—this moved attention from the crime to the criminal. The work of these four men formed the basic principles of American and British criminology today.”

  Cataldo was regarding the two of us with an expression bordering on smug. We waited for him to continue. He obliged.

  “Sometimes it is good to be guided by the past, don’t you agree?

  I nodded. Francesca made a tiny sound.

  “Criminal cases—particularly murder cases—differ and need different methods. This is an occasion when we must concentrate on the criminal.”

  He was getting to the point at last. “I think I see what you’re saying,” I told him. “The circumstances surrounding this case are confusing the issue.”

  “Precisely,” he said, slapping a hand on his desk.

  “Carlo,” said Francesca an accusatory tone. “Do you know who the murderer is?”

  “There is no doubt that the ex-convict, Spezzano, killed Brother Angelo, as we must call this mysterious Englishman until we know more.”

  “You think he’s working for someone else?”

  “Someone who suspects our friend here, the Gourmet Detective, of knowing something vital. I think he will continue to try to silence him.”

  I didn’t like the sound of this, and Francesca flashed me a worried glance.

  “That is why,” Cataldo went on, “I am going to switch full attention to this criminal.”

  “Good,” I said, relieved. “You’ll provide me with some protection too, right?”

  Cataldo shook his head. “Oh, no, that would not help solve the case. We are fortunate that our man is so determined. Our best chance is to encourage him so that we can catch him in the act.”

  So much for a case that I had decided would be easy … a real pleasure, I had told myself, with no risks involved at all.

  “You will not be in jeopardy for long though,” said Cataldo, reassuringly.

  “Why won’t he?” demanded Francesca, her voice sharp.

  “You have heard of Italvin, the famous wine fair? It is held every year, near Verona. The day after tomorrow, they are having their Guest Day. Everybody who is anybody will be present. I want you both to be there. That will make it very convenient for me—”

  “Convenient for you to do what?” Francesca asked suspiciously.

  “Why, to conclude this case, of course.”

  I grumbled all the way in the taxi ride back to my hotel. “Who would have thought a simple matter of picking one chef out of three could turn out to be so dangerous? I feel like a goat pegged out waiting for the tiger to show up—a hungry tiger, at that.”

  Francesca was sympathetic. “I still have my gun.”

  “Great. You’ll be able to shoot this guy after he’s killed me.”

  “I know Carlo. He isn’t abandoning you. He doesn’t want to put an obvious guard on you, but he’ll have police watching. I can guarantee that.”

  “Can you? After having a knife jabbed at me, almost being pushed over a parapet, nearly being choked by poison gas, having an airplane dropped on me, being run down by a six-wheeled truck, and finding a man stabbed in my room—can you really guarantee anything?”

  She patted my hand. It was pleasant but not as much reassurance as I wanted. What did I want though? To get out of here and back to safe old London, I supposed. The captain was not going to allow that, though. I had to stay here and face— face what?

  When we stopped at my hotel, Francesca asked, “Want me to come up and console you?” Her eyes were big and inviting, but I shook my head. “Thanks but I’m going to do some solitary thinking.”

  “You promise no brooding?”

  “No, just thinking.”

  Where on earth did the three chefs fit into all this? That was the main thought that I wrestled with and it soon had me on my back and both shoulders pinned down. The wild idea of the three great rivals being in a conspiracy together came back to me. It was a fascinating possibility and the fact that it was so unlikely gave it a paradoxical importance.

  I opened the minibar and took out a bottle of Asti Spumante. I keep a few of those handy in my office in London as I find that they are conducive to thought. Perhaps it was because the bottles shipped to England contain a sweeter brand, tailored to the English taste. This one was the Bertolo Brut, Gran Riserva, and deliriously dry, but it was doing nothing for my thought processes.<
br />
  I watched a telenovela on the hundred-channel TV. That is the name the Italians use for soap opera and it was no better than that in other countries except for some melodramatic touches borrowed from Tosca.

  I tried to think of whom I might know called Hamilton but that was in vain. Then I tried to think of what I might know that I did not realize I knew. It seemed to be the main reason for my being in danger. By the time the Asti Spumante bottle was empty, I had concluded that there was no way to know what I didn’t know.

  I wished I had accepted Francesca’s offer now but she would have affected my concentration, such as it was. The best answer was to feed the brain cells, I decided. It was early for dinner in Italy, but large hotels have become accustomed to the strange desires of foreigners and open their restaurants early even if the trattorias and the independent restaurants stay with the later hour.

  As I was not evaluating the kitchen or the cuisine here, I opted for some dishes typical of the country. I had the minestrone first. Typical is perhaps a wrong description of this popular soup for it varies from town to town, from kitchen to kitchen, and from one season to another. It can be different every day too.

  The minestrone of Milan is the most famous and this one was in that style. It contained celery, carrots, and onions as these are available all year around. Then it had garlic, Swiss chard, potato, zucchini, cabbage leaves, lima beans, and tomatoes. Other versions add rice, still others add pasta. In Genoa, they leave out the tomatoes and the lima beans but add split peas, spinach, and kidney beans. The Florence way of preparing it is to flavor it with soffrito, a sauce of finely chopped pork, red peppers, chicken giblets, and tomato sauce. Around the rest of Italy, the variations continue as some contain eggplant, others mushrooms, and yet others broccoli or cauliflower. Italians prefer the meatless minestrone. Some chefs serve without seasoning, relying on the long-cooked flavor of the vegetables. When used, oregano, basil, and bay leaves are the seasonings of choice.

  For the pasta course, I elected to have the tortelli di zucca, a specialty of Mantua in which the squares of pasta are filled with puree of pumpkin. This is not a dish commonly found, so I was glad of the opportunity to enjoy this different pasta.

  Osso buco is world-renowned, and its peasant origins were perfectly in line with the meal. The slices of shin of veal are cut so as to keep the marrow inside the bone, and if the dish does not sound authentically Italian, it is because its origins in the north of Italy stem from years of German occupation. In the case of osso buco, its venerable age is responsible for the many variations in its preparation. After simmering in wine, some add tomato and some do not. All however, sprinkle the seasoning known as gremolada over it at the end. This is a mixture that varies widely, grated lemon peel being the only common ingredient. Parsley is used by most and so is garlic. The Milanese add crushed anchovy fillets.

  Mashed potatoes and peas sound like a plebeian touch but again this is a Milanese habit and were served instead of pasta or rice, the other two accompaniments. It was a fine dish, the sauce thick and rich and the meat falling away from the bone.

  To drink with this excellent meal, I asked for Sassiacaia, the rich red wine of Tuscany. It is one that has always been high on my list of favorites and yet, paradoxically, it does not rate a D.O.C. designation. This illegitimate status of one of Italy’s greatest wines is due to its being made from Cabernet Sauvignon grapes, which are French. To the drinker of it, such despicable nationalism is to be ignored, though the fame of Sassiacaia has spread so much in recent years that only an expense account like Desmond Lansdown’s can handle it.

  Such a meal could not be allowed to cloud my judgment, though, and I scanned my room very carefully before entering. A double check of doors and windows completed my security survey, though I did for a moment wish I had Francesca’s gun … accompanied by its carrier. She had, after all, assured me that she knew how to release the safety catch and pull the trigger.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A STIRRING ACTION-ADVENTURE MOVIE with the Roman legions gleefully massacring thousands of barbarians kept me awake for at least half an hour. The other channels had variety shows, soccer games, blood-spattered news broadcasts, clever commercials, and numerous conflicts between cops and robbers. In fact, it was just like being at home—or anywhere else in the Western world.

  I was reentering my room after breakfasting downstairs next morning when the phone rang. That silence that is not a silence hovered ominously until a bright female voice said that Mr. Desmond Lansdown wanted to speak to me. Noises in the background blended Spanish voices with heavy objects being moved. Finally the familiar Cockney tones came on the line.

  “Listen,” Lansdown said, his voice clear and strong. “I have something to tell you. I don’t know if it will affect in any way what’s going on down there, but I only just found out about it and thought you ought to know. First of all, though, what’s new with the business about poor old Pellegrini?”

  I debated whether I should tell him about the rice field episode or not. Deciding it might be worth a danger bonus, I gave him a condensed version. He whistled and the line reverberated. He was considerate enough to ask first if I was all right and then quickly ask about Francesca. “There’s been another murder too,” I added. He whistled again and I hurried on before he could ask questions. “Cataldo has a firm grip though.” I told him. “He seems confident and I think he’s going to tie it all up very soon.”

  “Good! Now listen, what I want to tell you is this. You remember Nigel, worked for me?”

  “I don’t think I—oh, yes, he’s the fellow who made the appointment for me to come and talk to you.”

  “Right. Well, I had to fire him. He was mixed up in some drug selling and I gave him the heave-ho—that was about a week ago. Reason I’m calling now is, I just heard that he used one of our phones to call around locating another job. I told you he was with me all the time we were making Don Juan there in Italy, didn’t I?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said slowly with an ominous sense of what was to come.

  “He was a great help to me at that time. His mother was Italian so he speaks the language well. In fact, he did a good job all around,” Lansdown was saying, “but, well, he got mixed up in a drug-peddling business there too. The Italian police picked him up and he swore to me he was innocent. He admitted smoking some but insisted he never did any dealing. I believed him. That’s how I got to know Cataldo—he was tracking down that distribution ring. Well, Cataldo recommended a lawyer and Nigel was released.”

  The sense of foreboding persisted but I let him continue.

  “When I fired him, he was really pissed off at me although I had more right to be. Having the same thing happen again told me he was probably guilty as hell the first time too. He told a few people he was going to get back at me and now I just heard that he had left for Italy where someone was going to help him. The point is, he may be just nasty enough to blab about our deal and the three chefs. So I wanted to warn you—”

  I had to interrupt him there. “Was his last name Hamilton?”

  “Yes, it is. Nigel Hamilton.”

  My end of the line was silent just long enough for him to call out, “Are you still there? Hello!”

  “I’m still here. I told you a minute ago that someone else had been murdered. That was Nigel.”

  It was his turn for a few seconds of astonished silence. “Good God!”

  “He was wearing monk’s robes and—”

  “He enjoyed playing at acting,” Lansdown said sadly. “He liked dressing up. I got him a few roles as an extra but why on earth—”

  That explains the Italian-accented English, I thought, and why it was not consistent. I told him what I knew. He studded my account with gasps and grunts at the right moments. “So Cataldo thinks he can catch the killer by keeping watch on you,” he said at the end. “I’m sure he’s right,” he added. “He’s a clever fellow. Matter of fact, I used that technique in the third of those S
herlock Holmes movies I made—or was it the fourth?” Then he came to the point that had clearly been bothering him all this time. He had shown enough consideration to hold it in until now.

  “So everybody knows I’m looking for a chef, do they?”

  “As far as I know, no one is aware that it’s you. But the word is out that a prominent chef in this region will be offered a big job in London.”

  It was inevitable that he should ask the next question.

  “So what’s the connection between my wanting a chef and all this skullduggery?”

  “We haven’t uncovered the whole answer to that yet. We’re close though.” I felt that my contribution as a tethered goat justified the “we.”

  A little more chitchat concluded the conversation. I said I would give Cataldo the number where Lansdown could be reached in Spain. The captain might call him, needing some further verification, I told Lansdown, Nigel’s body having been found in my room. I didn’t want to alarm him further so I said nothing about the three chefs all having motives for killing Pellegrini.

  After hanging up, I felt like going downstairs for another breakfast but I pushed aside procrastination and called Cataldo. He recalled the incident involving Lansdown’s assistant but had never met him personally. He said he would call Spain at once.

  Until I talked to Cataldo again, I didn’t want to make any moves in the investigation. Instead, I could make some progress in Lansdown’s project to hire a chef. I called Francesca.

  It took a minute or two, the call apparently being routed through several electronic channels before I heard her voice. I told her of my conversation with Lansdown.

  “I never did trust that monk,” she said decisively. “I met Nigel once or twice when he was here. Didn’t like him much either.”

  “What about lunch?” I asked her. I could be decisive too.

  She was surprised when I told her I wanted to go back to Ottavio’s restaurant, the Palazzo Astoria. I told her I needed to see how the chef and his kitchen coped with the reduced demands of serving lunch.