by Peter King
Italy has a great many varying regional styles of cooking, and although Italians are largely loyal to their own district, it is a popular practice for restaurants to give periodic prominence to others. Today, Ottavio was featuring modern Roman dishes, and the place had one table left when we arrived. The temperamental chef himself was nowhere in sight, probably behind the scenes terrorizing his staff.
Francesca started with the carciofi alla giudia, tender fried baby artichokes. I reminded her that they are really thistles, but she just pouted and said she didn’t care. She had enjoyed it before and knew that it was the only form in which the entire artichoke can be eaten. Rome has the reputation of having more ways of preparing pasta than anywhere else in Italy and I had one I was not familiar with: fettucine alla Romana. The egg pasta ribbons are prepared with tomatoes, chopped ham, mushrooms, and chicken giblets. Fettucine originated in Rome and has been made world-famous by Alfredo.
Lazio is the region containing Rome and along with its northern neighbor, Umbria, is famous for its game dishes. One reason is that huge flocks of migratory birds use the area as a stop on their twice-a-year flight between the Alpine North and the sunny South. They stay for a month to feed on olives and juniper berries and fatten themselves up for the remainder of their long flight. The abundance of such fine bird food has resulted in the raising of game in this area too. Guinea fowl, hare, pheasants, partridge, pigeons, quail, and thrushes are all found on menus.
I picked the woodcock, beccaccia, on the menu, as I consider it the best of all winged game. It yields the most meat, as only the gizzard has to be removed. This was roasted with bastings of brandy and then finished salmis style by being cut into pieces and served with buttered mushrooms and white truffles.
Francesca studied it with a little envy so I had to give her some. She had ordered the abbacchio, milk-fed baby lamb that has never tasted grass. It is usually spit-roasted, but Francesca was having it brodettato—cut into small chunks and cooked in a pan with garlic, olive oil, white wine, egg yolks, and lemon peel. Rosemary is agreed to be the essential seasoning. It was delicious and melting in the mouth, close to being as good as my woodcock.
Like its French equivalent, Beaujolais, Valpolicella is an Italian red which can be chilled a few degrees so as to make it an ideal accompaniment to game. Sadly, it is a wine that has exceeded its own popularity and become the most plentiful red wine after Chianti. Consequently, much Valpolicella of indifferent quality is on the market—especially the export market. We were fortunate here though, because Ottavio had several bottles from the vineyard of Giuseppe Quintarelli, the maestro of Valpolicella. It had a velvety richness and yet remained dry and spicy with a surprising intensity.
“I think we should do more of this,” declared Francesca, cleaning her plate. “It’s not fair to make any hasty decisions.”
“I agree. Now what about dessert?”
She clapped her hands with delight when she learned that Ottavio made bocconotti, a favorite of her childhood. The waiter brought a tray of them, tiny tarts with a filling of apricot jam, grated chocolate, grated lemon peel, sweetened with honey and then soaked in rum.
“As good as you remember?” I asked her.
“My mother didn’t use rum—this way is better.”
“Do you have to work this afternoon?”
“No. Why?”
“We could make plans for which other restaurants we want to visit again,” I suggested.
“Fine. Let’s do it at your hotel.”
We did not spend the afternoon making plans. We spent it much more delightfully, and it was early evening when Francesca said lazily. “Where are we eating tonight?”
“You can’t be hungry again!” I protested.
“Making love makes me hungry.”
We were preparing ourselves to go out when the phone rang. “This is Antonio at the Ristorante Regina in Gittareale. May we invite you to dine at our establishment? It would be a shame if you returned to England without giving us an opportunity to be compared with the ‘Three.’ We have an excellent reputation.”
I rolled my eyes at Francesca. I whispered to her. “The Regina in Cittareale. Inviting us to eat there. Do you know it?”
“Everybody says it’s wonderful!” She was excited. “Let’s go!”
“Very well,” I said. “Could you accommodate us tonight?”
“Certainly. We look forward to seeing you.”
Francesca was delighted. “I wonder how many other good restaurants would like to compete with the Big Three?” she wondered.
“So everybody knows.” I said bitterly. “Everybody in Italy knows. Anyway, it isn’t really fair,” I protested. “We are leading them to believe that—”
“Fair! Poof!” she said, standing there in black bra and panties and looking regally wanton. “You Anglos have peculiar ideas about ‘fair.’ You have that saying, don’t you. Never kick a man when he is down. That’s crazy—it’s the perfect time to kick him.”
“I’ve always thought it strange that the Italian language has no word for honor,” I retaliated. “Oh, I know you have the word onore but you use it to mean rank or distinction, not honor as we mean it.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say about my people,” she said, wagging a finger at me.
It was only a wicked glint in her eye that prompted me to ask her, “Wasn’t it Macchiavelli who complained that ‘some men do not know how to be wicked in an honorable way’?”
“It might have been Casanova,” she retorted, coming closer.
“No, it wasn’t—”
By then she was close enough to put her arms around me and murmur, “We have a saying that there is some of Casanova in every man.”
“You do?” I tried to say as her lips pressed against mine.
“Yes. That’s just a part of it. The rest says ‘including those you expect the least.’”
Consequently a couple of hours elapsed before we were finally ready to leave the Ambasciatore Imperiale. We were going out the door when the phone rang. It was Cataldo.
“I thought you would be relieved to hear that Spezzano was picked up at the Yugoslav border,” he said without preamble.
“That’s good news,” I said, delighted. “Have you got anything out of him?”
“Not yet. I just heard a few minutes ago. But we will,” he said ominously. “I’ll keep you informed.”
I told Francesca and we left, heading for the Ristorante Regina in nearby Cittareale in an ebullient mood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FRANCESCA’S EXERTIONS HAD NOT tired her in the least. On the contrary, she was bubbling with gaiety, fizzing with excitement, and I told her so.
“You’re more than allegro, you’re allegrissimo.”
“I feel like Vesuvio!” she said, eyes sparkling.
“Good, but watch the road.”
It was only a twenty-minute ride to Cittareale, a village northwest of Bologna. At the autostrada exit, some patchy fog, ghostly-white, hung over the damp ground. The waters of the River Po exert their powers over a vast area, even at this time of year. We went down a country road, past a few sprawling farmhouses. Francesca was driving slowly and over the sound of the engine, a dog barked loudly.
I pointed. “There! On the right!” A large sign for the restaurant sent us down a country road, and the building was there before us, situated in a wooded area with a large parking area surrounding it. We were able to park close, and we walked arm in arm through the twilight, for dusk was now falling rapidly.
The entrance to the restaurant was through a large sheltering portico with trelliswork and twisting vines. Perhaps it was our euphoric mood but we reached the large wooden double doors before I noticed that the place was almost in darkness. Simultaneously, Francesca said, “There weren’t many cars in the parking lot. I wonder—”
There was a sound behind us and we turned to see the figure of a man in dark clothes emerging from the bushes.
“Go on in,” he sai
d in a voice that did not invite argument. As an additional persuasion, he took his right hand from his pocket. It contained a black and ugly shape that wasn’t clear in the fading light, but I decided against the need for precise identification. We went in.
As I pushed the door open, I saw the sign that declared the restaurant open six days of the week. Today it was closed for business.
“Turn left.” The voice was speaking Italian but it did not sound familiar. We went along a corridor with photographs on both walls then through swinging doors. We were in the kitchen.
Familiar stainless steel and copper shapes gleamed as the man snapped on a light. It illuminated only the section of the kitchen that we were in now. Fading into the darkness were tables and chopping blocks, racks of dishes and plates, and all the customary paraphernalia. The soothing smells of garlic and onion hung in the air despite the obvious signs of careful cleaning and ventilation.
I had thought we were safe with Cataldo’s welcome news that Spezzano had been apprehended and that threat removed. It had led to an elation that had now burst like a collapsing soufflé. How could another assassin have been put on our trail-so quickly?
“Yes, you’re the one,” the man said in a quiet voice. I could see him now. He was medium height, light, thinning hair, and in his forties. His face was grim and hard, and his complexion was pasty, as if he had lived several recent years indoors. His eyes were flinty and bore the look of one accustomed to a life of violence. He stared at Francesca. “Pity you had to be along too,” he grunted then his expression changed. “Still,” he said with a leer, “maybe we can enjoy ourselves after he’s left us.”
“We both have to leave,” I told him though my mouth was a little dry. “We need to find a restaurant that’s open.”
I took a step and his right hand moved sharply. I had full confirmation of the nature of that black and ugly shape in it. It was a gun. I stopped.
“Who are you?” Francesca demanded contemptuously. “What do you want? If it’s money, we—” She snapped her handbag open, stopped as he waggled the gun at her.
“In due course, I can get to that,” he said with an unpleasant grin. “For now”—he looked meaningfully at me—”it’s just orders. That’s all, just orders.”
“Orders from whom?” In Italian, the grammar was not in question. “At least, I deserve to know that.” I did want to know, though the desire to keep him talking, to stall as long as I could, was more important.
He was not a believer in last requests. He ignored my question. “Over there.” He motioned to the far end of the kitchen, wreathed in darkness. I obeyed quickly, the vague thought that the darkness might offer a hiding place. I obeyed so quickly in fact that it took him unawares. I hurried past the racks of dishes with the intention of separating myself from Francesca, keeping us apart so as to make it as difficult for him as I could. I was rounding the end of the bench when I saw ahead of me one of the wooden-slatted platforms that chefs place on the concrete floors to stand on while working.
“Slowly!” he said harshly.
I paused, put my hand on the corner of the bench top as I half turned. He was coming towards me and I moved my hand. His eyes flickered to it, looking to see if I was reaching for something to use as a weapon. There was nothing there on the scrubbed wooden surface, and he grinned mirthlessly. Francesca stopped too, a few paces behind me.
He waved the automatic for me to go on towards the dark alcove. I could only presume that he had made some preparations there for our disposal, but I didn’t want to speculate on what they might be.
I went on, trailing my hand on the bench top as I turned the corner, trusting that he was looking at my hand and not at the floor.
He kicked the edge of the slatted platform just as I had hoped and almost fell, saving himself only with a grab at the table with his left arm.
I might not have another chance. I had spotted a row of iron skillets on a rack above and I snatched the nearest and swung at him. It missed his head but hit him on the right bicep as he was pulling himself to his feet. His fingers instinctively let go of the automatic and it clattered to the floor. Francesca took a step forward to run and pick it up but he lunged for it. He dropped his hand flat on the gun, pinning it to the floor.
He was a cool customer. Where most would have scrambled to get a grip on the gun, he kept it there, his hand covering it while he sized up our relative positions. Francesca and I were seven or eight feet apart so he had to look from one to the other. An evil smile came over his face as he slowly fumbled to get the gun into his hand, keeping his eyes on us and not giving in to the temptation to look down at the gun.
I edged to my left, widening the space between Francesca and me, increasing the angle between us. He had to turn his head further now to look from one to the other, but as he did, he was palming the gun. He was having to do it with his left hand, and I had noticed that he had held it in his right before. Most people are one-handed and have a strong preference for the favored hand. Gambling on him being that way, I guessed that he would rather shoot me with his right hand, so I watched breathlessly as he scooped up the gun.
I took another step to the left. I had guessed correctly, he switched the gun to the other hand and as he did so I threw the skillet at him. Heavy iron skillets are not easy to throw and I had no time to wind up a swing. It sailed through the air in a lazy arc and he sneered as it dipped to fall on the concrete floor in front of him.
The sneer promptly disappeared as the skillet bounced once on its handle and rebounded to hit him on the shin. He winced but held on to the gun. In that half second, I had taken another step and banged against a bench. I glanced at it swiftly—there must be something there. A knife was what I hoped for, but I knew kitchens too well to really expect one. They are always kept in racks on the wall, where they are safer than left lying on a flat surface.
He was facing me across the end of the bench and the blow on the shinbone had not improved his temper. He muttered something I did not hear, but it sounded profane. He raised the gun and took aim. His manner was smoothly professional.
The crash of the gun was. deafening in the confines of the kitchen. Echoes rolled from saucepans to stew pots and bounced down from the low ceiling. A stack of plates shivered and some glasses rattled in a dishwasher.
He stood staring at me, his expression threatening. The reverberations were still rolling when there was another explosion.
At the second shot, the man jerked visibly and his gun arm sagged. His legs gave way and his mouth opened in almost comical incredulity. He crumpled to his knees and he was still staring at me. His torso folded and he toppled forward to crash facedown on the concrete, the automatic still in his hand.
Francesca stood there, her hand still inside her bag. A whiff of smoke spiraled up from it. Two patches of blood were spreading rapidly on the man’s back and she looked down at them scornfully. The look on her face was almost frightening. She could probably have shot a whole platoon if her ammunition had held out.
She looked ruefully at her handbag. There was a large ragged hole in the bottom of it, the fiber edges still smoking.
“It’s usual to take the gun out before firing it,” I commented.
“There wasn’t time,” she said simply. She lifted the bag and examined it. “I paid three hundred thousand lire for this.”
“Maybe you can get it repaired.”
She gave a choking laugh, dropped the bag, and threw herself into my arms.
When Cataldo arrived, we had every light in the restaurant blazing. He looked at the body.
“You are running up a high death rate here,” he commented.
“I was right to insist on having a gun, wasn’t I, Carlo?” Francesca asked pertly.
He grunted a grudging acquiescence.
“It was a good idea to give me a license too,” she added.
He examined the body and then the gun. He sniffed my hands and then Francesca’s. We told him exactly what had happened a
nd he listened without comment. The investigation team started arriving in ones and twos and he nodded to them to go ahead. To us, he said, “Let’s take a look down here,” and we went in the direction of the dark alcove where we had been headed.
Two very large black plastic sacks and a garbage wagon on wheels were there, and Francesca gave a look, a shudder, and turned away. An older detective with years of experience written all over his face came up and said something to Cataldo in a low voice. The captain nodded thanks.
“One of my detectives recognized your assailant,” he told us. “His name is Perruchio—he has a long criminal record.” He glanced at Francesca. “Thanks to you, it won’t get any longer.”
“After your phone call, I thought we were safe,” I said with a touch of acerbity.
“I did too,” Cataldo admitted. “I didn’t think a replacement for Spezzano could be found that quickly.”
“Yes, that was a bad mistake, wasn’t it?” I commented.
He looked at me quickly.
Francesca frowned. “Mistake? Whose mistake?”
“You already know, don’t you?” I asked Cataldo.
He was studying me with a quizzical expression, cautiously assessing what he was going to say.
“Two ex-convicts and Desmond Lansdown’s assistant. It’s obvious now when you put those together,” I said.
The vestige of a satisfied smile was beginning to spread over his face.
“But you don’t have quite enough evidence,” I suggested.
He smiled and his strong, bronzed face lit up.
“Between us, we can conclude this case!” His voice was triumphant.
Francesca looked from Cataldo to me and back again.
“Will you two tell me what you are talking about?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ITALVIN, AS IT IS known, is the biggest wine fair in Italy and perhaps in Europe. It is the showcase of the wine industry and only open to persons in the trade, but it was child’s play for a man with Cataldo’s influence to get tickets for Francesca and me.