Death al Dente

by Peter King

  There was something of a stir at the main door. It was easy to see why—the imposing figure of Captain Cataldo had entered and he stood looking imperiously around the room. He went to speak to a couple of the waiters and I supposed they were police. He left them and came in, whipping off his cloak with a majestic swirl. He made the gesture as if proclaiming that he was here and now all would be revealed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  HE STOPPED TO GREET people and chat very briefly. He moved through the crowd with the easy confidence of a massive icebreaker going through thin melting ice. It looked like casual progress, but it was planned. He stepped onto a dais and held up a hand for silence. Mussolini could not have commanded it more effectively.

  “If you will take your places at the tables,” he began in his rich voice, “I will tell you of current developments following from the unfortunate death of our friend, Signor Pellegrini. This sad event has had a far-reaching effect on our community, and you are all anxious to know the present status.”

  Everyone did as he ordered. Francesca and I found ourselves sitting with several people we did not know. There was no time for introductions, for Cataldo was continuing.

  “The most perplexing part of the entire investigation has been the hunt for the poison that hallucinated Signor Pellegrini so that he fell into the pool. Our Forensic department tells me they know of no poison that does not leave a trace in the stomach. They have considered interacting substances, allergens, dangerous combinations—every possibility—and still have found nothing. Nothing to account for Signor Pellegrini, his wife, Signora Pellegrini, and Signor Rinaldo being the only ones to be poisoned. We have repeated all the tests and talked to experts in other countries, still to no avail.”

  The crowd was silent, hanging on his every word. He turned his head slowly, encompassing everyone there, enjoying his moment in the spotlight though it was obvious he enjoyed that position often.

  “I was telling our English friend here” —he nodded in my direction— “of the Italian pioneers who founded modern criminology. I told him how the focus of investigation shifted from the circumstances surrounding the crime to the crime itself and then to the criminal. When I was not able to make progress in the search for an untraceable poison or learn how it was administered. I decided to follow Lombroso’s technique. I concentrated on the criminal.”

  An electric silence filled the room. A plate clanked. Someone asked, “You mean you knew who the criminal was?”

  Cataldo smiled complacently. “Not at that moment, no. It was not fully clear that there was a criminal. Signor Pellegrini could have hallucinated for some other reason and fallen into the pool. Except …”

  The crowd waited for him and he obliged. “Except for the earlier attempt on Pellegrini’s life.”

  A gasp floated from table to table, most not aware of this.

  “A buffalo herd was stampeded and Pellegrini was almost killed. I have examined the location more than once. Only someone familiar with Signor Pellegrini and his habits could have known that he always stopped at that place.”

  When Cataldo resumed, he was speaking more slowly and enunciating even more carefully, His words began to take on more significance.

  Cataldo shifted his stance slightly. It was the only movement in the room.

  “Motive is, of course, a matter closely connected with the criminal. Who gained from his death? We know that some of our regional personalities had business dealings with Signora Pellegrini.”

  “He means several chefs owed him money,” whispered Francesca. “I wonder why he’s being so tactful?”

  “Another suffered injury to his career,” added Cataldo, and glances flashed in Giacomo’s direction. Little secrecy surrounded this incident and it was widely known that Pellegrini was blamed for Giacomo losing his third star.

  “Are these reasons for murder? I did not think so. I was being forced to the conclusion,” said Cataldo carefully, “that the person with the most to gain from Pellegrini’s death was”—he swung a finger and pointed—“Signora Elena Pellegrini.”

  She was on her feet immediately, eyes flashing and breasts heaving. Gasps came from the crowd, which was lapping it up.

  “This is absurd! Ridiculous! It is—”

  “Am I wrong?” asked Cataldo innocently. “You do not inherit all the Pellegrini businesses?”

  “That part is true,” she snapped. “I do inherit all Silvio’s businesses.”

  “Which you have been heard to say you could run better than he did.”

  “But I did not kill him!” she shouted. “It’s preposterous to suggest that I could hit him on the head and drown him in the pool!”

  “Ah, I see,” said Cataldo, rubbing his chin reflectively, “you claim the frailty of your sex. You are not strong enough to have knocked him unconscious and you are not unscrupulous enough to have drowned him. H’m …” He appeared pensive for a moment. “That could be true, I suppose.”

  His next words rapped out so forcefully that Elena flinched visibly.

  “In that case, you must have had an accomplice. A man presumably. Now who could that be?” His gaze pivoted to Giacomo. “We have a witness to clandestine meetings between you and chef Giacomo Ferrero.”

  “See!” Francesca whispered triumphantly. “Carlo did have a man at the Fica!”

  Now it was Giacomo, his bearded bulk knocking his chair to the floor as he leaped to his feet. “I object to these scurrilous accusations!” he bellowed. “I met Elena at a nightclub because she wanted to talk about canceling my debt to Pellegrini!”

  There were snickers at this and even a few laughs. Giacomo glared back. “It’s nonsense to think that I would kill a man because he caused me to lose a star,” he blustered. “I was furious when I first heard about that. I still am, but I did not kill him!”

  “Please remain calm,” Cataldo admonished him. “You are not being accused.”

  Giacomo stood there, still angry, but Cataldo’s words robbed him of further argument. He retrieved his chair and sat down.

  The noble figure of Captain Cataldo drew to full height. The black uniform with the bright red piping looked even more imposing. He breathed leisurely and the hiatus raised the tension in the room to a still higher level.

  “When I reached this point in my assembly of the facts in the case—still concentrating on the identity of the criminal— the problem was solved.” He smiled gently, proud and satisfied. The atmosphere was reaching an explosive level. No one spoke, but it was clear that Cataldo’s audience did not deem the case closed at all. A puzzled look was on several faces and the man next to Francesca frowned and shook his head.

  “Signor Calvocoressi?” Cataldo called out and a heavy brown-faced man lifted a hand. “Would you tell us what your doctor told you?”

  “He said it was an attack of indigestion. I often have them. Sometimes they are very bad and—”

  “Thank you,” said Cataldo. “We can eliminate you from the case. Now, we are fortunate in having an expert on food with us. Our English friend here has had much experience in the field of culinary murder, especially poisoning”—he pointed to me—”so I am going to ask him to give us his opinions.”

  He sat down, gave me an expansive wave, and I came to my feet. “Much experience” was an exaggeration but it probably helped to establish my credentials.

  ‘We had a list of four people,” I began, “believed to have been the victims of a poison administered at the San Pietro. One possible means suggested was that a flower or a plant contained a hallucinatory agent. It is true that some plants and flowers do, but there is no doubt whatever that Chef Bernardo is scrupulously careful in his selection and preparation.”

  I could see Bernardo now, looking relieved. I went on, “With the elimination of Signor Calvocoressi from the list, we are left with only three people who might have been poisoned— or hallucinated.

  “First, Signor Pellegrini. No trace could be found in his stomach of any foreign substance. This
led to the possibility that the poisonous material was untraceable. He cannot, unfortunately, tell us anything about his condition so we do not know what hallucinations he may have experienced. The spilled coffee pot, the cup and saucer, the overturned chair, the zigzag trail of spilled coffee, and his fall into the pool—all these suggest it.

  That leaves us with Signora Pellegrini. She experienced hallucinations and once again, the possibility of an untraceable substance suggested itself.”

  A few murmurs of concern arose. Nobody liked the sinister sound of “an untraceable poison.” When they had died, I continued.

  “The third person reporting hallucinations was our lawyer friend, Avvocato Tomasso Rinaldo. Considering all these facts, I came to a startling thought. What if the so-called poison was untraceable because it did not exist? Only two living persons say it did. What if they were not telling the truth?”

  I sat down. Cataldo rose. “Thank you, and that very clear exposition brings us to the further question: if the Signora had an accomplice, who more likely than Tomasso Rinaldo?”

  Exclamations and gasps of astonishment rippled through the room at this accusation of the well-known lawyer.

  Tomasso rose to his feet calmly. “Captain, you are fumbling in the dark. You are at a loss in this case and grasping at any straw. You will kindly withdraw your remarks.” He sat down, cool as ice.

  Cataldo was about to reply when there came a startling interruption. Another person had stood and all heads turned. It was Tomasso’s wife, Clara.

  “The two of them have been having an affair for some time,” she stated clearly.

  Elena Pellegrini swirled around and was about to rush over and start some clawing of eyes but she was restrained. She stood, eyes blazing, but any aggression on her part would be self-condemning and she realized it.

  Cataldo regarded all this with a complete absence of visible emotion, but I did not doubt that he found his duty difficult. He was a compassionate man, and accusing people known to him of murder was distasteful to him. Only the additional fact that another of these was the victim of that murder enabled him to keep to his purpose.

  “She killed Silvio,” Clara Rinaldo said in a loud voice.

  “I didn’t! I didn’t!” screamed Elena and her shrill voice echoed.

  “If you did not,” said Cataldo, calm by comparison, “then it was Tomasso Rinaldo—and you, Signora Pellegrini, helped him.”

  The silvery-haired lawyer got to his feet and walked out of the room.

  Cataldo watched him go, making no attempt to stop him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I COULD HARDLY BELIEVE it when I saw Tomasso walking out of that room—and you just let him.”

  We were in one of the adjoining staff rooms in the Italvin buildings and Cataldo was sitting by a telephone, smoking a long cheroot and looking extremely pleased with himself.

  “Tomasso Rinaldo is a renowned lawyer,” he said. “I had achieved what I wanted—I had pointed a firm finger of suspicion at him and I had got Signora Clara Rinaldo to say that her husband and Elena Pellegrini were having an affair. I knew that Clara had been frequenting the Fica nightclub and that there had been estrangement between her and her husband for some time. So when I saw the reports on her visiting the club I thought that she was the errant one. It took me a little while to realize it was her husband who was straying and she wanted to keep an eye on him.”

  “Elena was seen there not only with Tomasso,” Francesca said. “She also arranged to meet the chefs there. They were flattered and it provided her with a cover for her affair with Tomasso.”

  “I have learned,” Cataldo said, puffing deeply on the cheroot, “to always suspect the spouse first. It is a reliable rule to follow and more often than not, rewarding.”

  “But why didn’t you arrest him?” I asked.

  “Arrest! You Anglos are so direct. You should learn a little finesse from the Latins.”

  Francesca shot me a I-told-you-how-clever-he-was look which I ignored. I asked, “What about Elena Pellegrini? You haven’t arrested her either.”

  “I will very soon. I am sure that Clara Rinaldo will provide me with ample evidence.”

  “I liked the way you had me accuse Tomasso,” I said. “In your official position, you didn’t want to do that without more evidence.”

  He smiled complacently. “Yes, that was good, wasn’t it? I certainly did not have sufficient evidence to take it to trial. In fact, I still don’t, but I will very soon. You see, much of the evidence pointing to Avvocato Rinaldo came from your experiences. For instance, Rinaldo was close enough to Pellegrini to know exactly where Pellegrini stopped on his tour to show the buffalo. He was therefore able to instruct Spezzano where to set off the firecrackers and stampede the herd.”

  Cataldo continued, “Spezzano was an ex-convict, and so was Perruchio, the man who tried to kill you in the Ristorante Regina. Now how many people can readily hire ex-convicts? Hardly any, but as a lawyer, Rinaldo could. He had defended many of them.” He looked at me. “That was the point you picked up.”

  “Brilliant,” said Francesca in admiration. “Both of you,” she added diplomatically.

  “And I suspect,” said Cataldo, “that Pellegrini—at Tomasso Rinaldo’s instigation—planted Spezzano at the Dorigo Farms to get inside information that would help in buying out Dorigo. After killing Pellegrini, Rinaldo realized that he had a man in the right place to dispose of you as soon as you visited the rice fields.”

  “I made it easy for him,” I said bitterly. “I told him we were going there.”

  “Go on, Carlo,” urged Francesca, her eyes bright. Cataldo needed little persuasion.

  “Dorigo gave me a valuable clue too, although I didn’t realize it at the time. He told us that Pellegrini had made what he called “legal offers” for his rice fields. There was only one way he could have made “legal offers,” and that was through his lawyer, Tomasso Rinaldo.”

  Cataldo shook his head sadly. “I have known and admired him for a long time. It is terrible that I must now prosecute him.” He puffed again and expelled a dense cloud of blue-gray smoke. “Then there was another aspect of the case—the telephone conversation with Mr. Desmond Lansdown when he told me of the dismissal of his right-hand man, Mr. Nigel Hamilton. Desmond said that Hamilton had used one of their phones. He meant one of the phones used to do Lansdown’s restaurant or film business. It was easy to get a listing of all numbers called. Two were in Italy.”

  I was listening with interest to this part. Francesca sat as if enraptured. I felt like suggesting she go sit at the great investigator’s feet.

  “One was to Pellegrini and the other to Tomasso Rinaldo. Hamilton had, of course, known both of them while he was here with Signor Desmond making Don Juan.” His face took on a slightly pained expression at the recollection of the notorious film but he persevered gamely. “That was the other factor that you pointed out to me. When Hamilton got into trouble over drugs while they were making the movie, Lansdown got him a lawyer. It was simple to find out that lawyer was—”

  “Tomasso!” Francesca clapped her hands together in delight.

  “Exactly. Hamilton had now lost his job, and he was calling anyone who might help him. Pellegrini was a wealthy industrialist, Tomasso Rinaldo was a prominent lawyer and widely known. Both could be helpful to him and with an Italian mother, Hamilton spoke the language well. Perhaps neither was receptive initially, so in order to show how valuable a man he was, Hamilton told them of Lansdown’s plan to hire a famous chef from this area. This may not have impressed Pellegrini but as soon as Rinaldo heard this, he knew that here was a great opportunity to do what he had been planning on doing: kill Pellegrini, and run his business empire with his widow. We know they have been having an affair for some time. Hamilton had handed him alternate suspects—”

  “Me and the three chefs,” I said. “As Pellegrini’s lawyer, naturally Tomasso knew of the debts between them which were partial motives at least—”


  “Plus the addition of some—as the English say—marital infidelity.” Francesca said, darting a wicked glance at me.

  “Cleverly introduced by Elena Pellegrini,” I added. “So he invited Hamilton to come here and help him—he must have told Hamilton to pretend to kill me as another diversion. Hamilton, a frustrated actor, enjoyed dressing as a monk to do it.”

  “Exactly.” Captain Cataldo was generous in his praise, glorying in his success. “Rinaldo then brought in Spezzano to do the real dirty work—including getting rid of Hamilton.”

  “They must have thought that Hamilton told me everything. That’s why the attempts on me,” I added.

  “Yes. And realizing that Spezzano was a liability as you could recognize him, Rinaldo tried to get him out of the country. He brought in another ex-convict, Perruchio, to dispatch you at the restaurant.”

  “Me too!” Francesca cried, not wanting to be left out of a murder attempt. “Don’t forget he was going to kill me too.”

  “And you saved my life,” I reminded her.

  She smiled at me warmly. “It was good shooting, wasn’t it?”

  “Excellent shooting,” agreed Cataldo. “The first bullet went through his heart and the second was close to it.”

  “Do you think Spezzano killed Pellegrini?” I asked him.

  “No. I have no doubt that Rinaldo did that himself. He knew about your visit to Pellegrini’s cheese factory and he phoned Pellegrini at a chosen moment. He was able to get him alone in the house, and your involvement nearby in the factory offered another suspect. They may well have had an argument—possibly over business, possibly over Elena. Rinaldo had already planned Pellegrini’s death, and when the buffalo stampede failed, this was a perfect opportunity. He knocked Pellegrini unconscious and pushed him into the pool.”

  He puffed another smoke cloud. “Food and passion. They account for ninety-eight percent of all the crimes in Emilia Romagna, did you know that?” he asked me.