“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 Sherlock 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.
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.
F
RANCESCA’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 said 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.