Lamberto started to put the knife back on the table, then thought better of it. The silence had suddenly turned malign, no longer placid and compact but tense and still, loaded like a gun. Gripping the knife tightly, Lamberto stepped to his right and concealed himself as best he could beside a huge credenza where unused heirloom bowls and plates gathered dust. Steel-rimmed heels clacked steadily down the hall. Lamberto couldn’t think of anyone who wore boots like that, certainly not Beppe. Lamberto grasped the knife still more tightly, feeling simultaneously ridiculous and terrified.
At the doorway to the kitchen, the heels paused. There was a long moment of silence, broken only by one of Anna’s despondent yowls. Then the intruder moved forward into the room, revealing himself as a portly man in black uniform and hard cap trimmed with red braid and a gilt badge showing a flaming torch. Catching sight of Lamberto, he started slightly.
‘Signor Latini.’
‘ Buon giorno, maresciallo,’ Lamberto replied automatically.
The two men looked at each other for a moment. Then the Carabinieri official nodded towards the window.
‘Looks like it’s clearing up, finally.’
‘I came to see Beppe,’ Lamberto blurted out. ‘His car’s outside, and his dog, Anna. But he’s not here.’
Enrico Pascal nodded slowly.
‘No, he’s not here.’
Lamberto Latini finally became aware of what he was holding.
‘I found this on the table,’ he said, displaying the knife. ‘It’s got blood on it.’
Again Pascal nodded, as though this was the most ordinary thing in the world.
‘Why don’t you put it back where it was? he suggested.
Latini did so.
‘I thought something might have happened to Beppe,’ he mumbled haltingly. ‘And when I heard someone coming in… How did you open the front door?’
‘With a key.’
‘A key? Where did you get it?’
The Carabiniere did not reply at once.
‘Why don’t you sit down, Signor Latini?’ he said at length. ‘No, in that chair, please, away from the table.’
Latini did so.
‘You were asking where I got the key. I got it from Beppe. And how did you get in?’
Lamberto gestured behind him.
‘The back door. It was open.’
‘Open, or just unlocked?’
‘It wasn’t fastened. It must stick slightly. It opened when I knocked.’
The maresciallo raised his eyebrows.
‘So you took advantage to come inside the house. Why?’
‘I just wanted to make sure that Beppe was all right.’
‘Why shouldn’t he be all right?’
‘We had an appointment to meet here at ten o’clock. He’s never let me down before.’
‘When did you make this appointment?’
The Carabinieri official’s tone had become more peremptory. Lamberto Latini appeared to reflect.
‘Let’s see. Yesterday, it must have been. No, the day before. I phoned and suggested we get together for a chat, you know…’
‘It’s a long way to come for a chat, Signor Latini, particularly on a working day.’
Lamberto started to say something, then checked his watch and got up.
‘That reminds me, I must be going.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
Lamberto Latini frowned.
‘I’ve got a business convention coming to lunch. They’ve booked the whole restaurant.’
Enrico Pascal sighed heavily.
‘No one appreciates the importance of good food more than I, Signor Latini, and your establishment is without doubt one of the finest in the region — although the last time I ate there, it seemed to me that the lamb was a trifle oversalted. But certain matters must take precedence even over gastronomy. Murder is one of them.’
Lamberto Latini gave an irritated frown.
‘Murder? What’s the Vincenzo affair got to do with it?’
‘Where were you at five o’clock this morning, Signor Latini?’
The question seemed to rebound from Lamberto Latini’s face and strike various surfaces in the room before returning for a belated answer.
‘In bed, of course!’
‘At home?’
‘Where do you think I sleep?’
‘Alone?’
Now Latini’s anger was naked.
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
The maresciallo appeared unperturbed.
‘I’m asking if you can name any witnesses to substantiate your claim to have been at home, asleep, at five o’clock this morning.’
For the first time, Lamberto Latini’s expression was one of open hostility.
‘My wife is dead. You know that.’
Enrico Pascal inclined his head.
‘And when you finally woke up, you got into your car and drove over twelve miles to have “a chat” with Beppe Gallizio. On a day when your entire restaurant has been reserved for an important business lunch.’
‘Ask Beppe! He’ll confirm what I say.’
Enrico Pascal stared at him in silence for some time. Then he went to the table, bent over and inspected the knife which Lamberto had been holding. He did not touch it, but his pudgy, rather feminine fingers drummed out a brief tattoo on the table-top. With a dismissive sniff, Lamberto Latini got up.
‘I’ve had enough of this!’ he proclaimed, heading for the door.
In one smooth gesture, the maresciallo undid the flap on the holster of his service pistol.
‘Don’t do anything rash, Signor Latini,’ he said equably. ‘You’re in quite enough trouble as it is.’
Latini turned, gazing at him in apparent incredulity.
‘I can’t stand here playing games all day, Pascal! I’ve got a business to run.’
‘It’s going to have to manage without you.’
Lamberto Latini squared up to his opponent.
‘Are you saying I’m under arrest?’
‘I am placing you in detention pending further investigation. If you hand over the keys to your car, I won’t bother about the handcuffs.’
‘You must be out of your mind! The night Aldo Vincenzo was killed I was…’
‘Who said anything about Vincenzo? We’ve already made an arrest in that case, and it’s all in the hands of the judges. My concern now is with Beppe Gallizio.’
Latini sighed with theatrical emphasis and spread his hands in gestural surrender.
‘All right, I admit it! I came here today to buy some truffles from Beppe for this lunch, which thanks to you is now going to be ruined, along with my reputation. I know that it’s technically an illegal transaction, and you know that everyone around here does the same thing. I thought you cared enough about the good things of the Langhe to overlook a minor matter like this. Apparently I was wrong. Very well.’
He drew a bunch of clinking metal from his pocket and tossed it on the table.
‘Here are my keys, maresciallo,’ he said in a tone of sarcastic deference. ‘If I promise not to make a run for it,
