‘No.’
‘The truth is, I’m going out of my mind with boredom.’
‘I see.’
‘Alba is fantastically boring, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so.’
It couldn’t be a pick-up, he decided. She was too straightforward to be anything other than a professional, in which case she would have got to the point by now. Besides, it was hard to imagine that sort of action in the bar of the Alba Palace.
The young woman’s eyes met his.
‘You’re here on business?’
Zen nodded.
‘And you?’
‘The worst kind. Family business.’
Silence fell. Zen had decided to make no attempt to keep the conversation going. The woman was quite pretty, he supposed, in a rangy, sharp-featured way, but he wasn’t attracted to her. For him, the voice was always the key to such things, and hers lacked that special resonance.
‘You’re a policeman,’ she said.
He hesitated just a second.
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘I heard you talking to the desk clerk. Something about wanting a list of guests at the hotel. He seemed quite amazed, but then he always does.’
She pointed to the scroll of paper on the table.
‘Is that it?’
Zen regarded her in pointed silence.
‘I suppose I’m being indiscreet,’ she said. ‘It’s just that the idea that anyone in this dump might be of interest to the police seemed irresistibly… well, interesting.’
Zen thought briefly of telling her to mind her own business. Then it occurred to him that she might be of use.
‘It’s not an official matter. At least, not yet. Someone’s been making anonymous phone calls. I have reason to believe that it’s one of the people staying here.’
He handed over the list.
‘Have you met any of the men whose names I’ve marked?’
‘This one tried to chat me up in the restaurant last night and then gave me his card. He’s a commercial traveller in wines and seems to sample a lot of the product. And one of the others patted my bottom in the lift yesterday. I don’t know his name.’
She handed the list back.
‘What does your anonymous caller want, anyway?’
‘I don’t know. But he knows who I am, and…’
‘Speaking of which, we should introduce ourselves.’
She turned the list around and pointed to the name ‘Carla Arduini’.
‘And you must be Aurelio Zen.’
He looked at her, frowning.
‘How did you know that?’
‘It was in all the local papers, along with a photograph,’ she replied airily. ‘“Ministry sends top man from Rome to investigate Vincenzo case,” that sort of thing. Perhaps that’s how your caller found out, too.’
‘Perhaps.’
Zen felt slightly put out that this idea hadn’t occurred to him.
‘But why does he bother phoning you, if he’s staying here? If he’s too timid to go to your room, he could always accost you in the bar. After all, I have!’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea, signorina. That’s what makes it so unsettling. But enough about that. What are you doing here? Or is it too private to discuss?’
Carla Arduini appeared to consider this question for a moment.
‘I’m trying to trace a relative.’
Zen looked away.
‘A few years ago, a relative traced me. And without even trying,’ he said.
‘What sort of relative?’
‘My father.’
He corrected himself with a gesture of the hand.
‘My mother’s husband.’
‘Is there a distinction?’
Zen did not reply. Carla Arduini got to her feet.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m being tactless and tiresome. I think it’s this place. It seems to be driving me mad.’
Zen stood up, smiling.
‘I know what you mean. Look, perhaps we could have dinner together some time. When are you leaving?’
Carla Arduini looked at him intently, as though considering this proposition.
‘Don’t worry,’ Zen went on. ‘I’m not going to pat your bottom. That’s not my style, and, besides, you’re young enough to be my daughter.’
The woman unexpectedly burst into laughter.
‘Yes, I am!’
‘I’ll give you a call. Which room are you in?’
He glanced at the list.
‘312? Right next to mine. And how long are you staying?’
She looked at him with her disconcertingly candid green eyes.
‘As long as it takes.’
When he emerged from his hotel the next morning, the sky had settled back into a grey, overcast mode which brought it down to a point where it seemed to graze the rooftops. Having stopped in a bar for an eye-opening shot of caffeine, Zen made his way along Via Maestra to the house to which Tullio Legna had led him earlier, ascended to the first floor and rang the bell.
There was no answer. He rang twice more before the door was opened by a young woman in the silk dressing-gown which the doctor had been wearing on Zen’s previous visit. He introduced himself and asked apologetically if it were possible to see Lucchese.
‘Is it about moths, medicine or music?’ the woman demanded.
‘Medicine. Your father treated me for…’
‘My father is dead and has nothing to do with it.’
She pulled back the door with a yawn which was echoed by the silk gown, the two sides gaping open to reveal the upper slope of her breasts.
‘Wait in there,’ she said, pointing to a doorway on the other side of the hall. ‘I’ll tell the prince that you’re here.’
She strode off down the corridor, her bare feet as soundless as an angel’s on the terracotta tiles.
The room in which Zen had been directed to wait appeared to be a library. Taking the only seat visible, a wooden stool positioned in front of a writing desk, he waited.
And waited. And waited. Outside, the sun broke through for a brief and jagged moment, darting in and out of the room like a fugitive memory. Not daring to smoke, Zen got up and started to look over the volumes on the shelves. Old and heavily worn by use, they all seemed to be about musical instruments. There were pictures of pianos and organs, weirdly contorted wind instruments, and stringed ones the shape of a pregnant woman.
‘My apologies for keeping you waiting, dottore.’
He turned to find Lucchese in the doorway, immaculate in a black suit and tie.
