‘I have to attend a funeral this morning. One of my relatives has apparently managed to kill himself by falling into a vat of wine. Quite exceptionally inept, even by the standards of the family, but there it is. Hence the delay.’
Zen stood up.
‘Please excuse me for disturbing you so early in the morning, principe.’
Lucchese sighed loudly.
‘Oh dear, has Irena been trying to impress you? That’s one of the problems of fucking down, I’m afraid. There are, of course, compensations. Anyway, what can I do for you? Is it about your head, or is it about your head? I mean, sutures or psychoanalysis? Am I babbling? Irena, who studies music at the Academy in Turin, by the way, brought some exceptionally fine hashish with her and I’m afraid that we rather over-indulged last night — in more ways than one, in fact. Sorry, wrong thing to say to a policeman. Look, why don’t I just shut up and let you talk instead?’
Zen smiled nervously.
‘Actually, I just wondered if there was any chance of getting these stitches out. They make me look like Frankenstein’s monster, besides attracting some attention I could do without. But if you’re incapacitated, principe…’
‘Incapacitated? I fancy that Irena could vouch for me in that respect.’
He went over to the window, grasping the frame at either side with his pale, articulate hands. As if in response, the sunlight returned in full strength, revealing shoals of dust like minnows in the air.
‘It was harpsichords that brought us together,’ the prince continued. ‘I happen to own two particularly fine models, both seventeenth century. We have since moved on from one form of plucked instrument to… No, I don’t think I’ll finish that thought. As for your stitches, there’s no question of removing them yet. The wound would merely reopen and look even worse than it does now.’
Zen nodded meekly.
‘Well, thank you for receiving me, and, once again, please excuse the disturbance.’
‘Not at all.’
Zen started to leave, then turned back.
‘Would the name of the relative whose funeral you’re attending be Bruno Scorrone, by any chance?’ he enquired.
‘That’s him. My cousin twice removed, da parte di madre. I never liked the man in the first place and haven’t seen him for over a decade, but one’s expected to turn out for these things.’
‘I’d like you to see him now.’
Lucchese peered at him.
‘He’s dead, dottore. Or so I’ve been reliably informed.’
‘That’s precisely why I’d like you to see him. What time is the funeral?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Here in town?’
‘In Palazzuole, the village where he lived. But why should you be interested? God knows I’m not, and I’m family.’
Zen lowered his voice.
‘I was sent here to investigate the death of Aldo Vincenzo. Since my arrival, two other men have died violently. In a quiet, rural community like this, it is statistically improbable that three such incidents should occur without there being a connection between them. There is therefore a possibility, to put it no higher, that your cousin’s death may not have been an accident. My only chance of proving this is to examine the cadaver before it is buried or cremated. To do so officially, I would need the family’s permission, which almost certainly would not be granted. A judicial order would take too long, so I have to improvise. Do you have any insuperable objection to performing a post-mortem examination on a relative?’
Lucchese’s lips spread in a wicked smile.
‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure! In fact, I can think of three or four kinsmen whom I would be glad to eviscerate without the formalities of a death certificate.’
He frowned.
‘But in this case it’s impossible. The corpse is laid out at Scorrone’s house, closely watched over by the allegedly grieving widow and an indeterminate number of offspring summoned from their niches in Molino.’
‘Where?’
‘I beg your pardon. My term for the megalopolis which bestraddles us to the north. Torino plus Milano equals Molino.’
Zen nodded sadly.
‘I understand. Oh, well, it was worth a try.’
‘However, thanks to an ancient family tradition which I have just remembered, there should be no problem.’
Lucchese moved a tall ladder attached to a rail along the shelving, climbed up and produced a large spike made of some dull-coloured metal.
‘Careful!’ he cried, dropping it down to Zen, who made the catch. ‘Apart from anything else, it’s solid silver.’
Leaning further out from the ladder, Lucchese retrieved from a still higher shelf a large rubber mallet.
‘You’re not squeamish, I hope?’ he said as he climbed back down the ladder.
‘Why?’
Lucchese smiled enigmatically.
‘Breaking hearts is a gory business. I’ll just get my bag of tricks, and we’ll be off.’
Aurelio Zen’s second journey to Palazzuole was a marked improvement over his first. They travelled in a pre-war Bugatti exhumed from a former stable in the courtyard of the Palazzo Lucchese and driven by Irena, now clad in a minimalistic black skirt and jacket. Zen reclined on the spacious rear seat with the prince, who proceeded to pursue a discussion which he and Irena had apparently been having earlier, involving quilling techniques in early eighteenth-century harpsichords, with particular reference to the relative merits of raven and crow feathers.
As they crossed the smoky ridge of hills surrounding Alba, Lucchese leant forward and pushed a button on the fascia of the rear compartment. An inlaid rosewood panel opened to reveal a drinks cabinet containing several thick glass decanters. Most appeared to be empty, or reduced to an unappetizing syrupy residue. Lucchese sniffed the two that looked most promising.
‘Cognac, query. And something that might once have been whisky.’
Irena passed back what looked like a fat twist of paper.
‘Try some of this.’
‘Is this wise?’ asked Lucchese. ‘You may not be aware, my dear, that Dottor Zen is an officer of the law.’
The massive car slowed majestically to a halt.
‘You want to walk?’ asked Irena pointedly.
Zen glanced confusedly at Lucchese.
‘Because the prince and I are planning to smoke some hash,’ Irena continued, ‘so if you don’t want to be a party to a crime, you’d better get out now.’
Zen gave her his most intimidating glare, with no discernible effect whatsoever.
‘Kindly drive on,’ he replied.
Lucchese lit the roll-up, took a few pungent puffs and then offered it politely to his fellow-passenger, who shook his head.
‘So who killed Aldo Vincenzo?’ asked the prince, passing the joint back to Irena.
Zen looked at him in astonishment.
‘ I don’t know!’
‘Really? Everyone else seems to.’
‘They do?’
The hash-laden cigarette passed back again.
‘So who was it?’ Zen demanded.
