Ruckers?’
The prince’s glacial hauteur was instantly replaced by an expression of almost childish pleasure.
‘Absolutely! Originally, that’s to say. It was remodelled by either Blanchet or Taskin a century later, of course.’
‘Of course,’ nodded Carla.
There was a brief pause.
‘And to whom do I have the honour…?’ Lucchese began.
‘My name’s Carla Arduini, and this is…’
The prince shot Zen a sour look.
‘I know who he is.’
‘… my father,’ Carla concluded.
‘Your father?’
‘We think so,’ Zen put in. ‘Now we want to find out.’
A beam of sunlight projected into the room between them. On the other side, Lucchese’s dim figure moved around the harpsichord and emerged into the glare.
‘First, let’s talk about this absurd charge that’s hanging over my head for having mutilated Scorrone’s corpse.’
Zen gestured languidly.
‘No problem. I’ve subsequently ascertained that you were merely carrying out a recognized medical procedure at the request of your deceased cousin. All charges have been dropped.’
Lucchese glanced at him.
‘Very well. I fancy the bass needs a tune-up, Irena.’
‘So do I!’ retorted the latter, stalking out of the room.
Lucchese shook his head sadly.
‘These highly strung modern instruments are so hard to keep sweet. So you want a blood test, is that it?’
‘If that’s what it takes,’ Carla replied.
‘Oh, and I want these stitches removed,’ added Zen. ‘If one more person tells me that it’s a nasty-looking cut I’ve got there, and quite fresh, too, by the look of it, I won’t be responsible for my actions. Then give me your bill and I promise never to disturb you again.’
Lucchese led them towards the door.
‘Ah, but I may still have to disturb you, dottore. Remember our agreement? Until that matter is resolved, my charges remain pending.’
‘What if I just run off without paying?’
Lucchese turned to him.
‘You’ve been doing that all your life,’ he said, his delicate fingers exploring the scar on Zen’s brow. ‘Look where it’s got you.’
Minot was under his truck, completing an oil-change, when Anna started barking. He listened intently to the sound of the approaching vehicle, then gave a satisfied nod. He’d been expecting this visit all day.
‘Basta!’ he yelled at the dog, which subsided into repressed whimpers.
Minot crawled out from under the truck as the Carabinieri jeep drew up alongside. The door opened and Enrico Pascal clambered out with ponderous gravity.
‘Minot,’ he said.
‘Marescia.’
The two men stood looking at each other, trying to divine the exact nature of the silence, the shape and heft of their unspoken thoughts.
‘Good thing you came by,’ Minot began. ‘I was going to call you anyway.’
‘You were?’
‘I’ve had a word with the friends I was out truffling with that night we were talking about.’
Enrico Pascal appeared to reflect.
‘Ah, yes. And?’
‘And they say it’s all right.’
‘Do they?’
‘Yes, they do.’
Enrico Pascal swept his eyes up and down Minot’s faded check shirt and corduroy trousers.
‘Nasty stains you’ve got there.’
Minot pointed to the truck.
‘I’ve been changing the oil.’
‘It looks more like wine to me. You didn’t have a demijohn break on you, did you?’
Minot hesitated just a moment.
‘As a matter of fact, I did.’
Pascal shook his head.
‘Temperamental buggers. Sometimes you can set them down with a wallop and nothing happens, other times they crack apart if you just look at them the wrong way.’
He sniffed deeply.
‘Over at Bruno’s, was it?’
Minot flashed him a look of genuine shock.
‘Bruno’s dead!’
The maresciallo nodded morosely.
‘Shame about the funeral. It’s this busybody we have up from Rome, you see, on account of the Vincenzo business. He decided to start throwing his weight around, and there was nothing I could do.’
‘So why did you mention Bruno?’
Pascal looked up at the cold blue sky.
‘Well, shortly before he died Bruno took delivery of a consignment of wine. We think it came from the Faigano brothers, and I naturally assumed that you handled the carriage for them. You normally do, right?’
‘Not this time. I didn’t even know about any delivery. You’ve probably got the wrong supplier. Bruno used to buy wine from all over the place.’
‘That’s true.’
A silence fell.
‘Well, I can always check with Gianni and Maurizio, I suppose,’ Pascal remarked, as though to himself. ‘I don’t know when I’m going to find the time, though. This man from Rome has really stirred things up, I can tell you, what with impounding Bruno’s body and ordering an autopsy…’
‘What?’
Pascal smiled and shook his head.
‘Absurd, isn’t it? And of course the family are absolutely furious at the idea of their beloved relative being cut up, all on account of some sliver of glass which this Zen claims to have found in his neck.’
There was another long silence. Pascal heaved a long sigh.
‘So who were those friends you were out with the night Beppe died?’
Minot did not reply for some time, and when he did it was in a strange, halting voice, as though he was still learning this new skill but had not yet mastered it.
‘Gianni and Maurizio.’
Enrico Pascal opened his eyes wide.
‘What a coincidence.’
The maresciallo stuck his fingernails under his starched collar and scratched his neck.
‘Well, I’ll be off,’ he said.
Minot watched the jeep drive away. At the cross-roads outside the village, it turned left, away from the Faigano property. He released the breath he had been holding all this time, leapt into the truck and revved up the motor. Why all these problems now? Was he losing his grip, his instinctive sense of what was and was not possible? At any rate, the key to the whole matter remained the Faigano brothers, he thought, pushing the truck as fast as he
