the other side of the room, she said, where the large wardrobe stood. It now seemed clear that the noise had been made by someone picking the lock of the door leading to the fire escape, only to find that it was blocked by the wardrobe which had been placed in front of it.
Since this attempt had failed, the intruder had returned during Zen's absence the evening before and tried the riskier option of picking the lock of the front door.
Almost the most disturbing thing about the incident was what had not happened. Nothing had been stolen, nothing had been disarranged. Apart from the envelope, the intruder had left no sign whatever of his presence. He had come to leave a message, and perhaps the most important element of that message was that he had done nothing else. As a demonstration of power, of arrogant self-confidence, it made Zen think of the Villa Burolo killer. 'I can come and go whenever I wish,' was the message. 'This time I have chosen simply to deliver an envelope. Next time… who knows?'
Determined that there should not be a next time, Zen had made Maria Grazia swear by Santa Rita of Cascia, whose image she wore as a lucky charm, that she would bolt the front door after his departure and not leave the apartment until he returned.
'But what about the shopping?' she protested.
'I'll get something from the tavola calda,' Zen snapped impatiently. 'It's not important!'
Cowed by her employer's unaccustomed brusqueness, Maria Grazia timidly reminded him that she would have to leave by six o'clock at the latest in order to deal with her own family's needs.
'I'll be back by then,' he replied. 'Just don't leave the apartment unattended, not even for a moment. Understand? Keep the door bolted and don't open it except for me.'
As soon as he got to work, Zen called the vehicle registration department and requested details of the red Alfa Romeo he had seen in the street the night before. It was a long shot, but there was something about the car that made him suspicious, although he wasn't quite clear what it was.
The information he received was not encouraging. The owner of the vehicle turned out to be one Rino Attilio Lusetti, with an address in the fashionable Parioli area north of the Villa Borghese. A phone call to the Questura elicited the information that Lusetti had no criminal record. By now Zen knew that this was a wild-goose chase, but having nothing better to do he looked up Lusetti in the telephone directory and rang the number. An uneducated female voice informed him that Dottor Lusetti was at the university. After a series of abortive phone calls to various departments of this institution, Zen eventually discovered that the car which had been parked near his house for the two previous nights was owned by the Professor of Philology in the Faculty of Humanities at the University of Rome.
Giorgio De Angelis wandered into Zen's cubicle while he was making the last of these calls.
'Problems?' he asked as Zen hung up.
Zen shrugged. 'Just a private matter. Someone keeps parking his car in front of my door.'
'Give his windscreen a good coat of varnish,' De Angelis advised. 'Polyurethane's the best. Weatherproof, durable, opaque. An absolute bastard to get off.'
Zen nodded. 'What's this you've been telling Romizi about a train that goes round in circles?'
De Angelis laughed raucously, throwing his head back and showing his teeth. Then he glanced round the screens to check that the official in question wasn't within earshot.
'That fucking Romizi! He'd believe anything. You know he loves anchovy paste? But he's a tight bastard, so he's always moaning about how much it costs. So I said to him,
'Listen, do you want to know how to make it yourself?
You get a cat, right? You feed the cat on anchovies and olive oil, nothing else. What comes out the other end is anchovy paste.' '
'He didn't believe you, did he?'
'I don't know. I wouldn't be surprised if he gives it a try.
I just wish I could be there. What I'd give to see him spreading cat shit on a cracker!'
As De Angelis burst out laughing again, a movement nearby attracted Zen's attention. He turned to find Vincenzo Fabri looking at them through a gap in the screens.
He was wearing a canary yellow pullover and a pale blue tie, with a marooh sports jacket and slacks, and chunky hand-stiched shoes. Expensive leisurewear was Fabri's hallmark, matching his gestures, slow and calm, and his deep, melodious voice. 'I'm so relaxed, so laid back,' the look said, 'just a lazy old softy who wants an easy time.'
Zen, who still wore a suit to work, felt by comparison like an old-fashioned ministerial apparatchik, a dull, dedicated workaholic. The irony was that Vincenzo Fabri was the most fiercely ambitious person Zen had come across in the whole of his career. E4is conversation was larded with references to country clubs, horses, tennis, sailing and holidays in Brazil. Fabri wanted all that and more. He wanted villas and cars and yachts and clothes and women.
Compared to the Oscar Burolos of the world, Fabri was a third-rater, of course. He wasn't interested in the real thing: power, influence, prestige. All he wanted were the trinkets and trappings, the toys and the bangles. But he wanted them so badly. Zen, who no longer wanted anything very much except Tania Biacis, didn't know whether to envy or despise Fabri for the childlike voracity of his desires.
'Giorgio!' Fabri called softly, beckor,ing to De Angelis.
His expression was one of amused complicity, as though he wanted to share a secret with the only man in the world who could really appreciate it.
At the same moment, the phone on Zen's desk began to warble.
'Yes?'
'Is this, ah… that's to say, am I speaking to, ah, Dottor Aurelio Zen?'
Fabri, who had ignored Zen's presence until now, was staring at him insistently whilst he murmured something in De Angelis's ear.
'Speaking.'
'Ah, this is, ah… that's to say I'm calling from, ah, Palazzo Sisti.'
The voice paused significantly. Zen grunted neutrally.
He knew that he had heard of Palazzo Sisti, but he had no idea in what context.
'There's been some, ah… interest in the possibility of seeing whether it might be feasible to arrange…'
The rest of the sentence was lost on Zen as Tania Biacis suddenly appeared beside him, saying something which was garbled by the obscure formulations of his caller. Zen covered the mouthpiece of the phone with one hand.
'Sorry?'
'Immediately,' Tania said emphatically, as though she had already said it once too often. She looked tired and drawn and there were dark rings under her eyes.
'Are you all right?' Zen asked her.
'Me? What have I got to do with it?'
The phrase was delivered like a slap in the face. From the uncovered earpiece of the phone, the caller's voice squawked on like a radio programme no one is listening to.
'So you'll see to that, will you?' Tania insisted.
'See to what?'
'The video tape! They were extremely unpleasant about it. I said you'd call them back within the hour. I don't see why I should have to deal with it. It's got nothing whatever to do with me!'
She turned angrily away, pushing past De Angelis, who was on his way back to his desk. He looked gJum and preoccupied, his former high spirits quite doused. Fabri had disappeared again.
Zen uncovered the phone. 'I'm sor.y. I was interrupted.'
'So that's agreed, is it?' the voice said. It was a question in form only.
'Well…'
'I'll expect you in about twenty minutes.'
The line went dead.
Zen thought briefly about calling Archives, but what was the point? It was obvious what had happened. Fabri had told them that the tape of the Burolo killings was blank and they were urgently trying to contact Zen to find out what had happened to the original. This was no doubt the news that he had been gleefully passing on to De
