the courtyard, but he seemed to be in pain.”
“Who saw him?” Volpi asked.
“Mendogni. He passed by in his tractor on his way to Campogrande.”
“Is there anyone to back him up?” Soneri said.
“I’m more worried about the gunfire,” Delrio said. “At any hour of the day or night, and after the closure of the boarhunting season… maybe there’s something going on.”
“Let the carabinieri know,” the commissario said.
“They know already. And they can hear it for themselves,” Delrio said.
They raised their glasses in a toast.
“I imagine you’ve all been out already,” Soneri said, referring to the mushrooms.
“There’s not much to find. It’s a matter of luck this year,” Volpi said.
The clouds were higher now in the sky, allowing the men to make out the Passo del Duca with its dark stretches of pine trees.
“I’m half inclined to go up there this afternoon,” the commissario said.
Volpi looked at him with a grimace of disapproval. “It gets dark by four o’clock. You’d be better going in the morning and getting back by lunch time.”
There was a kind of concern in his voice, but Soneri paid no heed. Volpi continued: “Mushrooms develop in the night air. You’ll find them first thing in the morning, or not at all.”
“I still say that if he’d wanted to let everybody know nothing had happened, all he had to do was take a trip into the village. What’s the point of posters?” Delrio said. The question was evidently preying on his mind.
“And when did he ever come to town?” Volpi said. “The only one who ever came to the piazza was his father, when he was doing deals to buy pigs. But he was born nearby.”
“Didn’t Rivara say a while ago that Mendogni saw him in the courtyard?” Maini asked.
Delrio looked at him, puzzled: “People are always seeing things that don’t exist. The road to Campogrande is quite a distance from the villa.”
“His Mercedes was parked in front of the pharmacy yesterday evening”
“It could have been his wife. She seems to get through a great many medicines,” Delrio said.
Soneri made every effort to concentrate on something else, especially the paths in the woods. Meantime, while the cloudy sky closed off every beam of sunlight on the mountains, he watched the stall-holders in the piazza begin to shut down their stalls. One of them, wearing heavy boots, came into the bar to get out of the cold.
“You leaving already?” Rivara asked.
“What’s the point of staying on? Nobody’s buying. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“It’s the feast of San Martino,” the barman said.
The man did not seem convinced. “It’s not San Martino that’s on their minds. Their heads are full of this Rodolfi business. Any idea what’s going on?”
“It seems he disappeared, then turned up again. And today they went round sticking up posters to tell people he’s safe and sound.”
“I saw them. It’s a funny business,” the stall-holder said, swallowing his grappa in one gulp.
Delrio turned to the others: “You see? Even someone who’s not from here understands immediately that there’s something not right.”
“The commissario came here for just that reason,” Rivara said, nodding in the direction of Soneri.
The stall-holder turned to look at him in disbelief. “Is it really that bad?”
“It might be,” Volpi said.
“Who knows how it will all end?” Delrio said.
“Look, I’m only here for the mushrooms,” Soneri said. The stall-holder grinned, paid and went out.
It was not altogether true. As he rose to his feet and watched the people moving out of the piazza, he realised that the story did intrigue him, but this unlooked-for interest irritated him, somewhat as would the symptoms of a cold.
“Are we going to see you tonight for some torta fritta?” Maini asked.
Soneri looked up at the sky, which was growing darker by the minute, before replying: “I think so.”
“It’s a pretty futile hope,” Maini said discouragingly, referring to the weather. “There’s going to be no change today.”
The commissario stretched out his arms, took his leave and walked over to the Scoiattolo, the pensione where he had booked a room. As he went in, the scent of tortelli with chestnut filling, served with mushroom sauce, re-awoke childhood memories of long-forgotten dishes and flavours not found in the undistinguished eating places his work too often obliged him to frequent.
Sante Righelli, the proprietor, greeted him with a reserve typical of mountain men, a gruffness easily mistaken for discourtesy. Soneri looked him up and down and was struck by how much he resembled the pork- butcher on the Rodolfi label.
“You’re out of luck with the weather,” Sante said.
“It’s November,” the commissario said. “The damp weather will bring out the mushrooms.”
Sante shook his head. “I don’t think you’re going to be lucky there either.”
“We’ll see how it goes, but at least I’ll get a rest.”
Sante showed him into the room where several diners where already seated. He stopped in the doorway.
“I really hope that you do get a rest,” he said in a low voice, but there was some doubt in his tone.
“Do you think I won’t sleep at night?”
“No, no,” Sante said, “I’m sure you’ll sleep just fine. The problem is that there’s a lot of unrest in the village.”
“I know. Those posters…”
“Let’s hope that’s all there is to it,” Sante said, with a doleful expression.
The unfinished sentences he had heard seemed to hint at something deeper, but Soneri had resolved not to let himself get involved. He turned his attention to the owner’s wife, Ida, a large lady, dripping with perspiration, who emerged from the kitchen. She was a real woman of the mountains, with the wide hips which had the indestructible appearance of a peasant dwelling.
“No man could resist those scents surrounding you,” the commissario complimented her.
“If only!” the woman replied. “Those days are long gone!” She threw a disappointed glance in the direction of her husband, who said nothing.
“The quickest way to a man’s heart is… how does it go?”
“It’s the only way. And it works. They come here in droves, some even turning off the main road, people on their travels, lorry drivers who go up and down the motorway. I’ve admirers everywhere,” she laughed.
“And today is the feast day.”
“Every day is a feast day now. They get the same menu on Mondays as on Sundays. It’s other things that are changing.”
“At table, I prefer the tried and tested,” Soneri said, warding off the question he saw coming and moving to a free seat.
“So you don’t want the menu then?” Sante said.
“I’ll leave it to the chef.”
It was not a mistake to give Ida free rein. A first course of tortelli with three types of filling — chestnuts, potatoes and herbs — was followed by a main course of assorted rabbit, boar and goat meats with a little polenta on the side, and finally by crema di zabaione, all washed down by a blood-red Bonarda. When the meal was over, the substantial helpings, the wine and the rising chatter in the restaurant left the commissario so drowsy that his mobile had to ring several times before he heard it.
“So you’ve arrived?” It was Angela. And on a poor line, which meant her voice had a kind of quiver.
“I can’t hear you very well,” he said, moving outside.
“You’re at the Scoiattolo?”
“Yes.”
“I might have known.”
“What do you expect? I feel at home here. I know the owners.”
