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The Carabinieri official’s tone had become more peremptory. Lamberto Latini appeared to reflect.
‘Let’s see. Yesterday, it must have been. No, the day before. I phoned and suggested we get together for a chat, you know…’
‘It’s a long way to come for a chat, Signor Latini, particularly on a working day.’
Lamberto started to say something, then checked his watch and got up.
‘That reminds me, I must be going.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
Lamberto Latini frowned.
‘I’ve got a business convention coming to lunch. They’ve booked the whole restaurant.’
Enrico Pascal sighed heavily.
‘No one appreciates the importance of good food more than I, Signor Latini, and your establishment is without doubt one of the finest in the region — although the last time I ate there, it seemed to me that the lamb was a trifle oversalted. But certain matters must take precedence even over gastronomy. Murder is one of them.’
Lamberto Latini gave an irritated frown.
‘Murder? What’s the Vincenzo affair got to do with it?’
‘Where were you at five o’clock this morning, Signor Latini?’
The question seemed to rebound from Lamberto Latini’s face and strike various surfaces in the room before returning for a belated answer.
‘In bed, of course!’
‘At home?’
‘Where do you think I sleep?’
‘Alone?’
Now Latini’s anger was naked.
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
The maresciallo appeared unperturbed.
‘I’m asking if you can name any witnesses to substantiate your claim to have been at home, asleep, at five o’clock this morning.’
For the first time, Lamberto Latini’s expression was one of open hostility.
‘My wife is dead. You know that.’
Enrico Pascal inclined his head.
‘And when you finally woke up, you got into your car and drove over twelve miles to have “a chat” with Beppe Gallizio. On a day when your entire restaurant has been reserved for an important business lunch.’
‘Ask Beppe! He’ll confirm what I say.’
Enrico Pascal stared at him in silence for some time. Then he went to the table, bent over and inspected the knife which Lamberto had been holding. He did not touch it, but his pudgy, rather feminine fingers drummed out a brief tattoo on the table-top. With a dismissive sniff, Lamberto Latini got up.
‘I’ve had enough of this!’ he proclaimed, heading for the door.
In one smooth gesture, the maresciallo undid the flap on the holster of his service pistol.
‘Don’t do anything rash, Signor Latini,’ he said equably. ‘You’re in quite enough trouble as it is.’
Latini turned, gazing at him in apparent incredulity.
‘I can’t stand here playing games all day, Pascal! I’ve got a business to run.’
‘It’s going to have to manage without you.’
Lamberto Latini squared up to his opponent.
‘Are you saying I’m under arrest?’
‘I am placing you in detention pending further investigation. If you hand over the keys to your car, I won’t bother about the handcuffs.’
‘You must be out of your mind! The night Aldo Vincenzo was killed I was…’
‘Who said anything about Vincenzo? We’ve already made an arrest in that case, and it’s all in the hands of the judges. My concern now is with Beppe Gallizio.’
Latini sighed with theatrical emphasis and spread his hands in gestural surrender.
‘All right, I admit it! I came here today to buy some truffles from Beppe for this lunch, which thanks to you is now going to be ruined, along with my reputation. I know that it’s technically an illegal transaction, and you know that everyone around here does the same thing. I thought you cared enough about the good things of the Langhe to overlook a minor matter like this. Apparently I was wrong. Very well.’
He drew a bunch of clinking metal from his pocket and tossed it on the table.
‘Here are my keys, maresciallo,’ he said in a tone of sarcastic deference. ‘If I promise not to make a run for it, will you please try not to shoot me?’
Enrico Pascal watched this performance with a cool, slightly clouded gaze.
‘But what about Beppe?’ he murmured.
‘What do I care about Beppe? Let him look after himself!’
The Carabinieri officer looked at Latini for a moment.
‘He can’t. He’s dead.’
A long silence.