“Before I arrest you, Signor Caraffini,” said the policeman, “I am curious to know how you killed Lombardi?”
Caraffini didn’t hesitate. “I strangled him,” he said, before sitting back down.
“With what?”
This time he did hesitate. “Does it matter?”
“Not really,” said Antonio, “because I’m afraid Lombardi wasn’t strangled.”
“But as he was cremated, how can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve read the autopsy report, and I can assure you, Signor Caraffini, he wasn’t strangled.”
“Tell me how he was killed, and I feel sure the murderer will give himself up fairly quickly, and that will solve all our problems.”
“It most certainly will not,” said Antonio. “So be sure to tell your friends, Signor Caraffini, I’m going to catch whoever did murder Lombardi—and put them behind bars,” he added, as he slammed his notebook closed.
As Antonio got up to leave, he spotted a photograph on Caraffini’s desk. The olive oil manager smiled. “My daughter’s wedding,” he explained. “She married the son of my dear friend, Signor De Rosa. Oil and water may not mix, lieutenant, but olive oil and truffles certainly do.” He laughed at a joke Antonio presumed he’d made many times before.
“And the chief bridesmaid?” said Antonio, pointing to a young woman who was standing behind the bride.
“Francesca Farinelli, Signor Pellegrino’s niece, who I had rather hoped would marry my second son, Mario, but it was not to be.”
“Why not?” said Antonio. “That sounds an ideal match.”
“I agree. But modern Italian women seem to have minds of their own. I blame her father. He should never have let her go to university.” Antonio would have laughed, but he suspected the old man meant it. “Only sorry I couldn’t help you, Lieutenant.”
“So am I,” said Antonio.
The policeman decided to drop in to the pharmacy before he returned to his office to write up another abortive report. But he was disappointed to discover a middle-aged man standing behind the counter, chatting to a customer.
“How can I help you, Signor Rossetti?” he asked when he entered the shop.
“I need a tube of toothpaste.”
“Top shelf, on the right.”
He was just about to pay when Francesca appeared with a prescription.
“That should do the trick, signora. But do let me know if it gets any worse.”
“Thank you, my dear,” she said before leaving the shop.
“Have you come to arrest my father?” asked Francesca.
“No, at the moment I’m looking for someone who claims they didn’t murder Lombardi.”
“Well, I’m sorry to say I didn’t do it,” said il Signor Farinelli. “I would happily have done so, but unfortunately I was in Rome attending a pharmaceutical conference that day.”
“But I wasn’t,” said Francesca with a grin.
“It can’t be much fun, holed up in a town where you don’t know anyone,” said Farinelli.
“It could be worse,” said Antonio. “The natives are starting to be friendly, and I certainly couldn’t have better accommodation.”
“It’s just that I wondered if you would care to join us for dinner one evening.”
“That’s very kind of you.”