“Shall we say Thursday, around eight?”
“I’ll look forward to it,” said Antonio as he turned to leave.
“Don’t forget your toothpaste, Signor Rossetti,” said Francesca.
* * *
When Antonio turned up at the police station the following morning, there was a large, overweight man wearing a long blue-and-white striped apron standing outside the front door.
“Good morning, inspector.”
“Lieutenant,” corrected Antonio.
“I’m Umberto Cattaneo.”
“The butcher,” said Antonio. “Your shop is in the town square?”
He nodded and lowered his voice. “I think I may be able to help you with your inquiries.” At last, an informer, thought Antonio. He unlocked the door and led Cattaneo through to his little office. “First, I need to be sure,” said Cattaneo, “that if I tell you who killed Lombardi, it won’t be traced back to me.”
“You have my word on that,” said Antonio, opening his notepad. “That’s assuming we won’t need you to act as a witness when it comes to trial.”
“You won’t need a witness,” said Cattaneo, “because I can tell you where he’s hidden the gun.”
Antonio snapped his notepad shut, and let out a deep sigh. “But I haven’t even told you who the murderer is,” said Cattaneo.
“You needn’t bother, Signor Cattaneo, because Lombardi wasn’t shot.”
“But Gian Lucio told me he’d shot him,” protested Cattaneo.
“Before I throw you in the cell and lock you up for a couple of days, if for no other reason than to stop your friends wasting my time, why are you happy to finger Gian Lucio for a crime he didn’t commit?”
“Gian Lucio Altana is my oldest and dearest friend.”
“Then why are you trying to get him arrested?”
“I wasn’t,” said Cattaneo. “We tossed for it, and I lost.”
“You lost?”
“Whoever won got to say they killed Lombardi.”
“And how would you have killed Lombardi if you’d won the toss?”
“I would have shot him as well, and as we only have one pistol between us, we’d already agreed I would plant the gun at his place.”
“Just out of interest,” said Antonio, “why was your friend Signor Altana so keen to admit he killed Lombardi?”
“While Lombardi was mayor, he’d eat at Lucio’s restaurant three times a day.”
“That’s hardly a good enough reason to kill a man.”
“It is when you lose all your regular customers, because the mayor’s always around.” Antonio nodded. “By the way,” said Cattaneo, “he wasn’t stabbed, by any chance?”
“Get out of here, Signor Cattaneo, before I lock you and your friend up.”
Not a totally wasted morning, considered Antonio, because he was now confident only he, the doctor, and the murderer had any idea how Lombardi had been killed.
* * *