The Short, the Long and the Tall Page 4

  * * *

  No one in the village could be certain where Dino Lombardi had come from but, like a black cloud, he appeared overnight, and was clearly more interested in thunderstorms than showers. Lombardi must have been around one metre ninety-three, with the build of a heavyweight boxer who didn’t expect his bouts to last for more than a couple of rounds.

  He began his reign of terror with the weaker inhabitants of the town, the shopkeepers, the local tradesmen and the restaurateur, whom he persuaded needed protection, even if they couldn’t be sure from whom, as there hadn’t been a serious crime in Cortoglia in living memory. Even the Germans hadn’t bothered to climb that particular hill.

  To be fair, Constable Gentile was due to retire in a few months’ time, at the age of sixty-five, and the council hadn’t got round to finding his replacement. But a further problem arose when the mayor, Salvatore Farinelli, died at the age of 102, and an election had to be held to replace him.

  It was assumed that his son Lorenzo would succeed him. Mario Pellegrino would then become chairman of the council, and everyone else would move up a place, with the one vacancy being filled by Gian Lucio Altana, the local restaurateur. That was until Lombardi turned up at the town hall, and entered his name on the list for mayor. Of course, no one doubted Lorenzo Farinelli would win by a landslide, so it came as something of a surprise when the town clerk, on crutches, his left leg in plaster, announced from the steps of the Palazzo dei Municipio that Lombardi had polled 511 votes, to Farinelli’s 486. On hearing the result, there was a gasp of disbelief from the crowd, not least because no one knew anyone who had voted for Lombardi.

  Lombardi immediately took over the town hall, occupied the mayor’s residence, and dismissed the council. He’d only been in office for a few days when the citizens were informed he would be imposing a sales tax on all three of the town’s main companies, which was later extended to the shopkeepers and restaurateur. And if that wasn’t enough, he began to demand a kickback from the buyers as well as the sellers.

  Within a year, heaven on earth had been turned into hell on earth, with the mayor quite happy to be cast in the role of Beelzebub. So, frankly, it didn’t come as a surprise to anyone when Lombardi was murdered.

  Constable Gentile told the chairman of the council that as murder was out of his league, he would have to inform the authorities in Naples. He admitted in his report that there were 1,462 suspects, and he had absolutely no idea who had committed the crime.

  Naples, a city that knows a thing or two about murder, sent one of its brightest young detectives to investigate the crime, arrest the culprit and bring them back to the city to stand trial.

  Antonio Rossetti, who at the tender age of thirty-two had recently been promoted to lieutenant, was assigned to the case, although he considered it an inconvenience that would take him out of the front line – but surely not for long. He was already aware of Lombardi’s past criminal record; extortion, bribery and corruption were but a few of his crimes, so the citizens of Cortoglia would be among many who wouldn’t mourn him. He had assured the chief of police that he would wrap up the case as quickly as possible, and return to Naples so he could deal with some real criminals.

  However, it didn’t help that Luca Gentile had disappeared even before Lieutenant Rossetti had set foot in Cortoglia. Some suggested Gentile was suffering from the strain of the whole affair, as the last murder in the town had been in 1846, when his great-great-great-grandfather had been the town’s constable. But where had he disappeared to, and why, because Gentile was the only other person who knew how the mayor had been killed.

  Rossetti was appalled to discover Lombardi had been cremated, and his ashes scattered on the far side of Mount Taburno within hours of his death, such was the locals’ hatred of the man.

  ‘So you, Gentile and the coroner are the only people who know how the murder was committed,’ said the chief as he handed over the results of the autopsy to his lieutenant.

  ‘And the murderer,’ Rossetti reminded him.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Antonio Rossetti arrived in Cortoglia later that morning, to be told that the council had decreed he should reside in the mayor’s home until the murderer had been apprehended.

  ‘After all,’ the chairman said, ‘let’s get this over with so the young man can return to Naples as quickly as possible and leave us in peace.’

  Antonio set up office in the local police station, which consisted of one small room, one unoccupied cell and a lavatory. He took the relevant case files out of his bag and placed them on the desk. He looked at the large, empty board on the wall and pinned a photograph of Lombardi in the centre.

  He then decided to leave his office and roam around the town, in the hope that someone might approach him, wanting to supply information. But even though he walked slowly, and smiled a lot, people crossed the road when they saw him as if he had some contagious disease. He was clearly not looked upon as the Good Samaritan.

  After a fruitless morning, Antonio returned to his office and made a list of those people who had most to gain from Lombardi’s death and came to the reluctant conclusion that he would have to start with the members of the Consiglio Comunale. He wrote Wine, Olive Oil and Truffles on his notepad and took the photographs of the five councillors from the case file, and pinned them around Lombardi’s photograph. Rossetti decided to start with Truffles. He called at Signor De Rosa’s office to make an appointment with the councillor at his shop later that afternoon.

  * * *

  ‘Would you care for a glass of wine, Lieutenant?’ said De Rosa, before the policeman had even sat down. ‘The Cortoglia White is favoured by connoisseurs and 1947 was considered a vintage year.’

  ‘No, thank you, sir. Not while I’m on duty.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said De Rosa. ‘But forgive me if I do, as it may be my last for some time.’ Rossetti looked surprised but didn’t comment. De Rosa took a sip. ‘So how can I help you?’

  The policeman opened his notepad, and looked down at his prepared questions. ‘As your family have lived in Cortoglia for over two hundred years—’

  ‘Over three hundred years,’ corrected the truffle master with a smile.

  ‘I was rather hoping you might be able to shed some light on who killed Dino Lombardi?’ continued Antonio.

  De Rosa emptied his glass with a large gulp before saying, ‘I most certainly can. You need look no further, Lieutenant, because I killed Lombardi.’

  Antonio was taken by surprise but delighted to have a confession on his first day. He was already thinking about returning to Naples in triumph, and getting back to locking up some serious criminals.

  ‘Are you willing to accompany me to the station and sign a written statement to that effect, Signor De Rosa?’

  De Rosa nodded. ‘Whenever it suits you.’

  ‘You do realize, Signor De Rosa, that if you confess to the murder, I will have no choice but to arrest you, and take you to Naples, where you will stand trial, and could spend the rest of your life in the prison at Poggioreale?’

  ‘I have thought of little else since the day I murdered the bastard. But I can’t complain, I’ve had a good life.’

  ‘Why did you kill Lombardi?’ asked Antonio, who accepted that motive invariably accounted for any crime.

  De Rosa filled his glass a second time. ‘Dino Lombardi was an evil and ruthless man, Lieutenant, who preyed on everyone he came into contact with.’ He paused and took a sip of his wine, before adding, ‘He made their lives unbearable, mine included.’

  ‘What do you mean by evil and ruthless, signor?’

  ‘He intimidated the shopkeepers and the local tradesmen, and even brought Gian Lucio, our local restaurateur, to his knees.’

  Antonio kept on writing. ‘How did he manage that?’

  ‘He demanded protection money, even though he never made it clear who he was protecting us from as there hasn’t been a serious crime in Cortoglia in living memory. And when he became mayor
– a mystery in itself – he introduced a sales tax on all of our goods. If he had been allowed to continue for much longer, he would have put us all out of business. Last year my little company made a loss for the first time in three hundred years. So I took it upon myself to rid my fellow citizens of the fiend.’ He put down his wine glass and smiled. ‘I hear the council are planning to build a statue of me in the town square.’

  ‘I only have one more question,’ the detective said, looking up from his notebook. ‘How did you kill Lombardi?’

  ‘I stabbed him with my truffle knife,’ said De Rosa without hesitation. ‘It seemed appropriate at the time.’

  ‘How many times did you stab him?’

  ‘Six or seven,’ he said, picking up a knife from his desk and giving a demonstration.

  Antonio stopped writing and closed his notebook. ‘I feel sure you know, Signor De Rosa, that it’s a serious crime to waste police time.’

  ‘Of course I do, Lieutenant,’ said De Rosa, ‘but now I have confessed, you can arrest me, drag me off to Naples and throw me in jail.’

  ‘Which I would be only too happy to do, signor,’ said Antonio, ‘if only Lombardi had been stabbed.’

  The truffle master shrugged his shoulders. ‘But how can you possibly know how he died when he has been cremated?’

  ‘Because I have read the autopsy report,’ said Antonio, ‘so I know exactly how he was killed. What I don’t know is who murdered him, but it certainly wasn’t you.’

  ‘Does it really matter?’ said De Rosa. ‘Just tell me how Lombardi was killed and I’ll confess to the crime.’

  This was the first time Antonio had ever known someone admit to a crime they hadn’t committed.

  ‘I’m going to leave, signor, before you get yourself into even more trouble.’

  The truffle master looked disappointed.

  Antonio closed his notepad, stood up, walked out of De Rosa’s shop and back into the square without another word.

  He tried not to laugh as he passed a pen full of the most contented pigs he’d ever seen, almost as if they knew they would never be slaughtered. He was on his way back to the police station when he spotted a pharmacy on the other side of the square, and remembered he needed a bar of soap and some toothpaste. A little bell above the door rang as he stepped inside. He stood by the counter for a few moments, before a young woman came through from the dispensary and said, ‘Good morning, Signor Rossetti, how can I help you?’

  Hardened criminals from the back streets of Naples couldn’t silence Antonio Rossetti, but a chemist from Cortoglia managed it with one sentence. She waited patiently for her customer to respond.

  ‘I need a bar of soap,’ he eventually managed.

  ‘You’ll find a good selection behind you on the third shelf down, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Is it that obvious that I’m a policeman?’ said Antonio.

  ‘When you’re the only person in town that nobody knows, everyone knows you,’ she said.

  Antonio selected a bar of soap but ignored the toothpaste, because he wanted an excuse to return as soon as possible. He placed the soap on the counter and tried not to stare at her.

  ‘Will there be anything else, signor?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Antonio picked up the bar of soap and headed for the door.

  ‘Were you considering paying or don’t the police in Naples bother with anything quite so mundane?’ she asked, suppressing a smile.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Antonio, quickly placing a note on the counter.

  ‘Do call again if there is anything else I can help you with,’ she said, passing him a small bag and his change.

  ‘There is just one thing. You don’t, by any chance, happen to know who killed the mayor?’

  ‘I thought Signor De Rosa had already confessed to murdering Lombardi? I assumed by now you would have arrested him and locked him up.’

  Antonio frowned, left the shop without another word and made his way back to the police station. He sat at his desk and began to write a report on his abortive meeting with De Rosa, but found it hard to concentrate. Once he’d completed it, he returned to the photographs on the board and put a large black cross through De Rosa.

  Antonio decided he would have to pay a visit to Mario Pellegrino, the owner of the olive oil shop, next, but this time he wouldn’t call to warn him.

  * * *

  Rossetti left the police station just after breakfast the following morning, and set out for the olive oil shop in the square, pleased he would have to pass the pharmacy on his way. He slowed down as he approached the shop and glanced through the window. She was standing by the door, turning the closed sign to open, and looked up as he passed by. They exchanged a glance before he hurried on.

  When Antonio arrived at the olive oil shop, Mario Pellegrino was waiting for him at the door.

  ‘Good morning, Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘have you come to purchase a bottle of the finest olive oil on earth or is this a police raid?’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call and make an appointment, Signor Pellegrino, but—’ Antonio said as he followed him into the shop.

  ‘You were hoping to take me by surprise,’ said Pellegrino, ‘but I have to tell you, Lieutenant, I am not at all surprised.’

  ‘You were expecting me?’ said Antonio as he stood beside the counter and took out his notepad and pen.

  ‘Yes, everyone knows you’ve been sent from Naples to investigate the death of Lombardi, and I assumed I would be among the first people you would want to question.’

  ‘But why you in particular, signor?’

  ‘It’s no secret that I detested the man. So if you were going to arrest me, the last thing you’d do is to call up and make an appointment, because that would give me enough time to escape.’

  Antonio put down his pen. ‘But why would you want to escape, Signor Pellegrino?’

  ‘Because everyone knows I killed Lombardi, and I realized that it wouldn’t take too long for a smart young detective like you to work out who the murderer was.’

  ‘But why would you want to kill the mayor?’ asked Antonio.

  ‘He was ruining my business with his protection racket and added taxes. And if that wasn’t enough, he was demanding kickbacks from my buyers, some of whom began to avoid the journey to Cortoglia as they feared they might be next. Another year and I would have had nothing to leave the children. I’m only thankful that my son Roberto is ready to take over the business while I’m locked up in prison.’ Pellegrino stood up and stretched his arms across the counter as if expecting to be handcuffed.

  ‘Before I arrest you, Signor Pellegrino,’ said the policeman, ‘I will need to know how you killed the mayor.’

  Pellegrino didn’t hesitate. ‘I strangled the damn man,’ he said.

  ‘With what?’

  This time he did hesitate. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘No, not really—’ said Antonio.

  ‘Good, then let’s get on with it,’ Pellegrino said, once again stretching his arms across the counter.

  ‘Just one minor problem,’ Antonio continued. ‘I’m afraid Lombardi wasn’t strangled by you, or anyone else for that matter.’

  ‘But as he was cremated, how can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because, unlike you, I’ve studied the police report, and can assure you, Signor Pellegrino, that wasn’t the way that Lombardi died.’

  ‘What a pity. But as I would have liked to have strangled the man, can’t you just charge me with attempted murder, and that will solve all our problems?’

  ‘Except for the problem that the culprit will still be on the loose,’ said Antonio. ‘So if you’d be kind enough to advise your friends that I intend to catch the real murderer and put him behind bars, I’d be very grateful,’ he added, as he slammed his notebook closed.

  As Antonio turned to leave, he spotted a photograph behind the counter. Pellegrino smiled. ‘My daughter’s wedding,’ he announced with pride. ‘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, the mayor’s daughter. Lorenzo and I had assumed she would marry my second son, Bruno, but it was not to be.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Antonio. ‘Wasn’t there enough olive oil left over?’

  ‘More than enough. But modern Italian women seem to have minds of their own. I blame her father. He should never have let her go to university. It’s not natural.’

  Antonio would have laughed, but he suspected the old man meant it.

  ‘I wonder if I might ask you for a small favour,’ Pellegrino said, holding up a large bottle of olive oil.

  ‘If it’s in my power, signor, I’d be only too happy to do so.’

  ‘I just wondered if you could let me know how the mayor was killed.’

  The policeman ignored the offering and quickly left the shop.

  * * *

  Rossetti was on his way back to the police station to write up another abortive report but hesitated when he reached the pharmacy. He entered and found Francesca standing behind the counter, chatting to a customer.

  ‘That should ease the pain, signora, but make sure that you only take one pill a day before going to bed. And if it doesn’t get any better, come back and see me,’ she said. Francesca turned to face Rossetti. ‘Is it my turn to be arrested, Lieutenant?’

  ‘No, something far simpler than that. I’ve run out of toothpaste.’

  ‘You know, we do have customers who buy soap, toothpaste and razor blades all at the same time, or is this nothing more than subtle police tactics to wear the suspect down and make her admit she killed the mayor?’