Джеффри Арчер - The Short, the Long and the Tall [С иллюстрациями]

‘Later perhaps, but first a few questions.’

‘Of course.’

‘Black or white?’

‘Black, no sugar.’

Toni poured a cup of coffee and handed it to the postman. ‘How did you kill the mayor, Riccardo?’ he asked, no longer wasting any time with preliminaries.

‘I drowned him,’ said the postman.

‘In the sea?’ suggested Antonio, raising an eyebrow.

‘No, in his bath. I took him by surprise.’

‘It must have come as quite a surprise,’ said Antonio, opening his notebook. ‘But before I charge you, Riccardo, I still have one or two more questions.’

‘I’ll admit to anything,’ he said.

‘I’m sure you will, but first, how old are you?’

‘Sixty-three.’

‘And your height?’

‘One metre sixty-two.’

‘And your weight?’

‘Around seventy-six kilos.’

‘And you want me to believe, Riccardo, that you overpowered a man who was almost two metres tall and weighed around a hundred kilos. A man who some suggested never took a bath. Tell me, Riccardo, was Lombardi asleep at the time?’

‘No,’ said the postman, ‘but he was drunk.’

‘Ah, that would explain it,’ said Antonio. ‘Although, frankly, if he’d passed out before you attempted to drown him, it would still have been a close-run thing.’ The postman tried to look offended. ‘In any case, there’s something else you’ve over-looked.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Lombardi couldn’t have been drowned in a bath, because there’s only a shower in the house.’

‘In the sea?’ said the postman hopefully.

‘Not an option. Not least because eleven other younger men have already confessed to drowning him in the sea.’ Antonio closed his notebook. ‘But a good try, Riccardo. More importantly, have I got any letters this morning?’

‘Yes, three,’ said the postman, putting the opened envelopes on the table. ‘One from your mother, who wonders if you will be back in time for lunch on Sunday. The second is from the chief of police in Naples who wants to know why you haven’t arrested anyone yet, and a third from your brother.’

‘And what does he want?’ Antonio asked, ignoring the fact that the postman had illegally tampered with the mail.

‘Could you let him know as soon as you have arrested someone, and if they’ve got any money, would you remember to recommend him?’

‘Are there any secrets in this town?’

‘Just one,’ said the postman.

Dinner with Francesca at Lucio’s restaurant was about as public as an execution. If Antonio had even thought about holding her hand, it would have been front-page news in the Cortoglia Gazzetta.

‘Don’t you ever get bored living in a small town?’ he asked her after a waiter had whisked away their plates.

‘Never, I have the best of both worlds,’ she replied. ‘I can read the same books as you, watch the same television programmes, eat the same food and even enjoy the same wine but at half the price. And if I want to go to the opera, visit an art gallery or buy some new clothes, I can always spend the day in Naples and be back in Cortoglia before the sun sets. And perhaps you haven’t noticed, Toni, the magnificent rolling hills or how fresh the air is, and when people pass you in the street they smile and know your name.’

‘But the bustle, the excitement, the variety of everyday life?’

‘The traffic, the pollution, the graffiti, not to mention the manners of some of your fellow Neapolitans who consider women should only be seen in the kitchen or the bedroom, and then not necessarily the same woman.’

Antonio leant across the table and took her hand. ‘I couldn’t tempt you to come back to Naples with me?’

‘For the day, yes,’ said Francesca. ‘But then I’d want us to be back in Cortoglia by nightfall.’

‘Then you’ll have to go on murdering some more of the locals.’

‘Certainly not. One will be quite enough for the next hundred years. So who’s the latest person who tried to convince you they disposed of Lombardi?’

‘Paolo Carrafini.’

‘Whose wine we are both enjoying,’ said Francesca, raising her glass.

‘And will continue to do so,’ said Antonio, ‘as Signor Carrafini’s attempt to prove he murdered the mayor turned out to be the least convincing so far.’

‘What was wrong with Lombardi falling through a trap door into the wine cellar and breaking his neck?’

‘Nothing wrong with the idea,’ said Antonio, ‘it’s just a pity Signor Carrafini would have had to lift up the trap door before he could push Lombardi through. You should tell any other potential murderers that they must be prepared for something to go wrong even when they’re innocent.’

‘So who’s next on your list?’

‘I’m afraid it’s your father’s turn and he’s the last person I want to arrest. Although when it comes to motive, he’s an obvious candidate.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we know Lombardi removed him as mayor and within days of the murder, your father was back in the town hall.’

‘Along with his friends,’ Francesca reminded him.

‘Who we now know are all innocent, so I can’t wait to find out how your father killed Lombardi.’

Francesca leant across the table and touched his cheek. ‘Don’t worry, my father isn’t going to admit to the murder.’

‘All the more reason to believe he did it.’

‘Except in his case he has a cast-iron alibi. He was in Florence at the time, attending a local government conference.’

‘That’s a relief, assuming there are witnesses.’

‘Over a hundred.’

‘More than enough. But if it wasn’t your father who killed Lombardi, I’m fast running out of suspects. Although there still remains the mystery of the missing policeman, because Luca Gentile hasn’t been seen in Cortoglia since the day Lombardi was murdered, which is suspicious in and of itself.’

‘Luca isn’t capable of murder,’ said Francesca. ‘Although I suspect he knows who did it, which is why he won’t be returning to Cortoglia and resuming his former duties until you’re safely back in Naples.’

‘Then I’ve still got a few more days left to surprise you all,’ said Antonio.

‘I think you’ll find there are at least three more potential murderers who can’t wait to give themselves up.’

‘Surely they must be running out of ideas by now?’

‘I think you’ll enjoy tomorrow’s, which is a great improvement on trap doors, truffle knives or being shot.’

‘Tell them not to bother tomorrow,’ said Antonio. ‘I’m taking the day off to watch your father being inaugurated as mayor. Why don’t I get the bill?’

‘There won’t be a bill, Toni, however long you decide to stay,’ said Francesca. ‘Gian Lucio is telling everyone that although he confessed to shooting Lombardi, even producing the gun, you still refused to lock him up.’

‘Because he wasn’t guilty,’ protested an exasperated Antonio, ‘and if we hadn’t been having dinner here tonight, I would have locked him up for the possession of a firearm.’

‘But it wasn’t even his.’

‘Ah, but he won the toss,’ said Antonio.

‘Won the toss?’

‘At last I have found something you don’t know about,’ he said as he stood up to leave. Antonio took her hand as they crossed the square to Francesca’s home.