Free The Salati Case by Tobias Jones Page A

guess.’
    ‘Could be anything,’ Dall’Aglio said wearily. ‘Brothel, immigrant dive. Have you been there?’
    ‘Went round this afternoon. No one about but a bruiser and his boys.’
    ‘And Lo Bue’s the owner?’
    ‘I think so.’
    ‘I’ll find out.’ Dall’Aglio hung up.
    I looked at the phone and wondered why Dall’Aglio was being so helpful. He usually lent a hand if he could, but he pleaded busy nine times out of ten.
    I got up and looked out of the window of my office. I could see the entrance to the deli. Even in this cold, the door was open and coloured plastic ribbons acted as a threshold. I guess it saved on their refrigeration costs. I could see all the tortelli and cappelletti displayed on cardboard trays in the window.
    Food is the fuel of this city. It’s not just the cheeses and hams, it’s all the sophisticated engineering that goes with them: the bottling machines, the slicing machines, the percolating machines — all are beautifully designed in those drab buildings along the Via Emilia.
    Something had been bothering me all day and I couldn’t work out what it was. It’s worse not knowing why, because then I start going through all the things that might be bothering me and I’m there all afternoon: staring out of the window, unable to get out of my seat because there’s so much to do. I get like that sometimes. I speed around like a maniac for a few days, and then one comes along and I can’t even swing my feet out of bed.
    I was still worried about that mourning notice. Assuming it wasn’t genuine, it meant someone was wanting to impersonate Riccardo. That seemed a pretty strange thing to do. At best it was tasteless. It sounded to me like someone wanting to muddy the waters. But it wasn’t only that that bothered me. It was the fact that the notice had gone into the paper on Monday, so it must have been paid for on the Sunday, a day before the case was reopened. If someone was trying to muddy the waters, they must have known there were waters to muddy.
    Whoever placed the mourning notice must have known the case was about to be reopened before I was even hired.
    I managed to haul myself out of my chair and went over to Crespi’s office.
    ‘Tell me something,’ I said to him when I was finally ushered into his regal presence. ‘Did Umberto bring you his mother’s will last weekend, when his mother was still warm?’
    ‘No. I’ve had it in the company safe for a year or so. Silvia gave it to me when her last illness was getting serious. She brought it into this office and said it was to be opened as soon as she died.’
    ‘And when did you open it?’
    ‘On Saturday morning. I was informed of her death and followed instructions. I took her letter out of the safe and read it.’
    ‘And did she name me personally or ask you to hire the first name out of the phone book?’
    ‘She wanted you.’
    ‘And who did you tell about this?’
    Crespi frowned. He realised he was under polite interrogation and he didn’t like it.
    ‘Who?’ I asked again, so there could be no mistake.
    ‘I must have … I mentioned it to my secretary. I keep her informed of all the cases I’m dealing with.’
    ‘She’s the statue in the front office?’
    ‘Giovanna Monti,’ he said gravely, as if my description was a slur on her honour.
    ‘You told her on Saturday the case was going to be reopened.’
    He shrugged and nodded in one movement. ‘She would never divulge anything that goes on in this office.’
    ‘So who else did you mention it to?’
    The man paused long enough to show that he was running a memory check. He wasn’t as discreet as he made out.
    ‘No one. Absolutely no one,’ he said with certainty.
    ‘All right, call her in.’
    He looked at me with disdain and pressed an intercom on his desk. ‘Signora Monti, would you mind coming in here one minute?’
    He looked at me again now with defiance. The woman came in. I stood up out of politeness, but she still towered over me.