Free Cabal - 3 by Michael Dibdin Page A

at least two – left fifteen or twenty minutes earlier.’
    Lamboglia laughed again, a harsh, brittle sound.
    ‘And what did Ruspanti do during that time, may I ask? Hover there in mid-air like an angel?’
    ‘More or less.’
    ‘You forget that we have extensive professional experience of false miracles.’
    ‘This wasn’t a miracle. They trussed the poor bastard up with a length of nylon fishing line and left him dangling over the edge of the gallery.’
    ‘ Fishing line?’
    Zen nodded.
    ‘Thin, transparent, virtually invisible, but with a breaking strain of over a hundred kilos. I found several metres of the stuff tied to one of the railing supports on the upper gallery. I removed it, of course.’
    Lamboglia suddenly held out a hand for silence. He got up and walked quickly to the door, which he flung open dramatically. The elderly nun almost fell into the room, clutching a mop.
    ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Forgive me, monsignore, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just scrubbing the floor …’
    ‘Cleanliness is indeed a great virtue,’ Lamboglia replied in a tone of icy irony, ‘and the fact that you have seen fit to undertake this menial labour yourself, rather than delegate it to one of your younger colleagues, indicates a commendable humility. If your discretion matches your other qualities – as is fervently to be hoped – then your eventual beatification can be only a question of time.’
    He glowered at the nun, who gazed back at her tormentor with an expression which to Zen’s eyes at least appeared frankly erotic.
    ‘Such a degree of sanctity no doubt makes any contact with the secular world both painful and problematic,’ Lamboglia continued remorselessly. ‘Nevertheless, I’m sure that someone as resourceful as yourself will find a way to procure us two coffees, easy on the milk but heavy on the foam, and a couple of pastries from a good bakery, none of that mass-produced rubbish.’
     
    Abandoning her mop, the nun scampered off. Lamboglia slammed the door shut and returned to the table. He rewound the tape to the beginning of the interruption and replaced the recorder in front of Zen.
    ‘You say you found this twine attached to the upper gallery. But what made you look there in the first place?’
    ‘I examined the lower gallery, the part that is closed to the public, overlooking the spot where Ruspanti fell. It was at once obvious that no one had thrown himself from there. There was an undisturbed layer of dust all along the top of the guardrail, and even on the floor. Besides, there was no sign of the missing shoe there. The upper gallery was the only other possibility.’
    Lamboglia frowned with the effort of keeping up with all this new information.
    ‘But we found the shoe in the basilica, under one of the benches. You said it had fallen there separately from the body.’
    Zen nodded.
    ‘Separately in space and time. Several hours later, in fact, while I was searching the gallery.’
    There was a timid knock at the door and the elderly nun appeared, carrying a tray covered with a spotless white cloth. She set it down on the table and removed the cloth like a conjuror to reveal two steaming bowls of coffee, an appetizing assortment of pastries and a glass ashtray. The cleric gave a curt nod and the nun slunk out.
     
    ‘So none of this can now be proved?’ Lamboglia asked.
    Zen selected a pastry.
    ‘Well, there were some marks on Ruspanti’s wrists. I thought at first that they were preliminary cuts showing where he’d tried to slash his wrists, but in fact they must have been weals made by the pressure of the twine. A post-mortem might reveal traces of the chloroform or whatever they used to keep him unconscious, but I don’t suppose there’s the faintest possibility of the family agreeing to allow one.’
    ‘But if the killers left before Ruspanti fell, how did they release the bonds that were holding him to the gallery?’
    Zen washed down the pastry with a long gulp