Free The Last Enemy by Grace Brophy Page A

furniture . He was examining the photo of a good-looking young man prominently displayed on a large refectory table when he heard the door opening and looked about.
    The man who entered the room was in his late sixties or early seventies, tall, thin and slightly stooped, well over six feet tall, about his own height, Cenni thought. He had gray hair, cut close, and was wearing thin wire glasses. He was dressed informally but with elegance, in an English tweed jacket, opennecked dark gray knit shirt, and black wool slacks, Italian cut: all expensive. He must have been quite good looking when he was young, Cenni thought. He’s still handsome and certainly distinguished, a man who knows his own importance. The count extended his hand in greeting.
    “Dottore, I was told you’d be paying us a visit. Please have a seat,” he said, motioning to a sofa adjacent to the chair that Piero had already taken. Without waiting for Cenni to comply, the count seated himself directly across from Piero, in a straight-backed wing chair. He eased himself slowly into the chair, holding on to the arms for support. “Arthritis of the back,” he said unapologetically, in response to the surprised look on Piero’s face.
    “A terrible tragedy!” the count began, not waiting for Cenni to introduce himself, Piero, or the subject of their visit. “For something like this to happen on Good Friday and in Assisi, makes it that much more heinous. You can be fully assured that I will do whatever is necessary to assist the police. Assisi doesn’t need this type of publicity! A reward, perhaps,” he mused.
    “And your niece, it’s certainly tragic for her as well as for Assisi. She was still a young woman, forty-five I understand,” Cenni interjected, then stopped, annoyed at himself for reacting so openly to the count’s detachment.
    “Well, of course, uh . . . Inspector. That goes without saying,” the count responded dryly, demoting him for insubordination, Cenni assumed. “As I said, I’ll do all I can to help. Please tell me what that might be.”
    “I’d like to know as much as possible about your niece, what she was like, who her friends were, why she was here in Italy. But before that, I understand that Dottor Russo called you this morning and that he also sent over one of his own men, Inspector Staccioli, to secure the house. I’d like to speak to Inspector Staccioli before I begin interviewing your family and your household staff, and I would also like to visit your niece’s living quarters. I asked one of my own staff, Inspector Ottaviani, to meet me here with the forensic police. Assuming they’re somewhere in the house, I’d like to speak to them as well.”
    “Surely it’s not necessary to interview my family,” the count rejoined sharply, focusing on only one of Cenni’s requests. “My wife, daughter, and granddaughter are all distraught over this brutal murder. My wife is in bed under a doctor’s care. We haven’t yet told her that my niece was raped. I prefer that you not disturb my family with unnecessary and frivolous questions. Whatever you need to know about my niece, I can tell you. I discussed this very point with Dottor Russo this morning, and he understood my position perfectly.”
    Piero had followed their exchange as a disinterested observer might watch a tennis rally, waiting patiently for one of the players to hit the ball over the line. He finally had his patience rewarded. Now he’s done it! he thought.
    “I do understand your position, Signor Casati, perhaps even better than Dottor Russo,” Cenni responded, his tone dangerously deferential. “I must point out to you, however, that this is a police investigation into, as you yourself stated very precisely, a brutal murder. No one who knew the victim or saw her on the day of her death is exempt from questioning. That includes all the members of your household: your wife, daughter, and granddaughter. If you prefer we can question your wife in her