FRANCESCA’S EXERTIONS HAD NOT tired her in the least. On the contrary, she was bubbling with gaiety, fizzing with excitement, and I told her so.
“You’re more than allegro, you’re allegrissimo.”
“I feel like Vesuvio!” she said, eyes sparkling.
“Good, but watch the road.”
It was only a twenty-minute ride to Cittareale, a village northwest of Bologna. At the autostrada exit, some patchy fog, ghostly-white, hung over the damp ground. The waters of the River Po exert their powers over a vast area, even at this time of year. We went down a country road, past a few sprawling farmhouses. Francesca was driving slowly and over the sound of the engine, a dog barked loudly.
I pointed. “There! On the right!” A large sign for the restaurant sent us down a country road, and the building was there before us, situated in a wooded area with a large parking area surrounding it. We were able to park close, and we walked arm in arm through the twilight, for dusk was now falling rapidly.
The entrance to the restaurant was through a large sheltering portico with trelliswork and twisting vines. Perhaps it was our euphoric mood but we reached the large wooden double doors before I noticed that the place was almost in darkness. Simultaneously, Francesca said, “There weren’t many cars in the parking lot. I wonder—”
There was a sound behind us and we turned to see the figure of a man in dark clothes emerging from the bushes.
“Go on in,” he said in a voice that did not invite argument. As an additional persuasion, he took his right hand from his pocket. It contained a black and ugly shape that wasn’t clear in the fading light, but I decided against the need for precise identification. We went in.
As I pushed the door open, I saw the sign that declared the restaurant open six days of the week. Today it was closed for business.
“Turn left.” The voice was speaking Italian but it did not sound familiar. We went along a corridor with photographs on both walls then through swinging doors. We were in the kitchen.
Familiar stainless steel and copper shapes gleamed as the man snapped on a light. It illuminated only the section of the kitchen that we were in now. Fading into the darkness were tables and chopping blocks, racks of dishes and plates, and all the customary paraphernalia. The soothing smells of garlic and onion hung in the air despite the obvious signs of careful cleaning and ventilation.
I had thought we were safe with Cataldo’s welcome news that Spezzano had been apprehended and that threat removed. It had led to an elation that had now burst like a collapsing soufflé. How could another assassin have been put on our trail-so quickly?
“Yes, you’re the one,” the man said in a quiet voice. I could see him now. He was medium height, light, thinning hair, and in his forties. His face was grim and hard, and his complexion was pasty, as if he had lived several recent years indoors. His eyes were flinty and bore the look of one accustomed to a life of violence. He stared at Francesca. “Pity you had to be along too,” he grunted then his expression changed. “Still,” he said with a leer, “maybe we can enjoy ourselves after he’s left us.”
“We both have to leave,” I told him though my mouth was a little dry. “We need to find a restaurant that’s open.”
I took a step and his right hand moved sharply. I had full confirmation of the nature of that black and ugly shape in it. It was a gun. I stopped.
“Who are you?” Francesca demanded contemptuously. “What do you want? If it’s money, we—” She snapped her handbag open, stopped as he waggled the gun at her.
“In due course, I can get to that,” he said with an unpleasant grin. “For now”—he looked meaningfully at me—”it’s just orders. That’s all, just orders.”
“Orders from whom?” In Italian, the grammar was not in question. “At least, I deserve to know that.” I did want to know, though the desire to keep him talking, to stall as long as I could, was more important.
He was not a believer in last requests. He ignored my question. “Over there.” He motioned to the far end of the kitchen, wreathed in darkness. I obeyed quickly, the vague thought that the darkness might offer a hiding place. I obeyed so quickly in fact that it took him unawares. I hurried past the racks of dishes with the intention of separating myself from Francesca, keeping us apart so as to make it as difficult for him as I could. I was rounding the end of the bench when I saw ahead of me one of the wooden-slatted platforms that chefs place on the concrete floors to stand on while working.
“Slowly!” he said harshly.
I paused, put my hand on the corner of the bench top as I half turned. He was coming towards me and I moved my hand. His eyes flickered to it, looking to see if I was reaching for something to use as a weapon. There was nothing there on the scrubbed wooden surface, and he grinned mirthlessly. Francesca stopped too, a few paces behind me.
He waved the automatic for me to go on towards the dark alcove. I could only presume that he had made some preparations there for our disposal, but I didn’t want to speculate on what they might be.
I went on, trailing my hand on the bench top as I turned the corner, trusting that he was looking at my hand and not at the floor.
He kicked the edge of the slatted platform just as I had hoped and almost fell, saving himself only with a grab at the table with his left arm.
I might not have another chance. I had spotted a row of iron skillets on a rack above and I snatched the nearest and swung at him. It missed his head but hit him on the right bicep as he was pulling himself to his feet. His fingers instinctively let go of the automatic and it clattered to the floor. Francesca took a step forward to run and pick it up but he lunged for it. He dropped his hand flat on the gun, pinning it to the floor.
He was a cool customer. Where most would have scrambled to get a grip on the gun, he kept it there, his hand covering it while he sized up our relative positions. Francesca and I were seven or eight feet apart so he had to look from one to the other. An evil smile came over his face as he slowly fumbled to get the gun into his hand, keeping his eyes on us and not giving in to the temptation to look down at the gun.
I edged to my left, widening the space between Francesca and me, increasing the angle between us. He had to turn his head further now to look from one to the other, but as he did, he was palming the gun. He was having to do it with his left hand, and I had noticed that he had held it in his right before. Most people are one-handed and have a strong preference for the favored hand. Gambling on him being that way, I guessed that he would rather shoot me with his right hand, so I watched breathlessly as he scooped up the gun.
I took another step to the left. I had guessed correctly, he switched the gun to the other hand and as he did so I threw the skillet at him. Heavy iron skillets are not easy to throw and I had no time to wind up a swing. It sailed through the air in a lazy arc and he sneered as it dipped to fall on the concrete floor in front of him.
The sneer promptly disappeared as the skillet bounced once on its handle and rebounded to hit him on the shin. He winced but held on to the gun. In that half second, I had taken another step and banged against a bench. I glanced at it swiftly—there must be something there. A knife was what I hoped for, but I knew kitchens too well to really expect one. They are always kept in racks on the wall, where they are safer than left lying on a flat surface.
He was facing me across the end of the bench and the blow on the shinbone had not improved his temper. He muttered something I did not hear, but it sounded profane. He raised the gun and took aim. His manner was smoothly professional.
The crash of the gun was. deafening in the confines of the kitchen. Echoes rolled from saucepans to stew pots and bounced down from the low ceiling. A stack of plates shivered and some glasses rattled in a dishwasher.
He stood staring at me, his expression threatening. The reverberations were still rolling when there was another explosion.
At the second shot, the man jerked visibly and his gun arm sagged. His legs gave way and his mouth opened in almost comical incredulity. He crumpled to his knees and he was still staring at me. His torso folded and he toppled forward to crash facedown on the concrete, the automatic still in his hand.
Francesca stood there, her hand still inside her bag. A whiff of smoke spiraled up from it. Two patches of blood were spreading rapidly on the man’s back and she looked down at them scornfully. The look on her face was almost frightening. She could probably have shot a whole platoon if her ammunition had held out.
She looked ruefully at her handbag. There was a large ragged hole in the bottom of it, the fiber edges still smoking.
“It’s usual to take the gun out before firing it,” I commented.
“There wasn’t time,” she said simply. She lifted the bag and examined it. “I paid three hundred thousand lire for this.”
“Maybe you can get it repaired.”
She gave a choking laugh, dropped the bag, and threw herself into my arms.
When Cataldo arrived, we had every light in the restaurant blazing. He looked at the body.
“You are running up a high death rate here,” he commented.
“I was right to insist on having a gun, wasn’t I, Carlo?” Francesca asked pertly.
He grunted a grudging acquiescence.
“It was a good idea to give me a license too,” she added.
He examined the body and then the gun. He sniffed my hands and then Francesca’s. We told him exactly what had happened and he listened without comment. The investigation team started arriving in ones and twos and he nodded to them to go ahead. To us, he said, “Let’s take a look down here,” and we went in the direction of the dark alcove where we had been headed.
Two very large black plastic sacks and a garbage wagon on wheels were there, and Francesca gave a look, a shudder, and turned away. An older detective with years of experience written all over his face came up and said something to Cataldo in a low voice. The captain nodded thanks.
“One of my detectives recognized your assailant,” he told us. “His name is Perruchio—he has a long criminal record.” He glanced at Francesca. “Thanks to you, it won’t get any longer.”
“After your phone call, I thought we were safe,” I said with a touch of acerbity.
“I did too,” Cataldo admitted. “I didn’t think a replacement for Spezzano could be found that quickly.”
“Yes, that was a bad mistake, wasn’t it?” I commented.
He looked at me quickly.
Francesca frowned. “Mistake? Whose mistake?”
“You already know, don’t you?” I asked Cataldo.
He was studying me with a quizzical expression, cautiously assessing what he was going to say.
“Two ex-convicts and Desmond Lansdown’s assistant. It’s obvious now when you put those together,” I said.
The vestige of a satisfied smile was beginning to spread over his face.
“But you don’t have quite enough evidence,” I suggested.
He smiled and his strong, bronzed face lit up.
“Between us, we can conclude this case!” His voice was triumphant.
Francesca looked from Cataldo to me and back again.
“Will you two tell me what you are talking about?”