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  “With what?”

  This time he did hesitate. “Does it matter?”

  “Not really,” said Antonio, “because I’m afraid Lombardi wasn’t strangled.”

  “But as he was cremated, how can you be so sure?”

  “Because I’ve read the autopsy report, and I can assure you, Signor Caraffini, he wasn’t strangled.”

  “Tell me how he was killed, and I feel sure the murderer will give himself up fairly quickly, and that will solve all our problems.”

  “It most certainly will not,” said Antonio. “So be sure to tell your friends, Signor Caraffini, I’m going to catch whoever did murder Lombardi—and put them behind bars,” he added, as he slammed his notebook closed.

  As Antonio got up to leave, he spotted a photograph on Caraffini’s desk. The olive oil manager smiled. “My daughter’s wedding,” he explained. “She married the son of my dear friend, Signor De Rosa. Oil and water may not mix, lieutenant, but olive oil and truffles certainly do.” He laughed at a joke Antonio presumed he’d made many times before.

  “And the chief bridesmaid?” said Antonio, pointing to a young woman who was standing behind the bride.

  “Francesca Farinelli, Signor Pellegrino’s niece, who I had rather hoped would marry my second son, Mario, but it was not to be.”

  “Why not?” said Antonio. “That sounds an ideal match.”

  “I agree. But modern Italian women seem to have minds of their own. I blame her father. He should never have let her go to university.” Antonio would have laughed, but he suspected the old man meant it. “Only sorry I couldn’t help you, Lieutenant.”

  “So am I,” said Antonio.

  The policeman decided to drop in to the pharmacy before he returned to his office to write up another abortive report. But he was disappointed to discover a middle-aged man standing behind the counter, chatting to a customer.

  “How can I help you, Signor Rossetti?” he asked when he entered the shop.

  “I need a tube of toothpaste.”

  “Top shelf, on the right.”

  He was just about to pay when Francesca appeared with a prescription.

  “That should do the trick, signora. But do let me know if it gets any worse.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” she said before leaving the shop.

  “Have you come to arrest my father?” asked Francesca.

  “No, at the moment I’m looking for someone who claims they didn’t murder Lombardi.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to say I didn’t do it,” said il Signor Farinelli. “I would happily have done so, but unfortunately I was in Rome attending a pharmaceutical conference that day.”

  “But I wasn’t,” said Francesca with a grin.

  “It can’t be much fun, holed up in a town where you don’t know anyone,” said Farinelli.

  “It could be worse,” said Antonio. “The natives are starting to be friendly, and I certainly couldn’t have better accommodation.”

  “It’s just that I wondered if you would care to join us for dinner one evening.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Shall we say Thursday, around eight?”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” said Antonio as he turned to leave.

  “Don’t forget your toothpaste, Signor Rossetti,” said Francesca.

  * * *

  When Antonio turned up at the police station the following morning, there was a large, overweight man wearing a long blue-and-white striped apron standing outside the front door.

  “Good morning, inspector.”

  “Lieutenant,” corrected Antonio.

  “I’m Umberto Cattaneo.”

  “The butcher,” said Antonio. “Your shop is in the town square?”

  He nodded and lowered his voice. “I think I may be able to help you with your inquiries.” At last, an informer, thought Antonio. He unlocked the door and led Cattaneo through to his little office. “First, I need to be sure,” said Cattaneo, “that if I tell you who killed Lombardi, it won’t be traced back to me.”

  “You have my word on that,” said Antonio, opening his notepad. “That’s assuming we won’t need you to act as a witness when it comes to trial.”

  “You won’t need a witness,” said Cattaneo, “because I can tell you where he’s hidden the gun.”

  Antonio snapped his notepad shut, and let out a deep sigh. “But I haven’t even told you who the murderer is,” said Cattaneo.

  “You needn’t bother, Signor Cattaneo, because Lombardi wasn’t shot.”

  “But Gian Lucio told me he’d shot him,” protested Cattaneo.

  “Before I throw you in the cell and lock you up for a couple of days, if for no other reason than to stop your friends wasting my time, why are you happy to finger Gian Lucio for a crime he didn’t commit?”

  “Gian Lucio Altana is my oldest and dearest friend.”

  “Then why are you trying to get him arrested?”

  “I wasn’t,” said Cattaneo. “We tossed for it, and I lost.”

  “You lost?”

  “Whoever won got to say they killed Lombardi.”

  “And how would you have killed Lombardi if you’d won the toss?”

  “I would have shot him as well, and as we only have one pistol between us, we’d already agreed I would plant the gun at his place.”

  “Just out of interest,” said Antonio, “why was your friend Signor Altana so keen to admit he killed Lombardi?”

  “While Lombardi was mayor, he’d eat at Lucio’s restaurant three times a day.”

  “That’s hardly a good enough reason to kill a man.”

  “It is when you lose all your regular customers, because the mayor’s always around.” Antonio nodded. “By the way,” said Cattaneo, “he wasn’t stabbed, by any chance?”

  “Get out of here, Signor Cattaneo, before I lock you and your friend up.”

  Not a totally wasted morning, considered Antonio, because he was now confident only he, the doctor, and the murderer had any idea how Lombardi had been killed.

  * * *

  Antonio knocked on the front door of Francesca’s home a few minutes after eight. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman who greeted him with a warm smile.

  “I’m Elena Farinelli, Francesca’s mother. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Signor Rossetti. Please come in.” She led her guest through to the drawing room, where her husband was opening a bottle of wine. There was no sign of Francesca. “She’ll be down in a moment,” said Elena, almost as if she’d read his mind.

  Mario Farinelli handed Antonio a glass, and asked, “How many people have you arrested today?”

  “It’s been a little disappointing,” said Antonio. “No one has admitted to killing Lombardi today,” he added as Francesca entered the room.

  Antonio immediately realized it was the first time he’d seen her not wearing a long white coat. She was dressed in a red silk blouse, a black skirt, and a pair of high-heeled shoes that certainly hadn’t been bought in Cortoglia. He tried not to stare at her. What else was different? Of course, she’d let her hair down. He hadn’t thought it possible that she could be even more beautiful.

  “As you’re a highly trained detective,” she said, “I assume you already know my name is Francesca, but I don’t know if you’re Antonio or Tony?”

  “My mother calls me Antonio, but my friends call me Tony.”

  “I know you work in Naples,” said Elena Farinelli, “but do your family also come from there?”

  “Yes,” said Antonio, “my parents are both schoolteachers, and I have two brothers. One’s a printer and the other a lawyer.”

  “Did you always want to be a policeman?” asked Francesca, as her father handed her a glass of wine.

  “Yes I did. But then in Naples you have to work for one side of the law or the other.”

  Everyone dutifully laughed, and Antonio was reminded how stilted conversations could be when you didn’t know each other, but wanted to.