The Art of Killing Well by Marco Malvaldi, Howard Curtis Page A

not to say natural. Gaddo had never seen anyone enter this study simply by opening the door.
    â€œPlease sit down, Signorino Gaddo.”
    Gaddo did so, taking his place on the chair as if afraid of breaking his bones, and immediately embarking on a series of little movements to adjust the crease in his trousers, his jacket, his watch chain and the chair. He would probably also have changed the position of the table if he had been strong enough. Unfortunately for him, Newton would not allow it: the table was of heavy olivewood, and Gaddo, to judge by his appearance, was the kind of person who would have got out of breath cutting his nails.
    The inspector asked Gaddo, as he had asked his father and brother, to describe the events of the previous evening, and Gaddo confirmed what they had said.
    â€œI shan’t bother you, Signorino Gaddo, by making you repeat things that I feel I have already verified,” the inspector said after two or three questions. “I should, however, like your opinion on the two guests your father invited to the castle for the hunt. Had you met either or both of them before?”
    Gaddo lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to insinuate.”
    They were clearly off to a bad start.
    â€œAs it happens,” continued Gaddo, “no, I had never met them, nor did I know them by reputation. I rarely leave the castle. I have everything I need right here. Peace and quiet are essential to my inspiration.”
    â€œI understand. And can you tell me anything about the two guests now that you have met them? Do you know, for example, why they were invited?”
    Gaddo sighed in a knowing manner. “Signor Fabrizio Ciceri is an expert on photography,” he said. “My father summoned him here to photograph our family and the surroundings of the castle. I myself showed Signor Ciceri around the estate yesterday, pointing out some attractive spots and reciting some of my verses composed in those very places, to give him a better idea of the atmosphere.”
    â€œI see,” said the inspector, who really was beginning to see. Poor Signor Ciceri. “And what of Dottore Artusi?”
    â€œ
Signor
Pellegrino Artusi,” Gaddo said, emphasising the title, “was summoned here by my father for reasons that are quite unknown to me. It appears my father met him while taking the waters and they struck up a kind of friendship, which I find totally incomprehensible. The man’s completely out of place here.”
    Neither of them speaks well of his father. If they’d been born poor, these two blockheads would probably not even have got out of short trousers, but instead of thanking the Lord who,for reasons known only to Him, provided them with a rich and powerful father, these two happily slander him. Not enough of the strap and too many sweets, that’s the problem.
    â€œAnd why do you consider Signor Artusi so out of place?”
    â€œThat should be obvious to you as soon as you meet him. A coarse, jumped-up fellow from Romagna, one of the most vulgar people I have ever seen. He reads books with illustrated covers. And he even writes. Cookery books, can you imagine? How he writes them I don’t know, but to judge from the way he pigs himself on his material he must know it like the back of his hand.”

    And now here he was at last, the final resident to be interviewed, Signor (or Dottore) Pellegrino Artusi from Forlimpopoli. His physical appearance, it must be said, somewhat disappointed the inspector, who had been expecting some kind of fiery-eyed gypsy, not an easy-going gentleman with impressive white whiskers who vaguely reminded him of his grandfather Modesto. Be that as it may, this fellow did not leave anyone indifferent. There had not been a single person among those questioned who had not had his say about Artusi. And there had not been two who agreed about why the man had been invited to the castle. Some considered