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

him a usurer, some a sponger, some a kindly old gentleman who had become friends with the baron. The most comical and at the same time most tragic explanation was that provided by Signorina Cosima Bonaiuti Ferro.
    The signorina, a classic example of a spinster absolutely without attraction, either to the eye or the ear, had told him in a floodof words devoid of both meaning and punctuation that Artusi had clearly been invited by her cousin the baron as her suitor. She had deduced this from the fact that
    â€“ she and Artusi had been born in the same year, 1820 to be precise, and when one chooses a companion at an advanced age it is well known that one chooses someone of exactly the same age because that way it is easier to share the infirmities which are such a feature of being old and blah-blah-blah
    â€“ Artusi had come from Florence specially and had presented himself in a frock coat, and when one dresses so well it means something because in the countryside people usually go dressed in a less formal manner and blah-blah-blah
    â€“ Artusi was neither married nor a widower and she would never have accepted a widower because that kind of thing upset her and men like that who have never married are so few and far between that her cousin the baron must have thought with good reason that Dottore Artusi was a really good catch and blahblah-blah.
    To all this waffle the inspector had lent only half an ear, given that since the beginning of the interview he had found his right leg imprisoned between the paws of the signorina’s pet dog, which had begun to mime an unlikely act of sexual congress with his shoe. It is a well-known fact that a dog that tries to make love to your ankle can be quite annoying and a hindrance to concentration, which was why, after a few half-hearted attempts to shake it off gracefully, the inspector had resolved to crush the dumb but troublesome animal between the leg and the foot of the olivewoodtable with a few well-aimed kicks, while the signorina happily continued her ravings.
    Anyway, here was Signor (or Dottore) Artusi. That was the first unresolved question, not a matter of major importance perhaps, but why keep it to oneself?
    â€œPlease sit down, Signor Artusi. Pardon, Dottore Artusi.”
    â€œOh, no, please allow me to explain. That’s a little misunderstanding that has pursued me for some time. I do indeed frequent the lecture halls of the University, but as a mere interested listener, a curious bystander. I am not entitled to be called Dottore.”
    A reply given timidly and unemphatically, without any putting on of airs. After which Artusi looked at the inspector as if to make sure he had given the right answer.
    Indeed he had. The inspector hated people who pretended to be what they were not, and he knew how much pleasure it gave the son of a shopkeeper to be called Dottore. It was a symbol of revenge, a medal of everyday valour to be displayed to everyone. It was something the inspector knew from personal experience.
    Born at Aieta, in the Calabrian hinterland, he had become an Italian together with his region and a doctor of law by studying while still kneading dough. Having started out as the son of a baker, after his graduation and his transfer to Milan he had married the prettiest girl in Maratea, whose parents could not believe they were now related to a graduate and an officer. For him, the word Dottore had meant Open Sesame.
    Seeing someone calmly and humbly abjure the title even though he could have usurped it with impunity impressed him.Artusi was an honest man, and the inspector only liked honest people.
    The inspector looked at Artusi and decided to get straight to the point. “Signor Artusi, I have already heard the story of the discovery of poor Teodoro Banti’s body several times today. I’m sure you won’t mind if, instead of getting you to tell me the same story, I simply ask you to confirm or deny what I have been told thus