The Art of Killing Well Read Free Page B

without dipping his precious whiskers in the restorative liquid. While he was studying the situation, he replied, “Ah, so you noticed?”
    â€œIt would have been difficult not to,” Gaddo said in a tone which, some seventy years later, would have made him a senior officer in the Stasi. “The cover was in exceptionally bad taste.”
    â€œYou should never judge a book by its cover, Gadduccio,” Cecilia said amiably.
    â€œAnd you should never speak unless you are spoken to, my dear Cecilia,” replied Lapo without looking at her. “You’re a young lady now, and there are certain things you ought to know. I believe—”
    â€œOh, don’t interfere in discussions about books, Lapo,” Cecilia cut in. “It doesn’t suit you. If and when the conversation moves on to the subject of how to fritter away money, we’ll let you know.”
    â€œCecilia!” cried her grandmother, also without looking at her. That was all she had to say. After waiting for a moment to make sure that her granddaughter had calmed down, she went on, “IfI have understood correctly, it is a book about criminal investigations.”
    In the meantime, Artusi had brought the operation to a satisfactory conclusion, knocking back the coffee while keeping his whiskers surprisingly clean, thanks to the so-called “anteater method” (mouth like a trumpet, lips extended, a quick – and, as far as possible, silent – sucking movement, and so on) so dear to the owners of whiskers in the Western world.
    â€œThat is indeed the case,” Artusi said, putting his cup down, then, as if to apologise for possessing such a uncommon book, “I got it from the English bookseller in the Via de’ Cerretani.”
    Seeing that everyone had fallen silent, Artusi continued, more to fill the embarrassed silence that descends when people do not know each other well than out of any desire to inform the dinner guests, “The main character is a Londoner of private means. Highly intelligent, physically strong and with a cast-iron memory. A trifle eccentric, like many Englishmen. A great violinist, according to the narrator, and prone to all kinds of excesses to escape boredom. Morphine, opium and suchlike, much to the annoyance of the man with whom he shares a flat, a highly respectable doctor.”
    â€œAnd this man finds himself involved in a crime?”
    â€œOn the contrary. This fellow seeks out crimes. That is his element, like the sea for fish. He reads the newspapers, asks the police for information, even performs experiments to determine whether such and such a stain is indeed blood and not rust or some other substance. And when he is quite sure as to how acrime was committed, he goes to the police and tells them what they must do and whom to arrest. He describes himself as a private investigator.”
    â€œThird-rate literature,” Gaddo said, “made to satisfy the tastes of coarse people. Corpses, sensational events, half-naked women and other obscenities. Fit only for servant girls, or merchants.”
    As the baron changed colour, becoming slightly purple, there was heard the croaky voice of Signorina Ferro (Cosima, to be exact – not that it is necessary, because the other old maid never speaks): “Surely the signore is a merchant, am I not right? And even quite well known in his city.”
    â€œThe fact is, Signorina Cosima,” stammered Artusi, his cheeks also somewhat inflamed, “I have been blessed by fate. My father left me a prosperous business, and I have simply followed in his footsteps. Alone, believe me, I wouldn’t have succeeded at anything. Everything I have I owe to my parents.”
    â€œIt is rather the same with us nobles,” Nonna Speranza said. “One inherits a title and uses it all one’s life, even if one is a good-for-nothing who cannot do a single thing except write poems.”
    It was Gaddo’s turn