Foucault's pendulum - Umberto Eco [72]
At this moment the phone rang. Belbo answered: “Good morning, Garamond Press, Belbo speaking. What can I do for you?...Yes, he was here yesterday afternoon, offering me a book...Sorry, that’s rather confidential. If you could tell me...”
He listened for a few seconds, then, suddenly pale, looked at me and said: “The colonel’s been murdered, or something of the sort.” He spoke into the phone again: “Excuse me. I was talking to Signer Casaubon, a consultant of mine who was also present at yesterday’s conversation...Well, Colonel Ardenti came to talk to us about a project of his, a story I consider largely fabrication, about a supposed treasure of the Templars. They were medieval knights...”
Instinctively, he put his hand around the mouthpiece as if to talk privately, then took his hand away when he saw I was watching. He spoke with some hesitation: “No, Inspector De Angelis, the colonel discussed a book he wanted to write, but only in vague terms...What, both of us? Now? All right, give me the address.”
He hung up and was silent for a while, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Sorry, Casaubon,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve dragged you into this. I didn’t have time to think. That was a police inspector named De Angelis. It seems the colonel was staying in an apartment hotel, and somebody claims to have found him there last night, dead...”
“Claims? The inspector doesn’t know if it’s true or not?”
“It sounds strange, but apparently he doesn’t. They found my name and yesterday’s appointment in a notebook. I believe we’re the only clue. What can I say? Let’s go.”
We called a taxi. During the ride Belbo gripped my arm. “Listen, Casaubon, this may be just a coincidence. Maybe my mind is warped. But where I come from there’s a saying: ‘Whatever you do, don’t name names.’ When I was a boy, I used to
go see this Nativity play performed in dialect. A pious farce, with shepherds who didn’t know whether they were in Bethlehem or on the banks of the Tanaro, farther up the Po valley. The Magi arrive and ask a shepherd’s boy what his master’s name is. The boy answers: Gelindo. When Gelindo finds out, he beats the daylights out of the boy. ‘Never give away a man’s name,’ he says. Anyway, if it’s all right with you, the colonel never mentioned Ingolf or the Provins message.”
“We don’t want to meet Ingolf’s mysterious end,” I said, trying to smile.
“As I said,- it’s all nonsense. But there are some things it’s better to keep out of.”
I promised I would go along with him on this, but I was nervous. After all, I was a student who participated in demonstrations. The police made me uneasy. We arrived at the hotel— not one of the best—in an outlying neighborhood. They sent us right up to what they called Colonel Ardenti’s apartment. Police on the stairs. They let us into number 27—two plus seven is nine, I thought. A bedroom, vestibule with a little table, closet-kitchen, bathroom with shower, no curtain. Through the half-open door I couldn’t see if there was a bidet, though in a place like this it was probably the only convenience the guests demanded. Drab furnishings, not many personal effects, but what there was, in great disorder. Someone had hastily gone through the closets and suitcases. Maybe the police; there were about a dozen of them, including plainclothesmen.
A fairly young man with fairly long hair came over to us. “I’m De Angelis. Dr. Belbo? Dr. Casaubon?”
“I’m not a doctor yet. Still working toward my degree.”
“Good for you. Keep at it. Without a degree you won’t be able to take the police exams, and you don’t know what you’re missing.” He seemed irritated. “Excuse me, but let’s get the preliminaries out of the way. This is the passport that belonged to the man who rented this room. He registered as Colonel Ar-denti. Recognize him?”
“That’s Ardenti,” Belbo said. “But can you tell us what’s going on here? From what you said on the phone, I didn’t quite understand if he’s dead or—”
“I’d be delighted if you could tell me that,” De Angelis said with a frown. “But all