The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [28]
After making a leisurely survey of the group seated on the right-hand benches, he turned his head to the left, and Jean’s glance met his wide-set dark eyes. A little shock ran through her. The young Octavian, planning his rise to imperial power, might have had eyes like those—cool, appraising, frighteningly intelligent.
The eyes moved over them, one by one.
“I am di Cavallo. A humble agente of the Questura.”
Andy, who had been slumped wearily against the wall, sat up with a start.
“Aren’t you Lieutenant di Cavallo?”
“That is my official title. I do not recall having had the honor of your acquaintance….”
Andy smiled faintly. There was a curious gleam in his eyes as he measured the other man.
“You have a certain reputation, Lieutenant.” He turned to the others. “We’re honored, ladies and gentlemen. Normally a simple agente, or maybe a noncom, is in charge of criminal investigations. I didn’t expect an officer of the lieutenant’s distinction.”
Di Cavallo was unmoved by the flattery.
“Your knowledge of our governmental procedures is admirable, young man. Now, if you have finished displaying that knowledge, perhaps I may proceed? Thank you….” He turned to Jacqueline, clearly approving her poised look and respectable appearance. “I am told, signora, by Father Finnegan, that you appear to be acquainted with the dead man, and also with several of these witnesses. Can you tell me what happened?”
In a few sentences Jacqueline identified Albert and explained his relationship to the other members of the group, whom she introduced. When she had finished her brief account the lieutenant nodded.
“The papers in the wallet of the dead man identify him as you have said. You, you, you two—” Unerringly he selected the casual tourists. “You have never met this Albert Gébara? Then you may leave. Please give your names and your local addresses to the police officer in the vestibule. Thank you.”
When the outsiders were gone there was a noticeable change in the atmosphere. Di Cavallo sat down in one of the vacated places and reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. Taking out a gold cigarette case which looked too flat to hold anything thicker than a toothpick, he offered it to the group at large before taking one himself. Jean felt fairly certain that detecting was not di Cavallo’s sole source of income. Surely, if he were a dishonest cop, he wouldn’t display his opulence so openly. He must come from a wealthy family.
“Lieutenant,” Ted began, “are you not being rather casual about those others? Just because they say they do not know the murdered man—”
“Murdered?” Di Cavallo raised his eyes from the rip of his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke. “Why do you think this is a case of murder?”
The silence vibrated. Finally José said drily,
“The man’s throat was cut, Lieutenant. That could hardly be an accident.”
The lieutenant’s eyes settled on the priest, and met their match. For a moment the two pairs of dark eyes locked. Then di Cavallo grinned.
“Padre Ximenez? I would have recognized the Jesuit even without the cassock. You are quite right, Father. It is not often that a man slips so badly while shaving, and a man does not shave without water, soap, and a mirror, does he? No, we can certainly dismiss the idea of accident. But there is another category of violent death.”
“Suicide!” Dana was never ingenuous; the exclamation was designed to catch the lieutenant’s eye. It succeeded. The eye lingered.
“That is correct, signorina. What do you know of this matter?”
Dana shrugged prettily.
“Fortunately, I wasn’t the one to find the body.”
“Fortunately indeed. It was not a nice sight.”
“That wasn’t what I meant,” said Dana. Her eyes flickered. “In England…But you said this wasn’t a case of murder.”
“I have not yet said what it is a case of,” said di Cavallo, handling the complicated English sentence with complete aplomb. “In England, you were about to say…”
“Oh, well.” Dana shrugged again, bringing all kinds of