The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [29]
Outrage overcame Jean’s exhaustion, and she sat upright, glaring.
“Of all the—”
Her voice clashed with, and was overruled by, di Cavallo’s voice.
“As I said, it does not seem to be a case of murder.” He shrugged; the exquisite gesture made Dana’s shrug seem crude. “I am violating regulations by saying this much; we have not yet completed our investigations. But this is an unusual case. We like to extend courtesy to our foreign visitors; we realize that our system of law is alien to the Anglo-Saxon, and that includes, I believe, most of you. So I will tell you, in confidence, that we have found the weapon under the body of the dead man. It is a common sort of knife, a kitchen knife, which may be purchased in any store here. And the nature of the wound bears out the assumption of suicide. It only remains, then, to find a reason why this unfortunate young man may have wished to end his life.”
“He was crazy,” Mike said.
All eyes focused on him where he sat huddled in a corner. His knees were drawn up and his elbows rested on his knees; the pose was almost the classic embryonic position of withdrawal. Remembering his confession, Jean felt sorry for him—until she remembered where he and Dana had been found.
“He really was crazy,” Michael repeated. “Everybody knows how he’s been acting lately.”
“Mike is right,” Andy said. “Look, Lieutenant, it isn’t as if the poor devil was a good friend of ours. We didn’t know anything about his private life. He more or less butted into our group—I mean, he invited himself—”
“I know the English idiom,” di Cavallo said stiffly.
“What? Oh…sure. What I was going to say was, even a casual acquaintance could tell he was mentally disturbed. And there was a change for the worse in the last few days. Wasn’t there?”
His appeal to the group produced a murmur of agreement.
“Andy is correct,” José said. “Albert was always peculiar, and lately he had become even more peculiar. You may not consider us good judges of normal behavior, Lieutenant; but perhaps you will accept Mrs. Kirby’s opinion.”
“Ah.” Di Cavallo settled back, crossing his legs. “Mrs. Kirby, yes. Signora, you are an official of the Institute of Art and Archaeology?”
“No, I’m only a visiting librarian—a friend of Frau Hilman, who is librarian at the Institute. I’m not an expert on psychiatry, either, but I agree with my friends here that Albert was decidedly odd.”
Clearly di Cavallo approved of Jacqueline; his eagle eye softened whenever he looked at her. He nodded agreeably.
“In what specific way was he odd, signora?”
“Lieutenant,” Ann said softly. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Jean—she’s the one who found him—it was a terrible experience for her, and she doesn’t look at all well. Can’t we take her home?”
For the second time that day Jean felt the full focus of di Cavallo’s unnerving stare. She knew she must look as pale and pathetic as she felt, and the lieutenant’s expression was properly sympathetic. But it didn’t deceive Jean for a moment. Neither her youthful pathos nor Dana’s sultry looks would have the slightest effect on this man.
“But of course,” di Cavallo said. “If the young lady will first tell me—”
Ann got to her feet.
“She’s in no condition to tell you anything. You know where to find us, we aren’t going anywhere. Can’t you question her later?”
“But there isn’t anything to tell,” Jean said. “I just walked into the room and there he was. I went to him, and knelt down; I thought perhaps I could help him. I didn’t see the—the wound, then, not until he raised his head—”
Di Cavallo sucked his breath in sharply through his teeth.
“You are telling me, signorina, that the man was not dead when you found him?”
The suave manner was gone; voice and face were sharp with newly aroused suspicion. Jean realized that the others were staring at her with the same startled incredulity.
“He was dying, but not…” Jean turned to Jacqueline. “You saw him…. No, you didn’t come till after…. But he was alive!