Return to Umbria David Wagner (english novels for students TXT) 📖

Rick put the phone back up to his ear. “Done, Francine. But be sure to lock your doors well tonight, and keep your cell phone handy.” He was tempted to tell her to stay off the wine, but decided against it. Instead he said goodbye and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

He snapped his fingers. “I forgot to tell her she needs to come here for fingerpr—I mean to sign a statement.”

“Call her tomorrow and I’ll send a car and driver to bring them both here. I’ll use the corporal who they are so kindly returning to me.” LoGuercio became lost in thought which Rick interrupted.

“What’s your first hunch on the murder of Pazzi, Paolo?”

“Ah, yes, our second murder.” He ran his hand through his dark hair. “I was thinking that the American woman is more of a story for the press. But the killing of one of their own, even though he was despised by most journalists, will be considered important to cover. Press freedom, professional solidarity, and all that. But who killed him? The mayor was correct, Pazzi was not a beloved figure among our civic leaders, he even did an exposé on Boscoli himself last year. It was some murky payoff or kickback, without any real evidence but filled with innuendo. Classic Pazzi. So I will reserve any guesses about who could have done it and hope that the ballistics or the neighbors can lead us in the right direction.

“There’s a chance the two killings could be connected.”

LoGuercio had been lighting another cigarette. He stopped and eyed Rick warily. “I haven’t had time to formulate any theories in that regard, but it seems you have. Tell me.”

Rick tapped his two index fingers together. “Isn’t it obvious? Pazzi’s been trying to find out who killed the American, and the murderer, knowing the man’s reputation, either thought he was getting close or was afraid he would do so eventually. So he decided to get rid of him.”

LoGuercio raised his index fingers now, and pointed them at Rick. “If that’s a possible theory, then there is another one which is equally plausible.”

“Cioé?”

“Just this: the killer needed three shots, so he couldn’t be an expert marksman. It’s possible that he hit the wrong person.”

“He was aiming at me?”

“Well, you were looking into the murder, helping the police, and could be getting close.” LoGuercio let the idea sink in, then broke into a smile, his first of the day that Rick had seen. “No, Riccardo, I don’t think so. You were already on the ground and the guy kept shooting. He was after Pazzi, and as the mayor said, there are dozens of people who dreamed of doing him in. But your first theory could be the right one.”

He looked at the stacks of papers on his desk and then at Rick. “You are correct in not wanting to become a policeman, Riccardo. I hope you and Betta will be doing something interesting while I sift through these. You did come up here to see Orvieto, after all, and not from the back of a police car.”

“As a matter of fact we have decided to see the Pozzo San Patrizio.” He glanced at the clock on the wall of LoGuercio’s office. “We should be able to get there before it closes.”

“An excellent choice, a masterpiece of Renaissance engineering. There’s an aura about it that I’ve always found somewhat disconcerting, perhaps because of the story that gave it the name, but you’ll enjoy it.”

“Story?”

“Christ showed Patrick the way down to the gates of purgatory, so that the saint could descend with members of his flock who would see what awaited them if they didn’t walk the straight and narrow. Apparently the name St. Patrick’s well was given to any deep hole in the ground back then. And this one is quite deep.”

Chapter Twelve

The afternoon sun had dropped low enough in the west to cast shadows on the tree-lined path that led from the street to the Pozzo San Patrizio. Betta held her guidebook in one hand, its red ribbon marking the page she had read to Rick on the short bus ride. The history of the structure—if a hole in the ground could be called a structure—was fascinating, but its design even more so. Two winding staircases intertwined in a double helix, allowing men to descend with empty buckets by one set and return to the surface with full ones by another. No army encamped below would be able to cut off the city’s water supply, Orvieto could hold out almost indefinitely. The years of labor it took to cut through the hard tufo rock were worth it.

The view of the valley below drew them to the edge of the hill. The angle was slightly different from the one they’d seen at the end of the funicular ride bringing them up to the city. Todi, only twenty-five kilometers to the northeast, was hidden from view behind rolling hills, their green made darker by the fading light. Lights from farm houses to the north flickered on as shadow seeped into the low points in the terrain. They watched for a few minutes before turning back to the structure behind them.

“It looks like a silo sunk into the ground with only the top showing,” Rick observed.

“Or one of those cement bunkers from World War I that you can still find on the sides of the roads in the Veneto. There was one just outside town my brother loved to play in. I was always afraid to go inside.”

Rick took her hand. “You’re not afraid to go in this one, are you?”

“Of course not, I’m looking forward to it. And at this hour we may have it all to ourselves.”

They found themselves on the top of the stairwell beginning its spiral down to the cistern at the bottom. Rick ran his hand along the cold rock outer wall as he started down the steps. Dim lamps set in