And Then You Die Read Online Free Page B

its real gift to him was the overwhelming sense of peace and contentment it radiated. He didn’t know who had lived there, but he would have testified under oath to their moral character and general probity.
    That was his last thought until he woke to find the room significantly darker and the clock showing twenty minutes past seven. It took him another moment to remember his dinner date with Gemma, for which he still had not made a booking. He had boastfully said that he could get them into Augusto’s, counting on using Girolamo Rutelli’s name to do the trick, but he hadn’t counted on leaving it this late.
    In the event this proved to be no problem. He had only justdialled the number of the restaurant when the phone was answered by an obsequious voice saying, ‘Augusto’s. Good evening, Dottor Rutelli.’
    Zen was speechless for a moment. Then he said, ‘How did you know it was me?’
    ‘We have Caller Identification installed, dottore . I explained it to you last time, don’t you remember? That way we can filter out the riff-raff and answer only the calls that matter. What can we do for you?’
    ‘I’d like a table for two this evening. About eight, if that’s possible .’
    ‘ Ma certo, dottore. Come no? Alle otto. Benissimo. Al piacere di rivederla .’
    ‘I’ll be dining with a friend named Pier Giorgio Butani,’ Zen went on. ‘If I’m a little late, please look after him.’
    He took a shower and then carefully picked out some suitable clothing in the casually formal mode which was the evening norm in Versilia. Realizing that this was a tricky balance to bring off successfully, Zen had taken the bus to Viareggio shortly after his arrival and put himself in the hands of one of the men’s outfitters there. As always, his aim was to remain invisible. ‘Get lost in the crowd,’ the young man from the Farnesina had told him. ‘Keep your head down, melt into the background, don’t draw attention to yourself. We have decided against providing you with a resident bodyguard for that very reason, although there will be people keeping an eye on you. But Versilia’s full of tourists at this time of year, and as long as you’re reasonably cautious there’s no earthly reason why anyone should give you a second thought. Just remember who you’re supposed to be, and try to look the part.’ This last was a reference to one Pier Giorgio Butani, a distant cousin of Girolamo Rutelli. Butani really existed, just in case anyone checked, but he had moved with his parents to Argentina in the mid-Fifties, only rarely visited Italy and had never been to Versilia.
    Zen left the house at a quarter to eight, which gave him just enough time to reach the restaurant in time by cutting across the park at the end of the street. The sun was already down behind the umbrella pines, the air was fresh but still pleasantly warm. The birds that flocked in the gardens all around were chirpingand chattering loudly, but there was no other sound. Zen passed under the gateway to the original estate, past the ruins of the porter’s lodge, and over a hump bridge across one of the narrow canals constructed a century or more earlier to drain the malarial swamps.
    In the wood, the shadows were gathering swiftly. The birds here were larger and louder, rarely showing themselves except to swoop in packs across the track in front. To either side, the undergrowth was dense and impenetrable, except to the various small animals which could be heard scuttling away at the sound or smell of this intruder.
    It was only when he turned left on to the track leading back towards the shoreline that Zen noticed the other man. He was about thirty metres back, walking calmly along. By now it was almost dark beneath the tall pines. Zen could just make out that the man seemed to be wearing jeans and a short jacket of some kind, and was glancing about him to either side as though admiring the beauties of nature.
    Zen ignored the warning signal which