The Art of Killing Well by Marco Malvaldi, Howard Curtis

father-in-law’s stale, overblown story, which rose every year like the dough for the panettone, would be put in the shade by the hunt for the beautiful markswoman, and the photograph (of which the inspector would demand a copy) showing the Junoesque poisoner getting ready to bring her mission to its conclusion would pass from hand to hand, while the inspector smiled knowingly, and his father-in-law—
    A gunshot interrupted the inspector’s mental Christmas, and he turned.
    From the top of a hill, Officer Bacci was waving his rifle and yelling.
    The inspector set off at a run.

    Coming within ten metres of the officer, he cried, “Did you get her?”
    By way of reply, Bacci approached the inspector and pointed to the plain below them, where a black-clad figure was running across a field of sunflowers. Behind, some twenty metres away, Ferretti was following it at a growing distance, given that Ferretti was about fifty years of age and weighed some hundred kilos and cross-country running was not exactly his speciality.
    â€œFerretti will catch her now.”
    The inspector cursed silently. Reaching Bacci, he snatched the rifle from his hands. “And what are you doing here?”
    â€œI’m keeping the situation under control.”
    The inspector raised his eyes to heaven, which he held responsible for landing him with someone like Bacci. “Listen to me carefully,you blockhead,” he said without even looking at him. “You and I are going to run after that woman. You don’t need your rifle, it would only weigh you down. If you stop even for a moment, I’ll stop, too. But after I stop I’ll take aim and shoot you. Got that?”

    In the castle, the few residents not directly involved in what had happened were waiting for news of the wounded man. The atmosphere was so laden with tension that not even Signorina Bonaiuti Ferro uttered a word. At last, preceded by the shuffling of feet, Dottore Bertini came in, followed by Cecilia. Given the thickness of the doctor’s glasses and the luxuriance of the vegetation on his face, it was impossible to tell how the wounded man was from his expression. Turning his myopic gaze around the room, he spotted the dowager baroness and turned to her.
    â€œBaronessa …”
    â€œI know I’m Baronessa, Dottore,” said old Speranza, the harshness of her voice just a little cracked with tension. “Please get to the point.”
    â€œThe baron has a number of wounds to his shoulder and neck, caused by the bullets. None of them have affected any vital organs. I extracted from the wounds various fragments of shirt, which all match the holes left in the garment by the bullets. There should be no more extraneous fabric left in the wound. I then proceeded—”
    â€œDottore, nobody here doubts your competence. Forgive us, but we do not want a description. What we want is to know how my son is.”
    â€œYour son is well. He will have to rest for a few days, and keep his arm still, but he is not in any mortal danger.”
    The room heaved a sigh of relief.

    It was not easy to catch Agatina. Nor was it especially glorious. In the end, Bacci, having been well motivated by the inspector, managed to throw himself on her just as she was about to jump down from a scar into a little grove of acacias. By the time the inspector arrived, the girl had already been handcuffed and Officer Ferretti had sat down on her, with obvious satisfaction. Without saying a word, the inspector clasped his hands together.
    It was over.

    The doctor’s announcement was followed by a moment of euphoria. The dowager baroness had given orders to the servants to bring tea with fruit tarts, and everyone had stood up and was now chatting. The arrival of the tea and the carbohydrates further contributed towards enlivening the room. Apart from anything else, the denizens of the castle had skipped lunch for two days in a row and it is a well-known