Death in the Dolomites by David Wagner (people reading books TXT) 📗

you know, Umberto Melograno has too. There may be others, but I suspect we are the only two serious potential buyers. It will be a perfect location for a new hotel. Access to the lifts, beautiful views—it has everything. It would be a shame to build anything else there.” The voice of the businessman had returned.

“But you had not been in contact with the murdered man regarding financing?”

“O dio, no, Inspector. I have my own funding sources.”

Rick thought for a moment that the man would explain further, but he did not. “Signor Muller, when was the last time you visited the property?”

He rubbed his beard in thought for several seconds. “It’s been a while. Last year in the fall. It hadn’t snowed yet, so it must have been around October. I went there with an architect.”

Luca looked up from his pad. “An architect? Isn’t that somewhat premature?”

“I am confident the sale will go through, Inspector. We have to be ready to start construction immediately when the spring thaw arrives.”

“Had you met the American, Signor Taylor?”

Muller tugged at his goatee, which didn’t have much to tug. “Last summer, or perhaps it was the summer before, he stayed in the hotel. I met him briefly. I try to greet all our guests at some point during their stay. He told me he was looking to rent something, which I understand he did.”

“Was he alone?” It was Rick who asked the question.

“I’m quite sure he was, but I can’t remember every one of our guests.”

“One more thing. I trust you were in Campiglio on Saturday?”

“Certainly, I’m almost always here during the season, except when I’m at another hotel I own in Pinzolo, a few kilometers down the valley. I check in with the manager there frequently.”

“You were here on Saturday?”

Muller’s questioning look turned to a weak smile. “Ah. I see what you’re getting at. I was here all that day, yes. I don’t remember my exact movements hour to hour, of course. I move around the hotel seeing to things. It’s the way a manager must be, always on the move. I doubt if my staff can be more exact than I on where I was at any given moment.”

Luca flipped a few pages back in his notebook. “You have a Gaetano Spadacini working here at the hotel?”

Muller did not seem surprised by the question. “Yes, he’s my electrician, and he does other maintenance work. In a hotel this size there is always something going wrong and it usually needs to be fixed immediately.”

“He also works on your wife’s election campaign.”

“That’s correct, Inspector. He is her liaison with the unions, since he’s active in the electricians’ confederation. The labor vote is important in this town.”

“We’d like to speak with him. Is he here today?”

“I believe so.” Muller picked up the phone on his desk and punched some buttons. “Gaetano, where are you?…I’m sending someone up to see you.” He hung up and leaned forward in the chair. “He’s working in room 304.”

Luca got to his feet. “You didn’t ask me why we want to speak to the man.”

“I think I know,” answered Muller as he slid off his chair. “And I’m sure Gaetano is not the man you are looking for.”

“Your wife told us that you didn’t hear anything the night of the attack on Pittini. You were home? It happened at 11:35.”

“Mitzi was asleep when I got home at a little after ten. I watched the news. I must have been asleep, too, by that time. To answer your question, no, I heard nothing.”

Rick noticed an especially strong grip as he shook Muller’s hand. He was short, but strong. As their host walked his two visitors to the door of the office, Rick asked, “Signor Muller, do you drive your MB around Campiglio? I imagine it’s good in the snow.”

Muller chuckled. “Certainly not. It stays inside under a cover in the winter. I only take it out once the weather is warm, and not too often then.”

“So how do you get around?”

“I remain loyal to the Jeep brand, Signor Montoya. I drive a Grand Cherokee.”

***

Luca pressed the third-floor button and the elevator lurched slowly upward. “I trust, Riccardo, that extracting information about Signor Muller’s vehicles was done on purpose?”

“Taylor’s body didn’t walk from the field to the gondola by itself.”

“And the motive is that if Melograno’s financing source is eliminated, Muller could waltz in to make the purchase, without having a bidding war.”

“It makes sense.”

They left the elevator and walked down the narrow hallway to room 304. The door was open.

Gaetano Spadacini sat between the two beds, studying a snarl of wires poking from a hole in the wall. The small table which held two reading lamps had been pushed to the opposite side of the room to make space for his chair. He pulled a pair of pliers from a leather satchel, elegant enough to hold a physician’s tools, and glanced at Rick and Luca.

“They shouldn’t have put these tapparelle on a switch. The manual kind would have been just as easy for people to use, and they wouldn’t break as often.” He touched two wires together and the shutters over the window began to grind down, stopping only when the wires were separated. “I don’t know how many of these I’ve had to fix.” He swiveled in the chair, which had come from the small desk near the window, and faced his visitors.

Spadacini’s starched shirt was embroidered with the logo of the hotel and matched his blue pants. He looked to be in good shape, but his most striking feature was his hair. Almost Tarzan-like in length, it was cut in a style which was virtually a caricature of the Italian romeo. He had looks to go with it, and a tan that sharpened his features even more. He either spent his days off on the slopes, Rick decided, or used a sunlamp. He was also, clearly, well aware of his good looks.

Spadacini tapped the phone on his belt. “Signor