The Last Enemy by Grace Brophy

body was discovered. But the real irritant was that one of his own officers was relaxing with Russo’s lazy bastard!
    Elena looked uncomfortable when the commissario entered the kitchen. She put her cup down and jumped up, a slight flush rising on her checks. The two forensic technicians also stood, but Staccioli, an older man of high complexion and inordinate bulk, remained quite at ease. He nodded to Cenni but made no effort to acknowledge that a senior officer had entered the room.
    The commissario was the first to break the silence:
    “Inspector Staccioli, I understand from Dottor Russo that you were sent here to secure the house and the murder victim’s living quarters. I would like you to show me her rooms, but first may I have the key?” he said, extending his hand, palm upward.
    The confused look on Staccioli’s face confirmed what Cenni had already guessed, that he didn’t have the key, had probably not asked for it, and in all likelihood had not even visited Minelli’s rooms since entering the house. The count intervened before Staccioli could respond.
    “There are only two keys to my niece’s rooms. One she had. I assume that she carried it on her. The second is with the other household keys in the library, which also serves as my office. One of the conditions of my insurance policy is that I keep the library locked when I’m not using it. It contains some very valuable manuscripts; three are inconabula . The library is also equipped with a highly sophisticated alarm system,” he added self-importantly. He paused for a moment and then continued, anticipating Cenni’s next question. “The key is still there.”
    “Grazie a Lei,” Cenni responded, his tone warmer than it had been in the sitting room. “I would like to talk to you further about your household arrangements. But before that, I wonder if you’d give me a few minutes alone with my staff. I need to review some aspects of the investigation with them. After that, I would like Inspector Ottaviani and our lab technicians to visit your niece’s rooms, let’s say in five minutes.”
    As soon as the count had exited the kitchen, closing the large oak door that separated it from the hall, Cenni upbraided Staccioli, his controlled anger evident to both Elena and Piero, but apparently not to Staccioli, who not only remained seated but also began immediately to make excuses.
    Cenni interrupted him after the second excuse, which, although rambling, had something to do with counts being different from regular people.
    “Inspector, you were sent here to secure the rooms of the murder victim, not to enjoy coffee and biscotti at the expense of Signor Casati. And please, stand when I address you!”
    Staccioli shuffled slowly to his feet and brushed the crumbs from the front of his jacket with studied nonchalance. Cenni observed this dissension in the ranks with mild amusement. Due for his pension soon . . . knows he’d have to murder a senior officer, at the very least a vice questore, before he’d lose it. Still, for the sake of the children, . . . he thought, looking at Elena.
    He continued, “Don’t bank on that pension quite yet, Staccioli! There are ways and ways, and I know them all! When you work on one of my cases, you follow the book, to the letter.” He surveyed the three remaining officers who, together, had inched sway from Staccioli. “I shouldn’t have to remind any of you that this is a murder investigation for which there are clearly established procedures, none of which you appear to have followed. It doesn’t matter to the police if the victim is the niece of a count or a day laborer, the procedures are the same. Perhaps you should all review the Act of 1947,” he added, ending his lecture with a conciliatory smile.
    Piero decided it was a very mild lecture, indeed. He’s given me worse for running a stop sign, he thought, although he had enjoyed that last bit about the Act of 1947. Maybe now Elena will lay off lecturing the