For All the Gold in the World Read Online Free PDF Page A

might really love her, but when Sergio turned eight she took a housekeeping job so she could get out of this town. The Oddo family was fond of her. They treated her respectfully and let her believe she was the governess while she was actually nothing more than a simple housecleaner who also did the cooking.”
    â€œShe was a really good cook, you know?” he added after a short pause, lost in some memory. “Her mother taught her.”
    Luigina’s life could be summarized in just a few words, many of them not especially flattering. Only as a cook was she really up to snuff. And yet, in that whole mess, she was the only one who deserved justice and reparations. I’d finally realized who our client could be.
    â€œDo you think it might be possible for us to meet Sergio?” I asked.
    â€œHe never talks about what happened to his mother.”
    â€œJust for the report,” the fat man lied. “Lawyers are always such sticklers.”
    Cantarutti shrugged. “At this time of day, he’s at the parish church, kicking the ball around the soccer field.”
    Â 
    The grass on the field grew in isolated clumps. The rest was bare dirt. The kids kicked up clouds of dust as thick as talcum powder. They were playing a game of pickup soccer, shouting and laughing. It was a pleasure to watch them. Our presence didn’t pass unobserved. A man in his early thirties with a stack of photocopies under his arm and a gold cross around his neck strode toward us briskly.
    â€œWe’d like to talk to Sergio Cantarutti,” said Max.
    â€œWe have his uncle’s permission,” I added, to stave off the usual questions.
    The man gestured to a fair-haired boy to come over. “These gentlemen are here to speak with you,” he explained, before heading off.
    According to the only photo of her we had been able to find on the Internet, the boy took after his mother. Forehead, nose, the shape of his lips. But his eyes were dark. He wasn’t tall, but he had broad shoulders. He seemed ill at ease.
    â€œCan we buy you an ice-cream cone?” asked Max, pointing to the parish church café.
    â€œI just want to go back to my game.”
    â€œAll we need is five minutes of your time,” I explained.
    â€œWhat for?” he asked, suddenly curious.
    â€œWe’re private investigators,” I replied. “Like the ones in the movies. We want to find out who hurt your mother, but in order to be able to investigate, we need a client who’ll give us a retainer, which means money to hire us. As the next of kin, that would have to be you.”
    Now he was frightened, uncomfortable. “Uncle Arnaldo says that we have to resign ourselves, that no one will ever figure out the truth.”
    â€œWe’re the best investigators on the market, and we’re cheap, too,” I retorted, holding out my hand. “Just hand over your spare change, and we can start working for you.”
    With clear misgivings, he stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out twenty cents, and laid the coins on my palm.
    Both Max and I solemnly shook his hand and a few seconds later he was already running to rejoin his friends.
    As soon as we walked out the gate, Max touched my arm. “Are we sure we know what we’re doing?”
    â€œNo,” I replied in all sincerity. I showed him the coins. “But we do have certain responsibilities toward our client.”
    â€œSeriously though, Marco,” he said; he’d stopped short and was refusing to go on. “Why are you dragging us into this fucked-up mess? The widow Oddo told us loud and clear she wants no part of this and that little boy may be sad as all hell, but he can hardly be considered a client.”
    â€œMaybe I just can’t stand the idea of the truth staying buried,” I snapped back, raising my voice, “or the idea that there’s just one victim too many, with one child too many, and that they’re liable