‘Italian by birth, American by nationality,’ Sansevino answered, handing him his drink. ‘After the war I bought this place and settled down to producing wine. Would you care for another cognac, Farrell?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘And what part of America do you come from?’ Hacket asked him.
‘Pittsburgh.’
‘You don’t say. Well, isn’t that a coincidence! I’m from Pittsburgh myself. Do you know that little eating-house off Dravo Street — Morielli’s?’
‘Can’t say I do.’
‘Well, you go right over to Morielli’s when you’re next in Pittsburgh. Wonderful hamburgers. I thought all Italians knew Morielli. And that other place. What’s its name? Pugliani’s. Just inside the Triangle near Gulf Building. You remember Pugliani’s?’
‘Seltz?’
‘Er — yes, make it a long one, will you. Of course, Pugliani’s has changed hands now. They’ve put a dance floor in and—’
‘How deep was the ash when you came up to the villa, Mr. Hacket?’