‘Thank you.’
Dante took his time, as if trying to find the right words.
‘Let’s see if you can follow. One night I lit the fire under the coil tube. I’ve always had a passion for mixing substances together; it’s like glimpsing the secrets of the universe. I can only imagine what fun God must have had playing around with matter for those seven days …’ Dante stopped short, his face turning serious. He started searching his pockets, then pulled out a folded piece of paper and a pen and began scribbling something.
‘Sorry, but I have to make a note of something, otherwise I’ll forget it.’
‘By all means.’
Dante continued writing, muttering to himself all the while. When he had finished, he reread everything, shook his head, rolled the paper into a ball, and threw it away.
‘A bad idea, needless to say.’ He snuffed out the end of his cigar in a small dish, lit another and, clenching it between his teeth, resumed talking.
‘So, on that famous evening, I needed a certain kind of nitrate, just a spoonful. And I went over to the shelf to get the bottle. As I was about to pour it into the receptacle, I stopped. I realised the liquid had no smell whatsoever, whereas the nitrate should have stunk. We chemists have a very keen sense of smell. It comes from our work, sniffing everything we get our hands on. Anyway, in the place of harmless nitrate I was about to pour some nitroglycerine. Do you know what would have happened? Boom! They would have found only a pile of ash,’ he said, his head enveloped in cigar smoke.
‘A moment of distraction?’
‘The label on the bottle had the name of the very nitrate I was looking for. It’s inexplicable. I’m a precise person, in my way. You see this room? At any moment, I know where to find whatever I am looking for, even the tiniest thing. I still wonder how that could have happened.’
Bordelli looked at the vast, chaotic room, the workbench submerged under everything imaginable, and thought he wouldn’t have bet a single lira on Dante’s precision.
The inventor’s expression had changed. As he smoked, he kept spitting out big wads of tobacco.
‘Do you have the keys to your sister’s villa?’ Bordelli asked him.
‘I must have them somewhere. Is it important?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
Dante went over to the workbench and started rummaging through his ingenious debris. He moved aside stills and alembics and strange contraptions full of wheels.
‘I thought I put them there …’ He picked up bundles of papers and thick tomes and looked underneath them. In the end he gave up, put his hands in his pockets, and broke out in a smile.
‘Here they are. I had them right here all along,’ he said, pulling them out of his pocket and making them ring like a bell. The inspector remembered what Maria had said and decided not to give in just yet.
‘Are you sure those are the right ones?’ he asked.
Dante took a good look at the keys.
‘You mean … they’re for my house? Ah, I thought I had lost them …’ he said.
‘You can take your time looking for your sister’s keys, but if you find them, let me know.’
‘Yes, these must be mine. I’ll put them right here so I won’t lose them again.’ He hung them from a nail and then stared at them a long time, as if to commit the event to memory.
‘And what can you tell me about your two nephews, Dante?’
‘Those two fools? They’re in for a big surprise when they read Rebecca’s will.’ He broke into wild laughter.
‘What sort of surprise?’
‘My sister left everything to the Sisters of Monte Frassineto. Including the paintings, the embroidered napkins and the bedbugs. Brilliant, don’t you think? I can’t wait to go to the solicitor’s office and enjoy the show.’ He couldn’t stop laughing.
‘Are you sure your nephews don’t suspect anything?’
Dante laughed again with satisfaction.
‘No, they don’t know a thing. Rebecca was very careful not to let on. She told only me.’ He started laughing again, to the point of coughing, then went up to Bordelli, looming over him with all his bulk.
‘It’s the best trick in the world, because the person who plays it on you is gone, so you can’t take revenge.’
‘And you, Signor Pedretti, aren’t you inheriting anything?’
The inventor made a sweeping gesture of the hand.
‘Perhaps a few small gifts and souvenirs. But Rebecca knew I didn’t want anything. I drew up my own will some time ago, and do you know to whom I shall leave my house, my laboratory and all my inventions?’
‘The Sisters of Monte Frassineto?’
‘To the Brotherhood of Orphans of Santa Veronica. I’ve already arranged everything. This house will become a school for disadvantaged children. It will be called the Collegio Dante Pedretti … But please don’t misunderstand me, it’s not for vanity’s sake, but only to leave a mark. A silly consolation, but a human one.’
‘Very human.’
‘Do you have any children, Inspector?’
‘No.’
‘Do you regret it?’
‘I think about it sometimes. Now I wish I had a twenty-year-old son; but I was never lucky enough to find his mother.’
‘Right,’ said Dante, who then reimmersed himself in his thoughts, wandering about the room and breathing noisily. He stopped in a distant corner.
‘Do you believe in God, Inspector? Do you have the gift of faith?’
Bordelli stretched his legs, seeking relief.
‘Those are difficult questions, and I confess I’m very tired.’
Dante wasn’t the least bit tired. He paced slowly, stepping over the obstacles piled up more or less everywhere on the floor.
‘What do you think? Is my sister watching us? Or has she vanished completely and for ever?’
‘I don’t feel like thinking about it right now.’
The inventor gripped the edges of his smock.
‘I have always been curious about this question of faith. Personally, I think that those who have faith are fortunate, and those who don’t are wretched.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You have an odd way of conversing, my dear Inspector. I get the feeling you have a lot to say but for some reason you are careful not to say it. Am I wrong?’
‘Maybe it’s hard for me to say anything definitive.’
‘Have you ever heard of Nicole d’Autrecourt?’
The conversation went on for a long time, and they spoke of many things. A bottle of grappa was brought out. In the heat, they began to sweat and unbutton their collars. The smoke of cigars and cigarettes stagnated in the air.
At ten o’clock that same morning, the inspector went to Careggi Hospital and parked his Beetle in front of the Office of Forensic Medicine. Entering Diotivede’s laboratory, he found the doctor fresh as a rose.
‘I see you haven’t slept,’ the doctor said.
‘Have you?’
‘I had a cup of coffee at home and came straight here.’
‘You know what I think, Diotivede? I think you have a twin who takes your place when the going gets rough. At this very moment you are at home, sleeping, and I am speaking to your twin brother, who has slept twelve hours straight.’
Diotivede, who was preparing the instruments for the postmortem on Signora Pedretti-Strassen, twisted his mouth.
‘Twins, eh? And both pathologists?’
‘It would be magnificent.’
