The doctor had put on his gloves. He walked past Bordelli and looked at him askance.
‘Keep away from me. If I were performing your post-mortem today, I would know, even before opening you up, that you’ve drunk a litre of grappa.’
‘It’s Dante’s fault.’
‘You can’t always blame the poets.’
Bordelli leaned his back against the wall and crossed his arms.
‘When can you give me some results on Signora Pedretti?’ he said.
‘I was just about to start on her.’
‘As for dinner, would Wednesday be all right?’
Diotivede confirmed with a nod.
‘Good, now I only need to find Botta. I hope he’s not in jail,’ said Bordelli.
‘You could always get him out by Wednesday.’
‘Don’t overestimate me.’
The doctor went up to him.
‘May I express a wish?’ he asked.
‘Go ahead.’
Diotivede lit up like a child.
‘I would like bean soup
‘In this heat?’
‘I haven’t eaten any for ages.’
‘All right, soup it is.’
Diotivede smiled broadly, then approached the slab on which Signora Pedretti lay, and delicately drew back the sheet.
‘If you don’t want to look, you have only to leave.’
‘Send me the results as soon as you can.’
‘I’ll ring you.’
When he reached the door, Bordelli turned round.
‘Diotivede, did you know that DDT is poisonous?’
‘I’m not surprised.’
The inspector waited to see the scalpel descend over the signora’s abdomen, and then left.
As he stepped out of his car in the courtyard of police headquarters, Bordelli thought again of his visit with Dante Pedretti and felt as if he had dreamt it all. He felt quite muddled, in fact. He must look pretty bad, he thought, since Mugnai stared at him for a long time and said nothing.
‘I’m fifty-three years old, Mugnai, and if I go a night without sleep, it will naturally show in my face,’ he said, a bit irritated.
‘I didn’t say anything, Inspector.’
‘Sorry, I’m just a bit tired.’ He walked down the corridor with Mugnai at his side.
‘Did you know that DDT is poisonous, Mugnai?’
‘I use
Bordelli massaged his chin, which was rough with stubble.
‘As soon as you see Piras, tell him to come to my office,’ he said.
‘Of course, sir.’
Bordelli entered his office and collapsed in his chair. The climate in there was tropical, and he felt a sharp pain burrowing through his head. The sweat on his skin had evaporated almost entirely, leaving it slimy. He lit what he defined as his first cigarette of the day and savoured it without haste. Since he was, in spite of everything, still quitting smoking, the ‘few’ he did smoke he smoked down to the filter. The last drag was disgusting. Crushing the butt in the ashtray, he searched his pocket for the little piece of paper with the phone number of the deceased’s nephews. He found it balled up and opened it like a sweet wrapper. Normally the inspector didn’t lend any weight to people’s judgement of other people, since they were often intolerant and unjust, the fruit of personal malice. But Maria’s doggedness and conviction gave him pause. He dialled the number, and a woman’s voice answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Good morning, signora, this is Inspector Bordelli. I’d like to speak with either nephew of Signora Pedretti- Strassen.’
The woman at the other end held her breath.
‘Has something happened?’ she asked anxiously. Bordelli heard a long exchange of whispers, and then someone abruptly turned down the music playing in the background.
‘I’m sorry, but I need to talk to one of Signora Pedretti’s nephews. Is that possible?’ he said. There was a moment of silence, then the woman summoned a clear, ringing tone of voice.
‘Of course. With whom would you like to speak? Giulio or Anselmo?’
‘It makes no difference.’
The woman called out loudly:
‘Anselmo!’ Then she said: ‘He’ll be right with you … Here he is.’
Through the receiver Bordelli heard a heavy step approach, some more whispering, then a nasal, masculine voice.
‘Hello, who is this?’
‘Inspector Bordelli. And you are Signor-’
‘Dr Morozzi. Has something happened?’
‘Dr Morozzi, I have some bad news for you.’
‘What is it?’
‘Your Aunt Rebecca passed away last night.’
Anselmo assumed a serious tone.
‘Oh God, poor Auntie. I’m so sorry …’
‘My condolences.’
‘Thank you, Inspector.’
‘I would like to have a little chat with you and your brother.’
Bordelli heard a sigh at the other end.
‘About what?’ said Anselmo.
‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Perhaps? Can’t you tell me anything now?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Anselmo became compliant.
‘All right, Inspector. Where should we meet you?’
‘At central police headquarters. Let’s say the day after tomorrow, at noon.’
‘As you wish.’
Bordelli played the suspicious policeman.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me how your aunt died?’
‘She was sick, Inspector. I’m not surprised she suddenly died.’
‘I understand. Good day, Dr Morozzi.’
The phone call had been rather unpleasant. He didn’t like the sound of Anselmo’s voice or his shortness of breath, which crackled in the receiver. He tried to imagine the man, then let it drop. It was too hot.
‘Hello, Piras,’ said Bordelli, rubbing his bloodshot eyes with his fingers. ‘I want to take you to see a villa.’
‘Right now?’
‘Yes. Bring along a book, a bottle of water, a glass, and a phial that looks like a medicine bottle. I’ll wait for you in the courtyard.’
They set out in the Beetle. It was noon. The streets were nearly deserted because of the intense sun. After a short distance, they turned on to Via delle Forbici. The German vehicle’s engine thundered between the walls, as in the towns emptied by warfare during the German retreat.
