through, they’d had to widen the streets by chiselling away the stones of the houses.
Anselmo was utterly unlike how Bordelli had imagined him: chubby, with beady, suffering eyes, a tuft of greasy hair atop his head. He had a troubled air about him and an oily face, and looked about thirty years old or a little less. He sat on the chair as if he was forever about to get up. He folded his sweaty hands, then wiped them on his trousers. He kept sticking his forefinger inside his shirt collar, as if he needed air. He genuinely seemed the anxious type, the kind who flush the toilet before they’ve finished pissing. One felt nervous just looking at him. Yet his voice was strangely calm and even. He was well dressed and wore a very serious-looking tie.
His brother Giulio was younger, also fat, also a ‘doctor’. The same flabby face as Anselmo, the same pain- filled eyes, but a lot more hair and a more colourful tie.
The heat had reached dangerous levels. Anselmo was having difficulty breathing.
‘Well, here we are, Inspector. Why did you want to see us?’ he said with a cold smile. Bordelli looked over at Piras, seated at the typewriter across the room.
‘Just a few questions,’ he said.
‘Very well.’
Bordelli sighed wearily and looked Anselmo straight in the eye.
‘Signor Morozzi, where were you on Thursday evening between eight and ten o’clock?’
The sweat was dripping from Anselmo’s chin. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.
‘In what sense, Inspector?… I mean, why are you asking me this?’
‘You’re not the only one I’m asking. I also want an answer from your brother.’ Giulio shuffled his feet on the floor.
‘Me? On Thursday?’ he said in a falsetto. Anselmo cut him off.
‘We were at the beach,’ he said.
‘Where, exactly?’
‘Cinquale.’
‘Did you stay in or go out?’
‘We ate out, then went dancing late into the night, at a club on the waterfront.’
Giulio confirmed the story with a nod. Anselmo rested one hand on the edge of the desk, leaving a wet imprint behind. He was panting softly.
‘But, if I may ask, what has this to do with the matter of …’ He didn’t finish his sentence, but just stared at the inspector, face shiny with sweat. Bordelli decided not to beat about the bush and to get straight to the point. He turned to Giulio, who was also sweating profusely.
‘Your aunt was very wealthy, as you know. In cases such as these, it’s always best to check whether any of the heirs tried to force the hand of fate.’
‘The hand of fate?’ said Giulio, eyes narrowing. He seemed weaker than his brother. Of the two, he was clearly the one who followed; he looked at Anselmo with admiration, under the sway of a charisma that he alone could see. Bordelli observed him carefully.
‘You’re direct heirs, aren’t you?’ he said.
The two brothers exchanged a quick glance. They moved about in their chairs, as if stalling. Giulio turned round to look at the inscrutable Piras, for only a second. Anselmo wiped his face again.
‘There’s also our uncle, Zia Rebecca’s brother,’ he said.
‘Well, a good part would go to you. At least half, I believe.’
Giulio looked shocked.
‘That’s certainly not our fault,’ he said.
‘No, but it usually constitutes a good motive,’ said Bordelli.
Anselmo gave his brother a dirty look, then tried to set things right with a smile.
‘But our auntie died of asthma, didn’t she?’
Bordelli started drumming his fingers on the desk.
‘Are you ready to start writing, Piras?’
‘Ready.’
The inspector looked at one then the other brother — especially Giulio, who seemed more sensitive to psychological pressure.
‘Good. Tell me the names of the restaurant and the nightclub where you went to make merry, and the exact times of arrival and departure at both places.’
Piras’s typewriter suddenly started clacking. Anselmo gulped and began to tremble slightly. He seemed deeply offended.
‘What is the meaning of this? Why all these questions? Are we suspects? And what of? Our aunt died of asthma, didn’t she?’
‘It’s not clear yet. I’m waiting for some test results. If it turns out your aunt died of natural causes, so much the better for everyone. But for now there are many doubts.’
‘Doubts? What kind of doubts?’
‘Dr Morozzi, I didn’t say you killed her. I only meant that it may not have been an accident.’
‘Then why all these questions?’
‘Yes, why?’ said Giulio, emboldened by his brother. Bordelli shrugged.
‘You shouldn’t worry too much about it. It’s just a formality, a procedure we have to go through. I’m sorry.’
The typewriter had fallen silent. Giulio raised a finger to ask whether he could speak, as if at school.
‘Should we call our lawyer?’ he asked. The inspector threw his hands up.
‘Do whatever you like, I don’t mind. But I repeat, there’s nothing to worry about. If this was a real interrogation, I wouldn’t be questioning the two of you together, now, would I?’
Giulio looked at his brother, as if asking him to decide. Anselmo shrugged.
‘Well, if it’s only a formality …’ he said.
Bordelli leaned lazily forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk.
‘So, in the meantime, what do you say we have a beer?’
The two brothers nodded, then exchanged a look of surprise. The inspector glanced over at Piras.
‘Will you have one too?’
‘It’s fine with me.’
Bordelli dialled an internal extension.
‘Mugnai, could you go to the bar on the corner and pick up four beers? Just put it on our account and tell ’em I’ll drop by later.’
Giulio pulled out a rolled-up handkerchief and started wiping his face. By this point Anselmo had two fingers planted firmly inside his collar, as if he were afraid of being strangled by his tie. They all sat in silence, as if they couldn’t talk before the beers arrived. Bordelli leaned back in his chair and stared at the Morozzi brothers’ ties, spellbound. He had always thought a tie was a very strange thing, a tongue of fabric that hangs from the neck … and when you reach out to grab the salt, it ends up in your soup. It had never made sense to him. He must have two or three of his own in a wardrobe somewhere, old gifts from women who hadn’t really understood him and wanted him to be different from what he was. As he began to drift off into old memories, Mugnai knocked at the door.
‘Your beer, Inspector.’
‘You’re as quick as lightning.’
Mugnai glanced in passing at the sweat-soaked brothers and walked out, waddling like a seal. Bordelli reached into a drawer and pulled out some paper cups, flipped off the bottle caps with his house keys and handed the brothers their beers. Piras got up to get his and immediately returned to the typewriter. All four took long, cool draughts. Giulio even shut his eyes in relief.
‘All right, then, tell me the names of the restaurant and the nightclub,’ said Bordelli.
‘The restaurant is called Il Coccodrillo,’ said Anselmo. ‘We reserved a table. You can check, if you like.’
‘I will, don’t you worry about that.’
Anselmo looked offended. He was about to say something when Giulio impulsively cut in.
‘And then we went dancing at the Mecca,’ he said.
Bordelli let his eyelids droop, with the look of someone who has a long afternoon ahead of him and is in no
