‘You must spend your holidays in different places.’
‘And Botta … knows how to cook?’
‘No, he doesn’t know how to cook, he’s a born cook. It’s different.’
‘Well, well.’
‘You remember my address?’
‘Of course, Inspector, I’ve got it printed up here,’ he said, pointing a finger to his forehead. Bordelli thought a poor bloke like Canapini deserved a tombstone with a carved inscription at the very least. He belonged to a generation of thieves who put honour above money, a species that was slowly but inexorably dying out.
They descended the stairs together. Out on the blazing pavement, Bordelli had an idea.
‘Listen, Cana, I’m supposed to come here every day to water the flowers, but I’m terribly busy.’
Canapini understood at once. His lips curled as if to smile, but his face became sadder than ever.
‘I’ll take care of it, Inspector, don’t you worry, I can do it.’
‘Thanks, that takes a load off my mind. Here are the keys.’
As he held them out to him, Canapini raised his hands.
‘I can’t take them, Inspector. I’m afraid I’d lose them.’
‘Then how will you get in?’ Bordelli realised at once what a silly question he had asked, and only shook his head, smiling.
‘If God created flies, there must be a reason,’ somebody had written, though at that moment he couldn’t remember who. His thoughts drifted off, searching his memory for things he had read in his youth, but he still couldn’t remember … and slowly they turned to other flies, in April of ’45, in northern Italy, the flies swarming round the face of the last Nazi he killed. He had taken aim from afar, and from above, as the German ran by below the embankment. He had set the machine gun for single fire and kept shooting until the target fell to the ground. The Nazi was a blond lad of about seventeen, eyes open wide to the heavens above. His helmet had rolled ahead of him, and Bordelli had picked it up and felt something like a blow to the stomach. On one side was a swastika painted in white, with a large X painted over it in red. Above, at the top of the helmet, was the bullet hole, which passed right through the first N in the name ANNA, written in white paint beside a heart, also white, its point slanted to the left. Bordelli felt the vomit rise into his throat. He had killed a blond boy in love with an Italian girl, not a Nazi. He sat down on the grass and lit one of his hundred daily cigarettes. He had kept that helmet ever since, stowed away in a wardrobe. He never killed anyone else after that, never felt like firing any more. The notches on the butt of his machine gun stopped at thirty-seven.
He ran a hand over his face, and for the first time felt as if the war had taken place a thousand years ago.
Piras’s face appeared inside the half-open door.
‘Am I disturbing you, Inspector?’
‘Not at all, Piras. Come in.’
The Sardinian remained standing in front of the desk. He chased away a fly that had landed on his cheek. He had a grave expression on his face.
‘I wanted to ask you what we’re going to do about the Morozzi brothers,’ he said.
‘You seem to be taking the case very much to heart.’
‘We should interrogate them again, but separately. And I would do the same with the wives.’
‘You want to upset them, I guess.’
‘Exactly. And it doesn’t matter that we don’t yet have a clear sense of things. What do you say?’
Bordelli mulled it over. He swatted at two flies making love on his arm.
‘Piras, do you remember who wrote: “If God created flies, there must be a reason?”’
‘Saint Augustine, Inspector. In the
Bordelli nodded, as if he’d known all along.
‘All right, Piras, I agree with you. Let’s interrogate them all, one at a time.’
The Sardinian looked quite pleased.
‘Then I’ll have them summoned,’ he said.
‘Yes, take care of that yourself. And have them come tomorrow.’
Piras left, and Bordelli sat there, reflecting, amid a dozen or so frantic flies. The case was still at the same point. They needed to work out how it was possible to kill someone from sixty miles away. And they had to do it in August, the hottest August in memory.
But what if the Morozzis were in fact innocent? Who could have killed that woman, and why? For revenge?
Bordelli thought with envy of Rodrigo, so full of hope and novelty. Perhaps he had found the right woman, which was saying a lot. And he was two years younger than him. One could only imagine what kind of nights he was spending with his mysterious lover.
The interrogation was a painful affair. Bordelli consoled himself with the thought that Botta was already at the cooker. He had left him a short while before, chopping onions.
The Morozzi brothers did nothing but whimper the whole time. They wiped away their sweat with their handkerchiefs, repeating everything they had already said. Their wives resembled one another like sisters. Gina and Angela. They had the same unpleasant mannerisms, the same whorish make-up, and both gave off a strong smell of chestnut flour. They too repeated everything their husbands had said, with a long-suffering expression that inspired only antipathy. The only concrete result of the interrogation was to make them all upset, as intended.
After they left, Bordelli started pacing about his office.
‘So, Piras, how did they do it?… And what is that smell?’
‘That’s all I can think about, Inspector, but I still can’t come up with an answer.’
Piras, of course, was referring to the first question. Bordelli crossed his arms over his paunch, continuing to sniff the air with irritation, then got up and opened the window wide. Piras sat stone faced, thinking, trying to put the pieces together. It wasn’t so difficult, after all. By now the dynamic of the murder was more or less clear: Salvetti’s Alfa Giulietta Sprint, the switched medicine bottles, the copied keys. All that remained to be unravelled was the business of the pollen, nothing more, and then the rest would be like taking candy from a baby. Bordelli circled round his desk and plopped down in his chair.
‘Today’s the funeral, Piras, then they all go off to the solicitor’s to read the will.’
‘Was Signora Pedretti very rich?’
‘Very. But she left it all to the nuns.’
Piras smiled wickedly.
‘Good for her,’ he said.
‘If the Morozzis did it, it was all for nothing,’ Bordelli said.
Piras started walking about the room, index finger over his lips, gaze wandering up and down the walls. The inspector drummed his fingers on his cigarette pack, also thinking. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was already one o’clock. The nauseating smell was still in the air and made his head ache.
‘I’m going to get a bite to eat, Piras. See you tonight, at my place.’
‘All right.’
On his way out of the station, Bordelli tapped on the window of the guardroom.
‘Mugnai, when you get a chance, go up to my office. The ladies left behind a nasty little scent as a souvenir. See if you can get rid of it.’
‘All right, sir.’
* * *
Bordelli dropped in at home, deciding he couldn’t go to Toto’s. He wanted to eat lightly and then lie down for half an hour before going back to work. He ended up sitting at the kitchen table eating tuna and onions while Botta fussed about with his saucepans with the seriousness of an engineer.
‘An extra guest’ll be coming tonight, Botta, but don’t be alarmed. It’s only Canapini.’
‘Cana? Where did you unearth him?’
‘I found him at the flat of a lady friend.’
‘Aha. You caught him trying to rob someone.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Botta sniggered and continued stirring the contents of a large earthenware pot with a wooden spoon, raising
