Death in August

burn, he crushed it, staining the wall red.

He heard some footsteps inside the front door.

‘Is that you, Ennio?’

The steps arrived as far as the bedroom door, which opened partly. Dante’s leonine head appeared.

‘Good morning, Inspector. Shall we have some coffee?’ he said cheerfully.

Only then did Bordelli remember that Dante had slept on the sofa.

‘Go ahead, I’ll be there in a minute,’ he said.

‘Sleep well?’

‘Yes, and yourself?’

The inventor smiled majestically.

‘Marvellous nightmares.’

The inspector sat up, put his feet on the floor and his hands on his hips.

‘The coffee pot must be in the sink. Do you know how to use a napoletana?’ he asked. Dante assured him he did and disappeared into the kitchen. The inspector went barefooted into the bathroom, feet slapping the hard floor much less delicately than Elvira’s. Beautiful, young Elvira … He was unable to forget her; she returned to his thoughts at the most unexpected moments, and each time he felt older, heavier. He pissed painfully and with effort, the burning finish speaking eloquently of grappa. He rearranged his hair with his fingers and washed his face. The cold water felt good on his skin, but then the towel got snagged on his hard, short stubble. He stood there looking at himself in the mirror, hands resting on the sink, counting his wrinkles and thinking of Signora Pedretti-Strassen stiff in her bed, hands round her throat. After the pause of the night, his mind was filling again with a swirl of ideas and questions. Especially one, the usual: how did they do it? He thought of the Morozzi brothers, sweaty and hysterical, and saw their blonde, made-up wives, who had left that nauseating smell behind in the office.

How the hell had they done it? And which of the four did it? Or was it all four? Or perhaps only two? The brothers or the wives? Or maybe only one couple. Or perhaps none of them. Perhaps it was all a mistake, time to start over …

He thought of Dante struggling with the napoletana and went into the kitchen. The inventor was trying to assemble the machine upside down.

‘What an odd contraption,’ he said.

‘Give it to me.’

‘I was almost there, you know.’

Bordelli took the pieces out of Dante’s hands.

‘See? This goes here.’

‘I’d thought of that, but it seemed too banal.’

‘Not everyone has your imagination.’

‘Compliment accepted. I am very vain.’

Ennio arrived, and all three went into the dining room. They took their coffee on the tablecloth of the night before, which was covered with exotic stains and crumbs. There was still a scent of spices and grappa in the air. Botta was about to open the shutters, but Bordelli raised his hand.

‘Just the windows, Ennio. I’m having a little trouble with the light this morning.’

‘Whatever you say.’

The temperature was rising by the minute. It was going to be another muggy, sweaty day. Dante lit one of his pestilential cigars and tossed the match into his empty espresso cup. Feeling the smoke in his nostrils, Bordelli had to make an effort not to light a cigarette.

‘I’ve got a riddle for you,’ he said to his friends. ‘Interested?’

‘What sort of riddle?’ asked Botta, amused. Dante went and sat down in an armchair and stretched his legs across the floor, awaiting the question. The inspector downed his last drop of coffee and started toying with the empty cup.

‘Pretend you want to murder someone with a powdered poison, powerful enough to kill the person who inhales it. Obviously you don’t want to end up in jail, so, when the victim breathes the stuff, you have to make sure you’re far from the scene of the crime. How do you do it?’

Botta scratched his head.

‘Well, I’d put the poison in the soup, or in the toothpaste.’

‘The poison is deadly only when inhaled.’

‘Oh, right. Well, then … How should I know? I don’t. I give up.’

Dante was contemplating, eyes half closed and lips pursed. Bordelli looked at him.

‘What about you, Dante? What would an inventor do?’

‘Easy. A time-release mechanism.’

‘Easy to say, but to make one?’

‘Oh, it wouldn’t take much. You could make one at home in no time.’

Bordelli really felt like lighting up, but managed to resist the temptation.

‘Give me an example,’ he said.

‘Easy: I take a test tube, put three dry beans in it, fill it halfway with water, take two little cork discs joined in the middle by a wire, put the first disc into the test tube halfway down, put in the powder, then insert the second disk until it seals the test tube, place the device horizontally on the lamp over the victim’s bed, and go on my merry way. The dry beans will slowly swell with water, pushing out the cork. And voila. It’s done. The poison will gently flutter down towards the victim’s nose.’

‘And what if the police find traces of the device?’

‘One need only hide it well and then come and retrieve it as quickly as possible.’

Bordelli sighed.

‘That’s true, but that sort of mechanism isn’t so easy to hide, and, more importantly, it’s not very precise.’

‘In that case one would have to consider another system — I don’t know, say a little pump hidden behind the switch of the nightlight, which, when you turned on the light … Or a mechanism of rubber bands which, after releasing the poison, would catapult the whole thing out of the window.’

The inspector shook his head.

‘No, that’s all too complicated and might leave visible traces. Anyone who goes so far as to plan a murder tries to leave nothing to chance.’

Botta started removing the coffee cups from the table.

‘We give up, Inspector. Tell us how it’s done.’

Bordelli threw up his hands and then slapped his thighs.

‘If I only knew …’ he said.

‘So it’s not a riddle. It’s something serious.’

‘Very serious, Botta. I’m trying to find out who killed Dante’s sister.’

Ennio stopped short in the doorway, coffee cups in hand.

‘Ah, I didn’t know!.. I’m so sorry, Mr Pedretti,’ he said, slightly embarrassed. Dante smiled and waved a hand in the air by way of thanks, pulling hard on his cigar. Bordelli stood up with a sigh and went back into the bathroom to take a shower. As he was lathering up he kept ruminating on the killing; it had almost become an obsession. But they all did, sooner or later. If he hadn’t become a policeman he would have found another way to obsess about things. It was in his blood. He couldn’t do anything about it.

He got dressed and went to ask Dante whether he needed a lift. He found him in front of the sink with an apron on, drying the dishes as Botta washed them.

‘Thanks, Inspector, but it’s all right. I’ll lend Ennio a hand and then have a walk.’

‘Very well, then, goodbye. Ciao, Ennio, I’ll leave you something under the phone in the entrance.’

‘Have a good day, Inspector. When you want to have another dinner party, don’t be shy, just let me know.’

‘It won’t be long, Ennio, I promise. If I were younger I’d say the day after tomorrow.’

On his way out he left three thousand lire under the telephone. In the doorway he thought better of it, turned round and took back a thousand. As he was putting it in his wallet, he changed his mind again and put it back.