The first to arrive was Diotivede, his white hair standing straight up on his head, his step still youthful despite his seventy years. He wasn’t tall, but carried himself proudly, dangling the briefcase of his trade down around his knees. He paid the cab driver and, looking around, adjusted his glasses on his nose. Bordelli greeted him with a weary wave of the hand. The doctor walked up to him, lips curling slightly in the hint of a smile.
‘You look pretty tired,’ he said.
‘Where are the pastries?’
‘In here,’ Diotivide said, tapping his case with two fingers.
‘Come, let me introduce you to the lady of the house.’
They crossed the dark garden in silence. Diotivede looked around, sniffing the air like an animal. He followed Bordelli through the entrance; his sensitive nose was struck by the strong smell of old rugs and dust.
‘Where’s the body?’
‘Upstairs.’
The pathologist stopped for a moment in front of the cardinal, then moved on, his mouth contracted in a childish pout. Climbing the stairs, the inspector made as if to take the briefcase from him, but the doctor gently pushed his hand away.
‘I can manage alone, thanks,’ he said.
‘No offence.’
‘No offence taken.’
They went into Signora Pedretti-Strassen’s bedroom, and the doctor set his bag down on a chair. Changing his glasses, he approached the corpse. He studied it, sniffed it, touched it here and there, and said:
‘Beautiful woman.’ He took out a black notebook and, as usual, began jotting his first notes. Bordelli sat down in a corner and let him work, not saying a word. After five minutes of silence, Diotivede put the notebook back in his pocket, took a few plastic bags and phials out of his case, and slipped on a pair of rubber gloves.
‘Seeing the medicine, one would think she died of a violent asthma attack,’ he said. The inspector lit his last butt, squeezing it tightly between his fingers, to stop up a tear in the paper. He blew the smoke far away, as if to put a distance between himself and its poison.
‘Can one die of asthma?’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘With a serious enough allergy, and a heart no longer young, yes, it can happen.’
Bordelli propped his elbows on his knees and rolled his head back and forth.
‘It must be a nasty way to die.’
Diotivede drew near to the woman, bent down over her and, using two fingers, lightly lifted one of her shoulders, which yielded softly. He did the same with one foot. Then he went over to the bedside table, delicately picked up the bottle of Asthmaben and examined it carefully, holding it close to his eyes. He looked perplexed. He wrapped his fingers round the cap and opened it.
‘Strange,’ he said.
‘What’s strange?’
‘The cap was screwed on perfectly. And rather tightly, I’d say.’
Bordelli instinctively stood up and approached the doctor, but his brain was heavy with fatigue.
‘What’s so strange about that?’
Diotivede looked at him askance.
‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘A policeman who hasn’t slept.’
‘You’re excused, but for only that reason.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘Look around,’ Diotivede began, pointing to things as he named them. ‘An upended glass on the bed, an open bottle on the floor, a book thrown on to the carpet, and yet, here we have a little bottle of Asthmaben with its cap screwed on tight. And, as you can see, the screw threads are very long. In your opinion, would somebody gasping for air take the trouble to screw a cap back on?’
Bordelli scratched the nape of his neck and sat back down.
‘Downright obvious,’ he said.
Diotivede got down on all fours and started looking for something. In the end he peered under the bed and reached for something.
‘Just as I thought.’
‘What?’
‘The cap to the water bottle. It was under the bed.’
‘You could be a policeman.’
‘That’s all I need,’ he said, sniffing the cap. Then he patiently got back to work. He dropped the bottle of Asthmaben into a transparent bag, picked up the glass from the bed and tilted it, looking inside. He poured the few drops remaining at the bottom into a sterile test tube with a hermetic seal, then put the empty glass into a bag, which he closed. He also took a water sample from the bottle, then put the cap back on and put this into a large bag. The book, too, got the same treatment. With great care he arranged everything in his case, putting the items into different internal pockets. Then he wrote something in his notebook again.
‘She must have died at least five, maybe six hours ago,’ he said.
‘Oh, really?’
‘I can tell you more precisely after the post-mortem.’
In the muggy silence they heard a car pull up, then another.
‘Here they are,’ said Bordelli, getting up from the chair with a groan of fatigue. He went down into the garden to meet the new arrivals, showing the way to two officers, Russo and Bellandi, and two ambulance attendants.
He went out on to the street for a little walk. He couldn’t wait to lie down in bed. The sky had opened and the moon was visible. He stopped in front of the gate and looked at the villa from a distance, fascinated by the decay wrought by time. It pleased him to see that things, and not only people, suffered the wear and tear of age.
All of a sudden he felt somebody watching him and turned round. A very old woman, thin as a rail, was staring at him from the balcony of the villa next door, a great house whose facade gave directly on to the street. The woman stood immobile, staring, squinting as if she couldn’t see well. She was wearing a white dressing gown and a night-bonnet.
‘Are you here to buy the villa?’ the woman shouted, pointing to the dead woman’s house. Bordelli drew closer to her balcony.
‘I was just looking,’ he said.
‘Well, it’s not for sale.’
‘It’s a beautiful house.’
‘They should give it to the nuns, I say …’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Ooooh, don’t get me going … don’t start me talking,’ she said, waving a hand in the air.
‘Do you hear them?’ asked Bordelli.
‘How’s that?’
‘Are there ghosts?’
‘Worse. Wait, I’ll come down.’ The old woman vanished indoors, and Bordelli went to wait for her in front of the house. Moments later, the front door on the street opened, and the woman appeared, panting, on the threshold. She was unimaginably thin, her clothes hanging as though draped on a coat hanger. She had a tiny face, all puckered round a mouth swollen with boils.
‘A lot of people have been murdered in that house,’ she said in a whisper, pointing to Villa Pedretti.
‘Really?’ said Bordelli, stunned. The old woman nodded, looking around with suspicion. She gestured to Bordelli to come closer.
‘Strange things have always happened there.’
‘Strange in what way?’
‘The devil,’ she whispered.
‘The devil?’
‘Shhh, speak softly,’ she said, eyeing the dark street.
