by Marco Vichi
The western had ended some time ago, and the hum accompanying the test card rang as sad as a lament in his ears. It was only eleven o’clock. He’d collapsed on the couch without even having eaten. But he wasn’t hungry. He lit a cigarette and poured himself a glass of wine. A couple of minutes later the signal went off and the snow appeared. The accompanying static got on his nerves. He got up to turn off the television, then sat there glassy eyed, staring at the shrinking little point of light on the picture tube until it disappeared. Mouth all pasty, he snuffed out the cigarette and shuffled to the bathroom to brush his teeth. But he couldn’t find the toothbrush. He looked everywhere for it, then remembered that it had fallen into the toilet bowl that morning. He brought his face to the mirror to look at his wrinkles from up close. They seemed to increase with each passing day. He felt like a wreck. Rinsing his mouth out with water, he went and lay down in bed. He lit another cigarette, felt disgusted, and crushed it in the ashtray. As he was trying to fall asleep, Botta’s face appeared to him, at the moment he’d suggested he go and work for a few days at Da Cesare in the place of a Pugliese called Totò.
He’d gone to see him around eight o’clock that evening at his lair in Via del Campuccio, and for a brief moment Botta had thought Bordelli’s visit meant that he’d caught and arrested the child-killer.
‘Not yet, Ennio, but I’ll catch him soon,’ the inspector had said. By this point he was always repeating the same phrase, to ward off bad luck.
‘Stay for dinner, Inspector? I could whip up a spaghetti alla carrettiera, nice and spicy.’
‘Thanks, Ennio, but I’m a wreck. I think I’ll just go home.’
Looking around, Bordelli had noticed that the modest room seemed different from the last time he’d been there.
‘Am I mistaken, Botta, or have you changed something in here?’
‘The lights, Inspector. I bought a new light fixture.’
‘That’s new, too,’ said Bordelli, pointing at a nice big cooker with six burners.
‘Beautiful, eh?’
‘I guess things went well for you in Greece.’
‘I can’t complain … And now I even know how to make moussaka.’
‘So the clink’s not your only cooking school.’
‘Botta’s never going back to jail, Inspector … Never.’
‘Does that mean you’re going to stop picking locks?’ Bordelli asked, almost worried.
‘No, Inspector, I’m just going to stop getting caught.’
‘Listen, Ennio, I need to ask a favour of you …’
As Botta was putting the water for the pasta on the stove, the inspector told him about Totò and the trattoria Da Cesare.
‘Of course I’m interested!’ Botta replied, eyes popping.
‘Then go and talk to Totò as soon as you can. I have the feeling he wants to give you some sort of test. But you’ll understand each other, I’m sure of it.’
‘As a lockpicking artist, I’m not so sure, Inspector, but as a cook, nobody can touch me.’
All cooks are the same, thought Bordelli. They always want to be the best.
‘I have to go now, Botta. I can feel a nasty headache coming on.’
‘Thanks, Inspector. Who knows? Maybe in my old age I’ll open a trattoria with an international menu,’ the thief said, shaking his hand firmly at the door.
‘I’d give that some serious thought … Ciao, Ennio. Next time, if things are a little calmer, I want to hear about Greece.’
‘G’night, Inspector.’
He spent the following morning rereading the reports of the murders, without results. He’d slept badly, as was nearly always the case of late. For lunch he ate a panino at the bar in Via di San Gallo and went immediately back to the office, which stank of cigarettes. He opened the window, and a gust of tepid air, heady with spring, wafted in, along with a few large flies. He thought about dinner with Milena, and despite everything that was happening, he felt a pang of emotion in his chest. It had been centuries since he had felt so intrigued by a woman. He looked at his watch: barely two o’clock. Seven more long hours before their appointment. He sat down and lit a cigarette. Casimiro’s little skeleton was still in its place, hanging from the pen-holder. He tried to imagine the moment when the little dwarf drank the poisoned cognac. He clenched his teeth. The feeling of guilt was still gnawing at his stomach. He should have prevented Casimiro from playing spy.
But at least that murder seemed solved. He needed only to wait until the White Dove found Karl Strüffen. He hoped Levi would keep his word, even though this was far from a foregone conclusion. For the Nazi hunter, the White Dove came before anything else. At the moment, all the inspector could do was wait.
Three or four fat flies were flying a few centimetres below the ceiling, crashing into each other every so often. They made a terrible racket; it was impossible to concentrate. All he could do was watch them … Were there four or five? Suddenly one of them veered towards the window and went out, and the others followed like sheep. There must have been five of them. Or maybe not; just four. At any rate, they were gone, and Bordelli heaved a sigh of relief. He put out his fag-end and distractedly withdrew the last cigarette from the packet. He saw that it was broken, lit it anyway, but couldn’t get any draw on it. He blew the smoke up towards the ceiling and started thinking about Davide Rivalta.
There was something fishy about the man. Something strange, and not just unpleasant. He was a cultured, intelligent man who wanted at all costs to be disagreeable … But there was more than this. There was something strange in his eyes, a destructive gleam, but at the same time a sort of wild joy. And he had been seen in the area of Sara Bini’s corpse just minutes after the murder. It might be coincidence, of course, but …
Bordelli opened a bottle of beer, and as he was taking his first gulp, the phone rang. It was the commissioner.
‘Good day, Bordelli. Any new developments in those murder cases?’ Inzipone sounded nervous.
‘I’ve made some progress on Casimiro Robetti,’ said Bordelli.
‘What kind of progress?’
‘I’ll tell you when it all becomes clear.’
‘Tell me now.’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘And what have you got to tell me about the little girls?’ Inzipone sighed, resigning himself to Bordelli’s methods.
‘Nothing serious yet, unfortunately.’
‘And what about that man you’ve got under surveillance?’
‘Davide Rivalta? We’re still keeping an eye on him.’
‘We’ve got to stop that killer, Bordelli, and we’ve got to do it soon … before anything else happens.’
‘We’ll catch him.’
‘Well, keep me informed on this matter, at least. All right?’
‘I’ll get back to you soon, Dr Inzipone.’
The inspector hung up and leaned back in his chair. This case was turning into a nightmare. Every time the phone rang or there was a knock at the door, he expected the worst. He ran a hand through his hair, and it felt dirty. He felt beaten down, and didn’t know which way to turn. He spent the afternoon in a state of shameful apathy.
It was already seven o’clock. He had to go home and get ready for dinner with Milena, and the thought made him shudder. He really needed to clear his head. Rushing out of the station, he waved goodbye to Mugnai.
After stopping first to buy a toothbrush, he went quickly home. He spent a long time cooking himself in a hot bathtub, eyes closed. He thought again about his journey through space, and it seemed almost like the memory of something he had actually done, which was, in a way, the truth. When he reopened his eyes, he realised it was already half past eight. He quickly got out of the water, dried his hair, and splashed on some aftershave lotion without having bothered to shave, just to smell nice. At ten minutes to nine, he got into the Beetle, stomach rumbling, and stepped on the accelerator so as not to be late. He felt as excited as a small child.
‘I feel good with you,’ s
aid Milena, snuggling close to him. They were in Bordelli’s bed, and had just finished making love for the second time. The room was in penumbra, lit only by the glow of a street lamp shining through the open window. Their clothes lay scattered helter-skelter on the floor. Bordelli kept his eyes closed, stroking Milena’s back. He felt a sense of peace all through his body, only slightly disturbed by the usual obsessive thoughts.
They had gone to eat at a trattoria in the Sant’Ambrogio quarter, and had knocked back two bottles of wine. They had used the formal address through most of the meal, looking into each other’s eyes like two teenagers. When Bordelli had asked her point-blank about the White Dove, Milena said she didn’t feel like talking about work, and the subject didn’t come up again. They had chatted about a great many things, jumping from one topic to another, as their desire to get to know each other kept growing. They had even joked and laughed a lot, enabling Bordelli to forget about all those murders for a while. When they left the restaurant, Milena said she felt like walking a bit. It was almost midnight. A few leftover scraps of cloud moved slowly across a star-filled sky. Along the river, Bordelli had lit a cigarette, feeling a strong urge to kiss the mouth of the woman walking beside him. Although it wasn’t cold out, every so often a gust of wind ruffled their hair.
‘Take me home with you,’ she had said out of the blue.
‘Yes, madam,’ Bordelli had replied. And they had exchanged a smile of understanding and gone back to his car. On the drive home, they were both silent. Bordelli drove slowly, sniffing the air to pick up her scent. It was nice sitting in silence, listening to the sound of the Beetle. It was nice to see, out of the corner of his eye, Milena’s leg swinging to and fro. It was also nice to look at the buildings’ facades, the people passing by, to feel the steering wheel in his hands. It was all wonderful.
‘This is where I live,’ Bordelli had said, parking directly in front of the entrance.
‘We know,’ she’d said, in the tone of a spy.
They’d gone up the stairs without looking at each other. Once inside, she’d closed the door and kissed him on the lips, squeezing him tight and grabbing the hair on the nape of his neck.
‘You move fast,’ Bordelli had said, feeling Milena’s hands fumble under his shirt.
‘When I know what I want, I don’t like to waste any time,’ she had whispered, smiling. A minute later they were in bed …
Bordelli lay on his back, playing with Milena’s hair, curling the locks round his fingers. But his sense of well-being was slowly beginning to feel contaminated … It was the murdered little girls, whose senseless deaths continued to gnaw at his brain. Milena had one leg over his belly, and every so often kissed him on the neck. It was nice to have her so close, to feel her hair on his shoulder, to smell the lovely scent of her skin and breath.
‘I feel good too,’ said Bordelli.
She began breathing more heavily, climbed on top of him, and they started all over again.
The little girl had gone out shortly after seven o’clock to buy milk just round the corner from home, as she did almost every evening. It usually took her only a few mintues, but today, after fifteen minutes, she still hadn’t returned. She was nine years old and her name was Susanna. Her mother had gone out to look for her and asked the milkman, but he hadn’t seen her. She’d asked the other shopkeepers as well, but they didn’t know anything. That area of Gavinana wasn’t very well lit, and at that hour there was hardly anyone on the street. The woman became seriously scared and started looking for her daughter up and down the streets from Via di Villamagna to Piazza Elia dalla Costa, asking the few pedestrians she passed whether they’d seen a little girl with blonde hair wearing a yellow sweater. But nobody knew anything. In the end she collapsed, and around nine o’clock she called the police. Bordelli was informed and instinctively phoned Davide Rivalta. He let it ring a long time, counting the rings. At the twentieth ring, he hung up, then rushed to the radio communications room to speak with the officers who were watching Rivalta.
‘What time did he go out?’ he asked, squeezing the microphone.
‘He’s at home, Inspector. He got back at five and hasn’t moved since. At the moment he’s on the ground floor. I can see the lights on,’ said the policeman.
Bordelli ended the communication and returned to his office feeling very disappointed. He tried ringing Rivalta again. He let the phone ring for a long time again, and just when he was about to hang up, he heard someone pick up.
‘Who is this? Hello? Hello?! Who is this?’ said Rivalta, half asleep. Bordelli hung up without saying a word.
There was a great deal of commotion at the police station. Hundreds of photos of the little girl were printed up in record time, to be distributed to the residents of the Gavinana quarter. The television news reports also broadcast a photo of Susanna, asking people to call the police if they had any information whatsoever, even the most insignificant. Meanwhile a veritable hunting party was organised, starting at the Parco dell’Anconella and going as far as the end of Via di Ripoli. They searched every garden, public and private, and checked every courtyard, as well as a broad stretch of open country around Ponte a Ema. The search lasted late into the night, but the girl was never found. Susanna Zanetti had vanished into thin air. Nobody had seen her talking to anyone, or getting into a car, or even walking down the street. How was it possible that no one at all had seen a little blonde girl in a yellow sweater? Bordelli’s stomach was in knots. He hadn’t slept much the night before, and the fatigue was muddling his brain.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Piras?’
‘Unfortunately, yes, Inspector, but I hope I’m wrong.’
‘Fuck …’ said Bordelli, lighting his thousandth cigarette of the day. During their search he had hoped the girl had simply, stupidly got lost, but several hours had now passed, and he no longer expected her to be found alive.
Round about four o’clock in the morning he felt on the verge of collapse and went home to rest for a while. He got into bed, turned off the light, and a few minutes later was already asleep, head full of memories of the war.
Shortly after dawn, a man phoned police headquarters, and Mugnai rang Bordelli at home.
‘It’s done, Inspector … They’ve found her.’
‘Dead?’ asked Bordelli, holding his breath.
‘Dead,’ said Mugnai. The inspector cursed and ran a hand over his sleepy face.
‘Where?’ he asked.
‘In a wood between Bagno a Ripoli and l’Antella.The squads are already on their way there.’
‘Ring Piras and tell him I’ll be at his place in a few minutes … And inform Diotivede at once.’
The inspector dragged himself out of bed, got dressed in a hurry, and raced down the stairs. He was a wreck. As he got into the car, he felt a crushing sense of desolation. He had slept barely two hours, and his ears were ringing. Fatigue was altering his perceptions, and he kept thinking he saw a cat running under the Beede’s wheels. He swung by Via Gioberti to pick up Piras, who was already waiting in the doorway, bags under his eyes. They didn’t even greet each other. The streets were almost empty, and they got to Bagno a Ripoli in a matter of minutes. Through the clouds shone a greenish light that did nothing to remedy the atmosphere of death. The air smelled strongly of rain.
They turned in the direction of Antella, and about half a mile later saw the flashing blue lights of several squad cars. Bordelli pulled up at the side of the road, and they both got out. Aside from the policemen, there was nobody there, not even journalists.
‘Has the mother been informed?’ Bordelli asked one of the uniformed cops.
‘Scarpelli’s taking care of that, Inspector.’
‘Is he always the one to do that?’
‘He’s the best at that sort of thing, sir.’
‘Where’s the little girl?’
‘Up that path … The man who found her is also there.’
‘Come, Piras.’
They went up
the trail, which ascended steeply through the woods, and past a bend they saw the silhouettes of two policemen standing motionless in the middle of the path. There was also an elderly man wearing a hat and holding a rather agitated hunting dog on a leash. When they reached the group, a very young policeman Bordelli didn’t know came forward.
