Death in Sardinia

by Marco Vichi

  ‘Can you tell me how long it was before he died that he swallowed it?’ Bordelli asked.

  ‘Not long before – not more than half an hour.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ the inspector asked distractedly. Diotivede stopped dead in his tracks and looked him hard in the eyes.

  ‘I always speak only when I am sure of something; otherwise I keep quiet,’ he said curtly.

  ‘No need to get upset.’

  ‘I should think you would have learned that by now.’

  ‘It was just an offhand question.’

  Bordelli kept studying the ring as if the killer’s name were somehow written on it. The doctor removed his gloves and went to wash his hands. Three times, as usual. He already seemed to have calmed down.

  ‘I’ll be done with this one fairly soon,’ he said, drying his hands carefully.

  ‘But don’t expect any big surprises. The cause and time of death are already pretty well established.’ The inspector put the forceps down.

  ‘Stabbed to death with a pair of scissors in the neck,’ he said, stating the obvious.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the doctor, half closing his eyes like a schoolmaster pleased with his pupil.

  ‘When did he die?’

  ‘Almost certainly last Friday, but as I said, it’s impossible to say at what time of day.’

  ‘Too bad,’ said Bordelli, thinking that this made the whole thing more difficult.

  ‘I’m almost positive the killer is left-handed, but I still need to check a few things.’

  ‘Almost positive doesn’t sound like you,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘Actually I wasn’t even going to tell you,’ said Diotivede, taking his glasses off to clean the lenses. He did this dozens of times a day. It was a long process that he executed very methodically.

  It was through those lenses that he saw the world, and he wanted them always immaculate. Bordelli brought the ring into the light again and examined it for a few seconds more. Then he walked towards Diotivede, holding the forceps in the air.

  ‘I’m going to keep this,’ he said.

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Will you wrap it up for me?’

  ‘There are some small envelopes in that drawer.’

  The inspector put the ring in an envelope, which he then put in his pocket.

  ‘And please don’t ask me to go to the pointless trouble of reporting this. Since, at any rate, only you and I know about it,’ he said.

  ‘I trust you … but if you sell it, we go fifty-fifty.’

  ‘Absolutely. Then we can open a Swiss bank account.’

  ‘I think I’d rather stuff the money into my mattress than give it to those milksops,’ said Diotivede with a sneer.

  ‘You doing anything for Christmas?’ Bordelli asked.

  ‘I think I’ll go to bed early,’ the doctor said, still wiping his lenses with a piece of cloth. When he took his glasses off, his face changed; it looked empty, almost funny.

  ‘Aren’t you going to see your relatives?’ Bordelli asked

  ‘I’m invited for lunch on the twenty-fifth, as always.’

  ‘If you like, we can have dinner at my place on the evening of the twenty-fourth. We’ve known each other for so long and we’ve still never spent Christmas together.’

  The doctor put his glasses back on.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

  ‘But don’t expect any presents.’

  ‘You could have let me get my hopes up,’ said Diotivede.

  ‘We’ll have a nice big dinner, like two years ago. We’ll drink a little wine and talk about women … What do you say?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Well, let me know soon. Christmas is just around the corner.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ the doctor said for the third time.

  ‘All right, then. If you have any news about our friend Badalamenti, ring me immediately.’

  ‘There won’t be any news.’

  ‘You could have let me get my hopes up,’ said the inspector.

  ‘I’ll give you a ring when I’ve finished with him.’

  Diotivede nodded goodbye, and as Bordelli was heading for the door, the doctor started putting the instruments he’d used in a tub of disinfectant.

  Around half past four, the inspector parked his car in Piazza del Carmine, right in front of Badalamenti’s building. The sun was setting and the street lamps were already lit. The dark sky had been threatening rain for hours, but nothing had happened yet.

  Entering the usurer’s building, he climbed the stairs without haste. He was determined not to leave the flat until he found what he was looking for. If necessary, he would comb the place inch by inch. There had to be something there. If not, he would feel defeated and would have to admit that Judge Ginzillo had been right. That would be a hard pill to swallow. Rat-face Ginzillo couldn’t possibly be right.

  Bordelli stopped to catch his breath on the landing of the last floor but one. He’d eaten and drunk too much, and he wasn’t a kid any longer. He would have to start going to the gym now and then, maybe to see his friend Mazzinghi and do a little sparring, as in the old days.

  Having climbed the last flight of stairs, he went into Badalamenti’s flat. Aside from the smell of death, there was also an unpleasant feeling that came over him as it had every other time he’d entered the place. He went straight into the sitting room, opened the glass-fronted cabinet and poured himself a cognac. He took a sip. It was very good, but not in the same league as De Maricourt.

  He picked up the can of grey putty he’d seen before lunch and sat down in an armchair. For the moment it was the only odd thing he’d found in the flat. Sipping the cognac, he tried to fathom why Badalamenti kept that putty in the living room, among the glasses in the liquor cabinet. There was no real point in knowing the reason, but he was used to paying close attention to little details, even those that appeared insignificant.

  He set the can down on the low glass table and began to study it. In reality he was amusing himself, rather as he used to do as a child, during treasure hunts at the home of his cousin Rodrigo. What had become of Rodrigo, anyway? He hadn’t seen him for a good while, and hadn’t even had the honour of meeting his new girlfriend, the woman who had succeeded in changing the curmudgeonly Rodrigo’s life … Assuming, of course, that they were still together. He had to remember at least to give him a ring to wish him a happy Christmas.

  Drinking his cognac in little sips, he continued to contemplate the can of grey putty. He began with the most elementary things. He looked around. There was no other furniture in the room that Badalamenti could have put it in, if for some reason he wanted to keep it in the living room. But why do that?

  Drinking the last sip, he felt like smoking a cigarette but tried to resist. Perhaps Badalamenti often had need of the putty in that room and didn’t feel like always going and fetching it from another room. But why would he have needed it so often in the living room? Normally you spread it out and leave it for a while. This was getting interesting. Bordelli got up and looked at the windowpanes. There was no trace of fresh putty round the edges. He poured himself another cognac and collapsed into the armchair again. Putting his feet up on the glass table, he leaned his head back in the chair. Putty … He was almost there, he could feel it. He closed his eyes and remained that way for a few minutes, in danger of falling asleep.

  All at once he sat up, a smile on his face. He’d figured it out, maybe. He finished his cognac in one gulp and stood up. He went into the kitchen and started opening the cupboards and drawers until he found a little box of toothpicks. Taking two, he went back into the sitting room, got down on all fours, and started scratching the grout between the tiles, one after another. The floor was made up of old terracotta tiles, about ten inches square. He carried on like this crawling like a child at play, not minding the dust. He couldn’t stop smiling.

  At last, in a corner by the window, he found what he was looking for: the grout
around one tile was still soft. He scraped it all away with the toothpick and tried to lift the tile with his fingers, but couldn’t. He went back to the kitchen to get a knife and, using the tip as a lever, was able to raise the tile without effort. He found before him a cement cavity about the size of a shoebox. There were a number of different things inside. A small black accordion purse, a large, bulging yellowish envelope, a small round box covered in blue velvet, and a bundle of white cloth. Taking it all out of the hole, he noticed that the bundle was heavy and opened it. Inside he found a Glisenti 7.65 Parabellum with the serial number sanded off. Pretty clever, our little Totuccio, thought Bordelli. He wrapped the pistol back up in the cloth and opened the blue velvet box. It had a number of gold rings inside, mostly wedding bands. Almost all of them had the spouses’ names and wedding dates inscribed inside: Argia Ferdinando, 2 October 1902; Nora Goffredo, 14 August 1897, and so on.

  Badalamenti was very meticulous, even fastidious. To each wedding band he had tied a tiny label with a piece of thread, and on each label he had written the debtor’s name and surname in red pen. The name on the label always corresponded to one of the two inscribed inside the ring, except in one case. No doubt it had been a son or grandchild who had pawned that ring …

  But what was he doing in such an uncomfortable position? He brought all the stuff he had found over to the glass table and went and poured himself another serving of cognac. Then he sat down in the armchair, put the accordion bag in his lap and opened it. Hundreds of promissory notes, arranged by date. Each compartment in the bag contained one month’s dues. In the last section were three sheets of paper folded in four. This was Badalamenti’s ‘ledger’, the complete list of his debtors. Dozens of names and dates written in such tiny handwriting that one almost needed a magnifying glass to read it.

  Bordelli lit a cigarette and with some effort started scanning that list of poor devils. They were quite an army. He let himself fall back again in the chair. His head was spinning a little, but it was a pleasant enough sensation. The cognac was actually quite good. He put the list away and pulled out some promissory notes. One month’s payments together amounted to a tidy sum: about the same as what a chief inspector earned in a year.

  One had to keep busy to maintain a Porsche. He put the IOUs back and opened the yellow envelope. Out came a great assortment of papers, and he set these down in his lap. More promissory notes, provisional sales agreements, contracts of different kinds. He picked one up at random: an old woman with no heirs had made over to Badalamenti the residuary right of ownership of her villa in Settignano for two million lire. Bordelli couldn’t help but smile. Now that Badalamenti was dead, the residuary ownership reverted automatically back to her. That was one matter, at least, that had been settled all by itself. There were a number of contracts transferring ownership and some deeds of sale, always for amounts far below market value. One needn’t have been an estate agent to realise this. There were also some chequebooks for banks in the south, almost unused. Bordelli opened an envelope held shut by a rubber band. Inside was a thick little bundle of promissory notes for fifty thousand lire, with the photograph of a house pinned to the top note. It was a small, modern house with a garden and a hedge of bay laurel inside an iron grille, and two terracotta pine cones crowning the gateposts.

  ‘Shit …’ said Bordelli, not believing his eyes. He flipped the photograph over. On the back, written in the usual red pen, were a name and address, the same as on the promissory notes: Mario Fabiani, Via di Barbacane 65. Underneath, Badalamenti had added: Interesting.

  Bordelli shook his head. He’d known Dr Fabiani for years and sometimes even invited him to dinner. He was a psychoanalyst, aged seventy, more or less retired, an innocent soul with a passion for plants. He’d never said a word to the inspector about his financial difficulties. Bordelli felt embarrassed by the very idea of going to see him, even if it was only to give him the good news that Badalamenti was dead. He sighed and put that thought away for later.

  Still rummaging through the papers, he found a crumpled letter addressed to the

  ‘Distinguished Totuccio Badalamenti, Esq’. Appended to the envelope with a paper clip were a number of promissory notes for fifty thousand lire and a smaller envelope with photographs inside. There were five of them, all black and white, taken in a place that looked in every way like a sort of bordello for American soldiers. A half-naked blonde girl in spiked heels and garter belt was standing in the middle of a group of smiling GIs who were vying with one another to get their hands on her. In one of the photos a black man about six foot six, hand miming a pistol, was sticking his enormous index finger into the blonde’s mouth. She had her hands raised and eyes wide open, and everyone else was laughing. A photo souvenir of a lost war.

  Bordelli opened the letter and started reading it. The handwriting was neat and round. It was a woman’s. She begged the ‘good’ Mr Badalamenti not to ask her for any more money, because she didn’t have any left. It ended as follows:

  I beseech you, whatever may happen, never to tell my son

  what you found out about me. I don’t want Odoardo to grow

  up burdened by his mother’s guilt. I put my trust in your

  goodness and ask the Blessed Virgin to forgive you and myself.

  May God bless you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Rosaria Beltempo

  She’d written it in October 1964, and on the back of the envelope was the sender’s address. Underneath, Badalamenti had written in red ink: House not worth much, olive grove 2 hectares.

  The whole thing looked very much like blackmail, paid off in instalments and guaranteed with IOUs. A rather brilliant invention. Bravo, Totuccio. The inspector sighed deeply and smiled … He’d suddenly thought of Judge Ginzillo. Perhaps now the rat-face would listen to him; maybe now he would understand just who Badalamenti was. But, knowing Ginzillo, he knew he would rather pee his pants than admit his own idiocy. Bordelli couldn’t wait to go and see the genius.

  He heard some dripping and went over to the window. It had started raining outside. Going back into the kitchen, he found a plastic shopping bag under the sink. He put everything he’d found inside it, and slowly checked each room one last time before leaving. He tried to imagine the extortionist pacing about his flat with satisfaction, counting in his head the money he’d earned that day. But he wouldn’t be making trouble for anyone any longer. Someone had taken a pair of scissors in hand and said: enough. Bordelli went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the same mirror in which Badalamenti had seen his own reflection a few days before.

  Very well. There wasn’t anything left to do in this place. He could go now. He locked the door behind him and descended the stairs slowly, plastic bag swinging at his side. Despite the satisfaction, he felt a little melancholy.

  Only a week remained until Christmas. At midnight it was still drizzling outside, tiny cold drops that refused to turn into snow.

  In one corner of Rosa’s small living room stood a fir tree about five feet tall laden with coloured baubles and little blinking lights. The big dining table was covered with presents, some wrapped and others yet to be wrapped. Gideon, Rosa’s big white tomcat, was lying on his back, asleep, feet in the air, atop a sideboard. He was the very symbol of deep sleep.

  ‘I wrap everything myself … Aren’t they pretty?’ said Rosa.

  ‘Absolutely beautiful,’ said Bordelli, half lying on the couch and holding an almost empty goblet of red wine between two fingers. He was looking at Rosa and smiling inside. Despite the life she had led and the riffraff she’d had no choice but to frequent, Rosa was as pure as the driven snow. That evening she was wearing a decolletée dress with a blue floral print and violet high heels.

  The inspector sat up and refilled his glass. Rosa’s living room had a big, glorious window which, behind the flimsy curtains, gave on to a long perspective of rooftops and, in the distance, Arnolfo’s tower. It had taken Rosa a long time to find the right place
for her. All her life she’d worked in brothels, winter and summer. Then MP Lina Merlin had come along and said, That’s enough, ladies, and Rosa simply couldn’t see herself pounding the pavement …6 It seemed so sad, so vulgar … As she’d always been thrifty, she’d managed to set aside a decent nest egg. She deserved a hard-earned rest in a flat looking out over the rooftops. The light in her place was always warm and welcoming, and always shone from the corners of the room

  ‘Are they only for this Christmas, or do they include next year’s presents as well?’ asked Bordelli, seeing the dozens of gifts covering the table. Rosa was tying a bow and started singing.

  ‘Non essere geloso se con gli altri ballo il rock …’

  ‘Are you talking to me?’

  ‘Non essere geloso se con gli altri ballo il twist … There’s a present for you too, you big ugly monkey.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have, Rosa.’

  ‘Liar. You always love my presents.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Why don’t you ever say what you mean?’

  ‘That’s not what I …’ Bordelli began, but he stopped before he repeated himself. Rosa kept on singing.

  ‘Con te, con te, con te che sei la mia passione / io ballo il ballo del mattone …’7

  Bordelli swallowed a sip of wine and lit his cigarette. It was past midnight, and it was already an achievement to have smoked only six all day.

  ‘So you’re not going to tell me who all those presents are for?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t you know I have a lot of girlfriends?’

  ‘Colleagues?’

  ‘They’re not all whores, you know. D’you think that’s all I ever did in life?’ Rosa’s lips were enlarged by her lipstick, and when she wasn’t speaking, her mouth looked like a heart.

  ‘Just curious,’ said the inspector. She kept on wrapping presents, using a nice sharp pair of scissors to curl the ribbons.

  ‘You know, Rosa, that guy who was murdered not far from my house was killed with a pair of scissors rather similar to those.’

  ‘How nice of you to tell me,’ she said.