by Marco Vichi
‘Sorry, but I can’t stop thinking about it.’
‘If you ask me, you’ll never catch him.’
‘Thanks, Rosa,’ said Bordelli, still ruminating. That afternoon he’d passed the list of the usurer’s debtors to Porcinai, the police archivist, asking him to find all their addresses and telephone numbers as soon as possible. It was merely a first attempt to get the ball rolling. The only name he’d struck off the list was that of his friend Fabiani, whose address he already knew. He also knew Rosaria Beltempo’s, which was written on the envelope of that painful letter addressed to the
‘Distinguished Totuccio Badalamenti, Esq’.
Rosa finished wrapping a tiny little box, which she then held in the palm of her hand, arm extended, to have a long look at it.
‘This is for Tiziana,’ she said.
‘It’s a lipstick you can only find in Paris.’
‘So how’d you get your hands on it?’
‘Somebody sent it to me from Paris for my birthday, and since it doesn’t look good on my own lips, I thought …’
‘Rosa, it’s not nice to recycle presents from other people.’
‘So you think I should have just thrown it away? I redid the tip, and now it looks as good as new … And this way, someone else can get some use out of it.’
‘Well, when you put it that way, it sounds like a fabulous gift.’
‘You’ve got too many outdated ideas in that ageing head of yours,’ said Rosa, wrinkling her nose. Putting the little box aside, she turned her attention to another. Bordelli blew smoke at the ceiling. He saw again the scissors planted deep in Badalamenti’s neck, and the thought of the killer elicited some very ambiguous feelings in him.
‘Hey, what’s with the long face tonight? … Are you hungry? Shall I make you another tartine?’ she said, getting up and coming over to him.
‘Thanks, Rosa, I’m fine.’
‘Well, that’s enough red wine. Now we’re going to drink some Monbazillac,’ she said, taking the glass out of his hand.
‘Another gift from Paris?’
‘I love Paris in the springtiiiime …’ Rosa blared, fluttering all the way to the kitchen in her purple pumps. A hammer would have made less noise.
‘Aren’t the people downstairs going to complain?’ Bordelli asked loudly.
‘No, there’s only an old witch who’s deaf,’ Rosa yelled from the kitchen. You couldn’t really say she didn’t have a knack for concision. It was still drizzling outside. Every so often a drop left a long, thin trail on the windows that gave on to the terrace. Gideon hadn’t moved. He looked like a rag. Bordelli stubbed out the cigarette and lay down. With eyes closed he started listening to the hiss of the rain on the rooftops. From the kitchen came the hammer-blows of Rosa’s high heels. She returned to the living room, carrying a transparent plastic tray with a bottle and two wine glasses.
‘Ta-da! Ta-da!’ she said, advancing in dance steps. Bordelli, who was nearly asleep, gave a start.
‘Inspector … You wouldn’t be turning into an old fogey on me, now, would you?’ Rosa asked, setting the tray down on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
‘Maybe I am,’ he said, yawning. Rosa popped the cork out of the bottle. Bordelli sat up and yawned again. The just-opened Monbazillac gave off a sweet odour of nobly mildewed grapes, and Bordelli felt at peace with the world.
‘Uncouth as you are, you’ll probably think it tastes like Lambrusco,’ she said, filling the goblets. Bordelli picked his up, but as he brought it to his lips, Rosa grabbed his arm.
‘Wait, you big monkey! We need to make a toast!’ she said, all excited. One could never open a bottle at her place without toasting. She’d picked up the habit in France – that is, in Paris, which she seemed to think counted for all of France.
‘To your marriage,’ Bordelli proposed, trying to clink his glass with Rosa’s, but she pulled hers away suddenly, almost spilling the wine.
‘I’ve manage to avoid it for this long … You little shit!’ she said.
‘Then you decide.’
‘Let’s toast the person who bumped off the loan shark … May he live long and never be caught by you. What do you say?’ she asked, raising her glass.
‘We can certainly toast him, though you know of course he’ll never escape me.’
They were about to clink glasses when Rosa pulled hers away again.
‘Dahnlezyé …’8 she said.
‘Don’t cheat, monkey, look me in the eyes or it doesn’t count.’ Another Parisian custom, according to her.
‘How’s this?’ Bordelli asked, looking her straight in the eye with his own wide open. The glasses touched and made a fine crystal sound. They drank a sip. Words could not describe the fragrances rising into their noses. Gideon stretched, opened his eyes, cast a bleary glance at them and went back to sleep.
‘You can’t send him to jail,’ said Rosa, a gleam of triumph in her eye, ‘he’s done humanity a favour.’
‘I certainly can, just you watch.’
‘No, no, no,’ she said, smiling, taking a generous sip of wine.
Bordelli did the same, emptying his glass.
‘This yellow nectar’s not bad,’ he said. She refilled the glasses, trying to impart great refinement to her gestures. As she grabbed the bottle by the neck, her little finger immediately shot up. Bordelli had once tried to tell her that if she moved more naturally she would be even more beautiful, and she had replied with something like:
‘Do you mean to say that an old whore who never got past the first grade can only spit on the floor, curse, and scratch herself between the legs?’ But this was another reason Bordelli was so fond of her: she never minced words. Rosa slapped him lightly on the knee.
‘Hm?’ he replied groggily, again lost in thoughts about Badalamenti.
‘What’s wrong with you? Have you fallen in love again?’ asked Rosa, worried.
‘I’m just a little tired.’
She seemed satisfied with his answer.
‘Another toast, Inspector?’
‘To your beauty.’
‘Oh, go on!’ she said, giggling, and held up her glass.
17 December
‘A loan shark?’ Baragli asked, opening his eyes slightly wider.
Although it was early morning, he was very weak.
‘He lived near me,’ Bordelli said.
‘Inspector, those who sow the wind …’ said Baragli, lifting his shoulders just enough to make his point. The inspector approved with a nod.
‘Here, I brought you this,’ he said, taking a book out of his coat pocket.
‘Thanks, Inspector.’ Baragli took the book in his trembling hands and looked at the cover: Edgar Allan Poe – Stories.
‘They’re tales of the mysterious,’ said Bordelli.
‘Just what I needed … Could you put it over there, please?’
The inspector laid the book down on the bedside table. Baragli had lost more weight, and one could see the shape of his skull through the skin on his face. A nurse came in and put some pills in his hand. She had dark hair, looked about thirty, quite pretty and full of life.
‘How are we doing today, Oreste?’ she said, handing him a glass of water.
‘Whenever I see you I feel a lot better,’ he said, smiling.
‘Then tonight I’ll come and sleep in your bed.’
‘Do you want me to choke on my medicine?’ the sergeant said with the pills already in his mouth.The nurse laughed and exchanged glances with Bordelli. Then she left, humming.
‘Cute,’ said Bordelli.
‘All nurses should be like her.’
‘I agree.’
‘So, with a pair of scissors, you were saying?’ Baragli resumed.
‘Yeah, right here, in the neck,’ said Bordelli, touching the base of his nape with a finger. Then he started telling the sergeant how he’d discovered Badalamenti’s hidey-hole, the IOUs and rigged contracts, and the woman who’d been blackmailed. The sergeant listened to Bor
delli with great interest. The nostalgia for his former job shone in his eyes.
‘It was probably one of his debtors that did it,’ Baragli muttered with a wheezy voice.
‘That’s exactly where I’ll begin.’
‘You’ve got your work cut out for you, if there are as many as you say.’
‘I’ll try to be patient.’
‘What does Dr Diotivede think about all this?’ Baragli asked.
‘He hasn’t finished with the body yet, but according to him, he’s already told me all there is to say.’
‘You never know …’
‘I also found some photographs of a very young girl hidden behind a picture frame on the wall. I’ve got some men looking for her,’ said Bordelli, to let him feel part of the investigation.
And indeed the sergeant seemed pleased.
‘Pretty?’ he asked.
‘Very,’ said Bordelli.
Baragli turned slowly towards the window and remained silent for a while, looking outside. The weather was still nasty.
Now and then a couple of drops fell, but it wasn’t really raining yet. Bordelli looked at the sergeant and thought about all the years they’d spent together in Via Zara … it seemed like yesterday …
‘A game of cards, Inspector?’ asked Baragli, trying to sit up in bed.
‘Why not?’
Bordelli took the cards out of the drawer and they began to play. Baragli was very weak. He took a long time choosing his card, then simply dropped it on the sheet. Every minute or so he grimaced and touched his stomach. A few minutes later the surgeon came in, followed by two very young assistants.
‘How are you feeling, Sergeant?’ the doctor asked, reading the hospital chart at the foot of the bed. He was short and looked like a wicked pistolero in a Western.
‘I can’t breathe, Doctor, and I’m having terrible shooting pains here,’ said Baragli, touching his upper abdomen.
‘That’s normal after an operation like yours.’
‘It gets worse every day …’
‘It’ll get better soon,’ said the surgeon. The two assistants exchanged a glance. Baragli noticed but said nothing. Bordelli saw everything and felt a pang in his heart. The doctor wrote something on the chart, said goodbye, and went to talk to the other patients, still followed by his assistants.
‘He didn’t tell me the truth,’ the sergeant said in a soft voice, sighing.
‘Whose turn was it?’ Bordelli asked.
They resumed playing, but the inspector kept an eye on the surgeon. As soon as he saw him leave the room, he told Baragli he needed to go to the bathroom. He followed the surgeon and caught up with him at the end of the corridor.
‘Excuse me, Doctor, I’m Inspector Bordelli, a colleague of the sergeant’s.’
The doctor shook his hand.
‘Pleasure. Cataliotti.’
‘How is Baragli, Doctor? Tell me sincerely.’
The doctor shook his head and lowered his voice.
‘Unfortunately he hasn’t got much time left,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘How long?’
‘It’s hard to say. Could be a few weeks, maybe less. Nobody can really know for certain,’ he said, throwing his hands up.
Bordelli sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ he said.
‘Not at all.’
They shook hands again and the surgeon walked away. The inspector stayed in the corridor to smoke a cigarette in front of a large window. It was starting to drizzle, and a light wind was moving the treetops. A few open umbrellas could be seen along the hospital’s footpaths outside.
He stubbed out the butt in a large ashtray on a tripod, then returned to Baragli’s bedside. He found him asleep and felt pleased. If he’d been awake he might have been able to read in the inspector’s face what he’d just learned from the doctor.
Bordelli put the cards away, adjusted the pillow behind Baragli’s head, and turned off the light on the bedside table. Glancing at the chart at the foot of the bed, he read what the surgeon had written: morphine. As he left he crossed paths with the pretty dark-haired nurse, and they exchanged a smile.
‘Tell me, Inspector Bordelli, what else can I do for you?’ Judge Ginzillo said, sighing.
‘What else’, my arse, Bordelli thought, but said nothing.
Ginzillo flashed a cold smile and seemed a little tense. His hands were resting on the desk, entwined like creeping vines, and his rat-face was staring at the inspector. Bordelli had sat down in front of him without removing his trench coat and was sweating a little. It was always too hot in that office, even hotter than at police headquarters.
‘Nothing special, sir. It’s just that this morning I woke with a keen desire to come here and thank you,’ said Bordelli.
The judge got a whiff of the irony and pinched his nostrils.
‘For what?’ he said, pretending not to know.
‘Do you remember the search warrant I asked you for, way back in February of this year?’
‘What was that in connection with?’
Bordelli refrained from telling him to his face that he was a spineless hypocrite.
‘Don’t you remember?’ he said simply, smiling.
‘I can hardly remember everything, now, can I?’ said Ginzillo, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.
‘I’m sorry, you’re right. May I refresh your memory?’
‘Please.’
‘I came here and asked you for a search warrant for the home of a certain Totuccio Badalamenti, a loan-sharking son of a bitch and extortionist,’ he said in a serene tone of voice.
Ginzillo threw up his hands.
‘Why must you always be so vulgar, Inspector?’
‘Was I being vulgar? I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware of it.’
‘Go on,’ said Ginzillo, wiping away a drop of sweat from his chin.
‘I wanted to point out to you that now Badalamenti’s dead, I don’t need the search warrant any more …’ said Bordelli.
‘And this is a great boon for the bureaucracy, don’t you think?’
The judge nodded almost imperceptibly, a smile of suspicion on his face. He couldn’t make out what the oddball inspector was getting at.
‘A nasty murder. You’re handling the case, are you not?’ he said.
‘Yes, I’m handling it.’
‘Have you already discovered something?’
‘Do you really care?’ asked the inspector, pretending to be greatly surprised.
Ginzillo was getting nervous.
‘Why all this bitterness, Bordelli?’
‘No bitterness at all, sir, on the contrary. As I said, I’ve come here to thank you. I would much rather have someone like Badalamenti dead than in jail. And if you want to know how I really feel, I think whoever killed him should be given some sort of medal of honour by the state.’
‘Be careful what you say, Inspector. Don’t forget you’re talking to a judge.’
‘In the end it was you, sir, who decided Badalamenti’s fate. One could almost say that it was you who killed him.’
The judge screwed up his mouth, looking hysterical.
‘What the hell are you saying?’ he said, squirming in his chair.
‘I’m saying that if you’d locked the prick up in jail—’
‘Lower your voice.’
‘Let me finish … If you’d locked that giant prick up, he would still be alive today. Maybe forced by his cellmates to eat his own balls for breakfast, but alive, at no small daily cost to honest, taxpaying citizens. So, in short, with this murder, everybody wins, even the state. And it’s all thanks to you,’ Bordelli concluded. He was really starting to have fun. This was why he’d gone to see the rat in the first place, to lure him into the trap, step by little step.
The judge adjusted his glasses with his forefinger, with the expression of someone making a great effort to tolerate another’s una
cceptable behaviour.
‘I must confess that I really don’t like policemen of your ilk one bit, Inspector Bordelli,’ he said, staring at him.
‘Coming from you, that makes me very happy,’ said the inspector, relaxed.
Ginzillo pretended not to understand the subject of the discussion. He was far more interested in what he still hadn’t grasped. He felt uneasy and tried to assume an air of authority.
‘My dear Inspector, it seems to me you’re in need of a little lesson.’
‘I’m all ears, sir.’
‘Until you show me some evidence to the contrary, Signor Badalamenti, whether dead or alive, is an honest citizen like everyone else, is that clear? Perhaps you should review the police manual,’ said Ginzillo, satisfied with his own irony.
Bordelli could barely suppress a smile. Since first entering that office he’d been waiting for just such a statement, and he wanted to enjoy the scene while it lasted. Allowing a dramatic pause, but not too long, he finally beamed, one of those smiles that Ginzillo didn’t like at all.
‘Actually I came just to tell you that yesterday I went to Badalamenti’s apartment and found what I was looking for.’
‘Namely?’ asked the judge, a little anxious.
‘Namely … Under a tile in the living room, I found his secret cache.’
‘His secret cache?’ asked the judge, exposing his gums.
The inspector pulled from his pocket the pistol he’d found at Badalamenti’s and set it down on the desk. Ginzillo looked at it as though someone had laid a dog turd down in front of him.
‘The gun is unregistered. That alone would be enough to send him to jail,’ said Bordelli.Then he pulled out an envelope, extracted a little stack of promissory notes, and slid these under the judge’s nose. Ginzillo withdrew his hands and looked at them without touching them. Bordelli smiled.
‘It’s not shit, sir. They’re promissory notes,’ he said.
The judge’s mouth tightened as he swallowed yet another obscenity by the arrogant inspector.
‘I can see for myself that they’re promissory notes. So what?’ he said, his voice quavering a little. Bordelli pulled out a cigarette but didn’t light it.
‘There’s also a complete list of the names and amounts lent out, with the interest and due dates. It doesn’t take much to realise that with that sort of arrangement you could ruin even Fiat.’
