Death in Sardinia

by Marco Vichi

  He stopped at the Ibba bar and drank a cup of coffee, then covered all of Via Parpaglia on foot, ringing Musillo’s buzzer at eleven o’clock sharp. The great door giving on to the street came open. Piras took the lift, and when he got to the first floor, he saw the lawyer waiting for him in the doorway. He was a short man of about fifty, with a great deal of hair that was still black, and thick glasses. Noticing the crutches, Musillo seemed momentarily embarrassed. He greeted Piras with a very firm handshake, showed him in and closed the door. The vestibule was empty but for a coat rack, an umbrella stand and an old upholstered chair. They went into the office.

  ‘Are you sure you’re an active-duty policeman?’ Musillo asked wryly, seeing him limp. He had two penetrating eyes like a nightbird’s, enlarged by his glasses.

  ‘Not to sound rhetorical, but a policeman is always on duty,’ Piras said with a smile.

  The lawyer nodded and went and sat down behind his desk, which was covered with folders and documents stacked in orderly fashion. The room was not big and had one wall entirely covered by a bookcase full of tomes and a glass-fronted cabinet overflowing with files. Piras collapsed with relief into a chair and leaned his crutches against the chair beside him. Just so there should be no doubt, he took out his badge and showed it to Musillo.

  ‘I had no doubt,’ the lawyer said with a mendacious little grin.

  ‘But now you can be certain,’ said Piras, putting the badge back in his pocket. The lawyer closed his eyes, and for a moment his face seemed vacant.

  ‘I have to confess that I would never have expected a man like Benigno Staffa to do such a thing,’ he said, head swaying slightly.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I don’t know, it’s just a feeling.’

  ‘It’s hard to know what goes on in other people’s minds,’ said Piras, not wanting to reveal his own suspicions about the mysterious suicide.

  ‘Please give the family my condolences,’ said Musillo.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So, tell me, Piras, what did you want to ask me?’

  ‘Well, I was told that Benigno had hired you to sell some land here in Oristano.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Land suitable for building, correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was there already a buyer?’

  ‘An offer had been made, but negotiations were just beginning,’ said Musillo, looking for a folder among the many on his desk.

  ‘A developer, I imagine?’ said Piras.

  ‘That’s right. One of those who are in the process of changing the face of Oristano,’ Musillo said with a bitter smile.

  ‘What’s his name?’ asked Piras.

  By way of reply, the lawyer passed him the file, which he had finally found. On the cover were the names Staffa-Pintus. It contained a map of the land in question, a cadastral survey, the declaration of succession by Benigno’s uncle, and a page from a notebook with the builder’s vital statistics, written in hand: Agostino Pintus, Eng., born at Custoza di Sommacampagna (Verona province), 16 July 1912, residing in Oristano at Via Marconi 33 bis.

  ‘The son of émigrés?’ Piras asked, looking up. The lawyer nodded and smiled.

  ‘I asked him the same thing. I was curious because he has a Sardinian surname but talks with a Veneto accent.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said he was born and raised in the Veneto, but his parents came from a town in Cagliari province,’ said Musillo.

  ‘He lost both parents when he was thirty, and after the war decided to come and live here in Sardinia.’

  ‘He’s done well for himself.’

  ‘He certainly has.’

  ‘And had anyone else shown interest in that land?’ Piras enquired.

  The lawyer leaned back slowly in his chair. ‘Mr Staffa asked me to take only one offer at a time. He didn’t like confusion.’

  ‘You were saying he hadn’t fully reached an agreement with Mr Pintus …’

  ‘Pintus made me a verbal offer and asked me to refer it to Benigno. But Benigno wouldn’t agree to the price. He wanted to get as much as possible for the land and was in no hurry. I must admit, however, that the payment terms were quite attractive.’

  ‘I guess developers can afford it,’ said Piras.

  ‘Of course, but just to make sure I informed myself as to Mr Pintus’s solvency. The banks treat the man with kid gloves. He seems to be one of the richest developers in the region.’

  ‘So everything was in order.’

  ‘It seemed like a good deal to me, and I said so to Mr Staffa.’

  ‘May I ask how much the engineer offered?’

  ‘Thirteen million five hundred thousand lire. Half upon signing the contract of agreement, the balance upon settlement, payable within six months.’

  ‘A tidy sum,’ commented Piras.

  ‘And practically in cash. But our friend Benigno wanted five hundred lire more per square metre, and he dug in his heels. And Pintus wouldn’t budge from his price of forty-five hundred.’

  ‘And you tried to make them meet halfway …?’

  ‘I was trying, but it was all very complicated. Not least because Signor Benigno didn’t have a telephone at home. He would call me from the bar in Tramatza, once every couple of days, more or less,’ the lawyer said, shrugging.

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Last Sunday, actually, the day of the tragedy. He’d come here to see me,’ said Musillo.

  ‘At what time of day?’

  ‘Around five. I’d been trying for some time to arrange a first meeting between him and Engineer Pintus, hoping to get things moving again. It wasn’t easy, because Benigno was very stubborn and didn’t even want to hear about anything under five thousand per square metre. Pintus, on the other hand, said he wouldn’t pay one lira more, had checked his books carefully, and simply couldn’t pay more than that. By bringing them together, I had hoped that one of them would give in.’

  ‘Why on a Sunday?’ Piras interrupted.

  ‘My meetings with Benigno were always on Sundays, because he said he had too much to do during the week. It wasn’t really a problem for me, since I live close by.’

  ‘And how did the meeting go?’

  ‘Badly … and something happened that I still don’t understand.’

  ‘What was that?’ Piras asked eagerly.

  ‘The engineer arrived early. When Benigno rang the doorbell, I went to let him in and whispered to him not to be pig headed, because he was being offered a very good deal. He made a joke and seemed to be in a good mood. I thought he’d finally decided to accept the engineer’s terms and felt pleased at the idea of pocketing all that money. Everything seemed settled, in other words. And so we went into the office. But when I introduced him to Pintus, Benigno’s expression changed. He looked at Pintus very strangely …’

  ‘What do you mean, “strangely”?’

  ‘I don’t know how to put it … At first I thought he simply didn’t like the man.’

  ‘And after?’

  ‘Then we all sat down. Pintus said he could move up the settlement date to four months, and if they agreed on the deal he could make an immediate down payment of two million. But his offer was still forty-five hundred per square metre, and not one lira more. Benigno just kept staring at Pintus in that strange way, without saying anything …’

  ‘As if he was angry?’ Piras interrupted.

  ‘Not really angry, but … astonished.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Pintus seemed a little irritated by Benigno’s silence, but in the end he smiled. He pulled out his chequebook and asked me for a pen. I didn’t even have the time to hand him one before Benigno stood up, said he’d changed his mind, and was out the door. It was almost as if he was running away from something. Pintus said something to try to make him stay, but Benigno didn’t even turn round, and before we knew it, we heard the front door close downstairs. I was terribly embarrass
ed. It had taken me a long time to set up that meeting, and everything seemed to have gone up in smoke … But of course it turned out to be much worse than that.’

  ‘And how did Pintus take it?’

  ‘He was very upset. And he didn’t understand what had happened, either. He merely said that his offer was good for another week, put his chequebook back in his pocket, and went away frowning.’

  ‘And a few hours later Benigno shot himself,’ said Piras.

  ‘I still have trouble believing it,’ said the lawyer, big eyes blinking behind his glasses.

  ‘Has Pintus got a telephone?’

  ‘The number’s in the phone book, but I’ll write it down for you, if you like,’ said Musillo.

  ‘No need to bother but, if you don’t mind, I’d like to copy the personal information on Pintus.’

  ‘Just take the piece of paper from the folder.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, and have a good Christmas,’ said Piras, standing up.

  ‘And a happy Christmas to you and your family as well.’ The lawyer showed him out, and at the door they shook hands.

  ‘If Pintus should happen to call you … please don’t tell him you talked to me,’ said Piras.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t mention it to anyone.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir. I’m afraid I’ll have to bother you again if I need you.’

  ‘A mellus biri,’22 Musillo said with a smile.

  Just before one o’clock Bordelli parked the Beetle in front of the Trattoria da Cesare, but instead of going directly into Totò’s kitchen, he started walking towards the Mugnone. He wanted to see Marisa again, to ask her … well, some important questions. Sort of.

  In front of the liceo were the usual mothers, sitting in their cars, waiting. It had just stopped raining, and the benches in Piazza della Vittoria were wet. As it was cold, Bordelli started pacing back and forth under the trees. The sky was in motion, and the dark clouds gathering promised more rain. He heard the bell ring inside the school, and the kids started pouring out. He looked for Marisa, without crossing the street. Everything was the same as the last time. People waving to one another, kids getting into cars. Scooters and bicycles leaving. Small groups of students formed up and down the pavement, then stood around laughing and talking. Bordelli got distracted looking at a girl dressed and coiffed exactly like her mother, who had come to get her, and he didn’t spot Marisa until she was turning the corner of Via Ruffini. He calmly crossed the street and started following her. Marisa was alone and walking fast. When she disappeared round the corner of Via XX Settembre, he quickened his pace and, once round the corner, saw her hurriedly crossing the lawn along the bank of the Mugnone. On the road parallel to the grass was a fire-red Fiat 850 coupé following her at the same speed. Every so often she turned to look at the car and shook her head. Then the car accelerated and came to a stop farther up. A tall youth got out and leaned with his back against a tree, trying to look tough. When Marisa reached the boy she stopped and they started talking. When she tried to leave, the youth grabbed her arm. At that moment Bordelli arrived on the scene, out of breath.

  ‘Hello, Marisa,’ he said.

  The girl turned round and, seeing the inspector, blushed up to her ears. The boy let go of her arm. He was tall and thin with short hair, but had the same attitude as those English tough guys he’d heard at Guido’s house. Under his open leather jacket he was wearing only a light T-shirt. A real superman. He stared at Bordelli without saying anything, chewing gum.

  ‘Everything all right?’ asked Bordelli.

  ‘What the hell is it to you?’ the youth said.

  ‘I had the impression the young lady didn’t want to be bothered.’

  ‘Mind your own fucking business, Grandad.’

  ‘I can’t. I have a Robin Hood complex.’

  ‘She’s my girlfriend,’ he said. Marisa said nothing, but merely stood there, holding her satchel and looking annoyed. Her dark eyes were like two stones just removed from the embers.

  ‘Is that true?’ the inspector asked her. She looked at the boy as if she wanted to set him on fire, then shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘Marisa …’ the youth said impatiently. He tried to come closer but she took a step back.

  ‘Don’t touch me.’ She was absolutely beautiful so angry.

  ‘Could I talk to you alone for a minute?’ Bordelli asked the girl.

  ‘You want to tell me what the hell you want?’ the youth said threateningly.

  ‘I’m Inspector Bordelli, police. I’d simply like to talk to the girl for a moment.’

  ‘Police?’ the boy said, changing expression. Bordelli nodded.

  ‘Don’t leave, I may need you too,’ he said. The youth looked at Marisa.

  ‘Would you tell me what the hell is going on?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said with a shrug. She seemed a little calmer.

  ‘What do you mean, nothing?’

  ‘It’s nothing serious,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘I didn’t ask you,’ the youth said, agitated.

  ‘Come on, Marco …’ Marisa took the boy by the arm and pulled him a few yards away. They spoke in low voices for a couple of minutes, then Marco went towards his red car, got inside, and sat there as though waiting.

  ‘Was it just a quarrel?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘I don’t trust him. He’s a cad,’ said Marisa, casting a nervous glance in the direction of the little sports car.

  ‘Have you been together a long time?’

  ‘I left him this summer, and today he reappeared.’

  ‘Sounds like the opening of an interesting film,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘Not with me.’

  ‘You never know.’

  ‘He flirts too much with other girls, and I don’t like it.’

  ‘Does this Marco know anything about the photographs?’

  ‘This is the first I’ve seen of him since August,’ she said under her breath.

  ‘So only your brother knows about them?’

  ‘He’s the only one … And I know you talked to him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lele wouldn’t hurt a fly, I know him too well,’ Marisa said softly.

  ‘Most killers have mothers and sisters.’

  ‘Lele is not a killer.’

  ‘I didn’t say he was,’ said Bordelli. At moments he fell under the spell of the girl’s face, noticing the tiniest movements of her eyebrows and lips … And he felt like a drooling old goat. That black pearl wasn’t even eighteen years old. He had to keep repeating it to himself: she’s a child, she’s only a child …

  ‘Inspector?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I asked you why you came looking for me … I’d like to go home,’ the girl said, a bit coquettishly.

  ‘Of course … I wanted to ask you if … perhaps you’d forgotten to tell me anything important.’

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know.’

  ‘Are you sure? Think it over carefully.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure,’ she said.

  ‘One final thing. That boy, Marco … Do you swear he knows nothing?’

  ‘I swear it,’ Marisa said without batting an eye.

  ‘What’s his surname?’

  ‘Bandinelli.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘On the Lungarno Torrigiani … Why do you ask?’

  ‘No specific reason,’ the inspector said. At that moment he suspected he’d gone to talk to Marisa simply because he wanted to see her again, and was worried he might blush.

  ‘Can I go?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, of course, sorry to have bothered you.’ Marisa shook his hand to say goodbye and started walking home without turning round to look back at Marco. Bordelli approached the youth’s sports car and bent down at the window.

  ‘How long has it been since you last saw Marisa?’ he asked.

  ‘Not since the summer, more or less. Why? Would somebody
please tell me what’s going on?’ the youth said.

  ‘A fly ate a cypress,’ the inspector said, and walked away. His mother used to answer him that way when he was a child, and it always made him angry. The 850 started up, and he heard the tyres screech on the asphalt. Apparently the lad didn’t like that answer any more than he had. He’d decided to let him go because he was certain that Marisa had told him the truth. Marco knew nothing of the whole affair and didn’t even know who Badalamenti was. Bordelli turned round. Marisa was gone. Shivering in his trench coat, he kept on walking along the Mugnone, pleased that he felt quite hungry. The touch of Marisa’s handshake was still palpable in his hand, and he thought again of Milena, dark Milena, over whom he’d lost his head the year before …

  Bordelli was in Totò’s kitchen, having managed to erase the image of Milena’s face from his mind by dint of pasta al forno and spezzatino di cinghiale.23 In his hand he held a little glass full of illegal grappa. It was cold outside, and the alcohol gave him hope. Totò had earned a minute of rest and filled two demitasses with black coffee, but only after having put the sugar in, as the inspector had asked him to do. It was only right to share knowledge that made life better. The cook sat down beside him. Bordelli finally lit his third cigarette of the day, holding it far from the grappa.

  ‘So, Inspector, what are the police up to these days? Any difficult murders?’

  ‘I’m trying to find out who killed a loan shark,’ Bordelli said.

  ‘How was he killed?’

  ‘Stabbed in the neck with a pair of scissors.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I read about it in La Nazione, but they didn’t say the guy was a loan shark.’

  ‘Proof of his “profession” was found later.’

  ‘Well, I can see why you people have it in for us Southerners, when you’ve got pricks like that coming up here …’ the cook said scornfully.