Death and the Olive Grove

by Marco Vichi

  ‘Are they lucid when they kill, or in a state of frenzy?’

  ‘Both things are possible, but I think in either case their will is dominated by an uncontrollable force, even when the murder has been planned well in advance.’

  ‘Are they guilty, in your opinion?’

  ‘You may not like to hear this, but I have to be honest and say no. In a moral sense, I mean.’

  A bumblebee entered through the open window, passed once over their heads and went back out to the garden.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Fabiani. I’ll leave you to your azaleas,’ Bordelli said, standing up. The psychoanalyst got up with him, and they went out into the garden.

  ‘I also need to plant my basil,’ said Fabiani, pointing to a large basin resting atop a little pillar of bricks and shining in the sunlight.

  ‘Do you think I could grow basil on my little kitchen balcony?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘Of course. You need only water it daily.’

  ‘I’ll give it a try.’

  ‘When will I see you again, Inspector?’ Fabiani asked at the gate.

  ‘As soon as I settle this case, I’d like to have another dinner party at my place, with Botta at the cooker.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to join you.’

  ‘I’m counting on it.’ They exchanged a firm handshake.

  ‘Good luck, Inspector,’ said Fabiani, hinting at a smile.

  ‘I’ll catch him soon,’ Bordelli muttered. The doctor made a last gesture of goodbye, then shut the gate and walked slowly back towards his plants.

  When Bordelli got to the police station it was almost nine o’clock, but he wasn’t very hungry. The moment Mugnai saw him, he came up to him with a piece of paper in his hand.

  ‘A certain Manfredini phoned for you, Inspector. He said to call him at once at this number.’

  Bordelli snatched the scrap of paper from his hand.

  ‘What time did he call?’ he asked.

  ‘About half an hour ago.’

  Bordelli raced upstairs to his office and rang Manfredini. Someone picked up after the first ring.

  ‘Yes, hello?’

  ‘What is it, Manfredini?’

  ‘Inspector, could you come to my place immediately?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do you still want to talk to Simone?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Could you come to my flat?’

  ‘I’ll be right over.’

  The inspector hung up the telephone and dashed out of the station. He felt less hungry than ever. He drove up Via Bolognese, and when he turned on to Via Trieste he saw Piras parked at the corner of the street staring at the front door of Fantini’s building. He pulled up alongside and honked the horn. The Sardinian rolled down the window.

  ‘Nothing to report, Inspector.’

  ‘Piras, don’t tell me you’ve been here since eleven …’

  ‘It’s no great effort on my part, sir,’ said the young man, ears turning red.

  ‘Get in my car.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Hurry.’

  Piras locked his car and got into the Beetle.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, puzzled.

  ‘To Manfredini’s.’

  ‘Some new development?’

  ‘Apparently we’re going to talk to Simone.’

  ‘Shit!’

  They drove down Via Trieste and then back up Via Stibbert. The sky was blue and cloudless. They rang Manfredini’s buzzer and the door opened at once. The young man was waiting for them at the door to his flat. He shook the two policemen’s hands and showed them into the drawing room. All three remained standing, looking at one another in silence. Then Manfredini sighed.

  ‘Simone is ready to talk to you,’ he said.

  ‘Where is he?’ Bordelli asked.

  ‘First tell me something, Inspector … Will you arrest him?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Manfredini stared long and hard at Piras, as if trying to understand from him what was about to happen. Then he looked back at the inspector.

  ‘Simone’s here,’ he said.

  ‘Was he here yesterday?’

  ‘He was hiding downstairs in the cellar.’

  ‘Bring him in.’

  Manfredini nodded, went out of the drawing room and quickly returned with his cousin. Bordelli and Piras were still standing in the middle of the room. Simone was even more handsome than in the photos. His dark, slanted eyes glowed with an intense light.

  ‘Hello, Inspector,’ he said. He had a beautiful voice, and even Piras, despite himself, could only look at him in admiration. The fact that he was so friendly with Sonia was hard for him to swallow.

  ‘Shall we sit down?’ said Bordelli. All four sat down.

  ‘Is it all right if I stay?’ asked Manfredini.

  ‘I’ve got nothing against it,’ said Bordelli. Simone was very tense, and looked at the two policemen with suspicion.

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘I know,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘You tell him, Piras.’

  The Sardinian sat up and looked Simone straight in the eye. He really is beautiful, he thought, before beginning to speak.

  ‘Signora Beniamini saw you from behind, walking down the path when the little girl – who was already dead – lay a good distance up ahead. Only afterwards did she see you go off the path towards the trees. Why on earth would the killer go back to look at the girl right after killing her?’

  Simone shook his head.

  ‘I saw something red on the ground and went up to it without realising what it was. And then I saw that it was a little girl, and so I bent down over her, thinking she was unwell. Only afterwards did I realise she was dead. Then, when I saw that witch, Beniamini, I thought I was done for … That woman hates me.’

  ‘Because of her daughter Ottavia?’ asked Piras.

  ‘You already know?’ asked Simone, stunned.

  ‘We do – it’s Ottavia’s mum who doesn’t know … She thinks you don’t even know each other,’ said Piras with a smile of satisfaction. Simone shrugged.

  ‘What were you doing in that park, Signor Fantini?’ Bordelli asked, taking out a cigarette.

  ‘Why do you ask? So you don’t believe me …’ Simone said, upset.

  ‘Calm down. I’ve already told you what I think. All I want to know is whether you saw anyone in the general area that morning.’

  Simone ran a hand over his sweaty face and nodded.

  ‘Shortly before finding the little girl under the trees, I saw a man. He was coming towards me, and we walked past each other. He seemed calm to me, not—’

  ‘What time was it?’

  ‘About half past nine, more or less.’

  ‘Where, exactly, did you see him?’

  ‘On a small path parallel to the one where I saw the girl.’

  ‘Are there usually many people around there?’

  ‘I hardly ever see anyone. They’re usually all on the grass or by the river.’

  ‘What sort of man was he?’

  ‘Slender, about my height.’ Simone looked to be about six feet tall.

  ‘How old do you think he was?’

  ‘About fifty, maybe a bit older.’

  ‘Would you recognise him again?’

  ‘I didn’t get a good look at him. He was wearing a hat and a scarf that covered almost half his face. At first he looked as if he had a toothache … but I didn’t pay much attention … I never imagined at the time that anyone would ask me what he looked like … Anyway, I’m not very good with faces.’

  Bordelli shook his head and crushed his cigarette in an ashtray.

  ‘I did notice, however, that he was missing a finger,’ Simone added.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Absolutely. When he was just a few yards away from me, he started taking his gloves off. At that moment his hat was blown off by a gust o
f wind and fell practically at my feet. I picked it up to give it back to him, and as I was handing it to him I noticed that he was missing the little finger on one hand, the left hand. I always look at people’s hands, I don’t know why.’

  ‘Do you remember anything else?’

  ‘Ask me some things.’

  ‘Hair?’

  ‘Dark and very short.’

  Francesco Manfredini had sat down to one side and was silently following their conversation.

  ‘What sort of gloves was he wearing?’ Bordelli continued.

  ‘Black leather. I remember thinking: how strange, wearing gloves in this heat. But it was just a thought …’

  ‘Shoes?’

  ‘I didn’t notice.’

  ‘What sort of hat did he have?’ asked Piras.

  The young man thought about this for a moment.

  ‘I think it was black, with a wide brim … Come to think of it, when I grabbed it, I noticed a name inside: Beltrami.’

  ‘That’s a shop in the centre of town, right, Piras?’

  ‘I think it’s in Via Roma,’ replied the Sardinian.

  ‘Can you think of anything else?’ Bordelli asked Simone, who stared at the floor, searching his memory. He remained that way for a few seconds, then looked up.

  ‘There was one thing that struck me. When I gave him his hat back, he didn’t react – didn’t even thank me with a nod or gesture … I can’t remember anything else,’ said Simone, staring into space.

  ‘Tell me something. Did your friend Sonia know you were hiding?’ Bordelli asked, which made Piras give a start.

  Simone squirmed and then exchanged a glance with his cousin.

  ‘No need to say anything, I already know the answer,’ said the inspector, thinking that, unlike Francesco, the Sicilian girl was a very good actress. Then he gestured to Piras and they stood up together.

  ‘If you remember anything else, ring me at once,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘Of course,’ the young man said, rising to his feet. Francesco joined the group, and they all headed for the door. Shaking hands, they said goodbye, taking care not to cross arms.

  ‘Ah, incidentally, Fantini, Sonia let us into your flat, and I stole a short story of yours,’ Bordelli said, looking him in the eye.

  ‘Which one?’ Simone asked, slightly alarmed.

  ‘The Tower,’ said Bordelli, pretending not to notice the lad’s unease.

  ‘And what did you think of it?’ Simone asked, exchanging a glance with his cousin. Piras didn’t know what they were talking about and looked on with curiosity.

  ‘It’s a good story. I’d like to hang on to it,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘That’s not what I meant … I was referring … to the subject,’ Simone stammered.

  ‘Coincidence,’ said the inspector, shrugging his shoulders. Simone remained silent for a few seconds, then smiled faintly.

  ‘You can keep it,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks … Let’s go, Piras.’ They gestured goodbye and headed down the stairs.

  The sun was high in the sky, with small white tufts of cloud that looked like cotton wads. Piras was frowning, as though not understanding something. Once they were in the car, Bordelli stuck a cigarette in his mouth, but let his assistant understand that he wouldn’t light it and that this cost him great effort.

  ‘Thanks, Inspector … What was that story you mentioned to Fantini?’

  ‘Something he wrote himself. Want to read it?’

  ‘All right,’ said Piras, mouth tense. He seemed afraid to discover that Simone was not only good looking but also a good writer. Bordelli opened the glove compartment, took out the story and put it on the Sardinian’s lap.

  ‘Don’t lose it,’ he said, then turned on the ignition and started driving down Via Stibbert. Piras opened the first page of The Tower and fixed his eyes on it, but immediately stopped because reading in a moving car made him feel like throwing up.

  The sun had warmed the seats of the Beetle. Spring was finally starting to make itself felt.

  ‘What do you think of Simone, Piras?’

  ‘He’s certainly good looking,’ said the Sardinian, pretending to be perfectly calm and therefore objective. Bordelli smiled.

  ‘I meant what do you think of what he said,’ he specified.

  The level crossing at Via Vittorio Emanuele was closed, and so the inspector turned on to Via Trieste.

  ‘I think he’s telling the truth,’ said Piras.

  ‘I agree. Anyway, don’t worry, I’m almost positive Sonia and Simone are really just friends. Although …’

  ‘Although?’ asked Piras, holding his breath.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Bordelli, lighting the cigarette, since at that moment Piras wouldn’t even notice.

  ‘Well, those things are none of my business,’ said the Sardinian, squeezing Simone’s manuscript.

  ‘What about the man with the missing little finger? What do you think of him?’

  ‘He’s worth tracking down,’ said Piras.

  ‘Exactly,’ Bordelli murmured.

  When they passed in front of Sonia’s building, Piras looked up at her windows. Realising this, Bordelli started laughing.

  ‘Are we already so far gone, Piras?’

  ‘I was just looking at the sky, Inspector,’ said the Sardinian, taking longer than necessary to put Simone Fantini’s story in his jacket pocket. Bordelli downshifted to second and, seeing that nobody was coming, turned on to Via Bolognese.

  ‘What time do shops reopen, Piras?’

  ‘Four o’clock.’

  ‘At any rate the beautiful Sicilian girl made monkeys out of us both, my dear sardegnolo.’

  ‘Sardegnolo is only used for dunces,’ said Piras, fairly miffed.

  At ten minutes to four, the Beetle was parked in Via Roma in front of Beltrami’s haberdashery, smoke floating out of its open windows. Piras was pacing back and forth on the pavement so he wouldn’t have to breathe the foul air inside the car.

  At four o’clock sharp a man of somewhat simian appearance and with a large head stopped in front of the Beltrami display window, pulled out some keys, unlocked and raised the rolling shutter with the ease of habit, entered the shop and turned on the lights. Bordelli got out of the car and waited for Piras to join him in front of a display window full of berets and bowlers. They went in together. The shop was very deep and smelled musty. On the walls hung hundreds of hats of every kind.

  ‘Good day, gentlemen, may I help you?’ the man asked in a strong Florentine accent. He didn’t seem terribly intelligent and smiled the way certain clothes merchants in the centre of town smiled, like high-class servants.

  ‘Inspector Bordelli. Pleasure. He’s Piras.’

  The man looked at them with some concern, but kept smiling.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’

  ‘Are you the owner of this business?’ Bordelli asked.

  ‘I am Signor Beltrami in person,’ the shopkeeper said in a self-important tone that made Piras smile.

  ‘I would like to ask you one question,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘Do you recall ever noticing, among your many clients, a man missing the little finger on one of his hands?’

  Beltrami thought about this for a few seconds, then shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think so. Is it very important?’ he asked, face still smiling.

  ‘Think it over carefully,’ said the inspector. Beltrami thought about it again, carefully, as the inspector had asked, with an empty expression in his eyes, as if he were multiplying in his head.

  ‘No, I really don’t think I’ve ever seen a man like that,’ he said after his effort.

  ‘Are you certain that all your clients have five fingers on each hand, or could you simply not have noticed?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘There’s no way I couldn’t have noticed, I’m a keen observer … Might I ask what this is about …?’

  ‘Does your business also sell to othe
r retailers?’ Bordelli cut him off.

  ‘Our line is sold only by us,’ Beltrami said proudly, raising his big hands in the air.

  ‘And is this shop the only outlet?’ asked Piras.

  ‘Of course not, we have other retail shops as well.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Bordelli.

  ‘In Milan, Rome, Ven—’

  ‘Here in town?’

  ‘We’re the only shop in town, and we’ve been here in Via Roma since 1915.’

  Bordelli shot a disheartened glance at Piras, who was staring at the shopkeeper with a detached air. The Sardinian rarely liked anybody, but this sort of person particularly got on his nerves. The inspector’s thoughts had wandered off, and he stared at Beltrami’s face without seeing him.

  ‘Do you also sell leather gloves?’ Piras asked.

  ‘We don’t deal in leather,’ the shopkeeper said with a certain disdain.

  ‘All right, then, that’ll be all. Sorry to have bothered you,’ said Bordelli, rousing himself.

  ‘No bother at all, Inspector, I’m glad to be of help,’ said Beltrami, face smiling again.

  The inspector said goodbye again and headed for the door, followed by Piras. After they got into the Beetle, Bordelli immediately lit a cigarette.

  ‘Where the hell are we going to look for this man, Piras?’

  ‘Maybe Beltrami isn’t quite the keen observer he says he is. We could ask him for a list of his regular clients and—’

  ‘And spend the next several days spying on them to see how many fingers they’ve got.’

  ‘Have you got a better idea, Inspector?’ said Piras, waving his open hand slowly in the air to send the smoke back towards Bordelli.

  ‘I want to catch him soon, Piras. Let’s get busy,’ said the inspector, not giving a damn where his cigarette ash fell. Piras said nothing, apparently distracted. Bordelli on the other hand was quite agitated. He started up the car and put it in gear, but at that moment Piras opened his door and put a foot outside.

  ‘Wait, Inspector.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Piras?’

  ‘I’m going back inside for a minute,’ said the lad.

  Without another word he got out of the car and rushed back into the hat shop. Bordelli sighed with fatigue and turned off the engine. Taking advantage of being alone, he blew his smoke wherever he felt like it, meanwhile trying to think of a way to track down the man with the missing finger. It wasn’t going to be easy.