by Marco Vichi
‘Hello, Inspector,’ he said.
The moment he heard that deep, gravelly voice, Bordelli realised who the man was.
‘Amedeo! What the hell are you doing here?’
‘If even you couldn’t recognise me, I must be in pretty bad shape.’
Bordelli looked at him some more. In that swollen state he really was unrecognisable. And the inspector hadn’t seen him for a very long time.
‘You’ve just gained a little weight,’ he said.
‘It’s prison, Inspector. When I’m inside, all I do is eat.’
‘The exact opposite of Botta.’
‘That guy, if it’s not canard à l’orange he won’t touch it,’ said Amedeo. Wiping his hands on his apron, he came out from behind the bar. Bordelli put a cigarette between his lips.
‘When did you get out?’
‘Two weeks ago,’ said Amedeo, sitting back down at the card table. The inspector drew near.
‘So you were out for Christmas,’ he said, lighting his cigarette.
‘Some Christmas, all alone like a dog.’
‘And what are you doing now? Do you work here?’
‘Just doing a favour for a friend on holiday.’
‘How much time did they give him?’
‘Three months.’
‘And what’ll you do afterwards?’ asked Bordelli, sitting down in front of him. Amedeo threw down a card.
‘I’ve got all kinds of ideas, Inspector.’
‘Got any that won’t put you back in jail?’
‘Do I have to answer that, Inspector?’ Amedeo pinched his lower lip, trying to decide which card to play next. They both remained silent for a few moments. It was still pouring outside. Amedeo played cards, the inspector smoked and watched the rain drip down the dirty windowpanes. There was a clap of thunder and the lights flickered for a second or two.
‘Know anything about some rowdy bloke making trouble in the neighbourhood?’ Bordelli asked offhandedly.
‘There are a lot of people like that around here, Inspector.’
‘I’m talking about someone who just recently came out of the woodwork.’
‘How recently?’
‘A fortnight or so … Didn’t you say you got out a couple of weeks ago yourself ? What a coincidence …’
‘So what?’
‘What are you doing, Amedeo? Playing neighbourhood bully again?’ asked Bordelli, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray. Amedeo threw down another card.
‘I haven’t done anything, Inspector. Just gone and taken back what was rightfully mine. In this den of thieves, the minute you turn your back they take everything, including the mattresses.’
‘So you’re the hooligan, in other words.’
‘What the hell am I supposed to do, Inspector? I won’t be played for a fool, I can tell you that.’
‘Can’t you be a little gentler?’
‘Wha’d I do? A couple o’ black eyes, a couple o’ bruises? I ain’t killed anybody, for Chrissakes …’
‘You never know what’ll happen when you punch somebody.’
‘No, no, I know how to punch, don’t you worry … And did you know that one prick went around saying they’d given me twenty years?’
‘Just tell me one thing, Amedeo. Have you finished, or are there still a few people left to take care of ?’ The ex-convict raised a hand.
‘I’m done,’ he said. Bordelli sighed.
‘Why don’t you settle down, Amedeo? I say it for your own good. You’re no longer a kid.’
‘That’s easy for you to say, Inspector. You’ve got a job,’ said Amedeo.
‘You’re probably right.’
‘Not probably. I am right.’
‘I’ll let you get back to your game,’ said Bordelli. He took out his wallet and extracted five thousand lire.
‘I ain’t got change,’ said Amedeo.
‘Then keep it,’ said Bordelli, laying the notes down on the table. Amedeo’s oily face turned red, his eyes tiny and wicked. He squashed the deck in his hand, bending the cards.
‘I don’t take charity from nobody. I earn my money my own way, and the coffee’s on me.’
‘As you wish. But I wanted to pay for one for Bolla, too.’
‘That one’s on me too.’ Bordelli put away the money. Amedeo calmed down and resumed playing. The driving rain pelted the window. A lightning bolt flashed very close by, and the thunderclap that immediately followed made the glasses behind the bar tinkle. The lights went out all over the neighbourhood. A second later, the fluorescent lamps in the bar flickered back on. Bordelli stood up to leave.
‘Thanks for the coffee,’ he said. Amedeo folded his hands over his head.
‘Inspector, you’re a cop, and that’s okay, nobody’s perfect. But to me you’re a friend.’
‘Don’t go spreading it around, or I’ll get sacked,’ said Bordelli. Amedeo smiled mischievously.
‘I still haven’t forgotten about the transistor radios, Inspector. If not for you, I’d ‘a been fucked.’
‘Never mind, Amedeo. That was another age.’
‘Not for me, Inspector. For me, nothing’s changed,’ said the jailbird.
‘Take care of yourself, Amedeo.’
‘Aren’t you going to wait till the bleedin’ rain stops?’
‘I’m parked just round the corner,’ said Bordelli, who was anxious to get back to the office.
‘Well, take that newspaper to cover your head.’
‘Thanks,’ said Bordelli, grabbing the copy of La Nazione that lay on the bar. The rain was still coming down hard.
‘’Bye, Inspector.’
‘See you again soon.’ Bordelli went out the door and into the rain, newspaper over his head. The street was flooded, and the passing cars splashed water on to the pavements. He quickened his pace, thinking he had rid himself of the bad habit of never carrying an umbrella. When he got into the Beetle, he dried his face with his handkerchief. He could feel the water running down his back.
Upon receiving Piras, Chief Inspector Stella had listened patiently to his story of the strange suicide of Benigno Staffa. Piras omitted nothing, not even the near brush with death at the hands of the Fascists in Asti. He wanted Stella to know exactly how he had come to suspect Pintus.
Stella sent for a Sergeant Marras, and together the three took stock of the situation. They immediately checked to see whether Agostino had a firearms licence and found out that he did, having registered a 1915 Beretta 7.65. On the basis of this information, Inspector Stella made up his mind. They would detain Pintus on suspicion of premeditated murder and search his home. But the ballistics test had to be conducted extremely fast, otherwise they risked detaining an innocent man or letting a guilty one go before the assistant prosecutor had time to justify the arrest. They had exactly forty-eight hours from the moment of his capture. The news must not reach the newspapers before the eventual official arrest, and if the bullet shell proved not to be the right one, it was best if the news never made it out of the lab at all. Any mistake in this regard could unleash quite a storm. It was risky, but the evidence against Pintus was rather specific and justified trying.
Piras left Central Police in the company of Sergeant Marras, five officers and four young Blue Berets, the special unit created the year before by former partisan fighter Castellani to combat banditry. Three squad cars and two unmarked cars followed behind Ettore’s little Fiat.
Piras was nervous. When the convoy was near the end of Via Sardegna, he wondered for a second whether he might be wrong, whether he might have simply imagined seeing that shell … Or perhaps he’d seen something else, a pebble, a dry twig, a bolt. He felt a drop of sweat roll down behind his ear.
The cars stopped one block away from Pintus’s house. To minimise risk, they wanted to take him by surprise. If Pintus really did kill Benigno, he was almost certainly one of those Fascists from Asti and was therefore accustomed to killing. When he realised he’d been discovered he might become dangerous. The po
licemen closed the street at both ends to prevent anyone from passing. The four Blue Berets, Piras and Sergeant Marras walked towards the house. When they reached Pintus’s garden, the Blue Berets and the sergeant crouched down and advanced unseen, hidden by the low wall. Piras continued walking normally until he reached the entrance gate, and everyone else stopped a couple of yards away. It was cold outside. The dogs were barking and batting their paws against the gate. Pintus’s cars and motor scooter were parked on the lawn. Piras rang the bell. A few seconds later Pintus appeared in the doorway, saw Piras, put on an overcoat and came forward without first tying up the dogs. He knows everything, thought Piras … And now the old Fascist is going to pull out his gun and start firing.
‘Hello, Mr Pintus,’ he said, smiling. He cast a glance at Pintus’s feet. The boots were gone, replaced by slippers.
‘Weren’t you supposed to ring me?’ the engineer asked before he’d even reached the gate. He looked very serious and irritated.
‘I talked to the heir over the phone, and since I was already in town, I decided to drop by,’ said Piras, shrugging. Pintus reached the gate, and the dogs calmed down a little.
‘Can we arrange a meeting soon?’ asked the engineer.
‘Tomorrow morning at ten, if you’re in agreement.’
‘It’s fine with me. Shall we make it here?’
‘As you wish.’
‘Then I’ll expect you tomorrow at ten,’ said Pintus, and after gesturing goodbye, he turned and walked back towards the house, followed by the dogs. Piras cast a worried glance at his colleagues. He had to think of something quickly.
‘You didn’t let me finish,’ he shouted to Pintus, still searching for an excuse. The engineer turned round.
‘What is it, Piras?’
‘The heir is ready to sell … but on one condition.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘It’s nothing, really, certainly nothing for you to worry about, but it’s sort of complicated to explain … Could I perhaps come in for just a minute? That way I could tell you in detail and we can smooth out this little bump in a jiffy …’ Pintus paused a moment, thinking it over, hands in his pockets, then called the dogs over and chained them up.
‘Get ready,’ Piras whispered to the policemen positioned behind the wall. Pintus came back, walking slowly, and opened the gate.
‘If I don’t like this condition,’ he said,
‘I’ll call the whole thing off.’
‘It’s nothing unpleasant, Mr Pintus, I assure you,’ Piras said, smiling. Then he made a hand signal and the policemen leapt out, ran into the garden and threw Pintus to the ground, immobilising him. Two officers pointed their machine guns at him. Pintus didn’t react, but let himself be taken, not moving a muscle, not breathing a word. The dogs were in a frenzy, hurling themselves towards their master and jerking so hard on their chains that their legs flailed in the air.
They searched Pintus’s person. Under his arm was a holster with an old Beretta 7.65 Glisenti with a full clip and loaded. It must have been his registered weapon. The engineer remained silent. He stared at Piras with disdain and sorrow, as one looks at a traitor. Marras came over to Piras and whispered in his ear, so that Pintus wouldn’t hear.
‘What about the shell?’ he asked.
‘He took his boots off,’ Piras whispered. The sergeant nodded and gestured at the Blue Berets, who stood Pintus on his feet, handcuffed him and took him away.
‘Let’s hope for the best,’ Piras muttered, worried.
‘What did you say?’ asked Marras. The dogs were making a great deal of noise.
‘Nothing, let’s go inside.’ Marras took out his pistol and released the safety. They walked past the dogs, which were barking wildly. If the chains broke, their only recourse would be to shoot. They went into the house and closed the door.
‘A proper pain in the arse, those dogs,’ said the sergeant, putting his gun back in its holster. They looked for Pintus’s bedroom at once and found the boots beside the bed. Was it the right foot or the left? Pintus dropped his crutches on the floor, picked up both shoes together and turned them over.
‘Hell, yes, it’s there,’ he said. He’d seen correctly. It was a 7.65-calibre shell. He sat down on the bed and tried to pull it out with his fingers, but it wouldn’t budge.
‘They’ll take it out at the lab,’ he said, passing the boot to Marras. He still couldn’t believe he had been so lucky as to see that shell. It was half rusted and almost the same colour as the sole. Now all that remained was to prove that it matched … But of course it’ll match, thought Piras, to set his mind at rest. Where else could it have come from? The shell had remained wedged inside those treads for over a week; it had clung to that shoe with all its might, just so Benigno could rest in peace … It was the one. It had to be the one.
Marras looked round the door and called one of the officers over. He handed him the boot with the shell and told him to take it at once to the forensic laboratory for a ballistics test. The officer ran off, got into a squad car and drove away with tyres screeching.
Piras and Marras were left alone in the house to conduct the search. They split up and started circulating through the different rooms. The house was big and furnished almost entirely with expensive modern furniture. The radiators were boiling, and it felt quite hot.
Piras entered a room with a desk with iron legs and a writing surface of red Formica. One wall was covered with wooden shelves holding only a few books and a great many knick-knacks. It looked like a sort of study. Piras circled behind the desk, sat down and opened the top drawer. Rummaging through some papers, he found an old, yellowed photograph on thick cardboard. In the oval centre was a naked baby boy of a few months, laughing, belly down on a pillow. On the back, in faded ink, was written: Ruggero, 1913. He put it back and continued searching. When he opened the bottom drawer, he noticed a cigar box with a black ribbon around it. He took it out and opened it. Inside was only a wrinkled envelope covered with small brown stains. It was a letter.
Republican Fascist Party Salò,
12 September 1944 xxi
Most excellent comrade Ruggero Frigolin, It is my supreme honour to inform you that, by the express personal wishes of His Excellency Party Secretary Alessandro Pavolini, as of this moment you are appointed Second Commandant of the Luigi Viale Brigade of Asti.
His Excellency has also taken it upon himself to convey to you once again his vast admiration for your indispensable assistance, from the early stages, in the creation and organisation of the glorious corps of the Black Brigades.
Shameful acts of treason by the King and Marshal Badoglio have rendered our task of carrying Italy to the loftiest summits of civilisation absolutely crucial.
His Excellency Cavaliere Benito Mussolini shall know how to lead us all towards our Glorious Destiny as victors. We will crush the Allied invaders like useless worms, and the one True God shall strike fear into the hearts of the enemies of our Republic in every corner of the Planet.
We know one word alone, and that word is: Victory!
Viva il Duce!
Forever yours,
Italo Mazzadoca
It was signed with a flourish.
Piras touched his face and noticed he was sweating. But it wasn’t only because of the radiators. If what he was thinking was true, there was no more mystery. He put the letter in his pocket and got up to look at the books. There weren’t many. They took up only one shelf. A pair of Bibles, a number of engineering books, a few old classics, and several small paperbacks. He propped his crutches against the wall and started opening the books one by one to see whether anything was hidden between the pages. But he found nothing.
Continuing his tour of the house, he went into the kitchen. It was big and had a huge refrigerator and modern furnishings. Feeling hungry, Piras opened the fridge instinctively. He would have gladly eaten a sandwich, but at that moment he heard Marras call him and left the kitchen.
‘I’m ove
r here,’ said Marras, popping out of a doorway.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Piras, approaching.
‘Come and see what I’ve found.’
Piras followed the sergeant into a small, windowless room and put his crutches in a corner. On the bottom shelf of an old armoire were two different nine-calibre Berettas, a Browning 7.65, and even a German Luger, the terrible nine-calibre pistol of the SS. They were all laid out on a thick piece of cloth, clean and well oiled, with their serial numbers legible. And there was no lack of ammunition. Some boxes dated back to the war, others looked much more recent.
‘Shit …’ muttered Piras, turning the Luger over in his hand. He’d never seen a real one, and it felt eerie. The very shape of the pistol gave one a clear sense of the spirit in which it had been created. It was aggressive, solid, inexorable. It looked almost like a miniature machine gun. He’d heard years ago that a single shot from the weapon could kill six people standing one in front of the other. Perhaps it was just a legend, but from the look of the gun, he was inclined to believe it.
‘How about our engineer, eh?’ he said.
‘It’s a small arsenal,’ the sergeant said, biting his lips.
‘Get a feel of this,’ said Piras, passing him the Luger. Marras started examining it carefully. Then he gripped it and pointed it at the wall. He looked through the sight.
‘Who knows how many people this little demon has killed,’ he muttered.
‘Let’s take everything away,’ said Piras. They wrapped the pistols up in newspaper and put them in two shoeboxes, along with the ammunition. Then they took another look inside the armoire. Hunting boots, old newspapers, a few tools.
‘That should be enough for today,’ said Piras, grabbing his crutches.
‘Did you find anything else?’ asked Marras.
‘A letter. I’ll show it to you later.’ They walked out of the storeroom and towards the door. After the morning’s weariness, Piras could feel all the strength that had gathered in his legs over the prior months come back to him. He felt like running and jumping.
‘What about those two fiends?’ Marras asked. The dogs hadn’t stopped barking for a second.