Death in August

by Marco Vichi

  He tried to push the great gate open, but it was locked. It was also very tall, with pointed spikes on top. He had better find another solution. Walking along the enclosure wall, he found a small side gate. He pushed it open, forcing the accumulated rust in the hinges. The garden was in a state of abandon, but not completely, as if a gardener tended it perhaps three or four times a year. The villa, with its crumbling facade, must have been from the seventeenth century. Three storeys, five windows per storey, all closed except for the one with the light in it, on the first floor. Through the uneven panes he could see a frescoed ceiling.

  Hugging the walls of the villa, he arrived at the rear. There was a large park with very tall trees and a small lane that vanished into the darkness. Beside the house, an enormous, age-old cedar thrust its bristling branches well above the roof. Bordelli threw his head back to look at it, then began to feel dizzy, losing his balance. He leaned against the wall and rubbed his eyes, to ward off fatigue. Returning to the front of the house, he rang the doorbell. He heard a gloomy trill beyond the great door, as in convents. He waited a minute, but nothing happened.

  He lit a match and examined the lock. After an apprenticeship with his friend Botta, a petty thief who lived a stone’s throw from his place in San Frediano, Bordelli could open almost any lock with a common piece of metal wire, and each time he did, it was a source of great satisfaction. Having burglars as friends had its advantages. But Botta wasn’t only a thief; he was also a fabulous cook, having learned a variety of international dishes in the jails of half the world … But this was no time to be thinking about such things.

  The lock resisted Bordelli’s efforts for a good five minutes, then finally yielded. The inspector opened the door and was relieved to feel on his face a breath of cool air typical of old villas. He crossed the threshold and, once inside, called out the signora’s two surnames. No reply. The light from a half-open door filtered out from the top of the stairwell. As his eyesight adjusted to the darkness, he began to look around. Some antique furniture, a Baroque mirror, many paintings. A monumental staircase in grey pietra serena ascended to the upper floors. A worn carpet of red fabric ran up the centre of the steps.

  ‘Signora Pedretti, don’t be afraid. My name is Inspector Bordelli, I’m with the police,’ he called, slowly ascending the stairs towards the light. He stopped in front of the half-open door and knocked. No reply. He pushed it and felt a slight shudder pass over his face, as if he had walked into a spider’s web: an elderly woman lay face up across a bed, her nightgown raised up to her belly. Bordelli approached, suppressing the impulse to cover her accidental nudity. The woman’s wrinkled hands were round her neck, her eyes bulging in an expression of fear. Her narrow brow looked blackened round the temples. Her bony white feet, veined with blue, were suspended in air, just over the edge of the bed. On the sheet beside the woman’s head was a glass, half overturned. The lady companion had guessed right: Signora Pedretti-Strassen was dead. On the bedside rug were her slippers, lined up straight, as well as a bottle of water, uncapped and half empty, and a book that looked as if it had been unceremoniously tossed aside. The inspector cocked his head to read the title: Fatal Passion. On the bedside table he noticed a small dark bottle with a black cap; without touching it, he bent down to read the label: Asthmaben. Fact number one: the lady suffered from asthma.

  On the wall, an old Bakelite telephone, still plugged in. Bordelli took out his handkerchief and raised the receiver. The phone was in normal working order, and he availed himself of it.

  ‘Diotivede, it’s me, Bordelli. Did I wake you up?’

  ‘I never fall asleep before three.’

  ‘Good, grab a cab and come to 110 Via della Piazzola.’

  ‘Should I bring pastries?’

  ‘As always.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  Bordelli hung up and then phoned police headquarters. He asked for an ambulance and a couple of officers to take samples for evidence. He told Mugnai to track down Signora Pedretti’s personal doctor and send him to the villa, asking him further to have Maria, the lady companion, come into the station. Then he went and sat down in a chair. Without knowing how, he found himself with a lit cigarette in his mouth. As he smoked it he studied the lady’s sharp profile, her prominent, slightly hooked nose pointing up at the cherub-frescoed ceiling. He was practically powerless to look anywhere else. He cast his gaze into every corner of the room, following the cracks in the walls or the undulations of the spider’s webs, but it always came back to that nose. He thought about Maria’s certainty that this was a murder.

  At first sight it looked like an unpleasant but natural death. A heart attack, perhaps, or a pulmonary oedema. Bordelli extinguished the cigarette against the empty pack, crumpled this up and put it in his pocket. Aside from the bed, the only other pieces of furniture in the room were a large black sort of armoire with glass displays obscured by yellow fabric, and a small open secretaire. All fairly tidy. He could rule out the possibility that anyone had come in and ransacked the place.

  As if obsessed, the inspector turned round again to look at the signora’s nose. From the dead woman’s motionless, half-open lips a white foam that looked like snail-slime was trickling out. The little bubbles burst and then were followed by more bubbles. There was still some movement in that lifeless body. Then the spittle ceased, and the foam dissolved into two tiny droplets that rolled down her cheeks, drying before they reached the bedsheet.

  Bordelli left the room and went back down to the ground floor. He turned on the lights to have a better look at the paintings hanging in the grand entrance at the foot of the staircase. Almost all were portraits, probably ancestors. High up on the yellowed wall, the severe figure of a cardinal leaned forward. He had the same nose as the signora, a cross in one hand and a book in the other, and a harsh glint in his eyes.

  The inspector continued poking about. Pushing open a door, he entered a sizeable room with several glass-paned chests and a large round table in the middle. On the walls, a few fine melancholy, rustic landscapes. A pair of huge white oxen caught his eye, and he drew near. He wasn’t mistaken: a Fattori. But the surprises weren’t over yet. Farther ahead there were some Segantinis, a Nomellini, not to mention Signorini, Ghiglia, Bartolena, and others. Bordelli let himself be hypnotised by the colours, though every so often the dead woman’s nose would reappear in his mind. He ran his hand over his face to wipe away the image, and went out of the room to continue his tour.

  A large, very clean kitchen, a dusty sitting room, a tea room, bookcases, servants’ quarters, a variety of strangely scented bathrooms. There was no end to the house. Going back up to the first floor, he opened every door, finding only spacious, half-empty rooms with ceilings frescoed in seventeenth-century naif style, enormous carpets and dust-laden crystal chandeliers. In the biggest room, a dark piece of furniture towered like a tabernacle against the shiny, yellowish plaster.

  It was hotter on the second floor. All the rooms were completely empty but one, in which it seemed that all the furniture had been stored. Wardrobes filled to bursting with clothes wrapped in plastic, shelves with dozens of pairs of shoes, mouse-eaten armchairs, bedside tables, light fixtures, nightlights. On one chair was a wooden box with Osborne 1934 written on it. It was full of old greeting cards. Too bad. Bordelli would have been glad to drink some strong alcohol. He squeezed the crumpled packet of cigarettes in his pocket, to convince himself it was truly empty. He felt like smoking again.

  Wending his way through the chaos, he bumped a vase with his elbow, tried to catch it on the fly, but it eluded his grasp and fell to the floor with a crash, shattering into a thousand pieces. At once he was struck by the stillness in the house, which so contrasted with the noise a moment before. It was disturbed only by the creaking of the old furniture. Half closing his eyes from weariness, he sat down in the middle of an old sofa, spreading his arms like a Christ, then extending them along the edge of the back and dropping his head backwards. A faded frieze
of intersecting lines ran along the upper parts of the walls, just below the angle of intersection with the ceiling. Bordelli wondered how many people had touched these walls, walked on these floors, used this furniture. There was nothing new, in short. He thought about all the babies that had been born in this big house, all the dead laid into their coffins. He noted that age-old walls had a solemnity that modern ones lacked. Then his thoughts grew less distinct, and he fell asleep as he sat there. A bit later, his head fell forward, rousing him. For an instant he didn’t know where he was or why. Then he remembered the dead woman, and through the fog of sleep managed to look at his watch. He stood up with effort and began walking down the stairs. He passed the lady’s bedroom without stopping, just turning round slightly, as if to make sure she was still there, and at that moment he had the clear impression that Maria was right: it was a case of murder. Then he shook his head and continued on down the stairs, thinking that fatigue played tricks on the mind.

  He turned on the garden lights, two yellowing lamps hanging from the facade. Exiting the house, he went to the gate to wait for the others. The sky was overcast, the heat stifling. Lightning flashed silent on the horizon. A light rain began to fall, big warm drops bursting on the roof-tiles with the sound of pebbles. But it stopped almost at once. With a sudden intuition, he rummaged through his pockets and found two crumpled cigarettes. Straightening one out with his fingers, he lit it and inhaled deeply, trying to wake himself up. He had already smoked too much and he knew it, but at that moment his will was powerless. He couldn’t get the image of the woman’s corpse out of his mind. Murder, he thought. Leaning his back against the wall, he breathed deeply and looked up at the sky, seeking the moonlight behind the thick clouds.

  The first to arrive was Diotivede, his white hair standing straight up on his head, his step still youthful despite his seventy years. He wasn’t tall, but carried himself proudly, dangling the briefcase of his trade down around his knees. He paid the cab driver and, looking around, adjusted his glasses on his nose. Bordelli greeted him with a weary wave of the hand. The doctor walked up to him, lips curling slightly in the hint of a smile.

  ‘You look pretty tired,’ he said.

  ‘Where are the pastries?’

  ‘In here,’ Diotivide said, tapping his case with two fingers.

  ‘Come, let me introduce you to the lady of the house.’

  They crossed the dark garden in silence. Diotivede looked around, sniffing the air like an animal. He followed Bordelli through the entrance; his sensitive nose was struck by the strong smell of old rugs and dust.

  ‘Where’s the body?’

  ‘Upstairs.’

  The pathologist stopped for a moment in front of the cardinal, then moved on, his mouth contracted in a childish pout. Climbing the stairs, the inspector made as if to take the briefcase from him, but the doctor gently pushed his hand away.

  ‘I can manage alone, thanks,’ he said.

  ‘No offence.’

  ‘No offence taken.’

  They went into Signora Pedretti-Strassen’s bedroom, and the doctor set his bag down on a chair. Changing his glasses, he approached the corpse. He studied it, sniffed it, touched it here and there, and said:

  ‘Beautiful woman.’ He took out a black notebook and, as usual, began jotting his first notes. Bordelli sat down in a corner and let him work, not saying a word. After five minutes of silence, Diotivede put the notebook back in his pocket, took a few plastic bags and phials out of his case, and slipped on a pair of rubber gloves.

  ‘Seeing the medicine, one would think she died of a violent asthma attack,’ he said. The inspector lit his last butt, squeezing it tightly between his fingers, to stop up a tear in the paper. He blew the smoke far away, as if to put a distance between himself and its poison.

  ‘Can one die of asthma?’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘With a serious enough allergy, and a heart no longer young, yes, it can happen.’

  Bordelli propped his elbows on his knees and rolled his head back and forth.

  ‘It must be a nasty way to die.’

  Diotivede drew near to the woman, bent down over her and, using two fingers, lightly lifted one of her shoulders, which yielded softly. He did the same with one foot. Then he went over to the bedside table, delicately picked up the bottle of Asthmaben and examined it carefully, holding it close to his eyes. He looked perplexed. He wrapped his fingers round the cap and opened it.

  ‘Strange,’ he said.

  ‘What’s strange?’

  ‘The cap was screwed on perfectly. And rather tightly, I’d say.’

  Bordelli instinctively stood up and approached the doctor, but his brain was heavy with fatigue.

  ‘What’s so strange about that?’

  Diotivede looked at him askance.

  ‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you?’ he said.

  ‘A policeman who hasn’t slept.’

  ‘You’re excused, but for only that reason.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Look around,’ Diotivede began, pointing to things as he named them. ‘An upended glass on the bed, an open bottle on the floor, a book thrown on to the carpet, and yet, here we have a little bottle of Asthmaben with its cap screwed on tight. And, as you can see, the screw threads are very long. In your opinion, would somebody gasping for air take the trouble to screw a cap back on?’

  Bordelli scratched the nape of his neck and sat back down.

  ‘Downright obvious,’ he said.

  Diotivede got down on all fours and started looking for something. In the end he peered under the bed and reached for something.

  ‘Just as I thought.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The cap to the water bottle. It was under the bed.’

  ‘You could be a policeman.’

  ‘That’s all I need,’ he said, sniffing the cap. Then he patiently got back to work. He dropped the bottle of Asthmaben into a transparent bag, picked up the glass from the bed and tilted it, looking inside. He poured the few drops remaining at the bottom into a sterile test tube with a hermetic seal, then put the empty glass into a bag, which he closed. He also took a water sample from the bottle, then put the cap back on and put this into a large bag. The book, too, got the same treatment. With great care he arranged everything in his case, putting the items into different internal pockets. Then he wrote something in his notebook again.

  ‘She must have died at least five, maybe six hours ago,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘I can tell you more precisely after the post-mortem.’

  In the muggy silence they heard a car pull up, then another.

  ‘Here they are,’ said Bordelli, getting up from the chair with a groan of fatigue. He went down into the garden to meet the new arrivals, showing the way to two officers, Russo and Bellandi, and two ambulance attendants.

  He went out on to the street for a little walk. He couldn’t wait to lie down in bed. The sky had opened and the moon was visible. He stopped in front of the gate and looked at the villa from a distance, fascinated by the decay wrought by time. It pleased him to see that things, and not only people, suffered the wear and tear of age.

  All of a sudden he felt somebody watching him and turned round. A very old woman, thin as a rail, was staring at him from the balcony of the villa next door, a great house whose facade gave directly on to the street. The woman stood immobile, staring, squinting as if she couldn’t see well. She was wearing a white dressing gown and a night-bonnet.

  ‘Are you here to buy the villa?’ the woman shouted, pointing to the dead woman’s house. Bordelli drew closer to her balcony.

  ‘I was just looking,’ he said.

  ‘Well, it’s not for sale.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful house.’

  ‘They should give it to the nuns, I say …’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Ooooh, don’t get me going … don’t start me talking,’ she s
aid, waving a hand in the air.

  ‘Do you hear them?’ asked Bordelli.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Are there ghosts?’

  ‘Worse. Wait, I’ll come down.’ The old woman vanished indoors, and Bordelli went to wait for her in front of the house. Moments later, the front door on the street opened, and the woman appeared, panting, on the threshold. She was unimaginably thin, her clothes hanging as though draped on a coat hanger. She had a tiny face, all puckered round a mouth swollen with boils.

  ‘A lot of people have been murdered in that house,’ she said in a whisper, pointing to Villa Pedretti.

  ‘Really?’ said Bordelli, stunned. The old woman nodded, looking around with suspicion. She gestured to Bordelli to come closer.

  ‘Strange things have always happened there.’

  ‘Strange in what way?’

  ‘The devil,’ she whispered.

  ‘The devil?’

  ‘Shhh, speak softly,’ she said, eyeing the dark street.

  ‘Sorry,’ Bordelli said in a whisper, giving her a complicit look.

  ‘Ah, don’t get me going,’ said the woman. Bordelli looked behind her. On the other side of that door was a world that remained trapped in past centuries: massive black furniture, portraits on the walls, suits of armour, huge candelabras, dark carpets, a blue ceramic wood-burning stove. The air wafting out of that door smelled of old fabrics and burnt wood.

  ‘Since apparently you’ve seen him, what does the devil look like?’ Bordelli asked.

  The old woman lowered her voice even more.

  ‘I haven’t seen him. But you do hear all kinds of noise,’ she said slowly, in a solemn tone.

  ‘What kinds of noise?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘Of course …’

  ‘Wait, I’ll call my mother.’ The old woman turned round and screamed: ‘Mamma! There’s a gentleman here wants to talk to you!’ Bordelli took a step forward.