Death in August

by Marco Vichi

  Dante continued writing, muttering to himself all the while. When he had finished, he reread everything, shook his head, rolled the paper into a ball, and threw it away.

  ‘A bad idea, needless to say.’ He snuffed out the end of his cigar in a small dish, lit another and, clenching it between his teeth, resumed talking.

  ‘So, on that famous evening, I needed a certain kind of nitrate, just a spoonful. And I went over to the shelf to get the bottle. As I was about to pour it into the receptacle, I stopped. I realised the liquid had no smell whatsoever, whereas the nitrate should have stunk. We chemists have a very keen sense of smell. It comes from our work, sniffing everything we get our hands on. Anyway, in the place of harmless nitrate I was about to pour some nitroglycerine. Do you know what would have happened? Boom! They would have found only a pile of ash,’ he said, his head enveloped in cigar smoke.

  ‘A moment of distraction?’

  ‘The label on the bottle had the name of the very nitrate I was looking for. It’s inexplicable. I’m a precise person, in my way. You see this room? At any moment, I know where to find whatever I am looking for, even the tiniest thing. I still wonder how that could have happened.’

  Bordelli looked at the vast, chaotic room, the workbench submerged under everything imaginable, and thought he wouldn’t have bet a single lira on Dante’s precision.

  The inventor’s expression had changed. As he smoked, he kept spitting out big wads of tobacco.

  ‘Do you have the keys to your sister’s villa?’ Bordelli asked him.

  ‘I must have them somewhere. Is it important?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  Dante went over to the workbench and started rummaging through his ingenious debris. He moved aside stills and alembics and strange contraptions full of wheels.

  ‘I thought I put them there …’ He picked up bundles of papers and thick tomes and looked underneath them. In the end he gave up, put his hands in his pockets, and broke out in a smile.

  ‘Here they are. I had them right here all along,’ he said, pulling them out of his pocket and making them ring like a bell. The inspector remembered what Maria had said and decided not to give in just yet.

  ‘Are you sure those are the right ones?’ he asked.

  Dante took a good look at the keys.

  ‘You mean … they’re for my house? Ah, I thought I had lost them …’ he said.

  ‘You can take your time looking for your sister’s keys, but if you find them, let me know.’

  ‘Yes, these must be mine. I’ll put them right here so I won’t lose them again.’ He hung them from a nail and then stared at them a long time, as if to commit the event to memory.

  ‘And what can you tell me about your two nephews, Dante?’

  ‘Those two fools? They’re in for a big surprise when they read Rebecca’s will.’ He broke into wild laughter.

  ‘What sort of surprise?’

  ‘My sister left everything to the Sisters of Monte Frassineto. Including the paintings, the embroidered napkins and the bedbugs. Brilliant, don’t you think? I can’t wait to go to the solicitor’s office and enjoy the show.’ He couldn’t stop laughing.

  ‘Are you sure your nephews don’t suspect anything?’

  Dante laughed again with satisfaction.

  ‘No, they don’t know a thing. Rebecca was very careful not to let on. She told only me.’ He started laughing again, to the point of coughing, then went up to Bordelli, looming over him with all his bulk.

  ‘It’s the best trick in the world, because the person who plays it on you is gone, so you can’t take revenge.’

  ‘And you, Signor Pedretti, aren’t you inheriting anything?’

  The inventor made a sweeping gesture of the hand.

  ‘Perhaps a few small gifts and souvenirs. But Rebecca knew I didn’t want anything. I drew up my own will some time ago, and do you know to whom I shall leave my house, my laboratory and all my inventions?’

  ‘The Sisters of Monte Frassineto?’

  ‘To the Brotherhood of Orphans of Santa Veronica. I’ve already arranged everything. This house will become a school for disadvantaged children. It will be called the Collegio Dante Pedretti … But please don’t misunderstand me, it’s not for vanity’s sake, but only to leave a mark. A silly consolation, but a human one.’

  ‘Very human.’

  ‘Do you have any children, Inspector?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you regret it?’

  ‘I think about it sometimes. Now I wish I had a twenty-year-old son; but I was never lucky enough to find his mother.’

  ‘Right,’ said Dante, who then reimmersed himself in his thoughts, wandering about the room and breathing noisily. He stopped in a distant corner.

  ‘Do you believe in God, Inspector? Do you have the gift of faith?’

  Bordelli stretched his legs, seeking relief.

  ‘Those are difficult questions, and I confess I’m very tired.’

  Dante wasn’t the least bit tired. He paced slowly, stepping over the obstacles piled up more or less everywhere on the floor.

  ‘What do you think? Is my sister watching us? Or has she vanished completely and for ever?’

  ‘I don’t feel like thinking about it right now.’

  The inventor gripped the edges of his smock.

  ‘I have always been curious about this question of faith. Personally, I think that those who have faith are fortunate, and those who don’t are wretched.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘You have an odd way of conversing, my dear Inspector. I get the feeling you have a lot to say but for some reason you are careful not to say it. Am I wrong?’

  ‘Maybe it’s hard for me to say anything definitive.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of Nicole d’Autrecourt?’

  The conversation went on for a long time, and they spoke of many things. A bottle of grappa was brought out. In the heat, they began to sweat and unbutton their collars. The smoke of cigars and cigarettes stagnated in the air.

  At ten o’clock that same morning, the inspector went to Careggi Hospital and parked his Beetle in front of the Office of Forensic Medicine. Entering Diotivede’s laboratory, he found the doctor fresh as a rose.

  ‘I see you haven’t slept,’ the doctor said.

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘I had a cup of coffee at home and came straight here.’

  ‘You know what I think, Diotivede? I think you have a twin who takes your place when the going gets rough. At this very moment you are at home, sleeping, and I am speaking to your twin brother, who has slept twelve hours straight.’

  Diotivede, who was preparing the instruments for the postmortem on Signora Pedretti-Strassen, twisted his mouth.

  ‘Twins, eh? And both pathologists?’

  ‘It would be magnificent.’

  The doctor had put on his gloves. He walked past Bordelli and looked at him askance.

  ‘Keep away from me. If I were performing your post-mortem today, I would know, even before opening you up, that you’ve drunk a litre of grappa.’

  ‘It’s Dante’s fault.’

  ‘You can’t always blame the poets.’

  Bordelli leaned his back against the wall and crossed his arms.

  ‘When can you give me some results on Signora Pedretti?’ he said.

  ‘I was just about to start on her.’

  ‘As for dinner, would Wednesday be all right?’

  Diotivede confirmed with a nod.

  ‘Good, now I only need to find Botta. I hope he’s not in jail,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘You could always get him out by Wednesday.’

  ‘Don’t overestimate me.’

  The doctor went up to him.

  ‘May I express a wish?’ he asked.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Diotivede lit up like a child.

  ‘I would like bean soup alla lombarda.’

  ‘In this heat?’

  ‘I haven’t eaten any for ages.�
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  ‘All right, soup it is.’

  Diotivede smiled broadly, then approached the slab on which Signora Pedretti lay, and delicately drew back the sheet.

  ‘If you don’t want to look, you have only to leave.’

  ‘Send me the results as soon as you can.’

  ‘I’ll ring you.’

  When he reached the door, Bordelli turned round.

  ‘Diotivede, did you know that DDT is poisonous?’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  The inspector waited to see the scalpel descend over the signora’s abdomen, and then left.

  As he stepped out of his car in the courtyard of police headquarters, Bordelli thought again of his visit with Dante Pedretti and felt as if he had dreamt it all. He felt quite muddled, in fact. He must look pretty bad, he thought, since Mugnai stared at him for a long time and said nothing.

  ‘I’m fifty-three years old, Mugnai, and if I go a night without sleep, it will naturally show in my face,’ he said, a bit irritated.

  ‘I didn’t say anything, Inspector.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m just a bit tired.’ He walked down the corridor with Mugnai at his side.

  ‘Did you know that DDT is poisonous, Mugnai?’

  ‘I use zampironi, Inspector. They don’t smell too good, but they work.’

  Bordelli massaged his chin, which was rough with stubble.

  ‘As soon as you see Piras, tell him to come to my office,’ he said.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Bordelli entered his office and collapsed in his chair. The climate in there was tropical, and he felt a sharp pain burrowing through his head. The sweat on his skin had evaporated almost entirely, leaving it slimy. He lit what he defined as his first cigarette of the day and savoured it without haste. Since he was, in spite of everything, still quitting smoking, the ‘few’ he did smoke he smoked down to the filter. The last drag was disgusting. Crushing the butt in the ashtray, he searched his pocket for the little piece of paper with the phone number of the deceased’s nephews. He found it balled up and opened it like a sweet wrapper. Normally the inspector didn’t lend any weight to people’s judgement of other people, since they were often intolerant and unjust, the fruit of personal malice. But Maria’s doggedness and conviction gave him pause. He dialled the number, and a woman’s voice answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Good morning, signora, this is Inspector Bordelli. I’d like to speak with either nephew of Signora Pedretti-Strassen.’

  The woman at the other end held her breath.

  ‘Has something happened?’ she asked anxiously. Bordelli heard a long exchange of whispers, and then someone abruptly turned down the music playing in the background.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I need to talk to one of Signora Pedretti’s nephews. Is that possible?’ he said. There was a moment of silence, then the woman summoned a clear, ringing tone of voice.

  ‘Of course. With whom would you like to speak? Giulio or Anselmo?’

  ‘It makes no difference.’

  The woman called out loudly:

  ‘Anselmo!’ Then she said: ‘He’ll be right with you … Here he is.’

  Through the receiver Bordelli heard a heavy step approach, some more whispering, then a nasal, masculine voice.

  ‘Hello, who is this?’

  ‘Inspector Bordelli. And you are Signor-’

  ‘Dr Morozzi. Has something happened?’

  ‘Dr Morozzi, I have some bad news for you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your Aunt Rebecca passed away last night.’

  Anselmo assumed a serious tone.

  ‘Oh God, poor Auntie. I’m so sorry …’

  ‘My condolences.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

  ‘I would like to have a little chat with you and your brother.’

  Bordelli heard a sigh at the other end.

  ‘About what?’ said Anselmo.

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps? Can’t you tell me anything now?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Anselmo became compliant.

  ‘All right, Inspector. Where should we meet you?’

  ‘At central police headquarters. Let’s say the day after tomorrow, at noon.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Bordelli played the suspicious policeman.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me how your aunt died?’

  ‘She was sick, Inspector. I’m not surprised she suddenly died.’

  ‘I understand. Good day, Dr Morozzi.’

  The phone call had been rather unpleasant. He didn’t like the sound of Anselmo’s voice or his shortness of breath, which crackled in the receiver. He tried to imagine the man, then let it drop. It was too hot.

  ‘Hello, Piras,’ said Bordelli, rubbing his bloodshot eyes with his fingers. ‘I want to take you to see a villa.’

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘Yes. Bring along a book, a bottle of water, a glass, and a phial that looks like a medicine bottle. I’ll wait for you in the courtyard.’

  They set out in the Beetle. It was noon. The streets were nearly deserted because of the intense sun. After a short distance, they turned on to Via delle Forbici. The German vehicle’s engine thundered between the walls, as in the towns emptied by warfare during the German retreat.

  ‘Find everything I asked for, Piras?’

  ‘Got it all.’

  Bordelli downshifted, and the Beetle backfired.

  ‘It’s the carburation,’ said Piras.

  ‘I’ll take her to the doctor’s as soon as I can. Now listen closely, Piras. In a few minutes you’re going to see the room where a woman of about sixty died. I’ll try to sum up for you what we know so far.’

  He told him about the allergy, mate pollen, Maria’s suspicions, the brother Dante, and the will.

  They entered the villa. The smell of old furniture and dust gently invaded their noses. In the bedroom Bordelli took the objects Piras had gathered out of the paper bag and arranged them one by one, reconstructing the original situation. He showed Piras how the woman was when he found her, miming the corpse’s position, hands on his throat. Then he sat down and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Let’s play a game, Piras. You pretend to know for certain that it was a murder, in spite of the fact that the post-mortem shows that the woman died of a violent asthma attack. The question is this: how did the murderer kill the lady?’

  Piras grinned.

  ‘There’s one thing I can tell you straight away, Inspector.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ve put everything back the way it was?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Piras picked up the little bottle that was supposed to be the Asthmaben.

  ‘The cap was screwed on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That makes no sense to me. All the other elements point to great agitation, whereas the cap …’

  ‘Right.’

  Piras put the bottle back in place and kept looking around. He went to the window and opened it, perhaps because the room was full of smoke. He paced about the room a little more. His dark eyes jumped quickly from one object to another. At last he stopped in front of Bordelli.

  ‘Does the killer have an alibi in this game?’ he asked.

  ‘Let’s pretend he does, since he did organise everything so he could kill without getting caught.’

  Piras nodded, pensive.

  ‘This is a tough one,’ he said.

  ‘That’s why I called you. Do you feel like handling the case? Together with me, I mean.’

  ‘That’s fine with me. Could I ask you a question, Inspector?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Is this an official assignment or your own idea?’

  ‘It’s all mine, Piras. But if we discover anything, you’ll get the credit, too, and I’m sure you’ll be promoted.’

&nb
sp; ‘Another thing, Inspector. Do you already have a hypothesis, or are you sailing in the dark?’

  ‘I have no idea of anything. I’m completely in the dark. I haven’t even got the results of the post-mortem. It may actually come out that the lady died without anyone’s help. But I don’t like the look of this. There’s a great big fly buzzing in my skull.’

  Piras saw the weariness in Bordelli’s face move up a notch.

  ‘You need to sleep,’ he said.

  ‘You’re probably right. You think about the riddle, in the meantime. We’ll meet up again in my office tomorrow, let’s say half past nine. I’ll have the pathologist’s results by then. I’d like to take stock of the situation before interrogating the Morozzis.’

  ‘All right.’

  They went out, leaving the window open. Piras didn’t say a word the whole way back to the station. Deep inside, Bordelli was smiling. He felt as if he was back in the platoon with Piras’s father. Same Sardinian silence, full of thoughts.

  At nine o’clock that evening, Bordelli stripped down naked and got into bed. He had hardly eaten a thing. The heat gave no quarter. He tried to sleep, but in the absence of DDT the mosquitoes had an easy time of things. They were biting him mostly on the veins of his hands. He absolutely must remember to buy some zampironi. He put his raw hands behind his neck and stared at the ceiling. He thought about Dante, Maria and the intelligence of mice. He had read somewhere that for every man in the world, there were seven women and a million mice, and that, ‘with such superior numbers, they could take over the world’, but he couldn’t remember whether that meant mice or women.

  The following morning he awoke around midday, sweaty and aching, church bells clanging in his head. Even in August there was a priest to pull the clapper. He threw his legs out of bed and, once on his feet, felt a stabbing pain slice through his head like a knife through butter. His dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He felt old, but he wasn’t, he told himself, he wasn’t old at all. It was all the fault of those bad memories and the line of work he was in.

  He dragged himself into the bathroom, pressing his temples hard with his forefingers. He wet his hands and face with cold water, and when he looked up, he saw a fifty-three-year-old man in the mirror with deep circles under his eyes and sagging cheeks. He leaned over the sink, supporting himself with his hands, and took a long look at himself. For consolation he thought of Diotivede at seventy, as lucid and light of step as a child. Seventy minus fifty-three made seventeen, not a bad number.