by Marco Vichi
How the hell had they done it? And which of the four did it? Or was it all four? Or perhaps only two? The brothers or the wives? Or maybe only one couple. Or perhaps none of them. Perhaps it was all a mistake, time to start over …
He thought of Dante struggling with the napoletana and went into the kitchen. The inventor was trying to assemble the machine upside down.
‘What an odd contraption,’ he said.
‘Give it to me.’
‘I was almost there, you know.’
Bordelli took the pieces out of Dante’s hands.
‘See? This goes here.’
‘I’d thought of that, but it seemed too banal.’
‘Not everyone has your imagination.’
‘Compliment accepted. I am very vain.’
Ennio arrived, and all three went into the dining room. They took their coffee on the tablecloth of the night before, which was covered with exotic stains and crumbs. There was still a scent of spices and grappa in the air. Botta was about to open the shutters, but Bordelli raised his hand.
‘Just the windows, Ennio. I’m having a little trouble with the light this morning.’
‘Whatever you say.’
The temperature was rising by the minute. It was going to be another muggy, sweaty day. Dante lit one of his pestilential cigars and tossed the match into his empty espresso cup. Feeling the smoke in his nostrils, Bordelli had to make an effort not to light a cigarette.
‘I’ve got a riddle for you,’ he said to his friends. ‘Interested?’
‘What sort of riddle?’ asked Botta, amused. Dante went and sat down in an armchair and stretched his legs across the floor, awaiting the question. The inspector downed his last drop of coffee and started toying with the empty cup.
‘Pretend you want to murder someone with a powdered poison, powerful enough to kill the person who inhales it. Obviously you don’t want to end up in jail, so, when the victim breathes the stuff, you have to make sure you’re far from the scene of the crime. How do you do it?’
Botta scratched his head.
‘Well, I’d put the poison in the soup, or in the toothpaste.’
‘The poison is deadly only when inhaled.’
‘Oh, right. Well, then … How should I know? I don’t. I give up.’
Dante was contemplating, eyes half closed and lips pursed. Bordelli looked at him.
‘What about you, Dante? What would an inventor do?’
‘Easy. A time-release mechanism.’
‘Easy to say, but to make one?’
‘Oh, it wouldn’t take much. You could make one at home in no time.’
Bordelli really felt like lighting up, but managed to resist the temptation.
‘Give me an example,’ he said.
‘Easy: I take a test tube, put three dry beans in it, fill it halfway with water, take two little cork discs joined in the middle by a wire, put the first disc into the test tube halfway down, put in the powder, then insert the second disk until it seals the test tube, place the device horizontally on the lamp over the victim’s bed, and go on my merry way. The dry beans will slowly swell with water, pushing out the cork. And voila. It’s done. The poison will gently flutter down towards the victim’s nose.’
‘And what if the police find traces of the device?’
‘One need only hide it well and then come and retrieve it as quickly as possible.’
Bordelli sighed.
‘That’s true, but that sort of mechanism isn’t so easy to hide, and, more importantly, it’s not very precise.’
‘In that case one would have to consider another system — I don’t know, say a little pump hidden behind the switch of the nightlight, which, when you turned on the light … Or a mechanism of rubber bands which, after releasing the poison, would catapult the whole thing out of the window.’
The inspector shook his head.
‘No, that’s all too complicated and might leave visible traces. Anyone who goes so far as to plan a murder tries to leave nothing to chance.’
Botta started removing the coffee cups from the table.
‘We give up, Inspector. Tell us how it’s done.’
Bordelli threw up his hands and then slapped his thighs.
‘If I only knew …’ he said.
‘So it’s not a riddle. It’s something serious.’
‘Very serious, Botta. I’m trying to find out who killed Dante’s sister.’
Ennio stopped short in the doorway, coffee cups in hand.
‘Ah, I didn’t know!.. I’m so sorry, Mr Pedretti,’ he said, slightly embarrassed. Dante smiled and waved a hand in the air by way of thanks, pulling hard on his cigar. Bordelli stood up with a sigh and went back into the bathroom to take a shower. As he was lathering up he kept ruminating on the killing; it had almost become an obsession. But they all did, sooner or later. If he hadn’t become a policeman he would have found another way to obsess about things. It was in his blood. He couldn’t do anything about it.
He got dressed and went to ask Dante whether he needed a lift. He found him in front of the sink with an apron on, drying the dishes as Botta washed them.
‘Thanks, Inspector, but it’s all right. I’ll lend Ennio a hand and then have a walk.’
‘Very well, then, goodbye. Ciao, Ennio, I’ll leave you something under the phone in the entrance.’
‘Have a good day, Inspector. When you want to have another dinner party, don’t be shy, just let me know.’
‘It won’t be long, Ennio, I promise. If I were younger I’d say the day after tomorrow.’
On his way out he left three thousand lire under the telephone. In the doorway he thought better of it, turned round and took back a thousand. As he was putting it in his wallet, he changed his mind again and put it back. Outside the flat he trotted down the stairs, remembering that he’d just been given a raise.
Mugnai greeted him with a sallow smile.
‘Congratulations, Inspector Bordelli. But what should I call you now? Chief inspector, or simply inspector?’
Bordelli bit his lip.
‘Whatever you like, Mugnai. Whatever sounds better to you.’
‘In that case I prefer simply “inspector”. “Chief inspector” is too long.’
‘All right … Oh, listen, what about that nasty smell in my room?’
‘It was face powder, Inspector. It’s been taken care of,’ he said in the tone of one who knew about such things.
‘Thanks.’
Bordelli went into his office, sniffed the air and hurled a few insults at Mugnai. Not only was the smell of the face powder still there, but another smell had been added to it. He wondered what it might be, and then saw an empty aerosol bomb of Grey’s Wax in the wastebasket. Which only made things worse. He went to open the window, hoping for a purifying wind, but the air was immobile and hot as usual. He settled in and put all the reports and transcripts of the Pedretti-Strassen murder on his desk. Every so often he looked up from his papers to reflect, but then shook his head and went on. And every so often he thought of his cousin and his mysterious lover. In the end he picked up the phone and dialled Rodrigo’s number. After a few rings, someone picked up.
‘Hello?’ It was a woman’s voice, a beautiful voice.
‘Hello, I’m Rodrigo’s cousin …’
‘Then you must be the wicked policeman,’ she said, laughing.
‘Right.’
‘Rodrigo’s not here. Shall I tell him to call you back?’
‘No need. I just wanted to know how he was feeling.’
‘He’s feeling great.’
‘I’m sure he is.’
‘And I’m not doing too badly myself,’ she said, giggling.
‘I’m so glad.’
‘Me too.’
‘Well, goodbye.’
‘Bye-bye, policeman.’
‘Bye.’
Hanging up, Bordelli tried to imagine what she might look like. She must have long blonde hair, the eyes of a wounded deer, a fine,
confident gait, the kind of woman who likes to talk to herself … Or else she was dark and slender, with beautiful legs and tapered hands, a joyous smile and very white teeth … Or …
The ring of the telephone caught him by surprise.
‘Yes?’
‘Hello, my dear inspector. Do you miss your Rosina?’
‘Hi, Rosa. You don’t know how lucky you are to be at the beach.’
‘Oh, darling, you should see how tanned I am! Whereas Valeria is peeling like a broiled pepper. She hasn’t got skin like mine, you know, she’s as white as a ghost … Oh, it’s just wonderful to lie on the beach! And in the evenings we make the rounds of the nightclubs and dance all night.’
Bordelli pushed away the reports and leaned back in his chair. A phone call from Rosa was exactly what he needed. To forget everything for a few minutes and let frivolity carry him away. He listened with delight to her shrill voice in the receiver. Rosa was an adorable woman, an angel capable of opening her door to him at two in the morning and making him something to eat. Bordelli lit his first cigarette of the day and smoked it in silence, as Rosa told him a thousand things: about the people under the neighbouring umbrella on the beach, the seafood dishes the cook from Salerno had taught her, the guests at the Piccolo Eden pensione, the ankle sprain she’d got walking in the sand …
Little by little, however, the thought of the murder worked its way back into his thoughts, and Bordelli chased it away again. He absolutely needed to give his brain a rest. Rosa went on and on about her seaside adventures, giving more detail than a police report.
‘… and about half past three that afternoon, we hired three bicycles … you should see how pretty the bicycles they make are these days … mine was white and pink. Know why I chose that one?’
‘Because it was pink.’
She gave a chuckle that sounded like a sob.
‘Good monkey! And so we went cycling along the promenade by the sea. I was wearing my hat because the sun was so strong … you know, that straw hat I like so much.’
‘Right.’
‘… and you can imagine how hungry we were after that. We went and ate at a little place by the beach: steamed mussels for starters, spaghetti alle vongole, and then fritto misto. There was a great big cat that kept prowling round my feet, a beautiful grey cat with two big yellow eyes … Not tabby grey, but mousy grey. I bet he never goes hungry, living in a restaurant like that. When I asked the waiter what breed he was, he said that kind are called Chartreux. You should see what a pretty face! When I come home I want to get a cat like that. And what a great big head! It filled my whole hand. I gave him two fried shrimp and the scamp devoured them, shells and all, then hopped up on my lap and started purring so loud everyone could hear him! You should see his fur, so, so soft … I loved just kissing his head, because he smelled like the sea … You know, like the song by that guy, what’s his name?… sapore di sale, sapore di mare … C’mon, help me out, what’s his name …?’
Bordelli turned as stiff as dried cod.
‘What an imbecile!’ he said.
‘Come on, he’s no imbecile, you’re probably confusing him with someone else … I mean the one with the glasses … come on, he’s famous, sapore di saleeee …’
‘Sorry, Rosa, but I have to go.’
‘Why, what’s wrong?’
‘I have to hang up, Rosa.’
‘Yes, I heard you … How are my flowers?’
‘Never been better. I’m sorry, Rosa, I really have to go. Ciao.’ He hung up and sat motionless, thinking, staring through the wall. Without realising it, he lit another cigarette and set it down in the ashtray, and like an automaton lit another one immediately.
‘What an imbecile,’ he repeated. He picked up the phone and called his own flat.
‘Ennio, it’s me. Is Dante still there?’
‘Yes, Inspector. We were just about to leave.’
‘Put him on for me, would you?’
‘Straight away … by the way, Inspector, thanks for the little gift. You needn’t have.’
‘Forget about it, Ennio, and let me talk to Dante.’
‘Straight away … Dante, the inspector wants you.’
Dante’s booming voice exploded into the receiver.
‘Hello, Inspector! We’ve cleaned the kitchen from top to bottom. I’ve got an idea for a new device for washing pots and pans. As soon as it’s ready I’ll give it to you.’
‘Sorry to bother you, Dante, but I’d like you to repeat to me everything that was written in your sister’s will, including the private things, if you don’t mind.’
‘Over the telephone?’
‘Over the telephone.’
‘All right.’
Dante told Botta that this was going to take a while and then began to recite from memory Rebecca’s last will and testament. At a certain point the inspector cut him off.
‘That’s good enough, Dante, thanks. I’ll be in touch and soon … And thanks for washing up.’
‘Aren’t you going to tell us what we’re waiting for?’ asked Diotivede, removing his glasses and pacing back and forth in Signora Pedretti’s room, hands joined behind his back. He was impatient to know why Bordelli had organised this sudden visit to the villa at 8.30 in the evening. The sun was slowly setting, colouring the sky orange. The heat was far more bearable than in the city. Piras sat in the chair in front of the secretaire, thinking, not asking any questions. The inspector glanced at his watch every minute, smoking by the window so as not to bother Piras. He had forgotten to get an ashtray and was putting out his cigarettes on the floor, under the radiator. He swore to himself that, starting tomorrow, no more than six or seven, eight at the most. As he still hadn’t answered Diotivede’s question, the doctor persisted.
‘We’ve already been here half an hour. Care to tell us what we’re waiting for?’
‘No, Doctor, I can’t, not yet.’
‘Hmph!’ said the doctor, and he resumed pacing about the room.
‘I’m not trying to be mysterious,’ said Bordelli.
‘You’re not?’
‘I simply want to be sure I haven’t made a mistake. Did you bring the microscope?’
‘You asked me to, so I brought it.’
‘Good.’
Bordelli kept glancing at the open door. A few minutes later he said:
‘All right, it’s almost time. If my hunch is correct, the killer will soon come in through that door.’
Piras shot to his feet.
‘Shall we turn out the lights, Inspector?’ he said in a whisper.
‘No, there’s no need,’ said Bordelli.
Diotivede put his glasses back on and, after a moment of perplexity, he smiled.
‘I think you’re having us on,’ he said. ‘Piras, you don’t know the inspector very well yet, but he’s a real ball-buster.’
Bordelli put a finger to his lips, asking for silence. He looked dead serious.
‘Shhh. I don’t want him to get scared,’ he said. He glanced at his watch. Nine on the dot. ‘Now be quiet. He’s going to come in and lie down on the bed.’
Diotivede shook his head.
‘On the bed? What the hell are you saying?’
Following Bordelli’s example, the other two started staring at the door, holding their breath, awaiting the killer. Diotivede took a hesitant step towards the door, and at that moment Gideon the cat appeared, tail pointing straight up. Seeing the three men in the room, he did an about-face, meowed twice on the landing outside, then came back into the room. He sniffed the air and started snapping his tail like a whip.
‘He’s nervous,’ Bordelli whispered. The cat circled round a few more times, restless, then slowly calmed down and leapt on to the bed. He rolled on to his back and meowed like a kitten. At that point Diotivede looked at Bordelli, spectacles in his hand.
‘Is he the killer?’ he said.
Bordelli went over to the cat and rubbed his belly.
‘He’s the one all right.’
‘Could you explain?’ said Piras.
‘Naturally, he’s completely unaware of it, right, pussy?’ said Bordelli, playing with the cat’s paws.
Piras clenched his fists.
‘The pollen!’ he shouted.
‘Precisely. The real killer put a good dose of the pollen between his shoulder blades, knowing that that every night at nine o’clock, Gideon came in to snuggle down with the lady.’
‘The classic Trojan horse,’ said Diotivede with a wry smile.
Piras punched himself in the head.
‘What an idiot! Why didn’t I think of that?’ he said.
‘It wasn’t easy. It came to me purely by chance.’
‘What makes you say they put the pollen between the cat’s shoulder blades?’
‘Because it’s a spot a cat can’t reach with his paws or his tongue, and therefore the pollen would have remained in his fur for a long time.’
The inspector picked Gideon up with both hands and put him upright on the bed, stroking his head so he would stay.
‘Take out your microscope, Diotivede. If we’re lucky, we’ll still find some traces of the pollen.’
The doctor went and picked up a small sort of spatula and came towards the bed.
‘Hold him still for me,’ he said. He placed the instrument between Gideon’s shoulder blades to take a sample, then put this between two glass slides, and set the microscope down on the secretaire. He brought his eye to the eyepiece and started turning some knobs. A minute later he raised his head.
‘You were right,’ he said with a sly grin. Piras also smiled. Bordelli celebrated by lighting a cigarette.
‘Now it will all be much easier,’ he said with satisfaction.
The pathologist, however, wasn’t jumping to conclusions.
‘To be honest, I still don’t know what sort of pollen it is and need to examine it. But such a high concentration of pollen in a cat’s fur cannot have got there by accident.’
‘Well, examine it quickly and have the report sent to me. I’ll bet the family jewels that it’s mate pollen.’
Bordelli kept stroking the cat, as if to thank him. The doctor returned to his microscope with a kind of joy; nothing pleased him more than to scrutinise the infinitesimal movements of nature. Gideon played with Bordelli’s fingers, nipping them playfully but hurting him every so often, so that the inspector jerked his hand away.