Bordelli started drumming his fingers on the desk.
‘Are you ready to start writing, Piras?’
‘Ready.’
The inspector looked at one then the other brother — especially Giulio, who seemed more sensitive to psychological pressure.
‘Good. Tell me the names of the restaurant and the nightclub where you went to make merry, and the exact times of arrival and departure at both places.’
Piras’s typewriter suddenly started clacking. Anselmo gulped and began to tremble slightly. He seemed deeply offended.
‘What is the meaning of this? Why all these questions? Are we suspects? And what of? Our aunt died of asthma, didn’t she?’
‘It’s not clear yet. I’m waiting for some test results. If it turns out your aunt died of natural causes, so much the better for everyone. But for now there are many doubts.’
‘Doubts? What kind of doubts?’
‘Dr Morozzi, I didn’t say you killed her. I only meant that it may not have been an accident.’
‘Then why all these questions?’
‘Yes, why?’ said Giulio, emboldened by his brother. Bordelli shrugged.
‘You shouldn’t worry too much about it. It’s just a formality, a procedure we have to go through. I’m sorry.’
The typewriter had fallen silent. Giulio raised a finger to ask whether he could speak, as if at school.
‘Should we call our lawyer?’ he asked. The inspector threw his hands up.
‘Do whatever you like, I don’t mind. But I repeat, there’s nothing to worry about. If this was a real interrogation, I wouldn’t be questioning the two of you together, now, would I?’
Giulio looked at his brother, as if asking him to decide. Anselmo shrugged.
‘Well, if it’s only a formality …’ he said.
Bordelli leaned lazily forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk.
‘So, in the meantime, what do you say we have a beer?’
The two brothers nodded, then exchanged a look of surprise. The inspector glanced over at Piras.
‘Will you have one too?’
‘It’s fine with me.’
Bordelli dialled an internal extension.
‘Mugnai, could you go to the bar on the corner and pick up four beers? Just put it on our account and tell ’em I’ll drop by later.’
Giulio pulled out a rolled-up handkerchief and started wiping his face. By this point Anselmo had two fingers planted firmly inside his collar, as if he were afraid of being strangled by his tie. They all sat in silence, as if they couldn’t talk before the beers arrived. Bordelli leaned back in his chair and stared at the Morozzi brothers’ ties, spellbound. He had always thought a tie was a very strange thing, a tongue of fabric that hangs from the neck … and when you reach out to grab the salt, it ends up in your soup. It had never made sense to him. He must have two or three of his own in a wardrobe somewhere, old gifts from women who hadn’t really understood him and wanted him to be different from what he was. As he began to drift off into old memories, Mugnai knocked at the door.
‘Your beer, Inspector.’
‘You’re as quick as lightning.’
Mugnai glanced in passing at the sweat-soaked brothers and walked out, waddling like a seal. Bordelli reached into a drawer and pulled out some paper cups, flipped off the bottle caps with his house keys and handed the brothers their beers. Piras got up to get his and immediately returned to the typewriter. All four took long, cool draughts. Giulio even shut his eyes in relief.
‘All right, then, tell me the names of the restaurant and the nightclub,’ said Bordelli.
‘The restaurant is called Il Coccodrillo,’ said Anselmo. ‘We reserved a table. You can check, if you like.’
‘I will, don’t you worry about that.’
Anselmo looked offended. He was about to say something when Giulio impulsively cut in.
‘And then we went dancing at the Mecca,’ he said.
Bordelli let his eyelids droop, with the look of someone who has a long afternoon ahead of him and is in no hurry.
‘What time did you get to the restaurant?’
‘Half past eight. Right, Giulio?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘And what time did you leave?’
‘Roughly, about ten thirty … right, Giulio?’
‘Yes, yes, about ten thirty … more or less.’
‘And did you go dancing straight away, or did you do something else first?’
‘Straight away.’
‘And how late did you stay?’
‘We were the last to leave … right, Giulio?’
‘Yes, yes, the very last.’
Bordelli looked over at Piras.
‘Did you write that down, Piras?’
‘Certainly did, Inspector.’
‘Good. What time does this Mecca close?’
‘At five o’clock, right, Giulio?’
‘Yes, five.’
‘Were you alone?’
‘We were with our wives, Inspector. But at the Mecca we ran into a friend, who was also with his wife. They’re from Milan.’
‘Yes, yes, from Milan.’
‘And you all stayed there together until five o’clock in the morning?’
‘No, Inspector, the Milanese couple left much earlier, round midnight, I think … They have a small child … Right, Giulio?’
‘Yes, a little boy.’
Bordelli was beginning to think that at any moment the Morozzi brothers would take each other by the hand.
‘And neither of you has any children?’ he asked.
‘Not yet … Why?’
‘Just curious.’
Bordelli waited for Piras to finish clacking, then continued.
‘What’s the name of your Milanese friends?’
Anselmo took a deep breath.
‘Salvetti. He owns a zip factory. In the summer they stay at the villa next to ours, at Cinquale.’
Bordelli started to massage his chin, looking pensive, like someone trying to grasp a hidden truth. The Morozzi brothers looked at him with suspicion.
‘When did you last see your aunt?’
‘A couple of weeks ago, before leaving for the coast,’ said Anselmo.
And his brother: ‘Yes, yes, a couple of weeks ago, a fortnight, more or less …’
The inspector was beginning to feel a powerful antipathy towards the two brothers. But he couldn’t let this influence him. He was well aware that murderers are very often quite likeable.
‘What sort of relations did you have with your aunt? I want you, Giulio, to answer me first.’
Giulio gave a start, as if he had just sat on a pin.
‘What sort of relations? Well, I’d say … rather good relations. Eh, Anselmo?’
‘Oh, yes … I’d say so myself, good relations … Quite good.’
Bordelli paused for a moment for Piras’s sake, taking advantage of the lull to finish his beer, which had already gone warm.
‘And what can you tell me about the inheritance?’
‘In what sense, may I ask?’
‘It’s a whole lot of money. The villa alone must be worth many millions, no?’
There was a momentary flash of joy in Anselmo’s eyes, but he quickly suppressed it. Tilting his head sideways, he threw up his hands.
‘Well, what can we do about that?’ he said in the tone of someone who has just punctured a tyre.
‘It’s certainly not our fault,’ Giulio confirmed.
Bordelli felt almost fascinated by these two imbeciles.
‘What sort of work do you do?’ he asked.
‘We deal in property. Why?’ Anselmo asked, alarmed.
‘Why are you getting upset? I only need it for the report.’
‘I’m certainly not upset. Do I seem upset to you? Why should I get upset?’
‘What kind of car do you drive?’ asked Bordelli, ignoring Anselmo’s questions.
‘What’s the car got to do with this?’
‘Just to make conversation.’
Giulio gulped, sounding like the bathroom sink.
‘A Fiat 600 Multipla,’ said Anselmo.
‘Me too,’ said Giulio.
‘But when we go to the coast we take only one car.’
Biting an unlit cigarette, Bordelli got ready to ask the final questions.
‘And what can you tell me about your Uncle Dante?’
Both brothers smiled idiotically.
‘Uncle Dante? He’s a bit strange, someone with a couple of screws loose … Right, Giulio?’