He ran a hand over his face, and for the first time felt as if the war had taken place a thousand years ago.
Piras’s face appeared inside the half-open door.
‘Am I disturbing you, Inspector?’
‘Not at all, Piras. Come in.’
The Sardinian remained standing in front of the desk. He chased away a fly that had landed on his cheek. He had a grave expression on his face.
‘I wanted to ask you what we’re going to do about the Morozzi brothers,’ he said.
‘You seem to be taking the case very much to heart.’
‘We should interrogate them again, but separately. And I would do the same with the wives.’
‘You want to upset them, I guess.’
‘Exactly. And it doesn’t matter that we don’t yet have a clear sense of things. What do you say?’
Bordelli mulled it over. He swatted at two flies making love on his arm.
‘Piras, do you remember who wrote: “If God created flies, there must be a reason?”’
‘Saint Augustine, Inspector. In the Confessions.’
Bordelli nodded, as if he’d known all along.
‘All right, Piras, I agree with you. Let’s interrogate them all, one at a time.’
The Sardinian looked quite pleased.
‘Then I’ll have them summoned,’ he said.
‘Yes, take care of that yourself. And have them come tomorrow.’
Piras left, and Bordelli sat there, reflecting, amid a dozen or so frantic flies. The case was still at the same point. They needed to work out how it was possible to kill someone from sixty miles away. And they had to do it in August, the hottest August in memory.
But what if the Morozzis were in fact innocent? Who could have killed that woman, and why? For revenge?
Bordelli thought with envy of Rodrigo, so full of hope and novelty. Perhaps he had found the right woman, which was saying a lot. And he was two years younger than him. One could only imagine what kind of nights he was spending with his mysterious lover.
The interrogation was a painful affair. Bordelli consoled himself with the thought that Botta was already at the cooker. He had left him a short while before, chopping onions.
The Morozzi brothers did nothing but whimper the whole time. They wiped away their sweat with their handkerchiefs, repeating everything they had already said. Their wives resembled one another like sisters. Gina and Angela. They had the same unpleasant mannerisms, the same whorish make-up, and both gave off a strong smell of chestnut flour. They too repeated everything their husbands had said, with a long-suffering expression that inspired only antipathy. The only concrete result of the interrogation was to make them all upset, as intended.
After they left, Bordelli started pacing about his office.
‘So, Piras, how did they do it?… And what is that smell?’
‘That’s all I can think about, Inspector, but I still can’t come up with an answer.’
Piras, of course, was referring to the first question. Bordelli crossed his arms over his paunch, continuing to sniff the air with irritation, then got up and opened the window wide. Piras sat stone faced, thinking, trying to put the pieces together. It wasn’t so difficult, after all. By now the dynamic of the murder was more or less clear: Salvetti’s Alfa Giulietta Sprint, the switched medicine bottles, the copied keys. All that remained to be unravelled was the business of the pollen, nothing more, and then the rest would be like taking candy from a baby. Bordelli circled round his desk and plopped down in his chair.
‘Today’s the funeral, Piras, then they all go off to the solicitor’s to read the will.’
‘Was Signora Pedretti very rich?’
‘Very. But she left it all to the nuns.’
Piras smiled wickedly.
‘Good for her,’ he said.
‘If the Morozzis did it, it was all for nothing,’ Bordelli said.
Piras started walking about the room, index finger over his lips, gaze wandering up and down the walls. The inspector drummed his fingers on his cigarette pack, also thinking. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was already one o’clock. The nauseating smell was still in the air and made his head ache.
‘I’m going to get a bite to eat, Piras. See you tonight, at my place.’
‘All right.’
On his way out of the station, Bordelli tapped on the window of the guardroom.
‘Mugnai, when you get a chance, go up to my office. The ladies left behind a nasty little scent as a souvenir. See if you can get rid of it.’
‘All right, sir.’
* * *
Bordelli dropped in at home, deciding he couldn’t go to Toto’s. He wanted to eat lightly and then lie down for half an hour before going back to work. He ended up sitting at the kitchen table eating tuna and onions while Botta fussed about with his saucepans with the seriousness of an engineer.
‘An extra guest’ll be coming tonight, Botta, but don’t be alarmed. It’s only Canapini.’
‘Cana? Where did you unearth him?’
‘I found him at the flat of a lady friend.’
‘Aha. You caught him trying to rob someone.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Botta sniggered and continued stirring the contents of a large earthenware pot with a wooden spoon, raising Dantesque clouds of smoke.
‘The crazy fool! It’ll be nice to see him, poor bloke. When did he get out?’
‘A couple of days ago.’
‘Want a few hot beans, Inspector?’
‘Thanks.’
Botta poured a ladleful of steaming beans on to a plate, then started chopping parsley with a mezzaluna. In one corner of the table was a large slab of red meat beside a salad bowl filled to the brim with diced potatoes. A number of mysterious bags were lined up on the sideboard.
‘What’s it going to be after the Lombard soup?’ Bordelli asked.
‘It’s a surprise, Inspector. All I can say is that it’ll be a journey outside of Italy.’
‘To the north or south?’
‘No more questions, Inspector. Botta never talks.’
‘In this heat I’m sure you’ll take us south. Morocco? Tunisia?’
‘This is a delicate moment, Inspector. Don’t distract me.’
Bordelli finished his tuna and ate an apple without saying another word. Ennio moved nimbly back and forth between table and cooker, completely submerged in his thoughts. Seeing him so busy, Bordelli decided to get out of his way, went and lay down in bed and lit a cigarette. The blinding sunlight forced its way through the slats of the closed shutters. At that hour, two in the afternoon, the silence was almost absolute. Feeling a great sadness well up in his chest, Bordelli closed his eyes and very nearly fell asleep with the lighted cigarette in his hand. He crushed it in the ashtray and turned on to his side. He was trying to banish from his thoughts the image of Elvira brushing a blonde lock of hair away from her face, and when he finally succeeded, it was replaced by another, much older memory … an abandoned farmhouse at the top of a hill … He was on patrol with Piras Sr, climbing the slope through fallow fields. When they reached the house they stopped in the farmyard and looked around. It was spring and the insects were buzzing round the flowers. A sort of maternal warmth emanated from the hot bricks. He felt like lying down in the grass and sleeping for ever. He slung the machine gun over his shoulder and folded his hands behind his head, breathing in the scented air. Then all at once he turned round, instinctively, without knowing why, and saw the double barrel of a shotgun poke out of some bushes beside the house. He managed to grab Gavino by the arm and pull him to the ground a split second before the shot. The pellets struck the wall of the house, raising a yellowish cloud of dust. Flat on the ground, they awaited the second shot.
‘Should I fire back?’ asked Piras. Bordelli shook his head no. They lay there on the warm brick, carefully scanning the bushes. The double barrel was gone, but soon poked out through more shrubbery. He and Piras rolled to one side and the shot wasn’t late in coming. The hail of pellets scraped the ground, cutting the grass and raising splinters of brick. At once Bordelli sprang to his feet and ran towards the shotgun, diving into the bush, where he found himself in front of an old man with a broad face, a long beard and a black peasant’s cap pulled down to his eyes. The man was pointing his now empty shotgun at him, shaking the barrels to keep him at bay.