Death in Sardinia (53 page)

‘He may still be. He may be alive, you know.’

‘Why are you looking for him?’

‘I want to invite him to dinner at Epiphany.’

‘Then don’t overcook the steak. He’s the kind that likes it blood rare.’

‘How the hell do you office moles always manage to know everything about everybody?’

‘Our motto is: never throw anything away. You never know when you may need it. Our archives are the envy of the CIA itself.’

‘God knows what my file looks like.’

‘Rest assured we know everything: how many women you’ve slept with, what books you read, how many times you threw up as a baby and all the rest.’

‘Too bad there’s not a single photo of Frigolin available. That would have made things a lot easier.’

‘Have the man’s mug broadcast on TV and maybe someone will—’

‘That’s already been arranged.’

‘So you gumshoes aren’t really as feeble-minded as they say.’

‘We even know how to drive cars, as far as that goes.’

‘You don’t mean to tell me why you’re looking for this revenant?’ Agostinelli asked.

‘A few days ago, in Sardinia, a man killed himself with an automatic pistol, but the shell was never found …’ Bordelli went on to recount in a few words the whole story of Benigno.

‘He’s good, this Sardinian. Think he might want to change jobs?’

‘Piras is mine,’ said Bordelli.

‘Ah, then never mind.’

‘If our suspicions are right, this Frigolin has been living in Oristano under a false name since ’46, even though his papers are authentic.’

‘He may have obtained them himself, using real municipal records. It happened a lot during that period.’

‘He left nothing but scorched earth behind him …’

‘Those who were best prepared had already started arranging their escape in ’44, when it became clear how it was all going to end,’ said Agostinelli.

‘The guy’s been living undisturbed for twenty years, mixing concrete and money … I hardly think that’s right.’

‘I’ll try again and see if I can’t find a photograph,’ said Agostinelli.

‘If you don’t succeed I’ll start to think that none of you does a bleeding thing all day in your cushy offices,’ Bordelli said, laughing.

‘Even if there’s only one copy of something in all the world, we’ll find it, rest assured.’

‘Call me at any hour of the day or night, even at home.’

‘Sorry to ask, but isn’t it enough for Frigolin to be convicted for premeditated murder?’ asked the admiral.

‘Well, yes and no, but that’s not the point. What worries me most is that if through some legal quibble this Frigolin manages to slip out of jail for even a minute, we’ll never find him again.’

‘You can be sure of that. I’ll get moving straight away.’

‘Thanks, Carnera, really.’

‘Thanks, Beast.’ Bordelli hung up. It was true, one of his nicknames during the war had been

‘Beast’. He’d forgotten. Lighting a cigarette, he rang Piras at once to tell him about Ruggero Frigolin’s accomplishments under the Republic of Salò.

Shortly before five o’clock the hospital rang him. Sergeant Baragli was unwell and wanted to talk to him. Bordelli put on his trench coat and went out.

He got to Careggi in only a few minutes. Driving through the hospital gate, he parked in front of the ward. As he climbed the stairs, he thought of all the people he’d seen die. The list was long and included his father and mother. And he would see more, until the day when he too joined their number. Turning down the corridor, he imagined Rosa at his funeral, a black veil over her face and Gideon in her arms. A mysterious blonde weeping in silence amidst the deceased’s relatives and his law-enforcement colleagues, immobile as her spiked heels sank into the ground …

Baragli was in a pitiful state. He lay motionless with his eyes closed, face like a mask made of wax. His wife and son were sitting beside the bed and watching him in silence. As soon as she saw Bordelli, the wife took him by the arm and led him out of the room. In the hallway she burst into tears and pulled out her handkerchief. The inspector embraced her and awkwardly patted her head. He didn’t know what to say. The son also came out, and they shook hands.

‘If you’re going to stay a little while, Inspector, I’d like to take my mother out to eat something.’

‘I don’t want to eat,’ she said, sobbing.

‘Mamma, please, you have to eat. What’s the use of acting this way?’

Bordelli took one of the woman’s hands in his. It was as cold as if it had just been taken out of a refrigerator.

‘Your son is right, signora. You can even take your time. I’ll stay until you return,’ he said. The son put an arm round his mother’s shoulders and led her away. The inspector watched them walk down the corridor, then went back in and sat down beside Baragli’s bed. The sergeant was asleep. Every so often his lips moved, as if he was dreaming. Bordelli took the cards out of the drawer and started playing solitaire on the bed. After a few minutes of this, he looked up. Baragli was awake and watching him.

‘Ciao, Oreste.’

Baragli took a breath and moved his lips, but only a whisper came out of his mouth. The inspector brought his chair closer.

‘What was that?’

‘I have a beautiful family,’ Baragli said in a faint voice.

‘They’ve gone out for a bite to eat. They’ll be back soon.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve reached the end, Inspector.’

‘Don’t be silly, Oreste.’

The sergeant gave a sort of smile and said nothing. His eyes were sunken and ringed with black. The few hairs on his head were tousled, like a newborn’s. The brunette nurse came in to administer a shot. The syringe was completely full.

‘How’s our policeman today?’ she said, trying to be cheerful, but it was clear she didn’t really feel like joking.

‘Not very well,’ said Baragli, half closing his eyes. The slightest movement cost him great effort. He wasn’t even able to pull down his pyjama bottoms, and Bordelli gave the woman a hand. The sergeant’s bum was swollen with needle pricks.

‘Had any more bad dreams, Sergeant?’ the nurse asked as she administered the injection.

‘Yes,’ said Baragli.

‘What did you dream?”

‘I was running through a field …’

‘Now, how do you think that makes me feel? Don’t you like me any more?’ the woman asked, withdrawing the needle. Baragli tried to smile, and with great effort raised a hand to the nurse. She took it in hers and squeezed it.

‘You are an angel,’ said Baragli.

‘My husband would not agree.’ She laughed, laying the sergeant’s hand down gently on the sheet. Then she took leave of the two men, walking away with her empty syringe.

‘Inspector. Haven’t you got anything to tell me about that boy?’ Baragli was exhausted, but his eyes burned with curiosity.

‘Don’t overtax yourself, Oreste.’

‘Please, tell me about that boy …’

‘De Marchi compared the hair samples,’ Bordelli said, sighing.

‘A match?’

‘Yes.’

‘I knew it,’ Baragli muttered.

‘Not so fast. We still don’t know for certain whether he did it,’ said the inspector.

‘I knew it,’ Baragli repeated. Almost without realising, Bordelli shuffled the cards and dealt them for a game of
briscola
.

‘Shall we play?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think I can, Inspector.’

‘Just one game.’

‘When are you going back to see that boy?’

‘There’s no hurry,’ said Bordelli. Baragli closed his eyes and remained silent. He seemed to have suddenly fallen asleep. The inspector reshuffled the cards and started another round of solitaire. All at once someone grabbed his wrist. Baragli was pulling him towards him with all the feeble strength he had left.

‘Oreste, are you all right?’

‘I wanted to tell you something, Inspector.’

‘Tell me.’ Bordelli brought his face near. Baragli’s eyes were blazing, and staring at him. What life remained in him lay entirely in his pupils.

‘A policeman must do his duty to the best of his ability, Inspector. But above anything else, he must be …
fair
,’ he said. And his eyes added what he wouldn’t put into words. Bordelli smiled nervously. He suddenly felt a strong desire to smoke.

He rang the buzzer and climbed the stairs, and when he got to the top, he found Rosa’s door ajar. A voice rang out from within, and Bordelli recognised it at once. It was Princess Doralice, mother of three girls. He found her in the sitting room, all covered with silvery veils and a great big hat. She was standing in the middle of the room, repeating the same lines in a variety of tones, addressing them to the cat, who was sleeping quietly on the couch.

‘
How could you do such a thing! My own daughter, a murderess!
’

‘
How could you do such a thing! My own daughter, a murderess!
’

‘
How could you do such a thing! My own daughter, a murderess! …
Well, which one do you like best?’ Rosa asked in the end, breaking the spell.

‘The second,’ said Bordelli, choosing at random. Rosa tried another dozen times, then came towards him, moving the way she thought princesses moved.

‘What do you think?’ she said. She gave him a hug and a kiss on the ear.

‘Touching … Is it the last scene?’ the inspector asked.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘The tragic tone.’ Rosa gave a sly smile.

‘Wrong! It may seem like the finale, but it’s the
coup de théâtre
… Would you like me to tell you the story?’

‘Of course,’ said Bordelli, knowing that any other answer would have been taken as an insult.

‘A nip of cognac?’

‘If I must …’

‘Sit down over there and get comfortable,’ she said, excited. She pushed him down on to the sofa and took his shoes off. Then she filled two small glasses with cognac.

‘What shall we drink to, monkey?’ she asked, raising her glass.

‘To Princess Rosa?’

‘And to 1966 … I want it to be a marvellous year.’ They clinked glasses, looking each other straight in the eye, and took a sip.

‘Now let me tell you the story of Doralice,’ she said, setting her glass down on the table. Bordelli lit a cigarette, determined not to miss a word. Rosa stood up and clapped her hands, as if to open the performance.

‘This story takes place in the past, centuries ago, in a great castle surrounded by cypresses at the top of a hill. Princess Doralice, who’s me, has three delightful daughters, Amelia, Camilla and Rinuccia, all very sensitive and sweet, all as beautiful as their mother, who’s me. Rinuccia is the youngest and prettiest of all …’

Bordelli couldn’t stop fidgeting. There was a spot on his spine that hurt. Perhaps a draught had chilled him. However he tried to settle, he felt a pinch in a vertebra halfway down his back.

‘… all was going smoothly, when one day Rinuccia meets a man, Adalberto, and falls head over heels in love with him. And this is where things go awry, because Rinuccia doesn’t know that Adalberto is her cousin, a distant cousin on the side of an aunt who was the second wife of her mother’s brother, that is,
my
brother, and who Rinuccia had never seen before. In the meantime, Doralice’s son-in-law, Otello, that is,
my
son-in-law, the one married to Amelia, my eldest daughter, falls in love with my second daughter, Camilla, who is, however, already engaged to Manlio, who is cheating on her with a peasant girl, the natural daugher of Gaspare, my second husband … Did I mention that Doralice is twice widowed?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Bordelli, feeling a mild headache begin to set in. Rosa was pacing back and forth on the rug, still moving like a princess.

‘There’s also a great-uncle, by the name of Giulio, a gloomy, wicked man who wants to marry me, even though, in fact, my second husband was the nephew of an in-law of his … But everything gets complicated when we learn that Romualdo is on his way there – he’s my first husband’s brother, and a distant relation of Ettore … Have I mentioned Ettore yet?’

‘Of course,’ Bordelli lied. Gideon raised his head and exchanged what seemed like a glance of tacit understanding with him, then went right back to sleep. He wasn’t required to follow the plot of the story …

The whole thing grew even more complicated, with fourth cousins and illegitimate children, rival lovers and trysts so contorted that even a police inspector couldn’t make head or tail of them. It was anybody’s guess where Rosa had dug all this up. Bordelli felt numb and decided to stop trying to keep up. He simply stared at Rosa and occasionally nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking of Odoardo, of the scissors stuck in Badalamenti’s neck, of mortar fire, of Nazis rolling about on the ground … The important thing was to grasp the end of the story, rouse himself in time, and say something meaningful. He only hoped Rosa wouldn’t ask him anything specific about the plot.

‘… and so I run off to the castle like a bat out of hell and when I enter the dining hall I find Amelia, my eldest daughter, with a knife in her hand … dripping blood … and a dead body at her feet … Amelia has just killed Odoardo, stabbing him thirty times in the heart …’ Hearing the name Odoardo, the inspector suddenly snapped out of his reverie. He wasn’t sure he had heard right.

‘This is the scene I was rehearsing when you came in …
How could you do such a thing? My own daughter, a murderess!
And then I despair and fall to the floor, weeping, because I am convinced I’m the mother of a ruthless killer who has committed murder out of envy. But then I discover the truth, which is that Amelia killed Odoardo to achieve justice, because he was driving Zia Bettina’s daughter to suicide so he could get his hands on her inheritance. And so I embrace Amelia, still crying, but now they are tears of joy, and it all ends well … What do you think?’

Bordelli scratched his head and started searching for his cigarettes.

‘What about Amelia? Does she end up in jail?’

‘Why should she? She certainly didn’t kill Odoardo out of wickedness. She did it out of the goodness of her heart.’

‘Ah, I see …’

‘So, what do you think?’

‘I think it’s good. Really good, I must say.’

‘Really?’

‘Absolutely … A nice little intrigue. I’m just sorry I can’t come to see it.’