Marco Vichi - Inspector Bordelli 04 - Death in Florence (32 page)

They spent the afternoon getting all muddy and checking the results of their efforts. When night at last began to fall, they had managed to free up the third step of the staircase. Leaving their buckets in the building’s entranceway, they picked their bones up off the ground. They felt like wrecks.

‘I would love to have another dinner like last night,’ she said, wincing in pain.

‘Will you allow me to take you out again?’

‘Are you sure you don’t have any other engagements?’

‘Not that I know of …’

‘But first I’d like to run over to my parents’ house … I’d like to change clothes.’

‘I’ll follow your example.’

‘Eight-thirty in front of the church of San Miniato?’

‘Perfect …’ Why couldn’t he just have said
all right
?

As he was driving to the station he contacted the radio room. The surveillance operation was already under way. He asked to be connected with the cars out on duty, but they had nothing important to relay. Gattacci’s house was in darkness, without even a light over the front door.

At headquarters he went up to his office. Deciding to contact Colonel Arcieri, he dialled the same number as the night before, to find out how his visit with the Fascist had gone. A nasal voice told him that the colonel was not in and that nobody knew where to find him.

Bordelli imagined that Gattacci had fled very far away, and he couldn’t really blame him. Perhaps it was pointless to keep a watch on his house, but in that kind of situation he couldn’t afford to let the tiniest thing escape him. He tried ringing Rosa, but the phone lines around Santa Croce were still down. He would pay her a visit as soon as he could, to see whether she needed anything.

The commissioner rang, asking him where the hell he’d been hiding. Bordelli dispensed with him in a few seconds, saying a new lead had developed in the Pellissari case and he didn’t have time to stay on the phone. He hung up before Inzipone could reply.

As he was looking for the number of the restaurant near Arcetri in the telephone book, there was a knock at the door. It was none other than Canu, a tall, blond Sardinian with green eyes.

‘I did what you asked round Via Luna, sir.’

‘Come in …’ said Bordelli. Canu entered the room and plonked himself down in front of the desk.

‘A neighbour told me the owner of the flat is a certain Cesira Baiocchi who lives in Via del Gelsomino, but she didn’t know the number. She also didn’t know whether the place was rented out or not. So I went to Via del Gelsomino and started knocking on all the doors. I found a lady who used to know her. She said Signora Baiocchi died two years ago. She didn’t have any children but had a niece who lives in France. The lady’d never seen this niece and didn’t know her name. She didn’t know about any other relatives, either. That was all I could gather.’

‘Well done, Canu.’

‘Need anything else, sir?’

‘No, that’ll be all for now, you can go.’

‘At your service, sir,’ said the Sardinian, dashing off.

Bordelli leaned back in his chair. He’d requested that little investigation so as to leave no stone unturned, but he’d expected all along that it would come to nothing. It was better to concentrate on the three Fascists.

He remembered the restaurant. Looking the number up in the phone book, he reserved a table for nine o’clock, then jotted the number down so he could leave it with the lads in the radio room.

‘If there’s any news, I’ll be at this place having a bite between nine and eleven.’

‘A lovely flood victim?’ asked Inspector Bonciani, winking.

‘A boring work dinner.’

‘If you like, I could go in your stead.’

‘I’m happy to make the sacrifice myself.’

‘So she must be very pretty …’

‘After eleven you should try the car radio or come straight to my place, since I don’t think the phones are working in San Frediano,’ said Bordelli, who then left without saying goodbye. He never could stand male camaraderie on the subject of women.

He raced home. In order to wash he had to heat up another big pot of water on the stove. He selected a nice suit, put his best shoes in a bag and went out wearing boots. He trudged through the mud to get to the car, then took off the boots and put on his shoes. He drove up Viale Machiavelli at thirty kilometres an hour, ignoring the horns and the flashing high beams of the nervous drivers behind him. He was in front of the iron gate of the church of San Miniato at twelve minutes past eight, but he didn’t stop the car. To kill a little time he went down to Piazza Ferrucci and turned round. Eight-twenty-four. He parked and started pacing back and forth, smoking a cigarette. A great many cars drove by on Viale Galileo. He turned round to look at the church of San Miniato, which stood out against the dark sky. Its magnificent medieval façade soared white in the night, with its geometric patterns and the eagle of the Wool Guild on top, in the place of the cross. The most beautiful basilica in Florence, if not the world … but at that moment he was in no condition to appreciate it.

He tossed aside his cigarette butt, but she still hadn’t arrived. What if she didn’t come? What if she’d changed her mind? Worse yet, maybe she was hiding behind a bush with her friends and laughing at the old fart who’d deluded himself into thinking he could sink his teeth into some young flesh … But enough of this defeatism. It was perfectly normal for a woman to be late. And anyway, it was only 8.31. He needed to calm down. He continued walking around, hands in his pockets, trying to think of other things. The three Fascists were under close surveillance, and maybe something interesting would come of it …

At 8.40 he leaned his elbows on the marble parapet and looked out over the valley. What was keeping Eleonora from running into his arms? He decided he would wait until 8.50 … or nine at the latest … If, by a quarter past nine, she still hadn’t arrived, he would go down to San Niccolò and look for her. He lit another cigarette, found it disgusting, but kept on smoking it.

He heard a car coming up the Via delle Porte Sante and turned round. He saw some headlights approaching, and then a white Fiat 500 parked behind his squad car. The engine went off at the same time as the lights, the door opened, and out stepped Eleonora’s slender, sinuous figure.

‘Hello,’ she said, coming slowly towards him. No mention of her tardiness. Bordelli went up to her.

‘Hello.’

‘I’m famished …’

‘Then let’s not waste any time.’

They got into his car and drove off. She was wearing very close-fitting black trousers and a short coat gathered at the waist, but would have been beautiful even in a hauberk.

‘Have you arrested any murderers in the meantime?’

‘We’re working on it …’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Who are you looking for?’

‘If you’ve read the papers you should know.’

‘The boy they found in the woods.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What a horrible story … And you’re about to catch the killer?’

‘I hope so,’ said Bordelli, without revealing that there were at least three killers.

‘Would you believe it if I told you I really am a sort of witch?’

‘In what sense?’

‘You’ll find the killer, I’m sure of it.’

‘Thanks for the encouragement.’

‘It’s not just encouragement. It’s what I feel.’

‘Then I hope you really are a witch.’

‘You mean you still have doubts?’

‘No, on the contrary …’

‘I’m also a vampire, when I need to be,’ said the girl in a more or less serious tone.

They arrived at the restaurant and Bordelli led the way inside. He helped her with her coat, and they sat down at the table. They ordered more or less the same things as the night before. There wasn’t much else available.

All they did was talk during the meal. Family anecdotes, not very serious discussions about politics and Florence, films, books, painters, a passing mention of the war, the youth of today, long hair, modern music, the flood …

When they got up from the table it was past eleven, and they’d drunk almost two bottles of wine and several small glasses of
vin santo
. Bordelli felt as light as a feather. As they were walking out of the restaurant, the girl look his arm, laughing.

‘Oh my God, my head is spinning a little.’

‘It must be the salad …’ he said, overcome by a wave of heat from the unexpected physical contact.

‘Shall we go for a walk?’

‘I’d love to.’

And they headed down the narrow, dimly lit road under a dark sky.

‘Do you like to walk?’ she asked.

‘I often go for long walks in the woods,’ Bordelli boasted.

‘It must be so quiet …’

‘Every now and then I need that.’

‘I’d already realised you have a bit of the bear in you,’ said Eleonora.

Seconds later she let go of his arm, leaving him alone in the cold. They walked on for a bit, passing between high stone walls and large, silent villas. A little farther ahead there was a small, low wall outside an olive grove, and they stopped. She turned round to look at him, but said nothing. In the darkness Bordelli saw two tiny diamonds glitter in her jet-black eyes. He had to find the courage to kiss her. He had to take the plunge. What was happening to him? Had he forgotten he was a man? What was he waiting for to take her in his arms? If he didn’t kiss her in two seconds … But she took care of it herself in the end, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She drew near and parted her lips. It was a delicate kiss, at first, but little by little it went deeper and deeper …

He heard her breathing in the dark. She’d fallen asleep a short while before, her warm feet intertwined with his. The room was cold, but it felt good under the covers. It was no longer a fantasy. Eleonora was there beside him. He could smell her scent. They’d made love sweetly, violently, continuing to address each other in the polite form just for fun. After blowing out the candles, they’d amused themselves revealing what had been going through their heads at certain moments. Know what I thought the first time I saw you? And when I touched your knee under the table at the
osteria
? Is it true you were about to kiss me that time?

‘Today’s girls certainly move fast,’ he’d said. Barely half an hour had passed between the first kiss and the bed, the time it took to get to San Frediano and climb the stairs to his flat.

‘The world is changing. Haven’t you noticed?’

‘I have, but I can’t always keep up with it.’

‘Try to stay on top of it instead of following behind,’ she said in a sing-song voice, pulling the hair on his belly.

‘Who knows what your mother would say if she saw you now?’

‘She’d say I sleep with old men.’

‘How very kind …’

‘You’re the one who asked.’

‘It was a rhetorical question.’

‘Did you know that my mother is younger than you?’ she said.

‘Do you do it often?’

‘Do what?’

‘Sleep with older men.’

‘Oh, no, are you now going to ask how many men I’ve been with and what I did with them?’

‘It’s the farthest thing from my mind.’

‘And what do you think? That I’m a tart?’

‘Of course.’

‘Oh, thanks …’

‘You’re the one who asked.’

‘It was a rhetorical question,’ she’d said, laughing, and they’d started making love again in the dark …

He got out of bed, moving slowly so as not to wake her. He groped around for his clothes on the floor and managed to take a blanket from the wardrobe, shivering with cold all the while. Grabbing the torch, he didn’t turn it on until he was out of the room. He went into the dining room and got dressed in a hurry, teeth chattering. He had to remember to buy a small gas heater. He lit two candles and sat down on the sofa to smoke a cigarette, wrapped in his blanket. Slowly he began to warm up. He felt good, perhaps too good, but he was also worried. At his age he would rather avoid particularly stinging defeats. He hoped he would know soon whether she was serious about him or only playing around. He didn’t want to be left high and dry. An old man’s concerns, these. He was well aware of that. She seemed not to worry herself too much about things. She probably didn’t need to. He had to be careful not to spoil everything with his apprehensions. He was probably better off not clinging too much or chasing wild illusions … What was he hoping for, anyway? For her to move in with him? Perhaps in an old country house with mice running about in the kitchen?

He’d been away from her for just a few minutes, and already he felt like going back. He stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette and blew out the candles. He returned to the bedroom, hand shading the light of the torch, then turned it off and slipped under the covers with his clothes still on. Slowly he took his trousers off and let them slide down from the bed. Eleonora moved, making a slight moaning sound, and cuddled next to him without waking up. She was warm and smelled of youth.

He lay awake, staring into the darkness, gently stroking her back. He didn’t feel like asking himself any more pointless questions. It made no sense. He should let whatever happened, happen. Actually he was quite curious to know how old Inspector Bordelli was going to deal with this one. He would force himself to live one day at a time, without tormenting himself. However it turned out, nothing would ever erase this night from his memory.

Eleonora moved again and slowly turned away. He got closer to her and delicately pressed his chest against her back. The moment he closed his eyes he started thinking of the murdered boy, the killers, his new hope for the case. He could imagine what fun the men in the surveillance cars were having. Now patience alone would yield fruit, if there was any to be had. At moments he thought he was on the right track; he had a sort of feeling about it … Yes, they were the killers: Panerai, Beccaroni and Gattacci … Gattacci too? Really? At his age? But what could an elderly, cultured Fascist have in common with a butcher, assuming they knew each other? And a lawyer with an office in the centre of Florence, what kind of relationship did he have with Gattacci and Panerai? Were they really a clique? And, if so, was their common bond merely a devotion to the Duce? Or also a passion for young boys?