Marco Vichi - Death in Sardinia

‘I’ll have you know that until proven otherwise, it might just all be malicious gossip, Inspector … And, anyway, you’re supposed to investigate murders, or am I mistaken?’

‘All right, but if you won’t get me the warrant, I’ll handle it my own way,’ the inspector said, standing up.

‘And what will you do, Inspector? Break into the man’s home illegally … as you’ve done on other occasions?’

‘I’m a policeman, and I try to do my job to the best of my abilities.’

‘A chief inspector who picks locks … Is that any way to do things? Can you imagine what would happen if-’

‘Just tell me one thing, sir: will you help me get that warrant or won’t you?’ Bordelli retorted, standing in front of Inzipone’s desk. The commissioner sighed deeply, chewing his lips.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.

‘Well, be quick about it. That man must be stopped.’

‘And what if your search yields nothing of interest?’

‘I’ll turn his flat upside down, take it apart piece by piece… I’m convinced something will turn up.’

‘You’re really so sure, are you?’

‘Let’s say I’m certain it’s worth the trouble of trying,’ Bordelli concluded, and with a nod, he headed for the door. Inzipone stood up.

‘Bordelli, have I ever told you I don’t like your methods?’

‘I think you have.’

‘Well, then let me repeat it. I don’t like your methods one bit.’

‘I’m truly sorry about that.’

Closing the door behind him, Bordelli heard the commissioner sputtering curses between clenched teeth.

In the days that followed, he learned that the judge had thrown a tantrum. Without a formal denunciation or concrete evidence, the possibility of a search warrant was less than a mirage. Seeing red, Bordelli had decided to go and talk directly with Judge Ginzillo, the man with the smallest head he’d ever seen. He’d had to deal with him a number of times in the past, and it had never been pleasant.

‘Dr Ginzillo, please don’t always throw spanners in my works, if you can help it,’ Bordelli said politely the moment he was allowed into the judge’s office.

‘Please sit down, Inspector, and excuse me for a moment,’ Ginzillo said without looking at him. He was busy reading something and seemed engrossed. Bordelli sat down calmly, repressing his desire to grab him by the ears and lift him off the ground. He even resisted the desire to light a cigarette, but not for Ginzillo’s sake. He’d decided to stop smoking and was always trying to put off the next cigarette for as long as possible.

The judge glanced at his watch, took a sip of water, and drummed his fingers on the desk, all the while hypnotised by that bloody, stamp-covered piece of paper.

‘All right, let’s hear it, Inspector, but make it brief,’ he said suddenly, without looking up. Before the inspector could open his mouth, a forty-something secretary dressed like an old maid walked in carrying a number of documents that urgently needed signing. The judge adjusted the glasses on his nose, and with a solemn mien sought the proper pen on his desk, found it, then started skimming the documents, murmuring the words as he read them. When he got to the end of each document, he gave a nod of approval, appended his signature, tightening his lips, then pushed the paper aside and went on to the next.

‘Go ahead, Inspector, I’m listening,’ he muttered, still reading. Bordelli didn’t reply, for fear he would utter an obscenity. When the secretary finally left, Ginzillo removed his spectacles with a weary gesture, cleaned them with a handkerchief, and put them back on. Then he resumed reading, fiddling with a very sharp pencil with a rubber at the end. He was holding it between two fingers and making it bounce off the wooden desktop.

‘So, you were saying, Inspector?’ he said, still hunched over the sheet of paper.

‘I haven’t breathed a word.’

‘Then please do. What are you waiting for?’

‘When I speak to someone I like to be able to look them in the eye, sir. It’s a fixation of mine.’

Ginzillo raised his head and, sighing, set the pencil down on the stack of papers. It seemed to cost him a lot of effort.

‘Go ahead,’ he muttered, looking at Bordelli with what seemed like great forbearance.

‘I need that search warrant, Dr Ginzillo.’

‘What search warrant?’

‘Badalamenti,’ the inspector said, staring at him.

‘We needn’t be so hasty.’

‘Hasty? Tell that to the people who’ve left their bollocks on the loan shark’s table.’

‘Please don’t be so vulgar, this is no place for that kind of talk.’

‘Why don’t you go some time and have a look for yourself at all the misery the man has caused? It’s not catching, you needn’t worry.’

‘Please, Bordelli …’

‘I said misery , sir, and while it may indeed be an obscenity, it’s not a bad word.’

The judge was getting upset. He put the pencil back in the cup and wrinkled his nose as if noticing an unpleasant smell.

‘Please sit down, Inspector, I want to have a little talk with you.’

Bordelli was already seated. Indeed, it felt to him as if he’d been sitting there for ever, and now he wanted to leave.

‘I don’t need to have a little talk with you, sir. What I need is that search warrant …’

The judge raised his eyebrows, looking irritated.

‘Just bear with me for a moment, Inspector,’ he said, sighing, putting his open hands forward as if to defend himself from the muzzle of a drooling, excessively friendly dog. Having caught his breath, he then stressed every syllable as if he were hammering nails.

‘If you really want to know, Inspector, Mr Badalamenti has a number of friends in our city government and socialises with some important families … Do you get the picture? Or can you think of nothing but your precious warrant? If I did as you ask and you found nothing … What would we do then? Can you imagine what the newspapers would say? Or have you already forgotten what happened with the Colombian jeweller?’

His voice came out through his nose with a metallic sound.

‘That wasn’t my case,’ Bordelli said, glancing compassionately at the timorous judge. Ginzillo raised his forefinger and his voice came out in a falsetto.

‘That’s exactly my point! If you’re wrong, it will be the first time for you, Inspector … but the second time in six months for the police force. Do you understand what I’m saying? The second time ! And if you think I’m going to …’

‘Goodbye, Dr Ginzillo,’ Bordelli said unceremoniously, getting up and leaving the room.

As he had given Commissioner Inzipone to understand, the inspector had decided, after his fruitless meeting with Ginzillo, to enter the usurer’s flat illegally and search high and low for any evidence that might help to nail him. He was convinced he would find something but, truth be told, he was also hoping for a little luck.

That same night, at about three in the morning, he’d gone to inspect the site, to determine how difficult a job it would be. The small palazzina in which Badalamenti lived was quiet and dark. It was February and very cold outside. In the glow of the street lamps he could see a fine rain falling and turning to sleet.

Some years before, the inspector had taken lockpicking lessons from his friend Ennio Bottarini, known to intimates as Botta, a master of the art of burglary, and he was now able to pick some two-thirds of all the locks on the market with a mere piece of wire. His intention was to ask one of his friends from the San Frediano quarter to keep watch while he broke into Badalamenti’s flat right after the loan shark went out.