Marco Vichi: Death in August

On the wall, an old Bakelite telephone, still plugged in. Bordelli took out his handkerchief and raised the receiver. The phone was in normal working order, and he availed himself of it.

‘Diotivede, it’s me, Bordelli. Did I wake you up?’

‘I never fall asleep before three.’

‘Good, grab a cab and come to 110 Via della Piazzola.’

‘Should I bring pastries?’

‘As always.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Bordelli hung up and then phoned police headquarters. He asked for an ambulance and a couple of officers to take samples for evidence. He told Mugnai to track down Signora Pedretti’s personal doctor and send him to the villa, asking him further to have Maria, the lady companion, come into the station. Then he went and sat down in a chair. Without knowing how, he found himself with a lit cigarette in his mouth. As he smoked it he studied the lady’s sharp profile, her prominent, slightly hooked nose pointing up at the cherub-frescoed ceiling. He was practically powerless to look anywhere else. He cast his gaze into every corner of the room, following the cracks in the walls or the undulations of the spider’s webs, but it always came back to that nose. He thought about Maria’s certainty that this was a murder.

At first sight it looked like an unpleasant but natural death. A heart attack, perhaps, or a pulmonary oedema. Bordelli extinguished the cigarette against the empty pack, crumpled this up and put it in his pocket. Aside from the bed, the only other pieces of furniture in the room were a large black sort of armoire with glass displays obscured by yellow fabric, and a small open secretaire. All fairly tidy. He could rule out the possibility that anyone had come in and ransacked the place.

As if obsessed, the inspector turned round again to look at the signora’s nose. From the dead woman’s motionless, half-open lips a white foam that looked like snail-slime was trickling out. The little bubbles burst and then were followed by more bubbles. There was still some movement in that lifeless body. Then the spittle ceased, and the foam dissolved into two tiny droplets that rolled down her cheeks, drying before they reached the bedsheet.

Bordelli left the room and went back down to the ground floor. He turned on the lights to have a better look at the paintings hanging in the grand entrance at the foot of the staircase. Almost all were portraits, probably ancestors. High up on the yellowed wall, the severe figure of a cardinal leaned forward. He had the same nose as the signora, a cross in one hand and a book in the other, and a harsh glint in his eyes.

The inspector continued poking about. Pushing open a door, he entered a sizeable room with several glass-paned chests and a large round table in the middle. On the walls, a few fine melancholy, rustic landscapes. A pair of huge white oxen caught his eye, and he drew near. He wasn’t mistaken: a Fattori. But the surprises weren’t over yet. Farther ahead there were some Segantinis, a Nomellini, not to mention Signorini, Ghiglia, Bartolena, and others. Bordelli let himself be hypnotised by the colours, though every so often the dead woman’s nose would reappear in his mind. He ran his hand over his face to wipe away the image, and went out of the room to continue his tour.

A large, very clean kitchen, a dusty sitting room, a tea room, bookcases, servants’ quarters, a variety of strangely scented bathrooms. There was no end to the house. Going back up to the first floor, he opened every door, finding only spacious, half-empty rooms with ceilings frescoed in seventeenth-century naif style, enormous carpets and dust-laden crystal chandeliers. In the biggest room, a dark piece of furniture towered like a tabernacle against the shiny, yellowish plaster.

It was hotter on the second floor. All the rooms were completely empty but one, in which it seemed that all the furniture had been stored. Wardrobes filled to bursting with clothes wrapped in plastic, shelves with dozens of pairs of shoes, mouse-eaten armchairs, bedside tables, light fixtures, nightlights. On one chair was a wooden box with Osborne 1934 written on it. It was full of old greeting cards. Too bad. Bordelli would have been glad to drink some strong alcohol. He squeezed the crumpled packet of cigarettes in his pocket, to convince himself it was truly empty. He felt like smoking again.

Wending his way through the chaos, he bumped a vase with his elbow, tried to catch it on the fly, but it eluded his grasp and fell to the floor with a crash, shattering into a thousand pieces. At once he was struck by the stillness in the house, which so contrasted with the noise a moment before. It was disturbed only by the creaking of the old furniture. Half closing his eyes from weariness, he sat down in the middle of an old sofa, spreading his arms like a Christ, then extending them along the edge of the back and dropping his head backwards. A faded frieze of intersecting lines ran along the upper parts of the walls, just below the angle of intersection with the ceiling. Bordelli wondered how many people had touched these walls, walked on these floors, used this furniture. There was nothing new, in short. He thought about all the babies that had been born in this big house, all the dead laid into their coffins. He noted that age-old walls had a solemnity that modern ones lacked. Then his thoughts grew less distinct, and he fell asleep as he sat there. A bit later, his head fell forward, rousing him. For an instant he didn’t know where he was or why. Then he remembered the dead woman, and through the fog of sleep managed to look at his watch. He stood up with effort and began walking down the stairs. He passed the lady’s bedroom without stopping, just turning round slightly, as if to make sure she was still there, and at that moment he had the clear impression that Maria was right: it was a case of murder. Then he shook his head and continued on down the stairs, thinking that fatigue played tricks on the mind.

He turned on the garden lights, two yellowing lamps hanging from the facade. Exiting the house, he went to the gate to wait for the others. The sky was overcast, the heat stifling. Lightning flashed silent on the horizon. A light rain began to fall, big warm drops bursting on the roof-tiles with the sound of pebbles. But it stopped almost at once. With a sudden intuition, he rummaged through his pockets and found two crumpled cigarettes. Straightening one out with his fingers, he lit it and inhaled deeply, trying to wake himself up. He had already smoked too much and he knew it, but at that moment his will was powerless. He couldn’t get the image of the woman’s corpse out of his mind. Murder, he thought. Leaning his back against the wall, he breathed deeply and looked up at the sky, seeking the moonlight behind the thick clouds.

The first to arrive was Diotivede, his white hair standing straight up on his head, his step still youthful despite his seventy years. He wasn’t tall, but carried himself proudly, dangling the briefcase of his trade down around his knees. He paid the cab driver and, looking around, adjusted his glasses on his nose. Bordelli greeted him with a weary wave of the hand. The doctor walked up to him, lips curling slightly in the hint of a smile.

‘You look pretty tired,’ he said.

‘Where are the pastries?’

‘In here,’ Diotivide said, tapping his case with two fingers.

‘Come, let me introduce you to the lady of the house.’

They crossed the dark garden in silence. Diotivede looked around, sniffing the air like an animal. He followed Bordelli through the entrance; his sensitive nose was struck by the strong smell of old rugs and dust.

‘Where’s the body?’

‘Upstairs.’

The pathologist stopped for a moment in front of the cardinal, then moved on, his mouth contracted in a childish pout. Climbing the stairs, the inspector made as if to take the briefcase from him, but the doctor gently pushed his hand away.