Marco Vichi - Death in August

Dr Bacci removed his spectacles, which were as thick as glass-bottoms, and pressed his eyeballs hard with his fingers. He resumed walking along the walls of the room.

The inspector stretched his legs, which had grown numb.

‘As far as I know, yes, it was the only thing.’

‘And what can you tell me about Asthmaben?’ Bordelli asked.

‘The signora always kept a bottle within reach. Luckily she responded well to it. Twenty drops, and in a matter of seconds, she could breathe again. That doesn’t happen with everyone, I can assure you.’

‘And what would happen if she didn’t take it?’ asked Bordelli.

‘It’s hard to say. Probably in normal cases she would have a few minutes of crisis, but I really don’t think she would die.’

‘With that tropical plant, on the other hand-’

‘With mate it’s almost certain that, without Asthmaben, she would die within minutes, especially after her previous crisis in Colombia.’

‘And with Asthmaben?’

‘Well, I have no proof, obviously. But I’m fairly convinced that with a double dose she would have been all right.’

The inspector sighed by way of conclusion.

‘So, if I’ve understood correctly, seeing that there was a bottle of Asthmaben on her bedside table, we can rule out that she was killed by an asthma attack. Is that right?’

‘I can’t swear to it, of course, since asthma is a treacherous disease and can cause death by heart failure. The only thing we know for certain is that we are in God’s hands.’

Bordelli remained silent, fingers pinching his chin, thinking of something. Then he stood up and held his hand out to the doctor.

‘That’ll be all for now, thank you. I’ll ring you if I need you again.’ They shook hands. The doctor was trembling a little.

‘I am very grieved by this,’ he said slowly. ‘Signora Pedretti was not a very pleasant person, but I was fond of her. Very fond.’ He said it in the tone of someone confessing to an unrequited love. His bloodshot eyes, huge behind their lenses, seemed to dance. Then he gave a sort of smile and left. Bordelli collapsed on the sofa again. He didn’t like the look of this. Didn’t like it at all.

A few moments later he heard the stretcher-bearers on the stairs and went back into the entrance hall. The stretcher with Signora Pedretti’s mortal remains passed before him, covered entirely by a white sheet. Russo and Bellandi touched the visors of their caps to say goodbye to Bordelli, and left. Diotivede was the last to come down, his medical case swinging in his hand like a schoolboy’s satchel.

‘Could you give me a lift?’ he asked.

They headed back to town together, with the Beetle backfiring and spitting flames out of the exhaust pipe. Someone had told Bordelli it might be a dirty filter or something similar. It was a Volkswagen, which was saying a lot, but now and then, it too needed a little medical care.

‘What are your thoughts about this murder?’ Diotivede asked.

‘First we have to establish that she was actually killed.’

‘You still have some doubt?’

‘Well …’

‘Then you really must be tired.’

‘I’ve already said that.’

They fell silent. This happened often when they were in the car together; each ruminated as if he was alone. The Beetle advanced slowly, as if it, too, was thinking. The sky began to lighten; it was already past five. Bordelli’s window and vent were both open, but he was sweating just the same. Diotivede had never had much trouble with the weather. Summer or winter, he never complained.

They descended into town, along Via Volta, and crossed the Ponte del Pino on their way to Diotivede’s house. The only sign of life was a few stray dogs roaming about.

‘I want to have a dinner party at my place. Feel like coming?’ said Bordelli.

Diotivede rubbed his head with his hand.

‘Why not?’ he said.

The sun was already rising over the city, but Bordelli’s night was not over yet. After dropping Diotivede off at home in Via dell’Erta Canina, he went straight to police headquarters to have a chat with Maria, Signor Pedretti-Strassen’s lady companion. By this point he was so tired he would never have been able to sleep.

The woman had been waiting for him for nearly an hour, sitting on the bench outside his office. She was in a whiny state, hands full of wet handkerchiefs, white hair gathered in a tidy ponytail. He had her sit down in front of his desk. She was a tiny little thing, with big round eyes and a lipless mouth. She looked like some sort of nocturnal bird. Bordelli offered her a glass of water and waited for her to calm down. Once the woman had stopped sobbing, he asked what made her think the signora’s death was a murder. She waved her hands over her head and, starting to cry again, talked about the greed of the signora’s nephews and their respective wives, whom she termed ‘witches’, emphasising the tch sound.

‘They were just waiting for the signora to die, you could see it in the eyes of those two milksops and their whores!’ she said, sobbing again. Bordelli objected that greed might be a sin, but it was not a crime. Maria twisted her mouth up.

‘Wait till you see them in person; they’re wicked. They killed her, I know it, I feel it.’

Bordelli felt a drop of sweat roll down his belly and stick to his shirt.

‘What is Signora Pedretti’s degree of kinship with these nephews?’

‘They are the sons of a sister of hers, who drowned in the lake at Lausanne ten years ago.’

‘An accident?’

‘They called it a suicide.’

‘What sort of work do these nephews do?’

Maria grimaced.

‘They sell houses,’ she said disdainfully. ‘They have none of the Pedrettis’ class.’

The inspector rifled through his drawers, searching again for a cigarette. He found two under a sheaf of papers and lit one.

‘Tell me, Maria, what did Signora Pedretti herself think of her two nephews?’

‘In their presence she never let anything show; but with me she would vent her feelings. She used to called them “the two worms”.’

‘And what can you tell me about her asthma?’

Maria confirmed that the signora’s rare attacks usually subsided in a matter of minutes, thanks to the Asthmaben. Bordelli repeated what Dr Bacci had told him; that asthmatic allergy was a treacherous illness.

‘They killed her …’ she whimpered again.

‘We shall perform a very thorough post-mortem,’ said Bordelli. He then asked her to explain Signora Pedretti’s difficult character, and she burst into tears again.

‘She was a bit authoritarian, and not very generous, but, deep down, she was a very good person. Mostly, she was very, very lonely.’

‘When did you see her for the last time?’

‘Yesterday evening at eight. I always leave at that hour,’ and down came the tears, the nose in the handkerchief. The inspector never knew what to do in front of weeping women. His first impulse was always to pat them on the shoulder and utter some trite words of encouragement, but he always ended up letting it drop and simply waited in silence for the tears to run their course.

As soon as Maria stopped sobbing, Bordelli asked her whether Signora Pedretti had any other close relatives. She pulled another handkerchief out of her purse and blew her nose, trying not to make any noise: first one nostril, then the other.

‘There’s a brother, who’s half crazy. He didn’t come to see her very often,’ she said.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Dante.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘In an old house at Mezzomonte.’

‘What sort of relations did he have with his sister?’

‘They spoke over the telephone rather often. They would have long conversations, and sometimes I would actually hear the signora laugh,’ she said, opening her eyes wide.