Death in Sardinia (49 page)

‘Yes?’

‘It’s me, Inspector.’

‘Piras. Where are you?’ He could hear a din of voices and dishes in the background.

‘I’m in Oristano, near the police station. I’m calling from a bar.’

‘I can hear.’

‘I went to see Pintus again, and something strange happened … If what I think I saw is true, Lady Luck is still kissing me on the lips.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘You’re not going to believe it, Inspector.’

‘Get to the point, Piras,’ said Bordelli, looking for his cigarettes.

‘We were sitting across from each other and talking, when Pintus stretched his legs and then crossed them, putting one foot on top of the other … He was wearing hiking boots, the kind with deep rubber treads on the soles. And you know what I saw?’

‘Come on, Piras …’

‘An empty bullet shell.’

‘Cut the crap, Piras.’

‘I told you it was a big deal, Inspector.’

‘Holy shit.’

‘It was stuck inside one of the rubber treads,’ said Piras.

‘Yeah, I got that already, Piras,’ said Bordelli, holding the telephone with his chin so he could light another cigarette.

‘Sorry, sir, I’m just a little excited,’ said the Sardinian.

‘Are you absolutely certain it was a shell from a pistol?’

‘I saw it,’ said Piras, his voice a little shaky.

‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed.’

‘And I think I know why Benigno was so surprised to see Pintus again … But I’ll tell you about that later. Right now I’ve got ants in my pants.’

‘All right, then.’

‘I would, however, like you to phone the central police here … just to tell them they should take me seriously,’ said Piras.

‘Call me back in five minutes,’ said Bordelli, hanging up. He dialled the number for Oristano police and asked for Chief Inspector Stella, whom he’d met some years before, at an official gathering. He told him about Piras and the investigation he was conducting, about the mysterious Pintus who had no past and the missing bullet shell that Piras might have found under Pintus’s shoe. He asked for help. Stella was quite well disposed and told him he would follow the case personally. Bordelli thanked him and hung up.

While waiting for Piras to call back, he started pacing about the room. He began thinking about Milena again, but then the telephone rang.

‘It’s all set, Piras. Inspector Stella’s waiting for you,’ Bordelli said.

‘Thanks, Inspector. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘I didn’t have time to mention it before, Piras, but I’ve received answers to my telexes. Verona and Cagliari turned up nothing at all. And the ministry has also got back to me. Our engineer is not on the official register.’

‘I’ll bet Pintus isn’t his real name. I’ll bet one of my balls it isn’t.’

‘Why not both?’

‘Well, you never know.’

‘Break a leg, Piras.’

‘I already have. I’ll call back soon.’ They hung up and Bordelli crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. Unable to sit still, he started pacing about the room again, hands in his pockets, thinking about Piras’s investigation. Even assuming that the shell really was in the guy’s shoe, who knew whether it was actually the one fired from the pistol found in Benigno’s hand? And if not … well, the suicide would almost certainly remain a mystery.

He glanced at his watch and ran a hand over his face. He’d run out of excuses. It was time to go to Santo Spirito.

He got into the Beetle but didn’t drive off straight away. He sat there awhile with his eyes half closed, head resting against the seat. Deep in his ears he heard a sort of background sound of surf. Maybe he was just tired. He started up the car and drove off, an unlit cigarette between his teeth. If he thought of Piras he felt a strong desire to light it. And now he had to concern himself with this idiotic problem at Santo Spirito … The postcard from Milena was the last thing he needed … A truly memorable day.

He waved at Mugnai as he left the courtyard. The sky was purple and the air smelled of imminent rain. The St Stephen’s day sun hadn’t lasted. He crossed the Arno and parked the Beetle in Via Maggio. As soon as he got out it started drizzling and he quickened his pace. He turned down Via Sguazza, and halfway down the narrow street he pushed on an unlocked front door and went inside. Feeling his way through a dark corridor full of spiderwebs, he reached the end and knocked on a low door. He heard some stirring inside, then an alarmed voice.

‘Who is it?’

‘Police.’

‘I haven’t done anything. I haven’t even gone outside for the last month.’

‘Open up, Bolla, it’s me, Bordelli.’ The door opened barely an inch, and an eye appeared in the crack. Then it opened all the way. Bolla had changed. He had less hair, and his misshapen nose stuck out even farther under the hollow, ringed eyes. As always, his cheeks were ravaged by pimples.

‘Inspector! What, you trying to give me a heart attack?’ he said, still shaken. He wasn’t old, but he wore all his years on his face, as if they’d been etched with a chisel.

‘Can I come in for a minute?’

‘You’re always welcome, Inspector.’ Bolla stood aside and let Bordelli into his lair. A table, a bed and one old wardrobe. A black cobweb fluttered over the bathroom door, and a dim bulb hung from the ceiling but wasn’t enough to illuminate the corners of the room. It was like being in a prison cell. Bolla opened a drawer and took out a tin box with biscuits inside.

‘Like a snack?’ he asked

‘No thanks, no need to bother. How are things, Bolla?’

‘Could be worse, Inspector, a lot worse,’ said Bolla, putting the tin of biscuits on the table. Bordelli sniffed the air.

‘Am I mistaken, or do I smell grappa?’ he asked.

‘I always keep a bottle ready just for you, Inspector.’

‘Be careful, Bolla. One of these days you’re going to blow yourself up along with the rest of this dump.’

‘I don’t make it here … I’ve got a little hut in the country with my cousin.’

‘Careful or you’ll burn your fingers off,’ said Bordelli. Bolla stuck a hand inside the tin and searched for an unbroken biscuit.

‘I have to eat, Inspector,’ he said glumly.

‘How much do you get for a bottle?’ asked Bordelli, taking out his wallet.

‘Normally I sell it for two thousand, but for you, I’ll make it fifteen hundred.’ Bordelli put two thousand-lira notes in his hand.

‘That’ll do. Are you sure I won’t get poisoned?’ Bolla took offence. He said he knew perfectly well how to make grappa, and that he threw out
all
the head and
all
the tail, not like some arseholes.

‘I either do things right, or I don’t do them at all, Inspector.’

‘Come on, Bolla, I was joking.’ Bolla reached under the bed and pulled out a clear-glass Bordeaux-style bottle with a cork in it, and put it on the table.

‘What brings you to the neighbourhood, Inspector? A man like you doesn’t usually come to this hole by chance,’ he said.

‘I wanted to ask you something …’

‘What?’ asked Bolla, nostrils flaring as if he were expecting some unpleasant news. Bordelli took a roundabout approach.

‘Apparently some things have been happening around here lately.’

‘What the hell are you talking about, Inspector? What kind of things?’

‘I’m talking about somebody who’s going around bashing people in the face. Don’t tell me you don’t know about it.’

‘Ah, that guy!’

‘Maybe you know who he is … and maybe I know, too.’

‘What, you trying to make me snitch or something?’

‘Come on …’

‘Is that why you bought the grappa from me?’

‘Listen, Bolla, I haven’t got all day for this … Do you know who it is or don’t you?’ Bolla thought it over for a minute, then cracked a biscuit with his teeth.

‘You know Gino’s bar?’ he asked, chewing.

‘You mean the one in Via delle Caldaie?’

‘That’s the one. Go and have a coffee there. They make it really good, the way you like it.’

‘Thanks, Bolla.’

‘For what? All I told you’s where they make good coffee.’

‘I’ll buy you one that you can drink later.’ Bolla smiled, face full of wrinkles.

‘You’re too good to me, Inspector.’ Bordelli grabbed the bottle of grappa and headed for the door, followed by the bootlegger.

‘Take care of yourself, Bolla. And watch that you don’t blow yourself up. I mean it.’

‘’Bye, Inspector.’

Bordelli stepped out into the rain and went and put the grappa bottle in the car. Then he set out on foot for Gino’s bar. Every so often he had to jump down from the pavement to avoid the cascades of water raining down from the broken gutters above. The porphyry of the streets shone like porcelain. He crossed Piazza Santo Spirito and entered Via delle Caldaie. There weren’t many people about, only a few hurried silhouettes with their collars turned up, covering their faces. An old man on a bicycle rode past, wrapped in a plastic sheet. He had a cigarette inside his mouth the wrong way round and was blowing smoke out through his nose the way war prisoners used to do when sneaking a smoke.

It started pouring. Bordelli ran to the end of the street and ducked into Gino’s bar, dripping wet. The floor was sprinkled with dirty sawdust. Gino, the initial proprietor of the place, had died in ’48 in a brawl, but his name had remained. The bar was empty. There was only a fat guy seated at a small table in front of the counter. He was playing solitaire. He barely looked up at the intruder, then dropped a card on the table and resumed playing. He held his round head down between his shoulders and didn’t look disposed to conversation. Some scratchy-sounding music poured out from a small radio. Approaching the bar, Bordelli recognised a song by Celentano but couldn’t remember the title.

‘Could I please have a coffee?’ he asked.

The man played another card, undisturbed, then dropped the deck and stood up. He was hardly any taller than when seated and had an enormous paunch. He went huffing behind the bar, pressed the coffee into the filter, inserted this into the machine, and placed a little cup under the spout. Then he turned and stared at Bordelli without saying a word, his oily face split in two by a broad sneer. Bordelli stared back at him. He thought he recognised those eyes, and the curl to the lip also rang a bell. It must have been an old scar. The coffee was ready. The barman took the cup, put a saucer under it, and slid them across the bar.

‘Hello, Inspector,’ he said.

The moment he heard that deep, gravelly voice, Bordelli realised who the man was.

‘Amedeo! What the hell are you doing here?’

‘If even you couldn’t recognise me, I must be in pretty bad shape.’

Bordelli looked at him some more. In that swollen state he really was unrecognisable. And the inspector hadn’t seen him for a very long time.

‘You’ve just gained a little weight,’ he said.

‘It’s prison, Inspector. When I’m inside, all I do is eat.’

‘The exact opposite of Botta.’

‘That guy, if it’s not
canard à l’orange
he won’t touch it,’ said Amedeo. Wiping his hands on his apron, he came out from behind the bar. Bordelli put a cigarette between his lips.

‘When did you get out?’

‘Two weeks ago,’ said Amedeo, sitting back down at the card table. The inspector drew near.

‘So you were out for Christmas,’ he said, lighting his cigarette.

‘Some Christmas, all alone like a dog.’

‘And what are you doing now? Do you work here?’

‘Just doing a favour for a friend on holiday.’

‘How much time did they give him?’

‘Three months.’

‘And what’ll you do afterwards?’ asked Bordelli, sitting down in front of him. Amedeo threw down a card.

‘I’ve got all kinds of ideas, Inspector.’

‘Got any that won’t put you back in jail?’

‘Do I have to answer that, Inspector?’ Amedeo pinched his lower lip, trying to decide which card to play next. They both remained silent for a few moments. It was still pouring outside. Amedeo played cards, the inspector smoked and watched the rain drip down the dirty windowpanes. There was a clap of thunder and the lights flickered for a second or two.

‘Know anything about some rowdy bloke making trouble in the neighbourhood?’ Bordelli asked offhandedly.

‘There are a lot of people like that around here, Inspector.’

‘I’m talking about someone who just recently came out of the woodwork.’

‘How recently?’

‘A fortnight or so … Didn’t you say you got out a couple of weeks ago yourself ? What a coincidence …’

‘So what?’

‘What are you doing, Amedeo? Playing neighbourhood bully again?’ asked Bordelli, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray. Amedeo threw down another card.

‘I haven’t done anything, Inspector. Just gone and taken back what was rightfully mine. In this den of thieves, the minute you turn your back they take everything, including the mattresses.’

‘So you’re the hooligan, in other words.’

‘What the hell am I supposed to do, Inspector? I won’t be played for a fool, I can tell you that.’

‘Can’t you be a little gentler?’

‘Wha’d I do? A couple o’ black eyes, a couple o’ bruises? I ain’t killed anybody, for Chrissakes …’

‘You never know what’ll happen when you punch somebody.’

‘No, no, I know how to punch, don’t you worry … And did you know that one prick went around saying they’d given me twenty years?’

‘Just tell me one thing, Amedeo. Have you finished, or are there still a few people left to take care of ?’ The ex-convict raised a hand.

‘I’m done,’ he said. Bordelli sighed.

‘Why don’t you settle down, Amedeo? I say it for your own good. You’re no longer a kid.’

‘That’s easy for you to say, Inspector. You’ve got a job,’ said Amedeo.

‘You’re probably right.’

‘Not probably. I
am
right.’

‘I’ll let you get back to your game,’ said Bordelli. He took out his wallet and extracted five thousand lire.

‘I ain’t got change,’ said Amedeo.

‘Then keep it,’ said Bordelli, laying the notes down on the table. Amedeo’s oily face turned red, his eyes tiny and wicked. He squashed the deck in his hand, bending the cards.

‘I don’t take charity from nobody. I earn my money my own way, and the coffee’s on me.’