Marco Vichi - Inspector Bordelli 04 - Death in Florence (30 page)

He shook his head, feeling as old as Methuselah, and headed off towards Gattacci’s house with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. The dark sky was threatening rain, for a change. It was a pleasure to be able to breathe, far from the mud and heating-oil residues. As if by magic, he no longer felt tired. He was almost starting to enjoy his impromptu nocturnal outing. He was also pleased to be doing something concrete instead of losing himself in adolescent fantasies. What could be more concrete than having a chat with a Fascist at two o’clock in the morning? As soon as he stopped in front of Gattacci’s house, he heard the sound of footsteps and two male voices behind the front door. He ran quickly away and hid between two parked cars, just barely in time to avoid being seen. Panting heavily, he remained crouched down and, watching the pavement, saw a man come out of Gattacci’s front door. The man went off in the opposite direction, under the weak light of the street lamp. Bordelli noticed that he was limping slightly, and strangely, as if in fits and starts … Where had he seen somebody walk like that? He followed him with his eyes, trying to remember. A good cop was supposed to be able to recognise people, even at a distance of years. It might even be useful for Arcieri to know who the guy was, given that he was seen coming out of the Fascist’s house … Suddenly he remembered … He was the client he’d seen at Panerai’s butcher’s shop, the first time he’d gone there. Bordelli no longer had any doubt. That was him, the polite gentleman who’d let the inspector go ahead of him.

The man continued down the pavement with his funny gait. Bordelli stood up and followed behind him, hands in his pockets, like someone out for a night-time walk. Running into the same person twice in a few days, in two such different places, was a very strange coincidence. Another odd detail was that the butcher and Gattacci were both Fascists. The simplest conclusion was the most banal: that the lame gentleman knew Gattacci and bought his meat from Panerai … So what? Nothing strange about that, really … and yet … A big fly was buzzing in the inspector’s head … a detail which … What was it that was eluding his grasp? At last he got it. What he’d noticed that day, without grasping its meaning, was that the customer with the big nose had left the butcher’s shop empty-handed … without buying anything … Nobody leaves a butcher’s shop without buying anything. It wasn’t like going into a shoe shop. Therefore the man had gone to Panerai’s for another reason … Perhaps the two were friends, in which case the connecting thread might be merely a common nostalgia for the good old days. Fascists needing to come together to reminisce, to remember their beloved Duce while hoping for a brilliant, black-shirted future …

He was playing Sherlock Holmes and enjoying himself immensely. And to think that just an hour before, he had been sleeping like a log …

When the man reached the end of the long line of parked cars, he got into a large, bottle-green saloon which, at first glance, looked like a Jaguar. Bordelli picked up his pace. He got to the saloon just before it drove off and was able to read the number plate. It was a Jaguar, and a fine one at that. He waited for the car to get to the bottom of the hill, and after writing down the number on a box of matches, he headed back towards the Fascist’s villa. Now came the fun part.

He walked slowly, trying to think of the best way to confront Gattacci. There was no name outside the house. He rang the doorbell and then stepped aside, leaning against the door, so he couldn’t be seen through the spyhole. He heard some footsteps approaching cautiously. A moment later the spyhole opened slightly and a shaft of light cut through the darkness.

‘Who is it?’ a voice whispered.

Bordelli stood there in silence, blowing his smoke into the ray of light. The spyhole opened all the way, but Gattacci still couldn’t see anybody.

‘Eh, is that you?’ he asked, alarmed. Bordelli then stepped in front of the spyhole and Gattacci leapt backwards.

‘Long time no see,’ said the inspector, blowing a mouthful of smoke into the house. Gattacci looked pale.

‘Who are you?’

‘Don’t you recognise me, Gattacci?’ said Bordelli, taking a couple of steps back to allow him a better look. Two wrinkles appeared on Gattacci’s forehead.

‘Inspector … Bordelli …’

‘In all my glory.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Gattacci, at once reassured and alarmed.

‘I’d like to have a little chat with you.’

‘At this hour?’

‘Dirty business is best taken care of at night, don’t you think?’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘It’s not polite to keep your friends waiting on the doorstep, Gattacci,’ the inspector said, in a vaguely menacing tone.

‘And what if I decided not to let you in?’ asked the Fascist, trying to recover some dignity.

‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that question,’ Bordelli whispered icily. Gattacci sighed and decided to open the door. He was wearing a Bordeaux-red dressing gown and his face glistened with sweat. The inspector entered the house without taking his hands out of his pockets, a wicked smile playing on his lips.

‘I’m sure you’ve got something special in your closet,’ he said, looking the Fascist straight in the eyes. Gattacci led him into an elegant, dusty little sitting room furnished in the thirties style. Despite his age he moved with unusual agility, though nervously. They both remained standing, staring at each other.

‘I’m listening, Inspector,’ Gattacci blurted out, tying to hide his agitation.

‘Aren’t you going to offer me something to drink?’ Bordelli asked, looking around for an ashtray. Gattacci was tense and didn’t understand.

‘Just put your ash in that little dish,’ he muttered.

Then he went to the drinks trolley and grabbed a single snifter and a bottle of French cognac, and set them down on the coffee table. Bordelli served himself and then leaned back in a big armchair, noticing the same odour of the past that he used to smell in the home of his father’s old aunts. Taking a sip, he raised his eyebrows slightly.

‘This is magnificent …’ he whispered, rolling the cognac around in the glass.

‘What do you have to tell me?’ Gattacci asked impatiently.

‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid.’

‘Why? What happened?’

‘You’re in big trouble, Gattacci.’

‘I’ve got nothing to do with it,’ the Fascist said, terrified, then bit his lip.

‘Who knows if we’re even talking about the same thing?’

‘Well, whatever it is, I’ve got nothing to do with it.’

‘Did you have a nice time in Predappio, on the twenty-eighth?’ Bordelli tossed out, bluffing. Gattacci stiffened.

‘What? Are you spying on me?’

‘It’s just a show of affection.’

‘Just leave me alone … I haven’t bothered anyone for twenty years.’

‘You can’t erase the past, Gattacci. Not even with Togliatti’s sponge.’
⁴³

‘I’ve never done anything to be ashamed of.’

‘Oh, it does you honour, I’m sure,’ said the inspector, crushing his cigarette butt in the little plate and smiling compassionately.

‘No one will ever write on my tombstone that I was a turncoat … like that renegade Malaparte.’

‘If you carry on that way I’m going to start crying.’

‘You know as well as I do how many so-called anti-Fascists used to grovel at the Duce’s feet.’

He was excited, his round eyes darting nervously.

‘Poor dear Gattacci …’ Bordelli said softly.

‘You haven’t yet told me what you want from me, Inspector.’

‘Not everyone has lost his memory, Gattacci. Violence leaves deep wounds.’

‘Get to the point, Inspector. I would like to go to bed,’ said the Fascist, summoning all his courage. Bordelli downed his glass and crossed his legs, sighing as though bored. He calmly lit another cigarette and blew the smoke towards the ceiling.

‘I can already see the front page of
La Nazione
:
BODY OF ANOTHER FLOOD VICTIM FOUND
…’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘The case will be shelved as an
Accidental death caused by the Arno’s fury
– a little folder that’ll quickly start gathering dust … How terribly sad.’

‘What is the meaning of this? I’ve done nothing … nobody can possibly have anything against me … I’ve done nothing …’ Gattacci protested in a falsetto voice, a bead of sweat dangling from his chin.

‘You have no idea how stubborn some people can be … and now you haven’t got Mamma Pavolini’s skirts to hide behind any more,’ said Bordelli, standing up.

‘But who is it? Who are you talking about?’

‘Watch your step very carefully, Gattacci, if you don’t want to end up with four candles around you,’ said Bordelli, pouring himself more cognac.

‘Is that a threat?’

‘On the contrary, I’m trying to save your skin. But if the big bad wolf suddenly shows up, don’t come running to me, because I won’t be able to do anything.’

‘Why won’t you speak clearly?’ Gattacci asked, clenching his fists.

‘Speaking any more clearly … might be fatal,’ Bordelli whispered, smiling like a real bastard. Who knew what Eleonora would make of it, if she could see him in this guise? He downed his cognac in a single gulp and headed for the door. Gattacci followed behind him, panting as if he had just run up many flights of stairs. Bordelli opened the door and went out without turning round.

‘Sweet dreams,’ he said, a moment before the door closed behind him. As he walked away he heard the sound of locks and bolts turning, and he broke out laughing. Now he had only to ring Colonel Arcieri.

He got into the car, and as soon as he drove off he contacted police headquarters via radio. There wasn’t much news. No more prison escapees had been found, but to make up for it, a number of other looters had been arrested. The telephone lines had been back in working order since the afternoon, the electricity for a couple of hours.

‘Is Piras there?’ Bordelli asked.

‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Tell him to wait for me, I’ll be right there. Over and out.’

He stepped on the accelerator, having fun making the Fiat’s tyres screech. It was ten minutes to three and there was nobody about. He was still thinking of the man he’d seen leave Gattacci’s villa, feeling more and more curious to find out who he was. Maybe he was nobody and Bordelli was thinking too much like a cop, but he couldn’t help it. Actually it wasn’t the only fixation gnawing at his brain … Had Eleonora really been about to kiss him?

Minutes later he pulled into the station, greeted Mugnai with a nod, and went upstairs to his office. It smelled stuffy, and so he opened the window. It had been scarcely four days since he’d sat at his desk, but it felt like a century. Everything from before the flood seemed irretrievably remote in time. He picked up the phone and called Colonel Arcieri. He told him in a few words about his pleasant nocturnal meeting and mentioned the limping man who’d come out of Gattacci’s house.

‘I’ll know his name very soon, if you’re interested,’ said Bordelli.

‘If Gattacci tells me what I want to know, I won’t need it, but if I do I’ll be back to bother you. Thank you so very much, Inspector.’

‘Not at all, it was a pleasure. Good luck.’

‘Thanks,’ said Arcieri, who then said a hasty goodbye and hung up.

Gattacci’s nocturnal surprises weren’t over yet, Bordelli thought with a smile. He called the radio room and told Piras to come to his office straight away. While waiting he extracted from his pocket the matchbox with the Jaguar’s licence plate number: FI 176090. Who knew how much a car like that cost? He lit a cigarette and went to the window to smoke it, so as not to offend Piras’s nose. A dense flock of clouds was passing slowly through the night sky, faintly illuminated by the moon. He imagined Eleonora sleeping under many blankets, curled up against the cold, oblivious to what she had unleashed inside a police inspector close to retirement …

Piras knocked and opened the door without waiting.

‘Hello, Piras, I’ll get straight to the point. I want to know the name of this gentleman, what he does, where he lives, and if he has anything on his record,’ said Bordelli, passing him the matchbox with the Jaguar’s number on it.

‘When do you need it by?’

‘Tomorrow morning would be fine.’

‘No problem.’

‘I’m going to dash home now. I need to lie down for a few hours.’

AFTER FIVE DAYS OF AGONY IN FLORENCE AND PROVINCE

THE FIRST PROVISIONS BEGIN TO ARRIVE FOR FLOOD VICTIMS STRANDED ON ROOFTOPS

Bordelli tossed
La Nazione
on to his desk, leaned back in his chair, yawning, and read Piras’s report, which was typewritten and perfectly error-free:

Moreno Beccaroni, born in Florence on 9 July 1922. Registered with the Bar Association since 1952. Home: Via di Santa Maria a Marignolle 96B. Office: Via dei Servi 50. Married in 1947 to Maria Migliorini. One daughter, born in 1949, called Claretta. Separated from wife in ’53. Charged in ’53 with sexual molestation of a minor (a certain Gualtiero Cioni, born 1939) and acquitted at the inquest when the charges were dropped. That’s all I can find for now. Piras.

‘Well, well, well …’ he mumbled to himself, staring at the sheet of paper. This little detail about sexual molestation certainly gave one pause. The lawyer was probably a friend of Panerai’s, who’d lost his telephone bill in the same wood where the boy’s body was found. The connection was as flimsy as a hair, but Bordelli wasn’t about to ignore it. Without it he had nothing. He lit a cigarette and started thinking. Beccaroni knew both Gattacci and Panerai, both Fascist reactionaries, and he too probably felt nostalgic for the bygone days, given his daughter’s name.
⁴⁴
In short, the link between the three men had a clear explanation, nothing strange about that … But sexual molestation was another matter. Acquitted or not, the shadow of the original charge remained. There was always something odd about cases where the charges were dropped … it usually hid the fact that a large sum of money was exchanged.

He had to try to find out whether the three comrades had any common interests of another nature … of
that
nature, that is. He had to give it a go, even if it was like playing roulette. There were no precedents of the sort in Panerai’s past, but what about Gattacci? The inspector knew nothing about his private life. Given his past Fascist escapades, he’d certainly left some deep tracks in the state archives and those of the Secret Service. All Bordelli had to do was ask another favour of his friend in the SID, Pietro Agostinelli, nicknamed Carnera for his size.
⁴⁵
They hadn’t seen each other for years, but every so often they would talk over the phone just to stay in touch or for some work-related matter. It was past 8.30. The inspector looked up his number and called Rome. A very polite secretary answered, as warm as a slab of marble.