Death and the Olive Grove (6 page)

‘Are your shoes clean? I certainly hope so, I spent the whole morning cleaning the place,' she said.

‘I think so.'

The woman shot a glance at Bordelli's shoes, then opened the door. Once inside, she slipped on a pair of mules and began to walk about without raising her feet, sliding them across the floor. Bordelli followed behind her until they reached a small drawing room with a shiny waxed floor. There were a number of small glass-fronted cupboards with little lace curtains, and the walls were covered with trinkets, travel souvenirs and small paintings. Signora Capecchi sat him down in an armchair, sat herself down in front of him, and raised the little veil over the top of her cap. She had a big mole on one cheek, bristling with hair. Her kerosene stove was at maximum setting, and the room was unbearably hot. The air was dry and insalubrious; it smelled of rosolio
⁵
and old sofas. Bordelli started sweating and unbuttoned his shirt.

‘Sorry,' he said.

‘Not at all, Marshal.'

‘What did you have to tell me?' Bordelli couldn't wait to get out of there. The old woman opened her eyes wide and raised a ring-studded hand in the air.

‘The fact is that strange things have been happening in this building,' she said with an air of mystery.

‘What do you mean?'

‘People coming and going, up and down the stairs, above and below, laughing, shouting – the traffic never ends …'

‘Oh really?' said Bordelli, feeling a drop of sweat roll down his neck.

‘You have no idea the racket they make!' whispered Signora Capecchi, waving her hands in the air and making all her bracelets tinkle.

‘A nasty business …' said Bordelli.

‘You're telling me! And it's all the fault of that man on the top floor … the new arrival, Nocentini, he's called … a shady character, that one, with an ugly face. It's all his fault … Before him, Signora Meletti lived up there on the fourth floor, but then she died, poor thing …'

‘I'm so sorry.'

‘Would you like something to drink, Marshal?'

‘No, thank you.'

‘No need to be coy, now. An Alkermes,
⁶
perhaps?'

‘Thank you, no, I don't want anything.'

‘Good Signora Meletti … nobody ever so much as paid a call on her, poor dear. She was a tiny little woman, a delightful person, always polite, never missed a day of mass … Not like that little tart up there now, I can tell you …' And Signora Capecchi cast a glance upwards, in a specific direction, and shrivelled up inside her dress. Bordelli asked whether he could smoke and lit a cigarette.

‘Can't you tell me any more about these noises?' he asked, hoping to get this over with quickly. The old woman nervously shuffled her slippers back and forth on the floor.

‘Noises … There is … how shall I say?… a lot of commotion, slamming doors, raucous laughter … yelling that doesn't even sound human … and then a deafening sort of music that makes the whole building shake … But you could hardly call it music! It's just a lot of meaningless racket … What ever happened to the beautiful songs of Otello Boccaccini, or Rabagliati, or Spadaro, or—'

‘What else can you tell me about this Nocentini?'

‘Ah, he's a perfect boor, I tell you! Never says hello, always humming something through his teeth … and he puts out his cigarettes in the stairwell … and he spits, I've seen it with my own eyes … And he's always chewing that American filth … and he whistles at women …'

‘Well, I think I'll go and have a chat with him,' said Bordelli, feigning disapproval. He was at the end of his tether.

‘And when will you do that, sir?'

‘I'll do it straight away, if he's in.'

Signora Capecchi blanched, shuffling her slippers again on the floor.

‘Please, don't ever say it was I who sent him to jail,' she whispered, her eyes open wide.

‘Don't worry, nobody will ever know.'

‘Ah, thank God!' said Signora Capecchi, crossing herself. And then she thanked Bordelli endlessly, saying how really very nice he was, for a
carabiniere
, extremely nice, in fact she'd never met a
carabiniere
so nice. Bordelli crushed his fag-end in a little dish from Lourdes and got up to leave.

‘Will you keep me informed, Marshal?' she asked, sliding along the floor as she saw him out.

‘The moment I've got any news, I'll give you a ring.'

‘Soon, I hope.'

‘That depends,' said Bordelli, glad to be leaving.

‘Don't let that oaf intimidate you, Marshal. Put him in his place,' the old woman said as she opened the door.

‘Don't you worry.'

‘Don't pull any punches, Marshal. The hooligan may be big and fat, but you're a
carabiniere
, aren't you?'

‘More or less.'

‘Let me know when the trial date is set, I shouldn't want to miss it.'

‘Goodbye, signora. Don't worry, I'll take care of everything.'

‘Thank heavens. You have no idea how happy that makes me.'

At last Signora Capecchi closed the door, and Bordelli heard the sound of a hundred bolts turning. Shaking his head, he started up towards the top floor. He felt like an idiot. With all the things he had to do, here he was, doing the bidding of a crazy old woman. At the top of the stairs, he lit a cigarette. On the door on the right-hand side of the landing there was still a little plaque with the name
Meletti
. Bordelli knocked without conviction, but nobody came to the door. He knocked again. Nothing.The nasty fellow wasn't there. He descended the stairs at a leisurely pace, but before heading down the last flight he heard the front door open and close. Accompanied by a gust of cold wind, someone came in whistling a famous tune. Bordelli tried to remember the title, but it wouldn't come to him. The man took the stairs like a horse, and when he was face to face with Bordelli, he stopped whistling. He was tall and fat, and must certainly be him, the terrible Nocentini. He looked to be just over twenty years old, with clear eyes and a likeable face.

‘Evenin',' he said, thrusting his hands in his pockets and continuing on his way.

‘I beg your pardon, but what were you whistling?' Bordelli asked him.

The young man turned round and gave him a funny look, then smiled faintly, amused.

‘I don't know, something French, I think,' he said, shrugging.

‘Was it perhaps a song by Yves Montand?'

‘Perhaps.'

‘Are you Nocentini?'

‘Yes. Why do you ask?' the man said, no longer smiling.

‘Could I talk to you for a minute?'

‘And who are you?'

‘Inspector Bordelli. Let's go upstairs for a minute. I just need to ask you a couple of questions.'

‘All right,' said the lad, frowning.

They climbed up to the top floor and went into his flat. It consisted of a narrow hallway with a room at each end, dirty walls, crates yet to be unpacked, rags strewn about, and a musty, closed smell that made one want to cough.

‘I'm still getting settled,' said the young man, standing in front of Bordelli.

‘Are you the one making all the racket at night?' the inspector asked.

‘It was the old hag on the first floor who told you that, wasn't it? What the hell is her name …?'

‘Couldn't you try to be a little quieter?'

‘I am extremely quiet, but the minute the lady hears a fly buzz—'

‘What about that record player?'

‘I keep it turned down low.'

Bordelli went over to see what records Nocentini was listening to. Celentano, Carosone, Rita Pavone …

‘Have you got a job?' he asked.

‘I work at the central market. At five a.m. I'm already there unloading.'

The inspector looked up from the stack of records and headed towards the door.

‘Well, I have to go now. Try not to make too much noise at night, or Signora Capecchi will keep bugging me.'

‘Okay.'

‘And see that you don't put out your cigarette butts in the stairwell.'

‘I'll be careful not to.'

‘It'll be better for everyone,' said Bordelli, knowing how annoying old ladies of that sort could be. He shook the lad's hand and went away trying to remember the title of that song by Yves Montand.

Ever since he had seen little Casimiro folded up inside the suitcase, Bordelli had felt guilty. But now all he could do was find who had killed him, and this he swore he would do.

Forensics had examined Casimiro's flat but found no fingerprints other than those of Bordelli and the Beast. The killer had taken great care not to leave any traces. Which was rather strange for the murder of a poor dwarf from the Case Minime.

Late the following morning, around midday, Bordelli got into his car with Piras and headed off towards Fiesole. On the way he gave his assistant a thorough account of everything he knew about the case, from the not-quite-dead man Casimiro had seen in the field to his last phone call to the inspector.

They left the car in the usual spot and walked as far as the olive grove. Bordelli had no clear sense of what they were doing, but Casimiro's last words led them to that villa, and that was where they should start. When they got to the buttresses, they noticed a great many torn ivy leaves on the ground. It looked as if someone had tried to climb up one of the buttresses by grabbing on to the vines' strongest branches.

‘I like this story less and less, Piras.'

Bordelli was thinking of Casimiro, his wretched life and horrific death. It would have been better if he had never been born. At that hour maybe Diotivede had already opened up his belly.

Piras was looking carefully at the ground. At a certain point he spotted something in the grass and got down on his kness.

‘Come and look, Inspector.'

Bordelli came closer and bent down to look.

‘Shit,' he said. It was Casimiro's little plastic skeleton. He picked it up and turned it around sadly in his hand.

‘Why did you say
shit
, Inspector?'

‘Because this belonged to Casimiro.'

‘Are you sure?' asked Piras.

‘Quite sure. It was a sort of talisman. He was always fiddling with it.'

‘Couldn't he have dropped it the night you came here together?'

‘No, I remember specifically that he had it in his hand when I drove him home.'

‘Shit,' said the Sardinian.

Bordelli put the little skeleton in his pocket and resumed looking around. He took a few steps back to get a full view of the villa. As usual, the shutters were closed and there was no sign of life within. Piras kept searching along the ground, looking for footprints, but it was no use. The dense carpet of grass didn't hold an impression for very long.

‘Let's go up to the villa, Piras,' Bordelli said out of the blue. They returned to the car and, a few minutes later, pulled up at the big rusty gate. They went up to it and looked through the bars. In the daylight the garden looked even more neglected. The small stone fountain was dry and covered with moss, the weeds growing freely beyond the limits of the old flower beds.

‘It looks like one of those haunted houses,' said Piras. If Bordelli hadn't seen the German woman come out with his own two eyes, he might have thought the same thing. He tugged the chain to the bell. They heard it ring inside the house, but nobody came out.

‘Miss Olga!' Bordelli shouted. Again he had the feeling that someone was spying on them through the slats of the shutters.

‘Are they watching us?'

‘You can read my mind, Piras.'

The wind gusted and stirred up the dry leaves on the villa's patios. The effect was rather like a Sunday at the cemetery. Piras and Bordelli carefully checked all the windows one by one, trying to determine whether someone really was watching them, but they didn't see anything out of the ordinary. They only heard the rustle of the windswept leaves.

They got back in the car and returned to the city by way of the old road, so steep it was almost perpendicular. Bordelli kept thinking of the man with the black mark on his neck. Where had he seen that sort of mark before? Perhaps he was mistaken …

‘Piras, a man with a dark spot on the neck from here to here,' said Bordelli, running his finger across his throat, ‘does that ring a bell for you?'

‘I don't think so,' said the young man.

‘So, what do you make of all this?'

‘Well, we know for certain that Casimiro was in that field and had perhaps tried to climb up the buttress, but that doesn't necessarily mean the villa had anything to do with the murder …'

‘Quite so …'

‘But I do wonder: where, exactly, was Casimiro murdered? At home or somewhere else? And if he was killed away from his home, why did they carry him all the way back there inside a suitcase? It would have been easier to dump him in the Arno or bury him out in the country somewhere.'

‘Good question, Piras. Have you got an answer?'

‘I'd really rather you didn't smoke, Inspector,' said Piras, seeing Bordelli reach into his jacket pocket. The inspector merely made a face that meant such things couldn't be helped, and lit a cigarette. Piras opened the window at once.

Diotivede heard him come in, but he kept his eye pressed up against the eyepiece of the microscope.

‘What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?'

It was barely half past seven.

‘Well, I know you start work early,' said Bordelli.

‘But you don't.'

‘I haven't been sleeping well lately.'

‘I've already done your dwarf, but haven't written the report yet,' said Diotivede, turning a knob on the microscope.

‘Tell me in person.'

‘I know you knew him.'

‘I first arrested him just after the war.'

The pathologist ceased combing through the cilia of bacteria and sat up straight. Every time Bordelli looked at him he was amazed. Diotivede was over seventy, but his face still had something childish about it.