Bordelli stretched his legs, seeking relief.
‘Those are difficult questions, and I confess I’m very tired.’
Dante wasn’t the least bit tired. He paced slowly, stepping over the obstacles piled up more or less everywhere on the floor.
‘What do you think? Is my sister watching us? Or has she vanished completely and for ever?’
‘I don’t feel like thinking about it right now.’
The inventor gripped the edges of his smock.
‘I have always been curious about this question of faith. Personally, I think that those who have faith are fortunate, and those who don’t are wretched.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You have an odd way of conversing, my dear Inspector. I get the feeling you have a lot to say but for some reason you are careful not to say it. Am I wrong?’
‘Maybe it’s hard for me to say anything definitive.’
‘Have you ever heard of Nicole d’Autrecourt?’
The conversation went on for a long time, and they spoke of many things. A bottle of grappa was brought out. In the heat, they began to sweat and unbutton their collars. The smoke of cigars and cigarettes stagnated in the air.
At ten o’clock that same morning, the inspector went to Careggi Hospital and parked his Beetle in front of the Office of Forensic Medicine. Entering Diotivede’s laboratory, he found the doctor fresh as a rose.
‘I see you haven’t slept,’ the doctor said.
‘Have you?’
‘I had a cup of coffee at home and came straight here.’
‘You know what I think, Diotivede? I think you have a twin who takes your place when the going gets rough. At this very moment you are at home, sleeping, and I am speaking to your twin brother, who has slept twelve hours straight.’
Diotivede, who was preparing the instruments for the postmortem on Signora Pedretti-Strassen, twisted his mouth.
‘Twins, eh? And both pathologists?’
‘It would be magnificent.’
The doctor had put on his gloves. He walked past Bordelli and looked at him askance.
‘Keep away from me. If I were performing your post-mortem today, I would know, even before opening you up, that you’ve drunk a litre of grappa.’
‘It’s Dante’s fault.’
‘You can’t always blame the poets.’
Bordelli leaned his back against the wall and crossed his arms.
‘When can you give me some results on Signora Pedretti?’ he said.
‘I was just about to start on her.’
‘As for dinner, would Wednesday be all right?’
Diotivede confirmed with a nod.
‘Good, now I only need to find Botta. I hope he’s not in jail,’ said Bordelli.
‘You could always get him out by Wednesday.’
‘Don’t overestimate me.’
The doctor went up to him.
‘May I express a wish?’ he asked.
‘Go ahead.’
Diotivede lit up like a child.
‘I would like bean soup alla lombarda.’
‘In this heat?’
‘I haven’t eaten any for ages.’
‘All right, soup it is.’
Diotivede smiled broadly, then approached the slab on which Signora Pedretti lay, and delicately drew back the sheet.
‘If you don’t want to look, you have only to leave.’
‘Send me the results as soon as you can.’
‘I’ll ring you.’
When he reached the door, Bordelli turned round.
‘Diotivede, did you know that DDT is poisonous?’
‘I’m not surprised.’
The inspector waited to see the scalpel descend over the signora’s abdomen, and then left.
As he stepped out of his car in the courtyard of police headquarters, Bordelli thought again of his visit with Dante Pedretti and felt as if he had dreamt it all. He felt quite muddled, in fact. He must look pretty bad, he thought, since Mugnai stared at him for a long time and said nothing.