‘Not very many, at least not in Italy.’
‘So you’ve worked abroad as well?’
Botta gave a start in his chair.
‘You see, Inspector? You said “you’ve worked” and not “you’ve robbed”… I knew you would understand.’
‘Not so fast, Botta, not so fast …’
They kept on talking a while longer of this and that. Botta started describing the peculiarities of various European prisons, the differences between Spanish warders and Turkish warders; it was a kind of anthropology lesson, an enriching experience. This was not just any common thief. In the end the assistant inspector had taken him home, and they dined together, tripe and onions, washed down with a foul wine that Botta knocked back by the pitcherful.
At the trial Bordelli had done everything possible to have him given the minimum sentence. In the end he got ten months, but was released after four for good behaviour. Ever since, they had remained friends of a sort. Sometimes they would dine together at Dal Lordo, in Via dell’Orto. Or else they would spend an evening together on the banks of the Arno, exchanging stories about the war. Every so often they would fall out of touch and then meet back up again. It was only a year ago, at Christmas time, that Bordelli had discovered that Botta was a born cook. The little thief had put together a French dinner that was hard to forget.
Bordelli tapped on the windowpane of Botta’s basement with the keys to his Volkswagen.
‘Are you there, Ennio?’
The window opened slightly.
‘Inspector!’
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘I’ll be right with you.’
A good minute later, the front door giving on to the street opened up, and Botta appeared wearing a housewife’s apron.
‘Hello, Inspector, I was just making coffee.’
Descending the stairs into Botta’s lair, Bordelli noticed a strange burnt smell.
‘What are you cooking?’ he asked.
‘Nothing edible, Inspector. I’m doing a little job for a friend.’
‘A “little job”?’
‘Ancient coins. I boil them in mud to age them.’
‘A swindle, in other words.’
‘No, no, it’s a way to make the tourists happy.’
‘Well, when you put it that way …’
As they entered the flat the coffee pot started whistling. It felt better in there than on the street; the three steps down made all the difference. Botta’s home consisted of two large, gloomy rooms, arranged with a certain care despite the modesty of means. One was the bedroom, with a bed and and an old wardrobe for clothes; and the other was a kitchen as well as sitting room, ‘work’ room and every other kind of room possible. Hanging on one wall was a framed photo of Fred Astaire in motion. Ennio had a burning passion for dance, never fulfilled for want of means. But, like all sentimentalists, he had many other passions as well.
Bordelli saw some ten or so half-dismantled wristwatches on the table.
‘Looks like you’re starting another “little job” the police ought not to know about.’
‘Just changing the dial-plates, Inspector. That way, Forcella watches become Swiss.’
‘I don’t want to hear about it, Botta. Let’s have this coffee.’
Ennio went and prepared the cups according to his personal method, with the sugar first, and any use of spoons forbidden.
‘What brings you here, Inspector?’
‘I was thinking about arranging a dinner at my place. What do you say?’
‘When?’
‘Got anything on for Wednesday?’
Botta reviewed his engagements in his mind, staring at the floor.
‘Wednesday … Wednesday … Yes, I’d say that would be all right.’
‘Good, I’ll tell the others.’
‘They’ll be the same as last time, no?’
‘Mind if I add a couple more?’
Ennio’s face darkened.
‘Policemen?’ he asked.
‘Don’t worry, one is the son of an old friend, and the other is a scientist and friend to mice.’
‘I’ve got no problem with that.’
‘Okay, then, you’re to make whatever you like. Just one wish, on the part of Diotivede.’
‘If I’m up to the task …’ Botta said, modestly.
‘Bean soup alla lombarda. Just imagine, in this heat.’
Ennio brightened.
‘Excuse me if I start drooling, Inspector, but that’s one of my specialities. It doesn’t matter if it’s hot outside; I only have to find the right beans. And for the rest, I’ve already got something in mind.’
Now came the most delicate part of the operation, since Botta was a very sensitive man. Bordelli coughed into his hand and, with maximum nonchalance, pulled out his wallet, took out one ten-thousand-lira and two one-thousand-lira notes and laid them on the table.
‘That should suffice,’ he said.