‘Oh, quite all right, I’d say. He’s just a little upset over-’
‘Oh my God, has something happened?’
‘No, no, nothing serious. Or maybe yes. He’s in love, head over heels, like a teenager.’
‘Oh, the poor dear. He’s certainly not used to that. He must be in terrible shape.’
‘You can rest easy, Zia. Rodrigo is only a little confused.’
Zia Camilla hung up, and Bordelli turned his eyes back to Piras.
‘I’m ready,’ he said.
‘Do you mind if I start at the beginning?’ asked Piras.
‘Take all the time you need.’
Piras resumed pacing, with short, slow steps. He cast a glance at the photo of the president behind Bordelli, then made a fist and raised his thumb.
‘Point number one: Signora Pedretti died of an asthma attack.’ He raised his index finger. ‘Point number two: only mate pollen could have ended her life that way.’ He raised his middle finger. ‘Point number three: mate doesn’t grow here.’ And he brought his three fingers together. ‘We know that somebody killed the signora by triggering a lethal asthma attack through the use of the pollen of a tropical plant. A murder by the book. Furthermore, the cap of the Asthmaben bottle was screwed on too tight, which leads to the hypothesis that someone came into the room after the lady was already dead. Everything clear, so far?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Good. We know the Morozzis are telling the truth — that is, that at the exact time their aunt was dying, at nine p.m., they were at a restaurant. One could conclude they are innocent.’ And he gestured as if to put this hypothesis in a drawer. ‘Now let’s pretend we know for certain that it was they who killed Signora Pedretti. The mechanism, in the abstract, is easy to grasp: they found a way to make their aunt inhale that pollen while they were miles away. You see, Inspector? The theory is easy. But how the hell did they do it? That’s the hard part.’
‘Maybe they paid somebody.’
‘So they could be blackmailed for the rest of their lives? No, and anyway, they’re a couple of milquetoasts; they would never know where to find someone to do a job like that.’
‘Go on,’ said Bordelli.
Piras continued to explain the dynamics of the murder of Signora Pedretti-Strassen, speaking in a clear, clipped voice, succinct in every respect.
‘Let us recapitulate in another fashion. A lady suffers from allergic asthma and I want to kill her, but of course I want it to look like an accident. I know that mate pollen can trigger a fatal attack, but I also know that her medicine, in most cases, even this one, can save her. The goal is to make her inhale that tropical pollen without giving her a chance to take her medicine …’
Bordelli got more comfortable in his chair and lit a cigarette, promising himself he would put it out halfway. He was anxious to hear Piras’s conjectures, but he would rather have listened to a long, perhaps fictionalised expose, so he could sit there comfortably for a few hours, listening to someone tell a story. He wished it would pour outside, to give some hope of a cooler night. Piras didn’t seem to have such problems; despite the torrid heat, he looked cool and, most importantly, didn’t sweat. He resumed talking, his eyes looking up at the corners of the ceiling.
‘The first thing I need is the keys to the lady’s house. This takes some doing, but in essence it’s easy. All I have to do is make a cast, or else take the keys on the sly and get copies made.’
‘Right.’
‘Then I have to procure the pollen. I’ve done some research and found that they have a variety of specimens of mate at the botanical gardens.’
‘In the greenhouse?’
‘Of course. I need only pluck a few flowers when nobody’s looking.’
‘Right.’
‘But I have to arrange things so that the signora will inhale some pollen, but without arousing any suspicions, either in her or anyone else.’
‘Exactly.’
Piras stopped in front of the window and looked out at the rows of rooftops.
‘There is a way to do this; the point is to find it. But this is not the only problem. I must also find a way to prevent the signora from taking the medicine she always keeps within reach.’
‘Go on,’ said Bordelli, staring at a big black fly walking on the windowpane. Piras turned to face him.
‘That’s easier. You replace the real medicine bottle with an identical one containing only water.’
‘How?’
‘I have copies of the keys. In a house of that size I can easily hide, and when Auntie is on the ground floor, I can go into her bedroom, switch the medicine bottles, and put the pollen where I need to put it.’
Bordelli rested his chin in his hand.
‘And what if the police find the bottle with water instead of medicine in it?’
‘Good question. For this reason, I return in the middle of the night and put everything back in its proper place. I put a couple of drops of medicine in the signora’s mouth, so that it looks as if she did manage to take some, then I put the real bottle back in its proper place … But I’m very nervous and I forget to unscrew the cap.’
Piras fell silent for a moment, pinching his lip between thumb and forefinger, then continued.
‘That blessed cap,’ he said.
Bordelli sighed.
‘If that’s really the way things went, all we need to do is find out who did it and how,’ he said ironically.
‘The most likely thing is that it was one of the heirs. A murder of this kind goes through a long period of maturation and is organised with great care. But there must be a good motive, and money is an excellent motive, at least for some.’
Bordelli found himself with another cigarette in his hand but didn’t light it. He offered one to Piras, who refused politely but with a certain disgust. Apparently he never smoked.
‘All right, Piras. Let’s pretend you’re right. The killer is here before me, I know he did it, I have no doubt about it. Now, however, we need to find proof, otherwise there won’t even be a trial.’
‘Before anything else, we need to uncover the mechanism of the murder.’
‘Right. The mechanism.’ At this point Bordelli could wait no longer to light his cigarette, and took two deep puffs, immediately shaking away the first ashes.
‘How the hell did they do it?’ Bordelli repeated, talking mostly to himself.
Piras not only didn’t smoke, he couldn’t stand smoke. Stepping back instinctively, he started waving his open hands in the air to dispel it, as if only now finding the courage to vent his dislike. Bordelli pretended not to notice.
‘All right, let’s begin the game again,’ the inspector said. ‘Let’s pretend we have the killers here before us. We know they did it, and they know we have no proof. What, at this point, would you do?’
‘I think it would be totally pointless to apply any pressure on them before having first demolished their alibi. In short, we must figure out how …’ All at once he stopped to swat away the smoke in the air around him, assumed a very serious expression and pointed to the pack of cigarettes on the table. ‘Did you know, Inspector, that every one of those things shortens your life by one hour?’