Bordelli really felt like lighting up, but managed to resist the temptation.
‘Give me an example,’ he said.
‘Easy: I take a test tube, put three dry beans in it, fill it halfway with water, take two little cork discs joined in the middle by a wire, put the first disc into the test tube halfway down, put in the powder, then insert the second disk until it seals the test tube, place the device horizontally on the lamp over the victim’s bed, and go on my merry way. The dry beans will slowly swell with water, pushing out the cork. And voila. It’s done. The poison will gently flutter down towards the victim’s nose.’
‘And what if the police find traces of the device?’
‘One need only hide it well and then come and retrieve it as quickly as possible.’
Bordelli sighed.
‘That’s true, but that sort of mechanism isn’t so easy to hide, and, more importantly, it’s not very precise.’
‘In that case one would have to consider another system — I don’t know, say a little pump hidden behind the switch of the nightlight, which, when you turned on the light … Or a mechanism of rubber bands which, after releasing the poison, would catapult the whole thing out of the window.’
The inspector shook his head.
‘No, that’s all too complicated and might leave visible traces. Anyone who goes so far as to plan a murder tries to leave nothing to chance.’
Botta started removing the coffee cups from the table.
‘We give up, Inspector. Tell us how it’s done.’
Bordelli threw up his hands and then slapped his thighs.
‘If I only knew …’ he said.
‘So it’s not a riddle. It’s something serious.’
‘Very serious, Botta. I’m trying to find out who killed Dante’s sister.’
Ennio stopped short in the doorway, coffee cups in hand.
‘Ah, I didn’t know!.. I’m so sorry, Mr Pedretti,’ he said, slightly embarrassed. Dante smiled and waved a hand in the air by way of thanks, pulling hard on his cigar. Bordelli stood up with a sigh and went back into the bathroom to take a shower. As he was lathering up he kept ruminating on the killing; it had almost become an obsession. But they all did, sooner or later. If he hadn’t become a policeman he would have found another way to obsess about things. It was in his blood. He couldn’t do anything about it.
He got dressed and went to ask Dante whether he needed a lift. He found him in front of the sink with an apron on, drying the dishes as Botta washed them.
‘Thanks, Inspector, but it’s all right. I’ll lend Ennio a hand and then have a walk.’
‘Very well, then, goodbye. Ciao, Ennio, I’ll leave you something under the phone in the entrance.’
‘Have a good day, Inspector. When you want to have another dinner party, don’t be shy, just let me know.’
‘It won’t be long, Ennio, I promise. If I were younger I’d say the day after tomorrow.’
On his way out he left three thousand lire under the telephone. In the doorway he thought better of it, turned round and took back a thousand. As he was putting it in his wallet, he changed his mind again and put it back. Outside the flat he trotted down the stairs, remembering that he’d just been given a raise.
Mugnai greeted him with a sallow smile.
‘Congratulations, Inspector Bordelli. But what should I call you now? Chief inspector, or simply inspector?’
Bordelli bit his lip.
‘Whatever you like, Mugnai. Whatever sounds better to you.’
‘In that case I prefer simply “inspector”. “Chief inspector” is too long.’
‘All right … Oh, listen, what about that nasty smell in my room?’
‘It was face powder, Inspector. It’s been taken care of,’ he said in the tone of one who knew about such things.
‘Thanks.’
Bordelli went into his office, sniffed the air and hurled a few insults at Mugnai. Not only was the smell of the face powder still there, but another smell had been added to it. He wondered what it might be, and then saw an empty aerosol bomb of Grey’s Wax in the wastebasket. Which only made things worse. He went to open the window, hoping for a purifying wind, but the air was immobile and hot as usual. He settled in and put all the reports and transcripts of the Pedretti-Strassen murder on his desk. Every so often he looked up from his papers to reflect, but then shook his head and went on. And every so often he thought of his cousin and his mysterious lover. In the end he picked up the phone and dialled Rodrigo’s number. After a few rings, someone picked up.
‘Hello?’ It was a woman’s voice, a beautiful voice.
‘Hello, I’m Rodrigo’s cousin …’
‘Then you must be the wicked policeman,’ she said, laughing.
‘Right.’
‘Rodrigo’s not here. Shall I tell him to call you back?’
‘No need. I just wanted to know how he was feeling.’
‘He’s feeling great.’
‘I’m sure he is.’
‘And I’m not doing too badly myself,’ she said, giggling.
‘I’m so glad.’
‘Me too.’
‘Well, goodbye.’
‘Bye-bye, policeman.’
‘Bye.’
Hanging up, Bordelli tried to imagine what she might look like. She must have long blonde hair, the eyes of a wounded deer, a fine, confident gait, the kind of woman who likes to talk to herself … Or else she was dark and slender, with beautiful legs and tapered hands, a joyous smile and very white teeth … Or …
The ring of the telephone caught him by surprise.