Death in Sardinia (8 page)

Badalamenti was very meticulous, even fastidious. To each wedding band he had tied a tiny label with a piece of thread, and on each label he had written the debtor’s name and surname in red pen. The name on the label always corresponded to one of the two inscribed inside the ring, except in one case. No doubt it had been a son or grandchild who had pawned that ring …

But what was he doing in such an uncomfortable position? He brought all the stuff he had found over to the glass table and went and poured himself another serving of cognac. Then he sat down in the armchair, put the accordion bag in his lap and opened it. Hundreds of promissory notes, arranged by date. Each compartment in the bag contained one month’s dues. In the last section were three sheets of paper folded in four. This was Badalamenti’s ‘ledger’, the complete list of his debtors. Dozens of names and dates written in such tiny handwriting that one almost needed a magnifying glass to read it.

Bordelli lit a cigarette and with some effort started scanning that list of poor devils. They were quite an army. He let himself fall back again in the chair. His head was spinning a little, but it was a pleasant enough sensation. The cognac was actually quite good. He put the list away and pulled out some promissory notes. One month’s payments together amounted to a tidy sum: about the same as what a chief inspector earned in a year.

One had to keep busy to maintain a Porsche. He put the IOUs back and opened the yellow envelope. Out came a great assortment of papers, and he set these down in his lap. More promissory notes, provisional sales agreements, contracts of different kinds. He picked one up at random: an old woman with no heirs had made over to Badalamenti the residuary right of ownership of her villa in Settignano for two million lire. Bordelli couldn’t help but smile. Now that Badalamenti was dead, the residuary ownership reverted automatically back to her. That was one matter, at least, that had been settled all by itself. There were a number of contracts transferring ownership and some deeds of sale, always for amounts far below market value. One needn’t have been an estate agent to realise this. There were also some chequebooks for banks in the south, almost unused. Bordelli opened an envelope held shut by a rubber band. Inside was a thick little bundle of promissory notes for fifty thousand lire, with the photograph of a house pinned to the top note. It was a small, modern house with a garden and a hedge of bay laurel inside an iron grille, and two terracotta pine cones crowning the gateposts.

‘Shit …’ said Bordelli, not believing his eyes. He flipped the photograph over. On the back, written in the usual red pen, were a name and address, the same as on the promissory notes:
Mario Fabiani, Via di Barbacane 65
. Underneath, Badalamenti had added:
Interesting
.

Bordelli shook his head. He’d known Dr Fabiani for years and sometimes even invited him to dinner. He was a psychoanalyst, aged seventy, more or less retired, an innocent soul with a passion for plants. He’d never said a word to the inspector about his financial difficulties. Bordelli felt embarrassed by the very idea of going to see him, even if it was only to give him the good news that Badalamenti was dead. He sighed and put that thought away for later.

Still rummaging through the papers, he found a crumpled letter addressed to the

‘Distinguished Totuccio Badalamenti, Esq’. Appended to the envelope with a paper clip were a number of promissory notes for fifty thousand lire and a smaller envelope with photographs inside. There were five of them, all black and white, taken in a place that looked in every way like a sort of bordello for American soldiers. A half-naked blonde girl in spiked heels and garter belt was standing in the middle of a group of smiling GIs who were vying with one another to get their hands on her. In one of the photos a black man about six foot six, hand miming a pistol, was sticking his enormous index finger into the blonde’s mouth. She had her hands raised and eyes wide open, and everyone else was laughing. A photo souvenir of a lost war.

Bordelli opened the letter and started reading it. The handwriting was neat and round. It was a woman’s. She begged the ‘good’ Mr Badalamenti not to ask her for any more money, because she didn’t have any left. It ended as follows:

I beseech you, whatever may happen, never to tell my son

what you found out about me. I don’t want Odoardo to grow

up burdened by his mother’s guilt. I put my trust in your

goodness and ask the Blessed Virgin to forgive you and myself.

May God bless you.

Yours sincerely,

Rosaria Beltempo

She’d written it in October 1964, and on the back of the envelope was the sender’s address. Underneath, Badalamenti had written in red ink:
House not worth much, olive grove 2 hectares
.

The whole thing looked very much like blackmail, paid off in instalments and guaranteed with IOUs. A rather brilliant invention. Bravo, Totuccio. The inspector sighed deeply and smiled … He’d suddenly thought of Judge Ginzillo. Perhaps now the rat-face would listen to him; maybe now he would understand just who Badalamenti was. But, knowing Ginzillo, he knew he would rather pee his pants than admit his own idiocy. Bordelli couldn’t wait to go and see the genius.

He heard some dripping and went over to the window. It had started raining outside. Going back into the kitchen, he found a plastic shopping bag under the sink. He put everything he’d found inside it, and slowly checked each room one last time before leaving. He tried to imagine the extortionist pacing about his flat with satisfaction, counting in his head the money he’d earned that day. But he wouldn’t be making trouble for anyone any longer. Someone had taken a pair of scissors in hand and said: enough. Bordelli went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the same mirror in which Badalamenti had seen his own reflection a few days before.

Very well. There wasn’t anything left to do in this place. He could go now. He locked the door behind him and descended the stairs slowly, plastic bag swinging at his side. Despite the satisfaction, he felt a little melancholy.

Only a week remained until Christmas. At midnight it was still drizzling outside, tiny cold drops that refused to turn into snow.

In one corner of Rosa’s small living room stood a fir tree about five feet tall laden with coloured baubles and little blinking lights. The big dining table was covered with presents, some wrapped and others yet to be wrapped. Gideon, Rosa’s big white tomcat, was lying on his back, asleep, feet in the air, atop a sideboard. He was the very symbol of deep sleep.

‘I wrap everything myself … Aren’t they pretty?’ said Rosa.

‘Absolutely beautiful,’ said Bordelli, half lying on the couch and holding an almost empty goblet of red wine between two fingers. He was looking at Rosa and smiling inside. Despite the life she had led and the riffraff she’d had no choice but to frequent, Rosa was as pure as the driven snow. That evening she was wearing a decolletée dress with a blue floral print and violet high heels.

The inspector sat up and refilled his glass. Rosa’s living room had a big, glorious window which, behind the flimsy curtains, gave on to a long perspective of rooftops and, in the distance, Arnolfo’s tower. It had taken Rosa a long time to find the right place for her. All her life she’d worked in brothels, winter and summer. Then MP Lina Merlin had come along and said,
That’s enough, ladies
, and Rosa simply couldn’t see herself pounding the pavement …
⁶
It seemed so sad, so vulgar … As she’d always been thrifty, she’d managed to set aside a decent nest egg. She deserved a hard-earned rest in a flat looking out over the rooftops. The light in her place was always warm and welcoming, and always shone from the corners of the room

‘Are they only for this Christmas, or do they include next year’s presents as well?’ asked Bordelli, seeing the dozens of gifts covering the table. Rosa was tying a bow and started singing.

‘
Non essere geloso se con gli altri ballo il rock …
’

‘Are you talking to me?’

‘
Non essere geloso se con gli altri ballo il twist …
There’s a present for you too, you big ugly monkey.’

‘You shouldn’t have, Rosa.’

‘Liar. You always love my presents.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘Why don’t you ever say what you mean?’

‘That’s not what I …’ Bordelli began, but he stopped before he repeated himself. Rosa kept on singing.

‘
Con te, con te, con te che sei la mia passione / io ballo il ballo del mattone
…’
⁷

Bordelli swallowed a sip of wine and lit his cigarette. It was past midnight, and it was already an achievement to have smoked only six all day.

‘So you’re not going to tell me who all those presents are for?’ he asked.

‘Don’t you know I have a lot of girlfriends?’

‘Colleagues?’

‘They’re not all whores, you know. D’you think that’s all I ever did in life?’ Rosa’s lips were enlarged by her lipstick, and when she wasn’t speaking, her mouth looked like a heart.

‘Just curious,’ said the inspector. She kept on wrapping presents, using a nice sharp pair of scissors to curl the ribbons.

‘You know, Rosa, that guy who was murdered not far from my house was killed with a pair of scissors rather similar to those.’

‘How nice of you to tell me,’ she said.

‘Sorry, but I can’t stop thinking about it.’

‘If you ask me, you’ll never catch him.’

‘Thanks, Rosa,’ said Bordelli, still ruminating. That afternoon he’d passed the list of the usurer’s debtors to Porcinai, the police archivist, asking him to find all their addresses and telephone numbers as soon as possible. It was merely a first attempt to get the ball rolling. The only name he’d struck off the list was that of his friend Fabiani, whose address he already knew. He also knew Rosaria Beltempo’s, which was written on the envelope of that painful letter addressed to the

‘Distinguished Totuccio Badalamenti, Esq’.

Rosa finished wrapping a tiny little box, which she then held in the palm of her hand, arm extended, to have a long look at it.

‘This is for Tiziana,’ she said.

‘It’s a lipstick you can only find in Paris.’

‘So how’d you get your hands on it?’

‘Somebody sent it to me from Paris for my birthday, and since it doesn’t look good on my own lips, I thought …’

‘Rosa, it’s not nice to recycle presents from other people.’

‘So you think I should have just thrown it away? I redid the tip, and now it looks as good as new … And this way, someone else can get some use out of it.’

‘Well, when you put it that way, it sounds like a fabulous gift.’

‘You’ve got too many outdated ideas in that ageing head of yours,’ said Rosa, wrinkling her nose. Putting the little box aside, she turned her attention to another. Bordelli blew smoke at the ceiling. He saw again the scissors planted deep in Badalamenti’s neck, and the thought of the killer elicited some very ambiguous feelings in him.

‘Hey, what’s with the long face tonight? … Are you hungry? Shall I make you another tartine?’ she said, getting up and coming over to him.

‘Thanks, Rosa, I’m fine.’

‘Well, that’s enough red wine. Now we’re going to drink some Monbazillac,’ she said, taking the glass out of his hand.

‘Another gift from Paris?’

‘
I love Paris in the springtiiiime
…’ Rosa blared, fluttering all the way to the kitchen in her purple pumps. A hammer would have made less noise.

‘Aren’t the people downstairs going to complain?’ Bordelli asked loudly.

‘No, there’s only an old witch who’s deaf,’ Rosa yelled from the kitchen. You couldn’t really say she didn’t have a knack for concision. It was still drizzling outside. Every so often a drop left a long, thin trail on the windows that gave on to the terrace. Gideon hadn’t moved. He looked like a rag. Bordelli stubbed out the cigarette and lay down. With eyes closed he started listening to the hiss of the rain on the rooftops. From the kitchen came the hammer-blows of Rosa’s high heels. She returned to the living room, carrying a transparent plastic tray with a bottle and two wine glasses.

‘Ta-da! Ta-da!’ she said, advancing in dance steps. Bordelli, who was nearly asleep, gave a start.

‘Inspector … You wouldn’t be turning into an old fogey on me, now, would you?’ Rosa asked, setting the tray down on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

‘Maybe I am,’ he said, yawning. Rosa popped the cork out of the bottle. Bordelli sat up and yawned again. The just-opened Monbazillac gave off a sweet odour of nobly mildewed grapes, and Bordelli felt at peace with the world.

‘Uncouth as you are, you’ll probably think it tastes like Lambrusco,’ she said, filling the goblets. Bordelli picked his up, but as he brought it to his lips, Rosa grabbed his arm.

‘Wait, you big monkey! We need to make a toast!’ she said, all excited. One could never open a bottle at her place without toasting. She’d picked up the habit in France – that is, in Paris, which she seemed to think counted for all of France.

‘To your marriage,’ Bordelli proposed, trying to clink his glass with Rosa’s, but she pulled hers away suddenly, almost spilling the wine.

‘I’ve manage to avoid it for this long … You little shit!’ she said.

‘Then you decide.’

‘Let’s toast the person who bumped off the loan shark … May he live long and never be caught by you. What do you say?’ she asked, raising her glass.

‘We can certainly toast him, though you know of course he’ll never escape me.’

They were about to clink glasses when Rosa pulled hers away again.

‘
Dahnlezyé
…’
⁸
she said.

‘Don’t cheat, monkey, look me in the eyes or it doesn’t count.’ Another Parisian custom, according to her.

‘How’s this?’ Bordelli asked, looking her straight in the eye with his own wide open. The glasses touched and made a fine crystal sound. They drank a sip. Words could not describe the fragrances rising into their noses. Gideon stretched, opened his eyes, cast a bleary glance at them and went back to sleep.