Death and the Olive Grove Read Free

where?’
    â€˜Dunno …’
    â€˜Where’s the entrance to the villa?’
    â€˜Up above here, on the Bosconi road … Why?’
    â€˜Just curious.’ The inspector started up the car, turned it round, and drove up to the top of the hill. That man with the black spot on his neck seemed familiar to him … He felt as if he had seen someone with a mark like that before … Or perhaps it was only his investigative imagination …
    He turned on to Via Ferrucci, in the direction of the Bosconi. After rounding a few bends he stopped the Beetle in a spot where the shoulder broadened, not far from the villa’s gate, which bore a plaque with indecipherable initials on it.
    â€˜You wait here,’ he said to Casimiro, getting out of the car.
    â€˜Where are you going?’
    â€˜I just want to go and have a look.’
    The road was feebly illuminated by a yellow street lamp. Bordelli arrived at the gate and tried to push it open, but it was locked. The garden was full of high-trunked trees and overgrown plants, which shielded the dark ground from the moonlight. Scattered everywhere were large, empty vases, terracotta jugs, and strange marble statues of varying size and shape. The villa was set back a good way from the road and surrounded by cedars that rose well above the roof. On that side, too, the shutters were closed tight, with no light visible behind them. The inspector pulled the chain of the doorbell and heard it ring solemnly inside the house. There was no reply. He rang it again, and again, then twice consecutively. In the end he saw some light filter out between the slats of one shutter. A small light came on over the stone moulding of the front door, which opened at once. A human silhouette appeared on the threshold.
    â€˜Who’s there?’ asked a woman’s voice.
    â€˜Police. Could you please open the gate for me?’ The woman went back inside, and the gate opened with a click. The inspector pushed the gate open with both hands, making it squeak on its rusted hinges. He entered the garden and headed down the gravel lane, through the shadows cast by the jugs and marble monsters. Wrapped in a black shawl, the woman waited for him on the threshold, in front of the great door, which she had pulled to. She didn’t seem dressed in nightclothes and didn’t look as if she had just woken up. The inspector stopped in front of her, pulled out his police badge, and bowed slightly.
    â€˜Inspector Bordelli’s the name. Sorry to disturb you at this hour.’
    The woman appeared to be about fifty. She was tall and slender and did not look Italian. She had a hard mouth. She stood there without moving, back erect, watching Bordelli from behind her glasses.
    â€˜Vhat can I do for you?’ she asked in a strong German accent, pulling the shawl tightly around her. Her hair was all white and gathered into a perfect bun at the back of her head. Bordelli had the feeling that someone was spying on him from behind a shutter on the first floor, but he pretended not to notice.
    â€˜And you are Signora …?’ he asked.
    â€˜I am baron’s housekeeper,’ the woman said icily.
    â€˜And his name is …?’
    â€˜Baron von Hauser.’
    â€˜And you are …’
    â€˜Miss Olga.’
    â€˜Is the baron at home?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜May I ask where he is?’
    â€˜Baron ist alvays travelink, he’s not often at home.’
    â€˜Does anyone else live here?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜You live here alone?’
    â€˜ Ja .’
    â€˜Year round?’
    â€˜I don’t understant … Vhy all these qvestions?’
    â€˜I’m sorry, somebody called in and reported a shooting in this area.’
    â€˜I hear nothink, I go to sleep early.’
    Bordelli threw his hands up and smiled.
    â€˜Well, that’s all I have to ask. Sorry again for the disturbance. Goodnight,’ he said.
    â€˜Goodnight,’