Death in Sardinia Read Free Page A

shark’s table.’
    ‘Please don’t be so vulgar, this is no place for that kind of talk.’
    ‘Why don’t you go some time and have a look for yourself at all the misery the man has caused? It’s not catching, you needn’t worry.’
    ‘Please, Bordelli …’
    ‘I said misery , sir, and while it may indeed be an obscenity, it’s not a bad word.’
    The judge was getting upset. He put the pencil back in the cup and wrinkled his nose as if noticing an unpleasant smell.
    ‘Please sit down, Inspector, I want to have a little talk with you.’
    Bordelli was already seated. Indeed, it felt to him as if he’d been sitting there for ever, and now he wanted to leave.
    ‘I don’t need to have a little talk with you, sir. What I need is that search warrant …’
    The judge raised his eyebrows, looking irritated.
    ‘Just bear with me for a moment, Inspector,’ he said, sighing, putting his open hands forward as if to defend himself from the muzzle of a drooling, excessively friendly dog. Having caught his breath, he then stressed every syllable as if he were hammering nails.
    ‘If you really want to know, Inspector, Mr Badalamenti has a number of friends in our city government and socialises with some important families … Do you get the picture? Or can you think of nothing but your precious warrant? If I did as you ask and you found nothing … What would we do then? Can you imagine what the newspapers would say? Or have you already forgotten what happened with the Colombian jeweller?’
    His voice came out through his nose with a metallic sound.
    ‘That wasn’t my case,’ Bordelli said, glancing compassionately at the timorous judge. Ginzillo raised his forefinger and his voice came out in a falsetto.
    ‘That’s exactly my point! If you’re wrong, it will be the first time for you, Inspector … but the second time in six months for the police force. Do you understand what I’m saying? The second time ! And if you think I’m going to …’
    ‘Goodbye, Dr Ginzillo,’ Bordelli said unceremoniously, getting up and leaving the room.
    As he had given Commissioner Inzipone to understand, the inspector had decided, after his fruitless meeting with Ginzillo, to enter the usurer’s flat illegally and search high and low for any evidence that might help to nail him. He was convinced he would find something but, truth be told, he was also hoping for a little luck.
    That same night, at about three in the morning, he’d gone to inspect the site, to determine how difficult a job it would be. The small palazzina in which Badalamenti lived was quiet and dark. It was February and very cold outside. In the glow of the street lamps he could see a fine rain falling and turning to sleet.
    Some years before, the inspector had taken lockpicking lessons from his friend Ennio Bottarini, known to intimates as Botta, a master of the art of burglary, and he was now able to pick some two-thirds of all the locks on the market with a mere piece of wire. His intention was to ask one of his friends from the San Frediano quarter to keep watch while he broke into Badalamenti’s flat right after the loan shark went out.
    He managed to open the front door to the building in just a few seconds. Then, after tiptoeing up the stairs to the top floor, he met with disappointment. One look at Badalamenti’s door and he knew he was faced with a lock that his teacher classified as ‘curseworthy’. Bordelli was incapable of opening that kind. Only Botta could.
    The following day the inspector had gone looking for him at home, only to learn that he’d been in jail for several weeks. He’d been arrested near Montecatini, at Pavesi di Serravalle, trying to shift a television set stolen from the office of a service station. Botta was an artist of burglary, and a very good cook, but he was terrible at disposing of stolen goods.
    The inspector was shocked to learn he’d started doing these small jobs again. The last time he’d seen him, Botta was