Free Death in Sardinia by Marco Vichi

purse, a large, bulging yellowish envelope, a small round box covered in blue velvet, and a bundle of white cloth. Taking it all out of the hole, he noticed that the bundle was heavy and opened it. Inside he found a Glisenti 7.65 Parabellum with the serial number sanded off. Pretty clever, our little Totuccio, thought Bordelli. He wrapped the pistol back up in the cloth and opened the blue velvet box. It had a number of gold rings inside, mostly wedding bands. Almost all of them had the spouses’ names and wedding dates inscribed inside: Argia Ferdinando, 2 October 1902 ; Nora Goffredo, 14 August 1897 , and so on.
    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