Free Death in Sardinia by Marco Vichi Page A

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