Free Liar Moon by Ben Pastor Page B

you?”
    “No.”
    “Hm. Did you notice the single bed? They slept in separate rooms.”
    “What else would you expect, Major? It’s logical that a paralysed man should have a room on the first floor.”
    “Especially if the maid’s room is there too, yes.”
     
    When they inspected the parlour, an overwhelming crowd of souvenirs confronted them: silver, pewter, ceramics, gondolas of gilded celluloid and paperweights full of water, with Saint Peter’s and the Colosseum inside. Women’s magazines and movie magazines were everywhere, scattered on every available horizontal surface. Paper flowers, wax flowers, feather flowers and silk flowers filled a series of crystal pitchers. Soccer trophies Lisi had won in his youth lined the fireplace mantel, watching over a solitary book on architecture.

    After this, Lisi’s room at the end of the hallway seemed Spartan. It was a simple study with a bed. At once Bora became absorbed in a fine Piranesi print, but then Guidi called his attention to a colour photograph of Lisi shaking hands with Il Duce. Mussolini looked pasty, and Lisi – holding a pennant that read SEMPRE OVUNQUE – had a mouthful of gold teeth. Bora stared at the photo, too, for a good long time, with an indefinable expression on his face.
    It was in Lisi’s room that it became apparent to Guidi the Verona authorities had chosen to limit the extent of their search. Save for the removal of a few papers already in the dossier, the premises were virtually untouched. The calendar had not been detached from the wall, even though initials were scribbled all through the pages alongside certain dates. A stack of banknotes still lay in the right-hand drawer of Lisi’s mahogany desk, where powerful painkillers and a shot glass kept company with a ream of Pelikan carbon paper. Silver fountain pens – the expected gift from underlings – formed a thick bundle, bound by an elastic band.
    Bora recognized the medicines from his hospital stay. “This is powerful stuff to take with liquor.”
    Guidi rummaged for and found a half-empty bottle in the left drawer. “Cognac,” he said. The lower desk drawer had been emptied, but when Guidi tried to close it, he met unexpected resistance from the back. Only after pulling the drawer completely out by the brasses did he realize that a number of magazines had slipped behind it, and become stuck to the back of the cavity.
    “What is it?” Bora asked.
    “Pornographic magazines.”

    “Imagine that.”
    Guidi tossed the magazines on the bed, where Bora sat leafing through a manual on interior decoration found on the night table. “When you’re done, Guidi,” he said, “take a look at the initials on the calendar.”
    “Why, did you find the letter ‘C’?”
    “No. There’s a ‘B’, an ‘S’, an ‘M’ and an ‘E’. No ‘C’. But they seem abbreviated notes, reminders of some sort. Whatever his other businesses, Lisi knew how to keep a lid on them. Thinking of it, why should he write ‘C’ for Clara on his calendar? With his famous gift of memory, surely he’d remember if he owed her a monthly cheque.”
    Guidi thought Bora was trying to pacify him, but when he looked, Bora was sneering. He noticed that he’d picked up one of the pornographic magazines.
    “Anyway, Guidi, whether De Rosa was right about Lisi’s impeccable memory or not, we found no telephone directory anywhere. And if Lisi dealt in cash, good luck with finding any written records.”
    “Right.”
    A crumple of paper signalled Bora’s sudden tossing of the magazine on the floor. He joined Guidi at the desk and stood there, watching him. “Contrary to what you think, Guidi, I have no interest in proving Clara Lisi’s guilt, any more than I care to prove she dyes her hair. Neither issue is of interest to me.”
    “How do you know she dyes her hair?”
    “My wife is a real blonde. Do you suppose I can’t tell the difference?” With the side of his boot, swiftly, Bora kicked the