Read Online Death and the Olive Grove by Marco Vichi - Free Book Online
Authors: Marco Vichi
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to die, finished him off with a hammer.â
âAnything else?â asked Bordelli, feeling a keen desire to light up.
âHis fingernails were broken, except for the thumbs. He seems to have scraped them against a very rough surface. The fingertips are also a bit chafed.â
âCould he have done it against a stone wall?â
âCertainly.â
âGo on.â
âHis stomach was full to bursting. Want to know what he had eaten?â the doctor asked.
âPoor guy, I can guess ⦠Black cabbage, beans â¦â
âYouâre on the wrong track.â
âWhat do you mean?â
Diotivede picked up a wrinkled sheet of paper from the table and read:
âCrayfish, gilthead bream, shrimp ⦠there was even a fair amount of langoustine, and a lot of mayonnaise. The wine was a Gewürztraminer or something similar. I wonât list the desserts, or you might gain weight.â
âYouâre joking, of course.â
âNo,â said the doctor, a little smile on his face.
âShit!â said Bordelli.
âThere was no lack of cognac, either, though it was cut with cyanide.â
âWas it a painful death?â
âIâd say so,â said Diotivede, adjusting his glasses on his nose.
âPoor bloke â¦â Bordelli muttered.
âBut thereâs another curious fact: it was rather unusual cyanide.â
âIn what sense?â
âOld stuff, fashioned into very small tablets.â
âHow old?â
âVery old,â said the doctor.
âFrom the last war?â
âEven before.â
âCan it keep for so long?â
âDepends on how you store it.â
Bordelli nervously fingered his chin.
âAnything else?â
âI donât think so. And now Iâm sorry, but I have to finish the girl,â said Diotivede, pointing towards a gurney at the back of the laboratory. A cascade of blonde hair poured out from under a sheet, and at the opposite end, two very white, slender feet pointed upwards.
âIs she the one who was found in the dump?â the inspector asked.
âShe is. That fathead Rabozziâs handling the case.â
âA prostitute?â
âApparently not.â
âRaped?â
âI was just going to check.â
âCould I see her?â
âGo ahead.â
The inspector approached the gurney and raised the sheet a little, then lifted it completely. He looked sadly at the girl. She was barely twenty years old.
âBeautiful girl,â he said.
âShe looks Parisian,â said the doctor.
âDo you know Paris well?â
âAlmost as well as I know human intestines. I lived there for five years.â
âI didnât know that.â
âYou donât have to know everything,â said the doctor.
Bordelli lowered the sheet. He too had been in Paris, in December 1939. He had met a beautiful woman and fallen in love with her like a teenager. Her name was Christine. Their three weeks together had been like a dream, and returning home hadnât been easy. They had started writing to each other. She, too, seemed in every way in love with him, and almost ready to come to Italy. Then Hitlerâs divisions entered Paris, and he never heard from her again â¦
Bordelli shook his head free of those memories and put a cigarette in his mouth, which he wouldnât light until outside the laboratory.
âIâm going. Once youâve typed up your report, send it to me,â he said.
âGoodbye,â said Diotivede, getting back down to work.
When he reached the door, the inspector stopped.
âSorry â¦â he said, turning round.
âDonât ask me if thereâs anything else, because there isnât,â the doctor interrupted him without looking up from the microscope.
âI just wanted to know if you know a cognac called de Maricourt.â
âOf course I do,â said the
âAnything else?â asked Bordelli, feeling a keen desire to light up.
âHis fingernails were broken, except for the thumbs. He seems to have scraped them against a very rough surface. The fingertips are also a bit chafed.â
âCould he have done it against a stone wall?â
âCertainly.â
âGo on.â
âHis stomach was full to bursting. Want to know what he had eaten?â the doctor asked.
âPoor guy, I can guess ⦠Black cabbage, beans â¦â
âYouâre on the wrong track.â
âWhat do you mean?â
Diotivede picked up a wrinkled sheet of paper from the table and read:
âCrayfish, gilthead bream, shrimp ⦠there was even a fair amount of langoustine, and a lot of mayonnaise. The wine was a Gewürztraminer or something similar. I wonât list the desserts, or you might gain weight.â
âYouâre joking, of course.â
âNo,â said the doctor, a little smile on his face.
âShit!â said Bordelli.
âThere was no lack of cognac, either, though it was cut with cyanide.â
âWas it a painful death?â
âIâd say so,â said Diotivede, adjusting his glasses on his nose.
âPoor bloke â¦â Bordelli muttered.
âBut thereâs another curious fact: it was rather unusual cyanide.â
âIn what sense?â
âOld stuff, fashioned into very small tablets.â
âHow old?â
âVery old,â said the doctor.
âFrom the last war?â
âEven before.â
âCan it keep for so long?â
âDepends on how you store it.â
Bordelli nervously fingered his chin.
âAnything else?â
âI donât think so. And now Iâm sorry, but I have to finish the girl,â said Diotivede, pointing towards a gurney at the back of the laboratory. A cascade of blonde hair poured out from under a sheet, and at the opposite end, two very white, slender feet pointed upwards.
âIs she the one who was found in the dump?â the inspector asked.
âShe is. That fathead Rabozziâs handling the case.â
âA prostitute?â
âApparently not.â
âRaped?â
âI was just going to check.â
âCould I see her?â
âGo ahead.â
The inspector approached the gurney and raised the sheet a little, then lifted it completely. He looked sadly at the girl. She was barely twenty years old.
âBeautiful girl,â he said.
âShe looks Parisian,â said the doctor.
âDo you know Paris well?â
âAlmost as well as I know human intestines. I lived there for five years.â
âI didnât know that.â
âYou donât have to know everything,â said the doctor.
Bordelli lowered the sheet. He too had been in Paris, in December 1939. He had met a beautiful woman and fallen in love with her like a teenager. Her name was Christine. Their three weeks together had been like a dream, and returning home hadnât been easy. They had started writing to each other. She, too, seemed in every way in love with him, and almost ready to come to Italy. Then Hitlerâs divisions entered Paris, and he never heard from her again â¦
Bordelli shook his head free of those memories and put a cigarette in his mouth, which he wouldnât light until outside the laboratory.
âIâm going. Once youâve typed up your report, send it to me,â he said.
âGoodbye,â said Diotivede, getting back down to work.
When he reached the door, the inspector stopped.
âSorry â¦â he said, turning round.
âDonât ask me if thereâs anything else, because there isnât,â the doctor interrupted him without looking up from the microscope.
âI just wanted to know if you know a cognac called de Maricourt.â
âOf course I do,â said the
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