Read Online Death and the Olive Grove by Marco Vichi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marco Vichi
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said.
Bordelli huffed, then picked up the bottle of de Maricourt cognac and started staring at it as if trying to read the truth in it.
That same night Bordelli returned alone to the olive grove in Fiesole. The sky was clear and full of stars. As it was almost the new moon, heâd brought along a torch. But he knew the place well by now, and managed not to turn it on.
He didnât really know what heâd come looking for. He wanted only to poke about a bit, in the hope of discovering something. He could have asked Judge Ginzillo for a warrant to search the villa, but for the moment he preferred to proceed with caution. He still had no idea who he was dealing with, and was afraid to make a wrong move. Anyway, Ginzillo was too timid, always clinging to legal quibbles like a vine, terrified of wrecking his judicial career with a single mistake. For the moment it was best to forget about Ginzillo, who would only waste a great deal of his time, as usual.
At last he came to a stop, at a spot from where he had a good view of the villa. As usual, the shutters were all closed and no light was visible. The air was still. There was deep silence. He leaned back against the trunk of a great, leafy olive tree and lit a cigarette, taking care to hide the flame of the match. On so dark a night, he risked being seen. He smoked with his hand cupped round the burning cigarette-end, the way he used to do in the war.
All at once he saw a window light up in the villa, but a few seconds later it was dark again. He tossed the butt to the ground and snuffed it out with his shoe. He suddenly felt like imposing on Miss Olga. He was about to return to the car when he noticed something. Turning round, he glimpsed a human silhouette in the distance, walking through the olive trees. He crouched instinctively and held still. He was almost certain he hadnât been seen. The man was strolling casually through the trees, as if he could see quite well in the darkness. The inspector waited for him to draw near, then popped out and came towards the man, shining the torch and pointing his pistol at him.
âGood evening,â he said. The man quickly sidestepped and stopped. Bordelli lit up his face, and for a moment he thought he was looking at a mask. The face was full of wrinkles, with two powerful eyes that seemed to belong to a wounded animal.
âGood evening,â said the man, body relaxing. Bordelli lowered the beam of light to the strangerâs clothes. He clearly was not a vagrant, and actually seemed rather well dressed. Bordelli raised the torch again to the manâs face.
âWere you looking for something?â
âWho are you, if I may ask?â the man said innocuously. He had the accent of a foreigner who had lived for a long time in Italy.
âPolice,â said Bordelli. The man didnât seem the least bit surprised.
âCan I help you with anything?â he asked.
The inspector took a step forward.
âWhat are you doing here?â
âI was out for a stroll.â
âAt one oâclock in the morning?â
âAt one oâclock in the morning,â said the man, unflinching.
âWhy donât you tell me your name, for starters?â said Bordelli, making the mistake of lowering his gun. The man muttered something in a strange language, then bounded forward and, before the inspector realised what was happening, punched him in the stomach. Bordelli fell to his knees, the wind knocked out of him, and the torch slipped from his hand. With some effort he raised his head, then saw the manâs black silhouette running like a rhinoceros towards the wood. He took aim with his pistol and was about to fire but decided against it. What sort of bloody language was the big ape speaking, anyway? It sounded like something Slavic, or Arabic.
When he had regained his breath, he stood up, reeling, and with one hand on his liver, he staggered back to the Beetle. He felt like an ass. He
Bordelli huffed, then picked up the bottle of de Maricourt cognac and started staring at it as if trying to read the truth in it.
That same night Bordelli returned alone to the olive grove in Fiesole. The sky was clear and full of stars. As it was almost the new moon, heâd brought along a torch. But he knew the place well by now, and managed not to turn it on.
He didnât really know what heâd come looking for. He wanted only to poke about a bit, in the hope of discovering something. He could have asked Judge Ginzillo for a warrant to search the villa, but for the moment he preferred to proceed with caution. He still had no idea who he was dealing with, and was afraid to make a wrong move. Anyway, Ginzillo was too timid, always clinging to legal quibbles like a vine, terrified of wrecking his judicial career with a single mistake. For the moment it was best to forget about Ginzillo, who would only waste a great deal of his time, as usual.
At last he came to a stop, at a spot from where he had a good view of the villa. As usual, the shutters were all closed and no light was visible. The air was still. There was deep silence. He leaned back against the trunk of a great, leafy olive tree and lit a cigarette, taking care to hide the flame of the match. On so dark a night, he risked being seen. He smoked with his hand cupped round the burning cigarette-end, the way he used to do in the war.
All at once he saw a window light up in the villa, but a few seconds later it was dark again. He tossed the butt to the ground and snuffed it out with his shoe. He suddenly felt like imposing on Miss Olga. He was about to return to the car when he noticed something. Turning round, he glimpsed a human silhouette in the distance, walking through the olive trees. He crouched instinctively and held still. He was almost certain he hadnât been seen. The man was strolling casually through the trees, as if he could see quite well in the darkness. The inspector waited for him to draw near, then popped out and came towards the man, shining the torch and pointing his pistol at him.
âGood evening,â he said. The man quickly sidestepped and stopped. Bordelli lit up his face, and for a moment he thought he was looking at a mask. The face was full of wrinkles, with two powerful eyes that seemed to belong to a wounded animal.
âGood evening,â said the man, body relaxing. Bordelli lowered the beam of light to the strangerâs clothes. He clearly was not a vagrant, and actually seemed rather well dressed. Bordelli raised the torch again to the manâs face.
âWere you looking for something?â
âWho are you, if I may ask?â the man said innocuously. He had the accent of a foreigner who had lived for a long time in Italy.
âPolice,â said Bordelli. The man didnât seem the least bit surprised.
âCan I help you with anything?â he asked.
The inspector took a step forward.
âWhat are you doing here?â
âI was out for a stroll.â
âAt one oâclock in the morning?â
âAt one oâclock in the morning,â said the man, unflinching.
âWhy donât you tell me your name, for starters?â said Bordelli, making the mistake of lowering his gun. The man muttered something in a strange language, then bounded forward and, before the inspector realised what was happening, punched him in the stomach. Bordelli fell to his knees, the wind knocked out of him, and the torch slipped from his hand. With some effort he raised his head, then saw the manâs black silhouette running like a rhinoceros towards the wood. He took aim with his pistol and was about to fire but decided against it. What sort of bloody language was the big ape speaking, anyway? It sounded like something Slavic, or Arabic.
When he had regained his breath, he stood up, reeling, and with one hand on his liver, he staggered back to the Beetle. He felt like an ass. He
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