Read Online Death in Sardinia by Marco Vichi - Free Book Online Page B

for. If necessary, he would comb the place inch by inch. There had to be something there. If not, he would feel defeated and would have to admit that Judge Ginzillo had been right. That would be a hard pill to swallow. Rat-face Ginzillo couldn’t possibly be right.
    Bordelli stopped to catch his breath on the landing of the last floor but one. He’d eaten and drunk too much, and he wasn’t a kid any longer. He would have to start going to the gym now and then, maybe to see his friend Mazzinghi and do a little sparring, as in the old days.
    Having climbed the last flight of stairs, he went into Badalamenti’s flat. Aside from the smell of death, there was also an unpleasant feeling that came over him as it had every other time he’d entered the place. He went straight into the sitting room, opened the glass-fronted cabinet and poured himself a cognac. He took a sip. It was very good, but not in the same league as De Maricourt.
    He picked up the can of grey putty he’d seen before lunch and sat down in an armchair. For the moment it was the only odd thing he’d found in the flat. Sipping the cognac, he tried to fathom why Badalamenti kept that putty in the living room, among the glasses in the liquor cabinet. There was no real point in knowing the reason, but he was used to paying close attention to little details, even those that appeared insignificant.
    He set the can down on the low glass table and began to study it. In reality he was amusing himself, rather as he used to do as a child, during treasure hunts at the home of his cousin Rodrigo. What had become of Rodrigo, anyway? He hadn’t seen him for a good while, and hadn’t even had the honour of meeting his new girlfriend, the woman who had succeeded in changing the curmudgeonly Rodrigo’s life … Assuming, of course, that they were still together. He had to remember at least to give him a ring to wish him a happy Christmas.
    Drinking his cognac in little sips, he continued to contemplate the can of grey putty. He began with the most elementary things. He looked around. There was no other furniture in the room that Badalamenti could have put it in, if for some reason he wanted to keep it in the living room. But why do that?
    Drinking the last sip, he felt like smoking a cigarette but tried to resist. Perhaps Badalamenti often had need of the putty in that room and didn’t feel like always going and fetching it from another room. But why would he have needed it so often in the living room? Normally you spread it out and leave it for a while. This was getting interesting. Bordelli got up and looked at the windowpanes. There was no trace of fresh putty round the edges. He poured himself another cognac and collapsed into the armchair again. Putting his feet up on the glass table, he leaned his head back in the chair. Putty … He was almost there, he could feel it. He closed his eyes and remained that way for a few minutes, in danger of falling asleep.
    All at once he sat up, a smile on his face. He’d figured it out, maybe. He finished his cognac in one gulp and stood up. He went into the kitchen and started opening the cupboards and drawers until he found a little box of toothpicks. Taking two, he went back into the sitting room, got down on all fours, and started scratching the grout between the tiles, one after another. The floor was made up of old terracotta tiles, about ten inches square. He carried on like this crawling like a child at play, not minding the dust. He couldn’t stop smiling.
    At last, in a corner by the window, he found what he was looking for: the grout around one tile was still soft. He scraped it all away with the toothpick and tried to lift the tile with his fingers, but couldn’t. He went back to the kitchen to get a knife and, using the tip as a lever, was able to raise the tile without effort. He found before him a cement cavity about the size of a shoebox. There were a number of different things inside. A small black accordion