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Authors: Marco Vichi
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Butcher Shop
. Three thousand two hundred and thirty-five lire’s worth of phone calls. He put the bill back in his pocket with a shudder, even though the butcher might well have dropped it while hunting or looking for mushrooms. The discovery proved nothing concrete, but it was still a tiny flame in what had been total darkness.
He went back to the station, knowing he had next to nothing in his hands, but at the same time he had trouble controlling his excitement. He told Mugnai to send for Piras at once, then went up to his office. Flopping into his chair, he lit a cigarette and tried to calm down. He started studying the telephone bill, as if seeing it for the first time. It had been paid seven days before, but who knew when it had been lost? It was hard to tell. Anyway, there was no guarantee that Livio Panerai had paid it in person. Maybe his brother-in-law, or a friend, or an errand boy had gone to the post office to pay it in his stead. But what if in fact it was he who had buried the little boy? Maybe he’d dropped the bill when he pulled out a handkerchief to mop his brow, and the wind had carried it away …
He heard a police car drive off with tyres screeching and siren blaring, but didn’t care to know what had happened. His mind was on the telephone bill. He continued to study it carefully, as if somewhere it might contain, in code, the killer’s name.
At last he looked up and started gazing at the sky through the window. Lacking any real clues, he had three options before him: the frontal attack, the spider’s web, and the keyhole. Which was the right one? Frontal attack had one advantage: surprise. You batter the presumed culprit with firm accusations, hoping he’ll collapse. In short, a bluff by the book, but if you didn’t bring home the goods, it was the same as in poker: you lost everything. The spider’s web was a work of embroidery that aimed at exhausting the suspect with vague but incessant insinuations, like Porfyry Petrovich with Raskolnikov. Obviously, it didn’t always work. Everything depended on the suspect’s nerves. And anyway, to put it into practice you needed a lot of time and, most importantly, you had to be a good actor. The keyhole approach was a long operation, one which required patience and skill. Stakeouts, tailing, endless searches. And if you had the right person on your hands, sooner or later something would come out. It was the most demanding approach, but also the least risky. You just waited in the shadows for someone to make a wrong move …
There was a knock at the door, and he gave a start. It was Piras, with dark circles under his eyes. He limped to a chair and wrinkled his nose, smelling the stale cigarette smoke in the room. Bordelli noticed but pretended not to. He showed Piras the telephone bill he’d found and told him about his walk in the woods, the kitten, and all the rest. Lastly he laid out the three options for him.
‘What would you do?’ he asked, though he’d already made up his mind. Piras bit his lip before speaking.
‘The likelihood that this bill was dropped by the killer is very slim, extremely slim, in fact. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible, and it happens to be the only lead we’ve got. The best thing is to spy through the keyhole and hope we get lucky.’
‘I agree,’ said Bordelli, blowing smoke out of his mouth like Godzilla. Piras fanned the air with his hand and then went and opened the window without asking permission.
‘Didn’t you want to quit smoking, Inspector?’
‘I’ve been wanting to quit ever since I started, Piras.’
‘So for now you want to force me to smoke, too.’
‘I want to go and see what he looks like,’ said Bordelli, standing up.
‘Who?’
‘The butcher.’
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll go with you,’ said the Sardinian, limping towards the door. Who knew how much longer he’d be walking like that? In the end, however, he’d been lucky. The robbers had shot to kill.
They got
. Three thousand two hundred and thirty-five lire’s worth of phone calls. He put the bill back in his pocket with a shudder, even though the butcher might well have dropped it while hunting or looking for mushrooms. The discovery proved nothing concrete, but it was still a tiny flame in what had been total darkness.
He went back to the station, knowing he had next to nothing in his hands, but at the same time he had trouble controlling his excitement. He told Mugnai to send for Piras at once, then went up to his office. Flopping into his chair, he lit a cigarette and tried to calm down. He started studying the telephone bill, as if seeing it for the first time. It had been paid seven days before, but who knew when it had been lost? It was hard to tell. Anyway, there was no guarantee that Livio Panerai had paid it in person. Maybe his brother-in-law, or a friend, or an errand boy had gone to the post office to pay it in his stead. But what if in fact it was he who had buried the little boy? Maybe he’d dropped the bill when he pulled out a handkerchief to mop his brow, and the wind had carried it away …
He heard a police car drive off with tyres screeching and siren blaring, but didn’t care to know what had happened. His mind was on the telephone bill. He continued to study it carefully, as if somewhere it might contain, in code, the killer’s name.
At last he looked up and started gazing at the sky through the window. Lacking any real clues, he had three options before him: the frontal attack, the spider’s web, and the keyhole. Which was the right one? Frontal attack had one advantage: surprise. You batter the presumed culprit with firm accusations, hoping he’ll collapse. In short, a bluff by the book, but if you didn’t bring home the goods, it was the same as in poker: you lost everything. The spider’s web was a work of embroidery that aimed at exhausting the suspect with vague but incessant insinuations, like Porfyry Petrovich with Raskolnikov. Obviously, it didn’t always work. Everything depended on the suspect’s nerves. And anyway, to put it into practice you needed a lot of time and, most importantly, you had to be a good actor. The keyhole approach was a long operation, one which required patience and skill. Stakeouts, tailing, endless searches. And if you had the right person on your hands, sooner or later something would come out. It was the most demanding approach, but also the least risky. You just waited in the shadows for someone to make a wrong move …
There was a knock at the door, and he gave a start. It was Piras, with dark circles under his eyes. He limped to a chair and wrinkled his nose, smelling the stale cigarette smoke in the room. Bordelli noticed but pretended not to. He showed Piras the telephone bill he’d found and told him about his walk in the woods, the kitten, and all the rest. Lastly he laid out the three options for him.
‘What would you do?’ he asked, though he’d already made up his mind. Piras bit his lip before speaking.
‘The likelihood that this bill was dropped by the killer is very slim, extremely slim, in fact. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible, and it happens to be the only lead we’ve got. The best thing is to spy through the keyhole and hope we get lucky.’
‘I agree,’ said Bordelli, blowing smoke out of his mouth like Godzilla. Piras fanned the air with his hand and then went and opened the window without asking permission.
‘Didn’t you want to quit smoking, Inspector?’
‘I’ve been wanting to quit ever since I started, Piras.’
‘So for now you want to force me to smoke, too.’
‘I want to go and see what he looks like,’ said Bordelli, standing up.
‘Who?’
‘The butcher.’
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll go with you,’ said the Sardinian, limping towards the door. Who knew how much longer he’d be walking like that? In the end, however, he’d been lucky. The robbers had shot to kill.
They got
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