Death and the Olive Grove Read Online Free PDF Page A

the trouble of turning on the windscreen wipers. He drove slowly, smoking, and every so often a sigh escaped him. He stopped to have another coffee in Via San Gallo and went back to police headquarters. The rain was starting to fall harder as he ran inside. Entering his office, he collapsed in his chair, wishing he could go to bed. But the night was not over yet; there was one more ball-ache to attend to.
    The round-up had been planned some weeks before and couldn’t be postponed any longer. Bordelli hated this sort of thing, especially when he had a case as serious as the child murder on his hands. He had tried to talk Commissioner Inzipone out of it, even pulling out the excuse that, on top of everything else, it was pouring outside. But it had been no use.
    â€˜It’s only sprinkling, Bordelli. Let’s not have any tantrums. Every now and then these things have to be done. We have orders from the Ministry. Please don’t make life difficult for me, the way you always do.’
    Fine. If the round-up had to be carried out, Bordelli preferred to be there for it.
    Shortly past midnight, a number of police cars and vans full of cops pulled up in Ponte di Mezzo. It was common knowledge that those low-rent blocks housed a clandestine gambling den for the poor and a couple of brothels of the lowest grade, and that a great many receivers and smugglers lived there alongside countless petty thieves who could open any door in the world. Ponte di Mezzo was one of the poorest quarters in town, reduced to rubble during the war and rebuilt mostly on hope, and full of disillusioned, pissed-off people. Bordelli often thought that in some respects the first twenty years of the Republic had done more harm to Italy than the Fascists and Nazis combined. Such districts were a necessary and even useful scourge of the great mechanism of a society so fashioned—badly, that is—and it was extremely unpleasant to go and give a bollocking to a whole army of people who scraped by to survive.
    It was still raining hard. Bordelli, Piras and four uniformed officers ran through the downpour and slipped into a building in Via del Terzolle. Throughout the block there were underground tunnels and passages that in wartime had served several times to make fools of the Germans during round-ups. Bordelli and his men went into the basement and broke down a door. They entered a smoke-filled cellar where someone had managed to turn out the lights just in time. The policemen turned on their electric torches and put everyone up against the wall. The faces were the usual ones. Bordelli made gestures of greeting to a number of old acquaintances, then left the uniformed cops to check their papers, as he and Piras went up to the third floor of the building.
    On the door was a tin sign that said: PENSIONE AURORA . They went in without knocking, dirtying the small pink rugs in the entrance with their wet shoes. Signorina Ortensia came running towards them with all her heft.
    â€˜Don’t you wipe your feet before entering at home?’ she screamed, the fat quivering under chin.
    â€˜Not so loud, Ortensia,’ said Bordelli. The ‘signorina’ gestured crossly and two girls in dressing gowns ran upstairs with a giggle, slippers shuffling. A boa of red feathers was left behind on the threadbare carpet covering the stairs. The little drawing room was all light and shadow, with soft music playing in the background. There was an unbearable tang of sweat and cheap perfume in the air. A black silk stocking fluttered faintly on the back of a chair. It was one of the most squalid places Bordelli knew.
    â€˜For the love of God, why do you persecute me like this?!’ Ortensia cried plaintively. She had massive thighs, and yet she danced on her feet as though she weighed ten stone less.
    â€˜It’s just a routine check,’ said Piras.
    â€˜And who the hell is this little boy?’ said Ortensia, eyes popping, looking at him as if