Death and the Olive Grove by Marco Vichi Read Free Book Online

couldn’t recall where or when.
    He felt nervous and needed to move. After an afternoon spent fruitlessly ruminating, he decided to go back to the olive grove.
    It was already dark when he got there. He left the car in the usual spot on the Via del Bargellino and climbed up the low wall. The same cold wind was still blowing, and he buttoned up his jacket. He crossed the stretch of woods and entered the olive grove with his Beretta drawn. It was darker than last time, and colder. The only sound was the dull hum of the city below, too far away to mar the silence. He kept his ears pricked as he walked along, never losing sight of the baron’s great villa, which as usual loomed dark above him. Arriving at the foot of the massive buttresses, he looked around a little, raising his eyes repeatedly towards the top of the wall. All at once he felt like a silly fifty-four-year-old in search of adventure, and wondered what the hell he was doing in such a place. He put away his pistol and returned to his car. Descending back towards the city, he decided to drop in on Casimiro.
    The Case Minime was one of the poorest working-class quarters of Florence, home to smugglers and brawling rival gangs. Bordelli left his Beetle in a courtyard criss-crossed with hanging laundry, and made his way into the labyrinth of hovels. He entered the tenement house in which Casimiro lived and walked to the end of a long corridor. He knocked on Casimiro’s door, but nobody replied. So he knocked hard on the door opposite, and a moment later a huge man in singlet and socks opened up.
    â€˜Inspector! What are you doing here?’
    â€˜Hello, Beast.’
    The Beast was an ageing smuggler who knew everyone. In his youth he had repeatedly landed in jail for the cartons of cigarettes the authorities never failed to find under his bed, but now that he was old, the police left him alone.
    â€˜Want to come in for a minute, Inspector?’
    â€˜Thanks, but I’m in a hurry. I was just wondering if you had any news of Casimiro.’
    The Beast scratched an old scar that cut across his face, and said he hadn’t seen the little guy for three or four days.
    â€˜He owes me five hundred lire,’ he added.
    â€˜Does he often stay away for days like this?’ Bordelli asked.
    â€˜Not usually.’
    â€˜Thanks, Beast. Take care of yourself.’
    â€˜Long live anarchy, Inspector.’
    That was how he said goodbye, the way someone else might say ‘God bless you’. Bordelli was about to leave, then changed his mind. Casimiro’s strange absence had him worried.
    â€˜Beast, give me a hand breaking open Casimiro’s door.’
    â€˜Lemme put something on my feet. I’ll be right back.’
    The giant went back into his flat and returned immediately, shuffling in slippers. At the count of three, they put their shoulders to the door. The frame came detached from the jamb with the first thrust, and they were inside. Bordelli flicked the light switch, and a small ceiling lamp came on. The air smelled musty. Casimiro’s den consisted of one big room with rotting plaster and almost nothing in it aside from two pieces of old furniture, a table, and a straw mattress on a platform of upside-down fruit crates, to protect against the humid floor. Beside the bed were a few carefully folded rags laid on top of a sheet of newspaper. A small door led to the loo, which was tiny and dirty. On the wall was a calendar of naked women, and hanging from the same nail was a crucifix.
    â€˜He’s not here,’ said the Beast, looking at a dusty glass full of cobwebs on the table. Then he went up to the girlie calendar and started thumbing through it.
    Bordelli advanced a few steps into the room, looking around. He opened the only wardrobe, which was old and dirty. Inside were a few child-sized rags and a pair of shoes in bad shape. He closed the doors and looked up. On top of the wardrobe was a rather large brown suitcase.