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

later she nodded complicitly at Bordelli and went through a door. The inspector waited a few seconds, then approached. When he arrived at the door, he hesitated, thinking it might be a trap, then shook his head and pushed the door open.
    â€˜You don’t seem very alert, Marshal,’ said the old woman, turning towards the staircase. She climbed it one stair at a time. She was wearing a dress too large for her and full of wrinkles. Bordelli followed her without saying a word. At the first-floor landing, Signora Capecchi stuck the key in her door, but before entering, she turned to Bordelli.
    â€˜Are your shoes clean? I certainly hope so, I spent the whole morning cleaning the place,’ she said.
    â€˜I think so.’
    The woman shot a glance at Bordelli’s shoes, then opened the door. Once inside, she slipped on a pair of mules and began to walk about without raising her feet, sliding them across the floor. Bordelli followed behind her until they reached a small drawing room with a shiny waxed floor. There were a number of small glass-fronted cupboards with little lace curtains, and the walls were covered with trinkets, travel souvenirs and small paintings. Signora Capecchi sat him down in an armchair, sat herself down in front of him, and raised the little veil over the top of her cap. She had a big mole on one cheek, bristling with hair. Her kerosene stove was at maximum setting, and the room was unbearably hot. The air was dry and insalubrious; it smelled of rosolio 5 and old sofas. Bordelli started sweating and unbuttoned his shirt.
    â€˜Sorry,’ he said.
    â€˜Not at all, Marshal.’
    â€˜What did you have to tell me?’ Bordelli couldn’t wait to get out of there. The old woman opened her eyes wide and raised a ring-studded hand in the air.
    â€˜The fact is that strange things have been happening in this building,’ she said with an air of mystery.
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜People coming and going, up and down the stairs, above and below, laughing, shouting – the traffic never ends …’
    â€˜Oh really?’ said Bordelli, feeling a drop of sweat roll down his neck.
    â€˜You have no idea the racket they make!’ whispered Signora Capecchi, waving her hands in the air and making all her bracelets tinkle.
    â€˜A nasty business …’ said Bordelli.
    â€˜You’re telling me! And it’s all the fault of that man on the top floor … the new arrival, Nocentini, he’s called … a shady character, that one, with an ugly face. It’s all his fault … Before him, Signora Meletti lived up there on the fourth floor, but then she died, poor thing …’
    â€˜I’m so sorry.’
    â€˜Would you like something to drink, Marshal?’
    â€˜No, thank you.’
    â€˜No need to be coy, now. An Alkermes, 6 perhaps?’
    â€˜Thank you, no, I don’t want anything.’
    â€˜Good Signora Meletti … nobody ever so much as paid a call on her, poor dear. She was a tiny little woman, a delightful person, always polite, never missed a day of mass … Not like that little tart up there now, I can tell you …’ And Signora Capecchi cast a glance upwards, in a specific direction, and shrivelled up inside her dress. Bordelli asked whether he could smoke and lit a cigarette.
    â€˜Can’t you tell me any more about these noises?’ he asked, hoping to get this over with quickly. The old woman nervously shuffled her slippers back and forth on the floor.
    â€˜Noises … There is … how shall I say?… a lot of commotion, slamming doors, raucous laughter … yelling that doesn’t even sound human … and then a deafening sort of music that makes the whole building shake … But you could hardly call it music! It’s just a lot of meaningless racket … What ever happened to the beautiful songs of Otello Boccaccini, or Rabagliati, or Spadaro,