Death in Sardinia by Marco Vichi Page B

soon,’ said the surgeon. The two assistants exchanged a glance. Baragli noticed but said nothing. Bordelli saw everything and felt a pang in his heart. The doctor wrote something on the chart, said goodbye, and went to talk to the other patients, still followed by his assistants.
    ‘He didn’t tell me the truth,’ the sergeant said in a soft voice, sighing.
    ‘Whose turn was it?’ Bordelli asked.
    They resumed playing, but the inspector kept an eye on the surgeon. As soon as he saw him leave the room, he told Baragli he needed to go to the bathroom. He followed the surgeon and caught up with him at the end of the corridor.
    ‘Excuse me, Doctor, I’m Inspector Bordelli, a colleague of the sergeant’s.’
    The doctor shook his hand.
    ‘Pleasure. Cataliotti.’
    ‘How is Baragli, Doctor? Tell me sincerely.’
    The doctor shook his head and lowered his voice.
    ‘Unfortunately he hasn’t got much time left,’ he said.
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘I’m afraid so.’
    ‘How long?’
    ‘It’s hard to say. Could be a few weeks, maybe less. Nobody can really know for certain,’ he said, throwing his hands up.
    Bordelli sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
    ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ he said.
    ‘Not at all.’
    They shook hands again and the surgeon walked away. The inspector stayed in the corridor to smoke a cigarette in front of a large window. It was starting to drizzle, and a light wind was moving the treetops. A few open umbrellas could be seen along the hospital’s footpaths outside.
    He stubbed out the butt in a large ashtray on a tripod, then returned to Baragli’s bedside. He found him asleep and felt pleased. If he’d been awake he might have been able to read in the inspector’s face what he’d just learned from the doctor.
    Bordelli put the cards away, adjusted the pillow behind Baragli’s head, and turned off the light on the bedside table. Glancing at the chart at the foot of the bed, he read what the surgeon had written: morphine . As he left he crossed paths with the pretty dark-haired nurse, and they exchanged a smile.
    ‘Tell me, Inspector Bordelli, what else can I do for you?’ Judge Ginzillo said, sighing.
    ‘ What else’, my arse , Bordelli thought, but said nothing.
    Ginzillo flashed a cold smile and seemed a little tense. His hands were resting on the desk, entwined like creeping vines, and his rat-face was staring at the inspector. Bordelli had sat down in front of him without removing his trench coat and was sweating a little. It was always too hot in that office, even hotter than at police headquarters.
    ‘Nothing special, sir. It’s just that this morning I woke with a keen desire to come here and thank you,’ said Bordelli.
    The judge got a whiff of the irony and pinched his nostrils.
    ‘For what?’ he said, pretending not to know.
    ‘Do you remember the search warrant I asked you for, way back in February of this year?’
    ‘What was that in connection with?’
    Bordelli refrained from telling him to his face that he was a spineless hypocrite.
    ‘Don’t you remember?’ he said simply, smiling.
    ‘I can hardly remember everything, now, can I?’ said Ginzillo, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.
    ‘I’m sorry, you’re right. May I refresh your memory?’
    ‘Please.’
    ‘I came here and asked you for a search warrant for the home of a certain Totuccio Badalamenti, a loan-sharking son of a bitch and extortionist,’ he said in a serene tone of voice.
    Ginzillo threw up his hands.
    ‘Why must you always be so vulgar, Inspector?’
    ‘Was I being vulgar? I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware of it.’
    ‘Go on,’ said Ginzillo, wiping away a drop of sweat from his chin.
    ‘I wanted to point out to you that now Badalamenti’s dead, I don’t need the search warrant any more …’ said Bordelli.
    ‘And this is a great boon for the bureaucracy, don’t you think?’
    The judge nodded almost imperceptibly, a smile of suspicion on his face. He couldn’t make