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high ceilings. There were two bedrooms, a sort of sitting room, the study in which the body had been found, a big kitchen and a spacious bathroom with a tub. The killer had had the sangfroid to remain a good while in the apartment and ransack every room, including the bathroom. To judge from the state the flat was in, it had been an angry and summary search. Drawers upended on to the bed, clothes scattered across the floor, papers everywhere. Who knew whether the killer had found what he was looking for? Maybe not. Otherwise, instead of continuing to turn the flat upside down, he would have stopped at some point.
    Bordelli postponed his first cigarette of the day until later and phoned police headquarters from the study. The previous day Rinaldi and company had continued to question the neighbourhood residents until late in the evening. He had faith in Rinaldi, who was young and efficient.
    ‘Anything of interest?’
    ‘Not much, Inspector. There was only one witness, an elderly lady called Italia Andreini, who lives in one of the buildings opposite Badalamenti’s …’
    ‘What did she say?’
    ‘She said that one night about ten days ago she couldn’t sleep, and so she bundled herself up, opened the window and started looking outside. It was raining hard. It was about two o’clock in the morning, and the piazza was empty. After a while, she noticed someone coming out of Badalamenti’s building. Average height, slender build. From the way he moved, she thought he was young. But that was all she could say, because the square was dark and the guy’s head was covered with a hood because of the rain. The lady is certain he didn’t see her, because she had the lights off. The guy walked fast and went towards Piazza Piattellina. But that’s all, Inspector.’
    ‘No cleaning lady?’
    ‘Nobody knows anything.’
    ‘Very well, then, go and get some rest,’ said Bordelli, hanging up.
    They were getting nowhere fast. He went back into the hallway, hung his trench coat on a peg and got down to work.
    He started searching the rooms calmly one by one. He rifled through armoires already ransacked by the killer, pulled them away from the wall to look behind them, searched under and on top of every piece of furniture, under the beds, pulled out the few drawers left in place and emptied these out on the carpets, climbed on to chairs and tables to search the ceiling lamps. In the kitchen he even looked inside the coffee can and the sugar bowl. In the study where the body had been found there was a brown jacket hanging from the back of the chair.
    Searching its pockets, he found a golden key chain with the keys to the Porsche and put it in his own pocket.
    The more he got to know the flat, the more depressing and cold it seemed to him. It was a far cry from the sort of cosy nest most people like to withdraw to. He realised that his own place was a lot nicer … with its grit-tile floors, its bathroom with fine, yellowed porcelain, its worm-eaten furniture inherited from some old aunts of his father’s whom he’d seen only in photographs.
    He stuck a cigarette between his lips and, without lighting it, continued searching the flat. He did it calmly, convinced that sooner or later something would turn up. He had all the time in the world. If he’d searched his own place the same way, he would surely have found countless things he didn’t even remember he had.
    By late morning there were only two rooms left to scour, and he still hadn’t found a thing. On the other hand, he had managed not to smoke, and this gave him a certain satisfaction. If he’d prevailed over the Nazis, he could prevail over that stupid vice. He decided to search Badalamenti’s bedroom first. He went in and turned on the light. Ugly room. A light fixture of glass fruit, small metal lamps painted with green enamel, light brown furnishings reminiscent of a post office. A large rectangular mirror with a light blue frame hung from a wall. But the pièce de