Death in August

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Inspector Bordelli entered his office at eight o’clock in the morning after an almost sleepless night, spent tossing and turning between sweat-soaked sheets. These were the first days of August, hot and muggy, without a breath of wind. And the nights were even more humid and unhealthy. But at least the city was deserted, the cars few and far between, the silence almost total. The beaches, on the other hand, were noisy and full of peeling bodies. Every umbrella had its transistor radio, every child a little bucket.

Before even sitting down, Bordelli spotted a typewritten sheet of paper on his desk and craned his neck to see what it was about. He noticed that it was typed very neatly, clean and precise, the lines nice and even, with nothing crossed out. He was astonished to see that it was a routine report. There was nobody he knew at police headquarters capable of drafting a report like that. Just as he started reading it, somebody knocked at the door. Mugnai’s round head appeared.

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