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an Italian flag from which the royal crest had been cut out hung on the wall. As the good republican Fascist, he’d replaced the insignia with a patch of white silk. “What more is there to say, Major? Lisi was an excellent man. He had a good mind.”
    Bora glanced at Guidi, who didn’t look back. “A ‘good mind’. I don’t know what it means in this context, De Rosa.”
    “An acute mind. A very acute mind, Major. And he was a happy, jovial man. He loved humour and puns and good-natured practical jokes.” Intentionally leaving Guidi out of the exchange, De Rosa turned with his tough little body to Bora, who towered in front of him. As if he were reporting to a direct superior, he said, “Lisi found Verona a sleepy place, for instance. So he nicknamed it ‘Veronal City’. What a sense of humour, eh?” And because Bora gave no sign of appreciating the pun, “I’ll tell you another one,” De Rosa continued. “This is the joke that all who call themselves Fascists without being ready to suffer for the ideal ought to keep in mind: Vittorio Lisi said that such people only put up a hypocritical face of political faith, and called them face-ists. ”
    “I’m astonished by such fine humour,” Bora said.
    “And that’s not all, Major! Lisi also had an extraordinary memory. Numbers just stuck to him. Every speech he gave was unrehearsed. He could meet you once in a crowded room and perfectly recall your name six months later.”
    Guidi had done all the silent listening he was going to do. “What about women?” he asked.

    As if the inspector had suddenly materialized in the office, De Rosa tossed an over-the-shoulder annoyed glance at him. “Well, what about women?”
    “His extramarital affairs,” Bora said with a look of uneasiness. “Our inspector is a good Catholic. He means Lisi’s lovers.”
    “Oh, that. There’s always gossip when a man is successful. Women flocked to him. Short of fending them off, what should a red-blooded man do? He was quite a fellow, you know.”
    “All the more, there must have been disappointed fathers and husbands.”
    De Rosa winked a daringly familiar wink at Bora. “ Wenn die Soldaten , even the German song says that… Aren’t there always, when the army comes to town?”
    “I wouldn’t know, I’m faithful to my wife. Come, De Rosa, if you have any names of people who would have a personal grudge against him, I wish you’d convey them to us.”
    “Sorry, I have none.”
    “Maybe you should try to recollect,” Guidi said.
    “Sorry. I can’t pull them out of a hat, can I? I’ll see what I can do. I’ll ask around.”
    Bora sensed Guidi’s anger at De Rosa’s reticence. He said, “And of course no one knows the source of Lisi’s monetary fortune. Am I right?”
    “On the contrary, Major. We all knew Lisi invested wisely. Commodities and real estate, like the prudent man he was. Land, houses. He liked beautiful, fine things.” With these words, De Rosa hinted at a rigid bow in front of Bora, as if to demonstrate the flexibility of his back. “That’s all the time I can spare right now, Major. If you’ll excuse me, I have my work to attend to.”

    At the city garage, where Bora and Guidi drove next, Guidi walked to and carefully busied himself around the dented left fender of Claretta’s blue Alfa Romeo. He touched and measured, standing and crouching, until he was satisfied. Yes, the damage could have been caused by striking full force an object anchored between cement posts. Pointing to the noticeable dent, he said, “No traces of varnish on the fender, but Signora Lisi did say the bicycle had a simple chrome finish.”
    At first Bora did not comment. Even before leaving De Rosa’s office, he’d started to feel pain in his left arm, and knew it would jag up soon. He stood a few steps from Guidi to keep him from noticing. After a moment, he said, “Her husband’s wheelchair had a chrome finish, too.”
    “You’re right.” Guidi was scribbling