“In that case, remind me never to pet her. Saint-Rhémy-en-Ardennes . . . that strikes me as complete bullshit. In any case, if we find out who killed Cuntrera . . .”

“Then we can track back to the mastermind. Cuntrera had just been transferred to the prison, so it seems a little early for him to have made any mortal enemies, at least to this degree.”

“I couldn’t agree more. And then, as I said, the papers that Cuntrera had with him were pure dynamite! Tremendously explosive. I think the brains behind this murder can be found somewhere in those documents. I’m sure of it. How do you intend to proceed?”

“Investigating inside a prison is a very challenging thing to do. The rule of silence is more powerful than the prison walls themselves. No one would breathe a word to me, no one would make any false moves in my presence. I’d have to undertake the investigation from outside. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that if you’re going to dig into filth and shit, then you’re going to have to climb down into the sewers yourself, roll in the stuff, until you start to reek of it.”

“How about a disguise?”

“It would be pointless, Dottor Baldi. The convicts would figure out immediately that I’m not one of them. And anyway, I’d need time. No, what I’m going to have to do is go in and pretend that I’m there on some routine assignment. That’s the only way I can hope to win some friends, get someone in there to like me. If you can help me with the warden, persuade him to give me all the help possible.”

“Consider it done.”

ALL HE WANTED WAS TO RETRIEVE A COUPLE OF LINEN SHIRTS and his disposable razors. He stealthily entered the old apartment on Rue Piave like a thief in the night. First he went into the bathroom, and then, after counting to three, he went into the bedroom. He was afraid. Afraid that the mattress might still be there, with the patches of rust on it, rust that wasn’t really rust at all. Afraid of envisioning Adele’s body again, riddled with the bullets that someone had fired into the poor woman that Thursday night. He opened the door and lunged at the clothes closet without turning around, without thinking, rapidly, holding his breath, as if the air itself were still befouled with that murder. The shirts were there, on the second shelf. He took them and quickly exited the room. He shut the front door behind him without even stopping to double-lock it. He went down the steps again without breathing and found himself back in the street. At last, he breathed in, his mouth wide-open, and started toward his car. Sitting on the still-warm hood of his Volvo was Anna, arms crossed.

“How are you?” she asked him.

“Been better. You?”