“Five.”
What the hell had gotten into Fazio and the doctor? Had they both become Cumaean sibyls? Why had they taken to reciting numbers?
“What’s that mean?”
“I’ll tell you what it means. It means that before I get to Pardo, I have five other autopsies to perform. Therefore the family will have to wait a bit. Tell them their dear departed is not having such a bad time of it in the freezer. Oh, and while I’ve got you on the line, I should tell you I was mistaken.”
Madunnuzza santa,
the patience one needed with this man!
“About what, Doctor?”
“About whether Pardo had had sexual relations before he was killed. I’m sorry to disappoint Judge Tommaseo, who was off to such a flying start.”
“So you did examine him!”
“Just superficially, and only the part I was curious about.”
“But then why…?”
“Why was it out, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, maybe he’d gone and taken a piss in a corner of the terrace and wasn’t allowed the time to put it back in. Or maybe he was planning a moment of solitary pleasure but they beat him to it and shot him. But that sort of thing’s not my province. It’s you, Mr. Inspector, who’s conducting the investigation, isn’t it?”
He hung up without saying good-bye.
So, come to think of it, Elena was right when she refused to believe that Angelo had met with another woman while he was waiting for her. But the doctor’s hypothesis didn’t hold water either.
There was no bathroom in the former laundry room, only a sink. If Angelo needed to go and didn’t feel like going downstairs to his flat, there was no need to do it in some dark corner of the terrace; he could have used the sink as a toilet bowl.
Nor was the masturbation hypothesis very convincing.
Yet in both cases it was very odd that Pardo hadn’t had time to put himself back in order. No, there must be some other explanation. Something not so simple as Pasquano’s theories.
Mimì Augello appeared in the doorway.
“What do you want?”
He had dark circles under his eyes, worse than when he used to spend his nights womanizing.
“Seven,” said Mimì.
Montalbano looked like he’d suddenly gone mad. He sprang out of his chair, red in the face, and screamed so loudly they must have heard him all the way to the port:
“Eighteen, twenty-four, thirty-six! Fuck! And seventy, too!”
Augello got scared, and chaos erupted all over the station, doors slamming, footsteps racing. In an instant, Galluzzo, Gallo, and Catarella were in the doorway.
“What’s going on?”
“What happened?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing,” said Montalbano, sitting back down. “Go back to your posts. I had a little attack of nerves, that’s all. It’s over.”
The three men left. Mimì was still staring at him
“What got into you? What were those mysterious numbers you said?”
“Ah, so it’s me who’s being mysterious with numbers? Me? Didn’t you come in here and say ‘seven’?”
“What, is that a mortal sin or something?”
“Never mind. What did you want to tell me?”
“That since Liguori’s coming tomorrow, I did some research. You know how many drug deaths we’ve had in the province in the last ten days?”
“Seven,” said Montalbano.
“Exactly. How did you know?”
“Mimì, you told me yourself. Let’s drop the Campanile dialogue.”
“What campanile?”
“Forget it, Mimì, or I’ll have another attack of nerves.”
“Do you know what people are saying about Senator Nicotra?”
“That he died of the same illness as the other six.”
“And that explains why Montelusa Narcotics has decided to get a move on. Don’t you have any ideas about it?”
“No, and I don’t want to.”
Mimì left, and the phone rang.
“Inspector Montalbano? Lattes here. Everything all right?”
“Just fine, Doctor, with the Virgin’s good grace.”
“The pups?”
What the fuck was he talking about? The children? How many did he think he had? What do puppies do, anyway?
“They’re growing, Doctor.”
“Good, good. I wanted to let you know that the commissioner will expect you tomorrow afternoon between five and six.”
“I’ll definitely be there.”
It was time to go see Michela.
Walking past Catarella’s closet, he saw him with his head buried in Angelo Pardo’s computer.
“Getting anywhere, Cat?”
Catarella gave a start and leapt to his feet.
“Ahhh, Chief, Chief! We’s sinkin’ fast! The last word’s got the last word! I can’t get in! Iss impetrinable!”
“Don’t you think you can do it?”
“Chief, even if I gotta stay up and awake all night, I’m gonna find that first secret word!”
“Cat, why did you say ‘first’?”
“’Cause, Chief, there’s tree files that got past words.”
“Lemme get this straight. So if it takes you ten hours to find the password to one file, that means it’s going to take you at least thirty hours to find all three?”
“Just like you say, Chief.”
“Best of luck. And, listen, if you find the first, don’t hesitate to give me a ring, no matter the hour.”
He got in the car and left, but after he’d gone a hundred yards, he slapped himself on the forehead, cursed, began a dangerous U-turn, and the three motorists behind him vociferously let him know that:
One, he was a tremendous
cornuto
.
Two, his mother was a woman of easy virtue.
Three, his sister was worse than his mother.
Back at the station, he walked past Catarella without the other’s noticing, engrossed as he was in the computer. A whole regiment of gangsters could have entered those offices with a single shot being fired.
Back in his room, he opened the little bag Fazio had brought him and pulled out the set of keys that had belonged to Angelo. He immediately noticed a key that looked exactly like the one he had in his pocket, which was supposed to open a strongbox. Normally those locks came equipped with only two keys. Thus the one they’d found under the drawer must be a spare key Angelo kept hidden.
So he’d been wrong about Michela. It couldn’t have been she who took the strongbox; she had no way to open it.
Perhaps the box hadn’t disappeared from Angelo’s apartment because it had never been there in the first place. Perhaps he kept it elsewhere.
Where elsewhere?
Montalbano slapped his forehead again. He was conducting this investigation like a senile idiot who forgot the most basic things. Angelo was a pharmaceutical representative and traveled all over the province, didn’t he? Why hadn’t it already occurred to him that Angelo must have a car and might also have a garage?
He emptied Fazio’s bag onto the table. Cell phone. Wallet. And car keys. QED: He
was
a senile idiot.
He put everything back in the bag and brought it with him. Catarella didn’t notice him this time either.
Michela was wearing a kind of loose, formless dressing gown, which a large, slack knot turned into a kind of prison smock, and pair of slippers. She kept her dangerous eyes lowered. What sins or evil intentions was her body guilty of, for her to punish it by hiding it that way?
She led him into the living room. Finely crafted old furniture, certainly heirlooms handed down from father to son.
“Forgive me for receiving you in these clothes, but since I’m constantly having to look after Mama…”
“Not at all! How is your mother doing?”
“Luckily, she’s resting at the moment. It’s the effect of the sedatives. The doctor says it’s best this way. But her sleep is agitated, as if she were having nightmares. She moans.”
“I’m sorry,” said Montalbano, who never knew what to say in these instances and therefore stuck to generalities.
She broached the question first. Directly.
“Did you find anything at Angelo’s place?”
“What do you mean by ‘anything’?”
“Anything that might help you to understand who it was that—”
“No, nothing yet.”
“You made me a promise.”
Montalbano immediately understood.
“I phoned Montelusa. They’re going to need at least three more days before they can get authorization to return the body. But don’t worry, I’ll keep you informed.”
“Thanks.”
“You just asked me if we found anything in your brother’s apartment and I said no. But we haven’t even found what was supposed to be there.”
He’d cast the baited hook. But she didn’t bite. She just stood there a bit shocked, which was understandable.
“Such as?” she asked.
“Did your brother earn a good living?”
“Good enough. But don’t get the wrong idea, Inspector. Perhaps it’s better to say enough for his needs and ours.”
“Where did he keep his money?”
Michela looked at him—fortunately just for a second—surprised by the question.
“He kept it in the bank.”
“Then how can you explain that we haven’t found any checkbook, bank statement, nothing?”
Unexpectedly, Michela smiled and stood up.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
She reappeared carrying a big portfolio, which she set down on the coffee table. Opening it up, she pulled out a checkbook for the Banca dell’Isola, searched a bit more, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed the checkbook and paper to the inspector.
“Angelo has an account with this bank, and that’s the most recent statement.”
Montalbano looked at the figure corresponding to the credit column: ninety-one thousand euros.
He handed the two things back to Michela, who put them back in the portfolio.
“That money’s not all from Angelo’s earnings. About fifty thousand euros of it are mine, an inheritance left me by an uncle who was particularly fond of me. As you can see, my brother and I pooled our resources. In fact, the bank account is in both our names.”
“How is it that you have all the books?”
“Well, Angelo was often out of town on business trips and had trouble meeting certain deadlines. So I took care of things and gave him the receipts. Did you find them?”
“Yes, that I did. Did he also have a garage to go with the apartment and the room on the terrace?”
“Of course. There are three garages behind the building. His is the first on the left.”
See, dear Montalbano, you
are
getting senile!
“Why do you say Angelo couldn’t make his payments on time because he was out of town? Weren’t most of his trips rather brief and limited to this province?”
“Not exactly. He used to go abroad at least once every three months.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know, Germany, Switzerland, France…The countries where the big pharmaceutical firms are located. They would summon him there.”
“I see. Would he stay away a long time?”
“It varied. From three days to a week. No more than that.”
“Among your brother’s keys we found one that was rather unusual.”
He took out the key in his pocket and handed it to her.
“Do you recognize it?”
She looked at it with curiosity.
“I’d say no, I don’t really recognize it. But I must have seen one rather like it amongst his other keys.”
“Did you never ask him what it was for?”
“No.”
“This key opens a portable strongbox.”
“Really?”
She looked at him. Bright, inviting eyes, to all appearances. In no way perilous.
But careful, Montalbano. Underneath, hidden, there are probably tangles of giant algae you’ll never extricate your feet from.
“I never knew that Angelo had a strongbox. He never told me he did, and I never saw it in his apartment.”
Montalbano stared hard at the tip of his left shoe.
“Did you find it?” she continued.
“No. We found the keys but not the box. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
“Quite strange.”
“And that’s another one of those things that should definitely have been in the apartment but weren’t.”
Michela gave a sign that she understood what Montalbano was getting at. She leaned her head back—she had a beautiful, Modiglianiesque neck—and looked at him through—luckily—half-closed eyes.
“You’re not thinking
I
took it?”
“Well, you see, I made a mistake.”
“What?”
“I left you alone at your brother’s place that first night. I shouldn’t have. You therefore would have had all the time in the world to—”
“To remove things? Why would I do that?”
“Because you know a lot more about Angelo than we do.”
“Of course I do! Some discovery! We grew up together. We’re brother and sister.”
“And therefore you’re inclined to cover for him, even unconsciously. You told me that at one point your brother decided to stop practicing medicine. But that’s not really how things went. Your brother had his license revoked.”
“Who told you that?”
“Elena Sclafani. I spoke to her this morning, before coming here.”
“Did she tell you why?”
“No. Because she didn’t know. Angelo’d only made vague mention of it to her, but since she wasn’t interested in the matter, she didn’t ask any more questions.”
“Ah, the poor little angel! She wasn’t interested in the matter, but she was certainly in a rush to cast suspicion on it. She attacks, then looks the other way.”
She said this in a voice unfamiliar to the inspector, a voice that seemed produced not by vocal cords but by two sheets of sandpaper rubbed forcefully together.
“Well, why don’t
you
tell me the reason?”
“Abortion.”
“Tell me more.”
“Angelo got an underage girl pregnant; what’s more, she was a patient of his. The girl, who was from a certain kind of family, didn’t dare say a thing at home and couldn’t turn to any public institution either. That left clandestine abortion as the only option. Except that the girl, once she got home, suffered a violent hemorrhage. Her father accompanied her to the hospital and learned the whole story. Angelo assumed full responsibility.”
“What do you mean, he ‘assumed full responsibility’? It seems clear to me he was fully responsible!”
“No, not fully. He had asked a colleague of his, a friend from his university days, to perform the abortion. The friend didn’t want to, but Angelo managed to persuade him. When the whole story came out, my brother claimed that he had done the abortion. And so he was condemned and barred from practicing medicine.”
“Tell me the girl’s name and surname.”
“But, Inspector, that was more than ten years ago! I know the girl got married and no longer lives in Vigàta…Why do you want—”
“I’m not saying I want to interrogate her, but if it proves necessary, I’ll do so with the utmost discretion, I promise.”
“Teresa Cacciatore. She married a contractor named Mario Sciacca. They live in Palermo and have a little boy.”
“Signora Sclafani told me that she and your brother always met at his place.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“How is it you never crossed paths with her?”
“It was I who didn’t want to meet her. Not even by chance. I’d begged Angelo always to let me know whenever Elena was coming over.”
“Why didn’t you want to meet her?”
“Antipathy. Aversion. Take your pick.”
“But you saw her only once!”
“Once was enough. Anyway, Angelo often talked about her.”
“What did he say?”
“That she had no equal in bed but was too money-hungry.”
“Did your brother pay her?”
“He used to buy her very expensive gifts.”
“Such as?”
“A ring. A necklace. A sports car.”
“Elena confided to me that she had made up her mind to leave Angelo.”
“Don’t believe it. She wasn’t done squeezing him yet. She was always throwing jealous fits to keep him close.”
“So were you this hostile to Paola the Red, too?”
She leapt, literally, out of her armchair.
“Who…who told you about Paola?”
“Elena Sclafani.”
“The slut!”
The sandpaper voice had returned.
“I’m sorry, but who are you referring to?” the inspector asked angelically. “Paola or Elena?”
“Elena, for bringing her into this. Paola was…is a good person who fell sincerely in love with Angelo.”
“Why did your brother leave her?”
“The affair with Paola had gone on for so long…he met Elena at a moment when he was feeling tired of her…To Angelo she represented something new and intriguing that he couldn’t resist, even though I…”
“Give me Paola’s surname and address.”
“Inspector! Do you expect me to give you personal information on all the women who had relationships with Angelo? On Maria Martino? Stella Lojacono?”
“Not all of them. Just those you mentioned.”
“Paola Torrisi-Blanco lives in Montelusa, Via Millefiori 26. She teaches Italian at the
liceo.
”
“Married?”
“No, but she would have made an ideal wife for my brother.”
“Apparently you knew her well.”
“Yes. We became friends. And we continued to see each other even after my brother broke up with her. I called her just this morning, to tell her my brother had been murdered.”
“By the way, have any journalists contacted you?”
“No. Have they found out?”
“The news is starting to leak out. You should refuse to speak to them.”
“Of course.”
“Let me have the addresses, if you’ve got them, or the phone numbers of the other two women you remembered.”
“I don’t have them right at hand. I need to look in some old datebooks. Is it all right if I give them to you tomorrow?”