CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
Author’s Note
Notes
ONE
He found himself in a dense forest with Livia, with no idea how they got there. That it was a virgin forest there could be no doubt, because some ten yards back they’d seen a wooden sign nailed to a tree with the words Virgin Forest etched in fire. The two of them looked like Adam and Eve, in that they were completely naked but for their pudenda, which, though there was nothing to be ashamed about, they’d covered with classic fig leaves they’d bought for one euro at a stand at the entrance to the forest. But since these were made of plastic, and rather stiff, they were a bit uncomfortable, though the biggest bother was having to walk barefoot.
As Montalbano advanced, he became more and more convinced that he’d been there before. But when? The head of a lion, glimpsed through the trees – which weren’t trees but gigantic ferns – provided the explanation.
‘Know where we are, Livia?’
‘Yes, in a virgin forest. I saw the sign.’
‘But it’s a painted forest!’
‘What do you mean, “painted”?’
‘We’re inside The Dream, the famous painting by the Douanier Rousseau!’
‘Have you lost your mind?’
‘You’ll see I’m right. Soon we’ll be running into Yadwigha.’
‘And how do you know this woman?’ Livia asked suspiciously.
Indeed, moments later they ran into Yadwigha, who was lying naked on her litter; upon seeing them she brought a forefinger to her lips, enjoining them to be silent, and said: ‘It’s about to begin.’
A bird, perhaps a nightingale, landed on a branch, made a sort of bow to the guests, and launched into ‘Il cielo in una stanza’.
The bird was an excellent singer, a pure delight, performing modulations even Mina couldn’t pull off. He was clearly improvising, but with the fancy of a true artist.
Then there was a loud boom, then another, then a third louder than the first two, and Montalbano woke up.
Cursing the saints, he realized that a huge storm had broken out. One of those that signalled the end of the summer.
But how was it that, despite all the racket, he could still hear, even awake, the bird singing ‘Il cielo in una stanza’? It wasn’t possible.
He got up and looked at the clock. Six-thirty in the morning. He headed for the veranda. That was where the whistling was coming from. And it wasn’t a bird, but a man who could whistle like a bird. Montalbano opened the French windows.
Lying on the veranda was a man of about fifty, poorly dressed in a threadbare jacket, with a beard so long he looked like Moses, and a mass of dishevelled, ashen hair. And beside him, a bag. A vagabond, clearly.
As soon as he saw Montalbano, he sat up and said: ‘Did I wake you? I’m sorry. I came here to take cover from the rain. If it’s a bother, I’ll go.’
‘No, no, you can stay,’ said the inspector.
He was struck by the way the man spoke. Aside from his perfect grammar, he had a polite tone that made an impression.
It would have seemed rude to shut the French windows in his face, and so the inspector left them half open and went to make a pot of coffee.
He’d already drunk his first mugful when he began to feel a little guilty. He poured another mugful and took it out to the man.
‘For me?’ the other asked in astonishment, rising to his feet.
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you! Thank you so much!’
As the inspector was enjoying his shower, it occurred to him that the poor bastard probably hadn’t bathed in God knows how long. When he finished, he went back out on the veranda. The rain was coming down hard.
‘Would you like a shower?’
The man looked at him, at a loss for words.
‘Are you serious?’
‘I’m serious.’
‘It’s all I ever dream about. You have no idea how grateful I am for this.’
No, the man spoke too well to be what he appeared to be. The stranger bent down to pick up his bag and followed the inspector. But if he was an educated man, how had he ended up in such a state?
*
When the man came out of the bathroom, he’d changed his shirt, but this one, too, had a frayed collar and cuffs. He smiled at Montalbano.
‘I feel twenty years younger,’ he said. Then, with a slight bow: ‘Savastano’s the name, if I may.’
‘A pleasure to meet you. I’m Montalbano,’ said the inspector, holding out his hand.
Before shaking it, the man made an instinctive gesture, rubbing his palm on his trouser leg, as if to clean it. He smiled again, revealing a gap where a tooth was missing in front.
‘I know who you are, you know. One night, in a bar, I saw you on television.’
‘Listen,’ said Montalbano, ‘I have to go to the office now.’
The man understood at once. He bent down to pick up his bag and went out onto the veranda.
‘Do you mind, Inspector, if I stay here until it stops raining? My home, so to speak, is just a stone’s throw away, but in this rain . . . But you go ahead and lock up.’
‘Listen, if you want I can give you a lift.’
‘Thanks, but that would be rather difficult.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I live in a cave halfway up the hill of marl directly behind your house.’
Well, living inside a cave was still better than lying down under the columned portico of the town hall with cardboard boxes for blankets.
‘You can stay as long as you like. Have a good day.’
He reached into his pocket for his wallet, took out a twenty-euro note, and held it out to the man.
‘No, thank you. You’ve already done so much for me,’ he said decisively.
Montalbano didn’t insist.
As he closed the French windows he heard the man whistling again. He was good, damned good. Almost as good as the bird in his dream.
*
The moment the inspector set foot in the station, Catarella put down his telephone receiver and yelled:
‘Ahh, Chief, Chief! I’s jess tryin’ a call yiz a’ ’ome!’
‘Why, what is it?’
‘’Ere’s a moider, ’a’ss what! Fazio jess now wint to the scene o’ the crime! An’ ’e wannit yiz to go to the scene where ’e’s onna scene! An’ ’a’ss why I’s callin’ yiz a’ ’ome foist ting inna mornin’!’
‘OK, fine, where is this place?’
‘I writ it down onna piss o’ paper. ’Ere it is. Villino Pariella, in Tosacane districk.’
‘And where is this Villino Pariella?’
‘In Tosacane districk, Chief.’
‘Yes, but where’s this district?’
‘Dunno, Chief.’
‘Listen, get Fazio on the phone and put the call through to me.’
*
Following Fazio’s instructions, he got to Villino Mariella – Catarella would never manage to get a name right, not in a million years – after some forty-five minutes at the wheel, since there was a lot of traffic and the rain kept falling hard from the heavens and slowed the circulation down.
It was a two-storey house right on the road that ran along the beach. The gate was open, and under the portico there was a police car beside two other cars. Since he didn’t want to get wet, as it was still rain
ing cats and dogs, he drove up and parked beside the other cars.
He was about to get out when Fazio came to the window.
‘Good morning, Chief.’
‘Does it seem so good to you?’
‘No, it’s just a way to say hello.’
‘What happened here?’
‘Ragioniere Cosimo Barletta, the owner of the house, was murdered.’
‘Who’s inside?’
‘Gallo, the dead man, and his son Arturo, who discovered the body.’
‘Have you informed everyone?’
‘Yes, sir. Five minutes ago.’
Montalbano went into the house, with Fazio following behind.
In the first room, which was rather large and clearly furnished as a dining room, were Gallo and a fortyish man with glasses, thin and anonymous looking – that is, possessed of one of those faces that you forget the moment you see it. He was well dressed, perfectly neat, smoking a cigarette, and didn’t look the least bit chagrined by what had just happened to his father.
‘I’m Arturo Barletta,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry, but who’s Mariella?’ asked Montalbano.
The man gave him a confused look.
‘I don’t know . . . I couldn’t say . . .’
‘I’m sorry, I only asked because the house is called Villino Mariella . . .’
Arturo Barletta slapped his forehead.
‘Ah, you know, at moments like these one doesn’t . . . Mariella was my poor mother’s name.’
‘Is she dead?’
‘Yes. She died five years ago. A terrible accident.’
‘What kind of accident?’
‘She drowned in the sea. She may have had some kind of indisposition while swimming. It was right here in front of the house.’
‘Where is he?’ Montalbano asked Fazio.
‘In the kitchen. Come.’
In the living room there was a staircase leading upstairs, a door on the right leading to the kitchen, and another door, on the left, leading to a bathroom.
The kitchen was spacious, and it looked as if the house’s inhabitants normally ate there.
It was in perfect order except for an overturned cup on the table, out of which some coffee had spilled onto the tablecloth, staining it.
The late Ragioniere Cosimo Barletta had been killed while sitting sideways, drinking his coffee, which his killer hadn’t given him time to finish.
A single shot at the base of the skull, point-blank. Like an execution.
The shot had knocked him out of his chair, and the body now lay on the floor on its side, with its feet under the table. To look at the man’s face, the inspector had to lie down, too. But there wasn’t much to see: the bullet, after entering the back of his neck, had come out above the nose, taking with it one eye and part of the forehead. Surely the killer, unless he was a midget, had held the barrel tilted slightly upwards; otherwise there would have been a different trajectory.
There wasn’t much blood on the floor, however.
The inspector went back into the dining room. Arturo was chain-smoking.
‘Please sit down. I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
‘That’s what I’m here for.’
‘I’m told it was you who discovered your father’s body.’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me how it happened.’
‘I live in Montelusa and . . .’
‘What do you do?’
‘I work as an accountant for a large construction firm called Sicilian Spring. Do you know it?’
‘No. Are you married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any children?’
‘No.’
‘Go on.’
‘Papa and I used to talk on the phone every day. Last night he called me to let me know that he was coming here to sleep because he wanted to put the house in order this morning.’
‘Put it in order how?’
‘Well, since summer’s over, he—’
‘He never came here in the winter?’
‘Of course he did! Every Saturday. But since my sister had recently been here with her two children, he thought it might be a little messy, and my father was a very—’
‘What’s your sister’s name?’
‘Giovanna. She’s married to a travelling salesman and also lives in Montelusa.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, Papa rang me last night and—’
‘What time last night?’
‘A little past nine. He’d already eaten at his place in Vigàta and—’
‘Did he remarry?’
‘No.’
‘Did he live alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Sixty-three.’
‘Go on.’
‘What was I saying? You know, you keep interrupting me, and so I—’
‘You were saying that your father called you after nine o’clock.’
‘Ah, yes. And he told me he would be sleeping here. And so I said I would come here to give him a hand.’
‘With your wife?’
Arturo Barletta looked a little embarrassed. ‘My father didn’t really get along with—’
‘I see. And so?’
‘So I got here this morning at eight and—’
‘By car?’
‘Yes. The green one. The purple one is Papa’s. The door was locked. I opened it with my key and—’
‘Does your sister also have a key?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘When you came in, did you notice anything strange?’
‘No . . . I’m sorry, I mean, yes.’
‘And what was that?’
‘I noticed that the shutters were closed and the light was on. But I thought that Papa must still be asleep and had just forgotten to turn it off. I went upstairs. The bed was unmade, but he wasn’t in it. So I went back downstairs, went into the kitchen, and saw him.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘What did you do? Did you start screaming? Did you run up to your father to see if he was still alive? Or did you do something else?’
‘I don’t remember whether I screamed or not. I’m quite sure I didn’t touch him, however.’
‘Why not? I would think that’s an instinctive reaction.’
‘Yes, but, you see, I needed only to bend down and look at him to . . . Half his face was gone and I immediately realized that he couldn’t . . .’
‘Just tell me what you did.’
‘I ran out of the kitchen. I couldn’t stand the . . . Then I came in here and called you.’
‘With that?’ asked Montalbano, indicating a telephone sitting on a small table.
‘Yes.’
‘You said that the moment you entered you noticed the light was on. Do you remember whether it was also on in the kitchen?’
‘I think it was.’
‘It had to have been, since the shutters are closed.’
‘Then I guess it was on.’
‘Shall we go upstairs?’ Montalbano asked Fazio.
They climbed the staircase.
Upstairs were two bedrooms with double beds, a smaller room equipped with a bunk bed, and a bathroom. In the first of the large bedrooms the bed was unmade, just as Arturo had said.
He had forgotten to mention, however, that it clearly looked as if two people had slept in it.
The two other rooms were tidy, but in the bathroom there were two large towels, still damp. So two people had showered.
They went back downstairs to the dining room. ‘Did your father have a lover?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Well, the fact is that someone slept here with him last night. Didn’t you see the bed?’
‘Yes, but I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Listen, don’t take offence, but the person your father slept with wasn’t necessarily a woman.’
Arturo Barletta gave a hint of a smile. ‘My fath
er only liked women.’
‘But you just told me he didn’t have any lovers!’ ‘Because I thought you meant a steady lover. He was . . . Well, let’s just say he never missed an opportunity. And he liked them young. It was the cause of many quarrels between him and my sister.’
‘What did your father do for a living?’
Arturo Barletta hesitated a moment. ‘A lot of things.’
‘Tell me a couple.’
‘Well . . . he had a wholesale timber yard . . . he was a partner in a supermarket venture . . . he owned ten or so rental apartments in Vigàta as well as Montelusa . . .’
‘So he was rich.’
‘Let’s say he was well-off.’
‘Could you have a look around and tell me if anything is missing?’
‘I already did, when I was waiting for you. I didn’t notice anything missing.’
‘Did he have any enemies?’
‘Well . . . I wouldn’t rule that out.’
‘Why?’
‘My father was not an easy man. And when he did business, he didn’t care about anybody but himself.’
‘I see.’
The inspector paused, then turned to Fazio.
‘Are there any signs of a break-in on the door or any of the windows?’
‘None, Chief.’
‘So Papa must have let the person in,’ Arturo cut in.
Montalbano looked at him thoughtfully.
‘Do you really think so? It could have been the person sleeping with your father who let him in. Nor can we rule out the possibility that the killer had the key.’
Arturo Barletta said nothing.
‘Please give Fazio your address and phone numbers, and your sister’s too,’ said the inspector.
Then, turning to Fazio:
‘I’m going back to the office. You wait here for the prosecutor and the others. I’ll see you later. Have a good day.’
Outside it was raining harder than before.
TWO
‘Get me Inspector Augello,’ the inspector said to Catarella as he walked past the cubicle that served as both guard booth and switchboard. Catarella leapt to his feet and stood at attention.
‘’E in’t onna premisses, Chief.’
‘But did he show up this morning?’
‘’E showed an’ ’en ’e unshowed, Chief, like a flashin’ flash o’ lightnin’, in so much as ’e come in an’ ’en ’e left. ’E was abliged.’
‘In what sense?’
‘Inna sense ’at summon called ’ere atta swishboard all rilly oigentlike an’ askin’ oigently f ’r ’elp cuz of a rape of a frog.’
A Nest of Vipers Page 1
