‘You’re exaggerating, Mimì. But, anyway, you’re also right: the two murders, so to speak, took place during a span of time between five and eight a.m., when Arturo arrived.’
‘So, to conclude, we need to look for two killers who acted within a short time of each other,’ said Fazio.
‘We have to make the effort for two, but if we catch both, they’ll become one person in the eyes of the law.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because the lawyer will say that his client was perfectly aware that Barletta was already dead, but that he shot him anyway, out of spite. And he’ll get off with a conviction for violation of a corpse.’
‘Yes, but he technically remains a killer. His intention was to kill.’
‘You can’t try a person for his intentions alone,’ said Montalbano, cutting short the discussion.
He felt suddenly tired. Maybe Pasquano was right.
‘Listen, let’s talk about this tomorrow morning with clearer heads.’
*
It was a lovely evening. And so Montalbano decided, when he was still in the car, that he would lay the table on the veranda.
The first thing he did when he got home was to open the French windows. He noticed at once that on the table outside were two pieces of paper weighed down by two stones. The first was a message written on a sheet of notebook paper, which read:
I am truly grateful.
It wasn’t signed. The handwriting was confident and personal, like that of someone accustomed to using a pen.
The second piece of paper was the receipt from a bookbinder with the name Inspector Salvo Montalbano on it. The vagabond must have found it in a pocket of the brown suit.
The phone rang. It was Livia.
‘Think you can make it to Palermo to pick me up? My plane lands at noon.’
He considered his options. He decided he would drop in at the station to postpone his meeting with Augello and Fazio until the afternoon.
‘I can make it.’
‘Listen, did you do what I asked you to do?’
‘What?’
‘To take those shirts, shoes, and a suit to—’
‘Yes, I did. The poor guy even left me a note of thanks.’
‘What a strange person! I’m dying of curiosity to meet him.’
Good! If Montalbano got too wrapped up in the investigation, Livia could spend time with the tramp, which might keep her from telling him off.
*
He had a leaden sleep, deep inside a dark well, and when he woke up, it was raining buckets.
So, what was the weather up to? One good day and one bad day in turn?
The fact was that the season was taking too long to end, he thought.
Then he suddenly remembered that he’d promised Livia he would come and get her at the airport.
No. He really didn’t feel like driving at least two and a half hours in heavy rain.
He looked at his watch. Eight o’clock. How had he woken up so late? But surely Livia was still at home in Boccadasse.
He rang her.
‘Who’s this?’ Livia asked with a note of alarm.
He didn’t feel like telling her the truth, so he made up a lie on the spot.
‘Listen, I just got a call from the commissioner, who wants to see me this morning at eleven. So I won’t be able to come to get you. You can take the bus to Montelusa, which leaves directly from the airport.’
‘We’re off to a good start!’ said Livia.
‘So, what’s the plan?’
‘What do you think? When I get to Montelusa I’ll get a taxi to your office.’
She hung up.
Before going out, he left a note for Adelina on the kitchen table.
Livia’s coming today and will be here for three days.
It was more than certain that the housekeeper would not show up during that time.
*
The road into Vigàta was completely clogged, with barely a millimetre between one car and the next, and the average speed about a centimetre a minute.
It was past nine-thirty by the time he got to the station. He parked, got out of the car, and cursed the saints passionately for ten minutes straight to get the agitation out of his system. Then he went in.
‘Ahh, Chief, Chief! Isspecter Augello’s wit’ Fazio in espectancy o’ yiz.’
‘And I’m in arrivancy.’
Augello and Fazio were standing outside the door to his office, talking. He showed them in and sat them down.
‘Pitrotta came to my office,’ Fazio began, ‘and told me that it turns out the Slavic girl, whose name I can’t remember, is probably no longer in Italy. It’s possible she didn’t go back to her country of origin but merely moved to another town, though that’s hard to confirm.’
‘Yesterday evening,’ said Mimì, ‘I managed to talk to Stefania Interdonato, just as she was closing her perfume shop. Since she had no engagements, I invited her to a restaurant.’
‘And what did you tell Beba?’
‘That you kept me here late.’
‘How late?’ Montalbano asked, alarmed.
For all he knew, he was likely to have spent the night with the girl. He didn’t like providing alibis for Mimì’s infidelities to Beba.
‘Don’t worry, just till ten.’
‘And what did she tell you?’
‘I’ll proceed in orderly fashion. Actually, no, before I forget, she begged me in tears to give her the photographs of her. If possible, I’d like to—’
‘We’ll see about that later. Now talk.’
‘They met one day when Barletta came into her shop with a beautiful girl and bought her a fancy perfume. He never once took his eyes off Stefania. That evening, at closing time, he was there, waiting for her, in front of the shop, and he invited her out to dinner. She refused. But the second time, she accepted. Barletta was brilliant, a big talker, gallant, and very polite. A bit old-fashioned, and Stefania, in the end, was won over. That’s how it started.’
‘Where would he take her?’
‘To his beach house.’
‘Stefania would meet him there?’
‘No, she doesn’t have a car. He would take her there himself.’
‘How long did this last?’
‘Four months.’
‘Did he give her presents?’
‘Yes.’
‘Money?’
‘Just once, he gave her ten thousand euros because she had a large payment due. Anyway, the stuff he gave her was always pretty valuable: rings, bracelets . . .’
So, sometimes he paid, and sometimes he blackmailed. ‘Who broke off the relationship?’
‘He did, of course. Imagine Stefania ever leaving him!’
‘What did he say to her?’
‘He didn’t say anything. He just neglected to come and pick her up one evening at the perfumery. And she never saw him again after that. She sat tight for a few days, but then she went on the warpath.’
‘In what sense?’
‘Didn’t I tell you what the girl was like? She never gives up. She started writing to him and calling him, to no avail. But then she had a good idea.’
‘She went to see him,’ said Montalbano.
‘Bravo! Right on the money! Since she knew that Barletta spent every Saturday night at his beach house, she borrowed a friend’s car and went there. At one o’clock in the morning, no less!’
‘What did she do?’
‘The shutters were all closed, and it was dark inside, but there were two cars parked outside, Barletta’s and another. Therefore he was home, with company. To get him to open the door, she started knocking wildly, kicking the door and throwing rocks at it, until a woman finally came out. Just in her panties, without even a bra on. And she jumped on poor Stefania like a rabid dog, hitting her with a big stick. Stefania hadn’t expected anything like that and was luckily able to get back in her car and drive away. She said the woman was bent on killing her.’
‘The woman
must have been interrupted during the best part,’ Fazio commented.
‘That’s what Stefania thought, too, until she heard the woman, who was screaming obscenities at her – things like whore, slut, cunt – until she heard her say: “You leave my father alone or I’ll break your head!” It was his daughter. Barletta had sent her down to get rid of Stefania.’
Montalbano chuckled.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Augello.
‘Giovanna, the daughter in question, assured Fazio and me, with great dignity, that she never involved herself in any way in her father’s amorous adventures. If that was her way of not getting involved . . .’
‘Giovanna told us that it was Arturo who quarrelled with his father because he thought he spent too much on his women,’ Fazio confirmed.
‘I wonder why, when I asked her for the names of some of the women Barletta frequented, she didn’t mention Stefania?’ Montalbano asked. ‘She did nearly bludgeon her to death, after all!’
‘Maybe that’s why,’ said Augello.
‘Tell me something, Mimì. Do you know whether the slimeball Barletta took those pictures of her with her consent or not?’
‘She swore to me she never gave her consent and didn’t even know they existed. And having seen them myself, I believe her. Have you looked at them?’
‘No, I haven’t wanted to,’ Montalbano replied. ‘I don’t know about you, but they make me uncomfortable.’
‘They’re clearly photos taken on the sly while the girl was in action, so to speak. It was merely a stroke of luck that you can clearly see Stefania’s face in one of them.’
Montalbano opened the drawer, searched through the yellow envelopes, found the one marked Stefania, and handed it to Augello.
‘Give it back to her.’
‘Excuse me, Chief,’ Fazio intervened, ‘but aren’t we supposed to be making these photos available to the prosecutor?’
‘Have you lost your mind?’
‘I’m sorry, Chief, but it would only—’
‘Do you realize what could happen? Giving two hundred photographs of naked women in imaginative states of coition, as he might say, to Tommaseo? He’s so sex starved he might never recover! And if he does recover, he’ll institute a nationwide search for the girls so he can call them all into his office, where he’ll have them all strip to verify their identities!’
‘Chief, I think we should turn them over to him anyway,’ Fazio insisted.
‘Ah, so now you’ve become a stickler for procedure? OK, then it only means that instead of twenty envelopes, Tommaseo will get eighteen. Anyway, he doesn’t know how many Barletta had in his desk. All right?’
‘All right,’ said a resigned Fazio. ‘But why eighteen envelopes? Shouldn’t there be nineteen?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘I’m sorry, Chief, but twenty minus one makes nineteen.’
Without answering, Montalbano opened the drawer again, grabbed all the envelopes, laid them out on the desk, looked for the one with Stella’s name on it, then put it in his jacket pocket right before Fazio’s astonished eyes.
Then he started counting them out loud.
‘See? There’s only eighteen,’ he said in conclusion. Then he stuffed them all back in the drawer.
‘And now let’s resume yesterday’s discussion.’
‘I thought the whole thing over last night,’ Fazio said after a pause, ‘and the only explanation I could come up with was that it was all a coincidence.’
‘Oh, come on!’ Augello reacted. ‘Two people killing the same man at almost the same time!’
‘I thought the same thing myself,’ said Montalbano. ‘And I came up with a hypothesis that might perhaps explain the quasi-simultaneity.’
‘And what would that be?’ asked Mimì.
‘There was something they wanted to prevent Barletta from doing that same morning.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Fazio.
‘I’ll explain it myself,’ said Augello. ‘Our boss is conjecturing that the two killers wanted to prevent Barletta from carrying out something he had resolved to do that morning.’
‘But what?’ said Fazio. ‘Don’t forget it was Sunday! And on Sunday all the shops and offices are closed!’
‘And anyway,’ said Mimì, ‘how did the two killers come to learn of Barletta’s intentions?’
‘He may have talked about it the day before with the girl who spent the night with him,’ the inspector replied.
‘But in that case there would be only one killer: her!’ Augello objected.
‘And what reason could the girl have had for preventing him from doing what he had in mind to do?’ Fazio pressed.
Montalbano surrendered. He threw up his hands. ‘Calm down! It was only a conjecture!’
They all fell silent.
‘The truth is,’ the inspector said after a few moments, ‘that we don’t know where to begin.’
Then he got an idea.
‘Do you have Arturo Barletta’s number?’ he asked Fazio.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ring him from here and then pass me the phone.’
Fazio dialled the number, said hello, and then handed the receiver to Montalbano, who turned on the speakerphone.
‘Montalbano here, hello. Sorry to bother you, but I need a clarification and some information.’
‘Whatever I can do to help.’
‘Thank you. If I remember correctly, you phoned your father on Saturday evening and learned that he planned to spend the night at his beach house. Is that correct?’
‘Not exactly. It was Papa who called me.’
‘Anyway, you told him you would go out to see him the following morning.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What time was it when you got to the house?’
‘Eight o’clock sharp.’
‘Are you sure you had to use the key to open the door?’
‘Absolutely sure.’
‘Therefore whoever killed him had a set of keys?’
‘But, Inspector, I already discussed this with you and—’
‘Not with me, you didn’t. You talked about it with the TV newsman.’
‘I’m sorry, I got confused. Anyway, I mentioned the possibility that there may be sets of keys that my father gave to one of his girl—’
‘Did your father spend every Saturday night at the beach house?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Then why, based on your testimony, did he tell you that on that Saturday he was going there with a specific purpose, which was to tidy up the house? Don’t you think that’s a bit of rather superfluous information?’
‘Now that you mention it . . .’
‘During that phone call, did he mention anything specific he planned to do the following morning, on Sunday?’
‘But we just said what he planned to do! He went there to tidy—’
‘Up the house, agreed. But didn’t he mention anything else he had to do?’
‘Absolutely not. At least not with me. Maybe . . .’
‘Maybe what?’
‘Maybe he mentioned something to Giovanna.’
‘Thank you, Mr Barletta.’
He hung up and handed the phone back to Fazio. ‘Now call Giovanna for me.’
Fazio repeated the operation.
‘Montalbano here. Good morning, signora. Is this a bad time?’
‘Not at all.’
‘I need some information. Did you phone your father on the Saturday before he died?’
‘Of course, I called him every day.’
‘Did he tell you he would be spending the night at his beach house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he tell you he would also be staying on Sunday?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he tell you why?’
‘No, but he often stayed there on Sundays as well. He would spend the weekend there.’
‘Did he mention anything he had to do on Sunday morning?’
‘
Let me think about that for a moment.’ She thought about it briefly and then said: ‘Hello? No, I don’t think so.’
‘But you’re not sure?’
‘Not absolutely sure, no. But it was a . . . how shall I say? . . . a routine sort of conversation, of no consequence whatsoever . . . I didn’t attach any particular importance to what he was saying . . .’
‘I see.’
‘But maybe . . .’
‘Maybe?’
‘Maybe you should ask my brother.’
‘Thank you, signora. Have a good day.’
SIX
‘So, round and round we go, only to end up back where we started,’ said the inspector. ‘As far as we know, he didn’t talk to his children about what he had to do. And that shoots holes in my hypothesis, which no longer holds water.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Fazio objected. ‘It’s also possible he simply didn’t want to tell his children.’
‘Or,’ said Augello, ‘he got a phone call late that evening, when he was already at the house, and the woman who was with him overheard.’
‘That doesn’t hold up,’ said the inspector.
‘Why not?’
‘Because in that case there should only have been one killer. You said it yourself just now. And there’s something else to consider: that the woman who was with him that night was already intending to kill him, since she already had the poison, which is not the sort of thing women are in the habit of carrying around in their handbags.’
‘True,’ said a disconsolate Fazio.
‘So the main problem becomes finding out who this woman is.’
‘Easier said than done!’ said Augello.
‘Fazio, I want you to get in touch with Stella Lasorella – but discreetly, mind you, without her parents finding out – and tell her to come and see me here around four o’clock. Mimì, you, on other hand, should put together a team and go and thoroughly search the beach house and his place in town.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘Oh, other photos, letters, whatever you can find that’s of the slightest interest.’
He remembered Giovanna’s words. ‘Also, see if you can find a will.’
*
‘Ahh, Chief! ’At’d be the prassicutor Gommaseo!’
‘Where? On the phone?’
A Nest of Vipers Page 5
