The Paper Moon - Inspector Montalban 09

by Andrea Camilleri

  "Let's talk about something else, all right? "What did the commissioner want?"

  "We didn't meet. He had to go to Palermo."

  "Explain to me why this business of Liguori coming here smells fishy to you."

  "Explaining a sensation is not easy."

  "Try."

  "Mimi, Liguori descends on us after Senator Nicotra dies in Vigata—from drugs, though we're not supposed to say so. You yourself thought the same thing, if I remember correctly. Two others died before Nicotra, but they race over here only after the senator dies. My question is, for what purpose?"

  "I don't understand," said Augello, confused.

  "I'll be clearer. These guys want to find out who it was that sold the, let's say, 'tainted' stuff to the senator, to prevent other people, bigwigs like the senator, from coming to the same end. They've obviously been put under pressure."

  "And don't you think they're right to do what they're doing?"

  "Absolutely right. It's just that there's a problem." What?"

  "Officially, Nicotra died of natural causes. Therefore whoever sold him the stuff is not responsible for his death. If we arrest him, it will come out that the guy sold his drugs not only to the senator but to a whole slew of the senators' playmates—politicos, businessmen, and other high rollers. A scandal. A big mess."

  "And so?"

  "And so, when we arrest him and all hell breaks loose, we'll get swept up in it, too. We who arrested him, not Liguori and company. People will come and tell us we should have proceeded more cautiously, others will accuse us of acting like the judges in Milan, all Communists seeking to destroy the system . . . In short, the commissioner and Liguori will have covered their asses, whereas ours will look like the Mont Blanc Tunnel."

  "So what should we do?"

  "We? Mimi, Liguori spoke to you, who are the commissioner's rising star. I've nothing to do with it." "Okay. What should I do?" "Stick to the finest tradition." "Which is?"

  "Armed conflict. You were getting ready to arrest the guy when he opened fire. You reacted and were forced to kill him."

  "Get out of here!"

  "Why?"

  "First of all, because that kind of reaction is not my style and, second, because nobody's ever heard of a drug dealer, even a big fish, trying to avoid arrest by shooting his way out."

  "You're right. So, still in keeping with tradition, you arrest him but don't immediately turn him over to the judge. You discreetly let everyone know that you're keeping him here for two days. On the morning of the third day, you have him transferred to prison. Meanwhile the others will have had all the time in the world to get organized, and you'll only have to sit and wait."

  "Wait for what?"

  "For the dealer to get served coffee in prison. Good coffee. Like the coffee they gave Pisciotta and Sindona. That way the accused clearly will no longer be able to supply a list of his clients. And they all lived happily ever after. And that's the end of my story."

  Mimi, who until that moment had been standing, suddenly sat down.

  "Listen, let's think rationally about this."

  "Not now. Think about it tonight. In any case Salvuccio will be keeping you awake. We'll talk about it again tomorrow morning, with a fresh mind. It's better this way. Now bug off, 'cause I've got a phone call to make."

  Augello left, doubtful and dazed.

  "Michela? Montalbano here. Would you mind if I dropped by your place for five minutes? No, no news. Just for...All right, I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

  He buzzed the intercom, went in, and climbed the stairs. Michela was waiting for him in the doorway. She was dressed the same way as the first time Montalbano met her.

  "Good evening, Inspector. Didn't you say you couldn't come by today?"

  "I did. But my meeting with the commissioner was canceled, and so . . ."

  Why didn't she invite him inside?

  "How's your mother?"

  "Better, given the circumstances. Enough that she let my aunt persuade her to go stay with her."

  She couldn't bring herself to invite him in.

  "I wanted to tell you that, knowing I was here alone, a friend of mine came to see me. She's inside. I could send her away, if you want. But since I have nothing to hide, you can act as though she weren't there."

  "Are you saying I can speak openly in front of your friend?"

  "Exactly."

  "Well, for me it's not a problem."

  Only then did Michela stand aside to let him in. The first thing the inspector saw as he entered the living room was a great mass of red hair.

  Paola the Red! he said to himself. Angelo's girlfriend before Elena.

  Paola Torrisi-Blanco, upon close examination, was forty-ish, but at first glance she could have easily passed for ten years younger. A good-looking woman, no doubt about that. Which proved that Angelo liked them prime quality.

  "If I'm in the way . . ." said Paola, standing up and extending her hand to the inspector.

  "Not at all!" Montalbano said ceremoniously. "Among other things, it saves me a trip to Montelusa."

  "Oh, really? Why?"

  "I was planning to have a little chat with you."

  They all sat down and exchanged silent, polite smiles. A grand old get-together among friends. After an appropriate pause, the inspector turned to Michela.

  "How'd it go with Judge Tommaseo?"

  "Don't remind me! That man is a...He's got only one thing on his mind . . . Some of the questions he asks . . . it's so embarrassing."

  "What did he ask you?" Paola asked mischievously.

  "I'll tell you later," said Michela.

  Montalbano imagined the scene: Tommaseo lost in Michela's ocean eyes, red-faced, short of breath, trying to picture the shape of her tits under her penitent's frock and asking her:

  "Do you have any idea why your brother's organ was completely exposed while he was being murdered?"

  "Did Tommaseo say when you can hold the funeral?" "Not for another three days. Is there any news?" "In the investigation? For the moment it's at a standstill. I came to see you to try to get it going again." "I'm at your disposal."

  "Michela, if you remember, when I asked you how much your brother earned, you said he brought home enough to maintain three people and two apartments fairly well. Is that right?"

  "Yes."

  "Could you be more precise?"

  "It's not easy, Inspector. He didn't have a fixed income or monthly salary. His earnings varied. There was a guaranteed minimum revenue, as well as the reimbursement of expenses and a percentage on the products he managed to sell. Naturally, what really affected things, and in a positive way, was the commission percentage. And now and then there were also performance bonuses. But I wouldn't know how to translate all that into figures."

  "I have to ask you a delicate question. You told me Angelo used to give Elena very expensive gifts. This was confirmed to me by—"

  "By the whore?" Michela finished his sentence.

  "Now, now!" said Paola, laughing.

  "Why shouldn't I call her that?"

  "It doesn't seem to be the case."

  "But for a while she actually was one! Inspector, when Elena was still a minor, she ran away to Milan—"

  "I know the whole story," the inspector cut her short.

  Though Elena might have confided in Angelo about the errors of her youth, it was unlikely Angelo had communicated them to his sister. Apparently it was not beneath Michela to hire some private agency to dig up information on her brother's lover.

  "In any case he never gave me any gifts," Paola said at this point. "Actually, no. One time he did buy me a pair of earrings at a sidewalk booth in Fela. Three thousand lire, I remember. "We didn't have the euro yet."

  "Let's get back to the subject I'm interested in," said Montalbano. "To buy these gifts for Elena, did Angelo take the money from your joint account?"

  "No," Michela said firmly.

  "So where did he get it?"

  "Whenever he got
checks for incentives or bonuses, he would cash them and keep the money at home. Once he had a certain amount, he would buy a present for that . . ."

  "So you rule out the possibility that he could have had a personal account in some bank without your knowledge?"

  "Absolutely."

  Prompt, firm, decisive. Maybe too prompt, too firm, too decisive.

  How was it she never had the slightest doubt? Or maybe she had, and it was not so slight, but since it might cast some suspicion, some shadow, on her brother, she figured it was better to deny it.

  Montalbano tried to outflank her defenses. He turned to Paola.

  "You just said Angelo once bought you a pair of earrings in Fela. Why in Fela, of all places? Had you accompanied him there?"

  Paola gave a little smile.

  "Unlike Elena, I used to go along with him on his rounds in the province."

  "He didn't bring her along because she was already following him!" Michela let fly.

  "When I was free of commitments at school, of course," Paola continued.

  "Did you ever see him go into a bank?"

  "Not that I can remember."

  "Was he very friendly with any of the doctors or pharmacists he used to visit?"

  "I don't understand the question."

  "Were there any of his...let's call them clients, with whom he was a little friendlier than with others?"

  "You know, Inspector, I didn't know them all. He used to introduce me as his girlfriend. And it was sort of true. But it seemed to me like he treated them all the same way."

  "When he brought you along with him, were you present at all his meetings?"

  "No, sometimes he would ask me to wait in the car or to take a walk."

  "Did he ever tell you the reason?"

  "Well, he used to joke about it. He would say he had to go see a young and handsome doctor and he was afraid that...Or else he would explain that the doctor was a very devout, narrow-minded Catholic who might not approve of my presence—"

  "Inspector," Michela cut in, "my brother clearly distin-guished his friends from the people he did business with. I don't know if you noticed, but in his desk he kept two date-books, one with the addresses of friends and family, the other with—"

  "Yes, I noticed," said Montalbano. Then, still speaking to Paola: “You apparently teach at the liceo of Montelusa?"

  "Yes. Italian."

  She gave another little smile.

  "I see what you're getting at. Emilio Sclafani is not just my colleague; we're actually friends, in a way. One evening I invited Emilio and his young wife to dinner. Angelo was there, too, and that's when it all started between them."

  "Listen, Elena told me her husband knew all about her affair with Angelo. Can you by any chance confirm that?"

  "It's true. In fact, the strangest thing happened."

  "Namely?"

  "It was Emilio himself who told me that Angelo and his wife had become lovers. She'd told him just a few hours before. I didn't want to believe it. I thought Emilio was pulling my leg. The next day Angelo phoned me to say he wouldn't be able to see me for a while. So I blew up and told him what Emilio had told me. He stammered a bit and then owned up to it. But he pleaded with me to be patient, said it was just a little fling ...But I was adamant, and our relationship ended there."

  "You never saw each other again?"

  "No. We never spoke again either."

  "And did you maintain friendly relations with Mr. Sclafani?"

  "Yes. But I never invited him to dinner again." "Have you seen him since Angelo died?" "Yes. Just this morning." "How did he seem?" "Upset."

  Montalbano hadn't expected such a prompt reply. "In what way?"

  "Don't get the wrong idea, Inspector. Emilio's upset because his wife lost her lover, that's all. Elena probably confessed to him how attached she was to him, how jealous—"

  "Who told you she was jealous? Emilio?"

  "Emilio has never said anything to me about Elena's feelings towards Angelo."

  "It was me," Michela cut in.

  "She also gave me a sort of summary of Elena's letters." "Speaking of which, have you found them?" asked Michela.

  "No," said Montalbano, lying.

  On this matter he sensed intuitively, in his gut, that the more he muddied the waters, the better.

  "She obviously got rid of them," Michela said, convinced.

  "What for?" the inspector asked.

  "What do you mean, 'what for'?" Michela reacted. "Those letters could be used as evidence against her!"

  "But, you know," Montalbano said with an innocent, angelic look on his face, "Elena has already admitted writing them. Jealousy and death threats included. If she admits this, what reason would she have to get rid of them?"

  "Well, then, what are you waiting for?" said Michela, summoning her special sandpaper voice.

  "To do what?"

  "Arrest her!"

  "There's a problem. Elena says those letters were practically dictated to her." "By whom?" "Angelo."

  The two women had entirely different reactions.

  "Slut! Bitch! Liar!" Michela screamed, springing to her feet.

  Paola instead sank further into her armchair.

  "What could have possessed Angelo to have her write him jealous letters?" she asked, more curious than confused.

  "Even Elena couldn't tell me," said Montalbano, lying again.

  "She couldn't tell you because it's totally untrue!" Michela said, practically screaming.

  Her voice was turning dangerously from sandpaper into grindstones again. Having no desire whatsoever to witness an-other scene from a Greek tragedy, Montalbano thought he could be satisfied with the evening's proceedings.

  "Did you write down those addresses for me?" he asked Michela.

  The woman gave him a puzzled look. "Remember? The two women, one of whom, I think, was named Stella . . ."

  "Oh, right. Just a minute." She left the room.

  Then Paola, leaning slightly forward, said to him softly:

  "I need to talk to you. Could you call me tomorrow morning? There's no school. I'm in the phone book."

  Michela returned with a sheet of paper, which she handed to the inspector.

  "The list of Angelo's past loves."

  "Is there anyone I don't know?" asked Paola.

  "I don't think Angelo hid any of his amorous history from you."

  Montalbano stood up, and it was time for fond good-byes.

  It had become so humid that there was no point in staying out on the veranda, even though it was covered. The inspector went inside and sat down at the table. His brain, after all, functioned the same way inside or outside. For the past half hour, in fact, a lively debate had been raging inside him.

  The theme was: During an investigation, does a real policeman take notes or not?

  He, for example, had never done so. In fact, it irritated him when others did, even if they were better policemen than he.

  But that was in the past. Because for a while now he'd been feeling the need to do so. And why did he feel the need to do so? Elementary, my dear Watson. Because he realized he was starting to forget some very important things. Alas, old friend, good Inspector, it's now las cinco de la tarde, and we've touched the sore spot of the whole matter. One starts to forget things when the weight of years begins to make it-self felt. What was it, more or less, a poet once said?

  How the snow weighs down the branches and the years stoop the shoulders so dear; the years of youth are faraway years.

  Perhaps it was better to change the title of the debate: During an investigation, does an old policeman take notes or not?

  By adding age into the equation, taking notes seemed less unbecoming to Montalbano. But this implied unconditional surrender to the advancing years. He had to find a compromise solution. Then a brilliant idea came to him. He picked up paper and pen and wrote himself a letter.

  Dear Inspector Montalbano,

  I realize that at this moment your c
ojones are in a dizzying spin for entirely personal reasons concerning the idea of old age stubbornly knocking on your door, but I am pleased to remind you, with the present letter, of your duties, and would like to present you with a few observations on the ongoing investigation into the murder of Angelo Pardo.

  First. "Who was Angelo Pardo?

  A former doctor who'd had his medical license revoked for an abortion involving a girl made pregnant by him (absolutely must talk to Teresa Cacciatore who lives in Palermo).

  He begins working as a medical/pharmaceutical "informer," earning much more than what he tells his sister. In fact, he lavishes extremely expensive gifts on his last mistress, Elena Sclafani.

  He very likely has a bank account somewhere, which we have not yet managed to locate.

  He most certainly owned a strongbox that has never been found.

  He was murdered by a gunshot to the face (is this significant?)

  At the moment of death, moreover, his cock was hanging out (this certainly is significant, but exactly what does it signify?)

  Possible motives for the murder:

  a)female troubles;

  b)shady influence peddling and kickbacks, a lead suggested by Nicold and possibly worth pursuing. (Check with Marshal Lagana.)

  He uses a secret code ( for what?).

  He has three computer files protected by passwords. The first of these, which Catarella succeeded in opening, is entirely in code.

  "Which means that Angelo Pardo definitely had something he wanted to keep carefully hidden.

  One last note:Why were the three letters from Elena hidden under the carpet in the trunk of the Mercedes? (I have a feeling this point is of some importance but can’t say why)

  Please forgive me, dear Inspector, if this first section, devoted to the murder victim, is a bit disorganized, but I wrote these things down as they came into my head, not according to any logical sequence.

  Second. Elena Sclafani.

  You're wondering, naturally, why I wrote Elena Sclafani's name second. I realize, my friend, that you've taken quite a shine to the girl. She's pretty (okay, gorgeous—I don't mind you correcting me), and of course you would do everything in your power to keep her off the top of the list of suspects. You like the sincere way she talks about herself, but has it never occurred to you that sincerity can sometimes be a deliberate strategy for leading one away from the truth, just like the apparently opposite strategy, that is, lying? You think I'm talking philosophy?