Paper Moon

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Why haven’t you?”

  He was expecting her to laugh again, but Elena turned serious.

  “I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings, and I want to feel at peace. I’m waiting for the investigation to be over.” She smiled again. “So you should hurry up.”

  And why would a new relationship with another man create misunderstandings? He got the answer to his question when his gaze met hers. That wasn’t a woman sitting in the armchair in front of him, but a cheetah at rest, still sated. The moment she began to feel the pangs of hunger, however, she would pounce on the prey she had already singled out long before. And that prey was him, Inspector Salvo Montalbano, a trembling, clumsy little domestic animal who would never manage to outrun those extremely long, springy legs that for the moment were deceptively crossed. And, most troubling of all, once those fangs sank into his flesh and that tongue began to savor him, he would quickly prove bland to the cheetah’s tastes and disappointing to the schoolteacher husband in the story the cheetah was certain to tell him. His only hope was to play the fool to avoid going to war, and pretend not to have understood. “I came today for two reasons.”

  “You could have come anyway, for no reason at all.” The beast had her eye on him, and there was no distracting her.

  “You told me that, aside from the car, Angelo had given you jewelry.”

  “Yes. Would you like to see it?”

  “No, I’m not interested in seeing it. I’m more interested in the boxes the jewels came in. Do you still have them?” “Yes, I’ll go get them.”

  She stood, picked up the tray, and took it away. She returned at once and handed the inspector two black boxes, already open and empty. They were lined with white silk and each bore the same inscription: A . D IMORA J EWELRY-M ONTELUSA.

  This was what he wanted to know and what his dream had suggested to him. He gave the boxes back to Elena, who set them down on the coffee table.

  “And what was the other reason?” the woman asked.

  “That’s harder to say. The autopsy revealed an important detail. Two threads of fabric were found stuck between the victim’s teeth. The crime lab informed me that it is a special fabric used almost exclusively in the manufacture of women’s panties.”

  “What does it mean?” asked Elena.

  “It means that someone, before shooting him, stuck a pair of panties in his mouth to keep him from screaming. Add to this the fact that the victim was found in a state suggesting he’d been about to engage in a sexual act. It being rather inconceivable that a man would go around with a pair of women’s panties in his pocket, that must mean the person who killed him was not a man but a woman.”

  “I see,” said Elena. “A crime of passion, apparently.”

  “Exactly. At this point in the investigation, however, it’s my duty to report all my findings to the prosecutor.”

  “And so you’ll have to mention me.”

  “Of course. And Prosecutor Tommaseo will immediately call you in for questioning. The death threats you made to Angelo in your letters will be seen as evidence against you.”

  “What should I do?”

  Montalbano’s admiration for the girl increased a few notches. She hadn’t become afraid or agitated. She asked for information, nothing more.

  “Find a good lawyer.”

  “Can I tell him that it was Angelo who made me write those letters?”

  “Certainly. And when you do, tell him he should ask Paola Torrisi a few questions.” Elena wrinkled her brow.

  “Angelo’s ex? Why?”

  Montalbano threw his hands up. He couldn’t tell her. That would be saying too much. But the mechanism in Elena’s head worked better than a Swiss watch.

  “Did he also have her write letters like mine?”

  Montalbano threw his hands up again.

  “The problem is that you, Elena, haven’t got an alibi for the night of the crime. You told me you drove around for a few hours and therefore didn’t meet with anyone. However… “

  “However?”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Do you think I killed Angelo?”

  “I don’t believe that you didn’t meet with anyone that evening. I’m convinced you could produce an alibi if you wanted, but you don’t want to.”

  She looked at him, eyes popping.

  “How…how do you… “

  Now she was indeed agitated. The inspector felt pleased for having hit the mark.

  “The last time I asked you if you’d met with anyone during the time you were wandering about in your car, and you said no. But before speaking, you sort of hesitated. That was the first and only time you hesitated. And I realized you didn’t want to tell me the truth. But be careful: Not having an alibi might get you arrested.”

  She suddenly turned pale.One must strike while the iron is hot,Montalbano told himself, hating himself for the cliche and for playing the tormentor.

  “You’re going to have to be escorted down to the station …”

  It wasn’t true. That wasn’t the procedure, but those were the magic words. And indeed Elena began to tremble slightly, a veil of sweat appearing on her brow.

  “I haven’t told Emilio… I didn’t want him to know.”

  What did her husband have to do with this? Was the schoolteacher fated to pop up everywhere like Pierino’s famous puppet in the story his mother used to tell Montalbano as a child?

  “What didn’t you want him to know?”

  “That I was with a man that evening.”

  “Who was it?”

  “A filling-station attendant… It’s the only station on the road to Giardina. His name is Luigi. I don’t know his last name. I stopped to get gas. He was closing, but he reopened for me. He started flirting, and I didn’t say no. I wanted … I wanted to forget Angelo, forever.”

  “How long were you together?”

  “A couple of hours.”

  “Could he testify to that?”

  “I don’t think it would be a problem. He’s very young, about twenty, unmarried.”

  “Tell that to the lawyer. Maybe he can find a way to keep your husband from getting wind of it.”

  “I would be very unhappy if he found out. I betrayed his trust.”

  But how did this husband and wife reason? He felt at sea. Then Elena suddenly started laughing hard again, her head thrown backward.

  “Let me in on the joke.”

  “A woman supposedly stuck her panties in Angelo’s mouth so he couldn’t scream?” “So it seems.”

  “I’m only telling you because it couldn’t have been me.” She had another laughing fit that almost brought tears to her eyes.

  “Come on, out with it.”

  “Because whenever I knew I was going to see Angelo, I wouldn’t wear panties. Anyway, look. Do these look like they could be used to gag anyone?”

  She stood up and hiked up her bathrobe, spun around in a circle, then sat back down. She’d performed the movement perfectly naturally, without modesty or immodesty. Her panties were smaller than a G-string. With that in his mouth, a man could still have recited all of Cicero’sCatilinarian Orationsor sung “Celeste Aida.”

  “I have to go,” said the inspector, standing up.

  He absolutely had to get away from that woman. Alarm bells and warning lights were going off wildly in his head. Elena also stood up and approached him. Unable to keep her away with his extended arms, he stopped her with words.

  “One last thing.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve learned that Angelo had recently been gambling and losing a lot of money.” “Really?!”

  She seemed truly puzzled.

  “So you know nothing about it.”

  “I never even suspected it. Did he gamble here, in Vigata?”

  “No. In Fanara, apparently. At a clandestine gambling den. Did you ever go with him to Fanara?”

  “Yes, once. But we came back to Vigata the same evening.”

  “Ca
n you remember if Angelo went into any banks that day in Fanara?”

  “Out of the question. He had me wait in the car outside of three doctors’ offices and two pharmacies. And I nearly died of boredom. Oh, but I do remember—because I heard about him on TV after he died—that we also stopped outside the villa of Di Cristoforo, the Parliament deputy.”

  “Did he know him?!”

  “Apparently.”

  “How long did he stay inside the villa?”

  “Just a few minutes.”

  “Did he say why he went there?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask. I’m sorry.”

  “Another question, but this really will be the last.”

  “Ask me as many as you like.”

  “Did Angelo do coke, as far as you know?”

  “No. No drugs.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Don’t forget that I was once quite an expert on the subject.”

  She stepped forward.

  “Bye, see you soon,” said Montalbano, running for the door, opening it, and dashing out onto the landing before the cheetah could spring, grab him in her claws, and eat him alive.

  Dimora Jewelers of Montelusa—founded in 1901, as the religiously restored old sign in front said—were the best-known jewelers in the province. They made their hundred-plus years a point of pride, and in fact the furnishings inside were the same as they’d been a hundred years earlier. Except for the fact that now, to get inside, it was worse than entering a bank. Armored doors, tinted, Kalashnikov-proof windows, uniformed security guards with revolvers at their sides so big it was scary just to look at them.

  There were three salespersons, all of them quite distinguished: a seventyish man, another around forty, and a girl of about twenty. Apparently they’d each been expressly selected to serve the clients of their corresponding age group. Then why was it the seventy-year-old who turned to speak to him, instead of the forty-year-old, as should have been his right?

  “Would you like to see something in particular, sir?”

  “Yes, the owner.”

  “You mean Signor Arturo?”

  “If he’s the owner, then Signor Arturo will do.” “And who are you, if I may ask?” “Inspector Montalbano.”

  “Please follow me.”

  He followed the salesman into the back room, which was a very elegant sort of little sitting room. Art nouveau furniture. A broad staircase of black wood, covered by a dark red runner, led to a landing where there was a massive, closed door.

  “Please make yourself comfortable.”

  The elderly man climbed the stair slowly, then rang a bell beside the door, which came open with a click. He went inside and closed the door behind him. Two minutes later there was another click, the door reopened, and the old man reappeared.

  “You may go upstairs.”

  The inspector found himself in a spacious, light-filled room. There was a large glass desk, very modern in style, with a computer on top. Two armchairs and a sofa of the kind one sees only in architectural magazines. A huge safe, the latest model, that not even a surface-to-air missile could open. Another safe, this one pathetic and certainly dating back to 1901, which a wet nurse’s hairpin could open. Arturo Dimora, a thirty-year-old who looked straight out of a fashion advertisement, stood up and extended his hand.

  “I’m at your disposal, Inspector.”

  “I won’t waste your time. Do you know if there was a certain Angelo Pardo among your clients over the last three months?”

  “Just a second.”

  He went back behind the glass desk and fiddled about with the computer.

  “Yes. He bought—”

  “I know what he bought. I would like to know how he paid.”

  “Just a minute. There, yes. Two checks from the Banca Popolare di Fanara. Do you want the account number?”

  15

  Exiting the jeweler’s shop, he weighed his options. What to do? Even if he left for Fanara at once, he probably wouldn’t get there till after one-thirty; in other words, after the bank was already closed. Thus the best thing was to go back to Vigata and drive to Fanara the following morning. But his anxiousness to discover something important at the bank was eating him alive, and surely his nerves would keep him up all night. Suddenly he remembered that banks, which he scarcely frequented, also had afternoon hours these days. Thus the right thing was to leave immediately for Fanara, head straight for the local trattoria called Da Cosma e Damiano, where he’d eaten twice and been very well served, and then, after three, make an appearance at the bank.

  When he arrived at his parked car, a rather troubling thought came over him—namely, that he had an appointment with the commissioner to which it was not clear he would make it in time. What was he going to do about this? The following: He was going to blow off Mr. Commissioner’s summons. The guy had done nothing but postpone the goddamned appointment day after day. Surely he was allowed to miss one? He got in the car and drove off.

  Going from Enzo’s restaurant to Cosma and Damiano’s place in Fanara was like changing continents. Asking Enzo for a dish like the rabbit cacciatore he was slurping down would have been like ordering pork ribs or cotechino at a restaurant in Abu Dhabi.

  When he got up from the table, he immediately felt the need for a walk along the jetty. But since he was in Fanara, there was no jetty, for the simple reason that the sea was fifty miles away. Though he’d already had a coffee in the trattoria, he decided he’d better have another at a bar right next door to the bank.

  To the door—one of those revolving kinds with an alarm—he must have seemed disagreeable, for it reopened behind him and commanded:

  “System alarm! Deposit all metal objects outside the door!”

  The guard sitting inside a bulletproof glass booth glanced up from a crossword puzzle and looked at him. The inspector opened a little drawer and dropped in about a pound of europennies that were making holes in his pockets, closed it with a plastic key, and entered the tubelike door.

  “System alarm!”it repeated.

  So it just didn’t like him. That door was dead set on busting his balls. The guard started looking at him with concern. The inspector took out his house keys, put them in the drawer, went back in the door, the half tube closed behind him, the door said nothing, but the other half of the tube, the one in front of him, didn’t open. Imprisoned! The door had taken him hostage, and if he wasn’t freed in a few seconds, he was fated to die a terrible death by suffocation. Through the glass he saw the guard engrossed in his crossword puzzle; he hadn’t noticed anything. Inside the bank there wasn’t a living soul to be seen. He raised his knee and gave the door a powerful kick. The guard heard the noise, realized what was happening, pushed a button on some contraption in front of him, and the back half of the tube finally opened, allowing the inspector to enter the bank. Which consisted of a first entrance with a small table and a few chairs and led to two doors: The one on the right was an office with two vacant desks; the one on the left had the usual wood-and-glass partition with two tellers’ windows over which were plaques sayingWINDOW IandWINDOW 2,incase anyone wasn’t sure. But only one had a teller behind it, and that was indeed Window 1. One could not in good conscience say the bank did a lot of business.

  “Hello, I would like to speak with the manager. I’m Inspector—”

  “Montalbano!” said the fiftyish man behind the window.

  The inspector gave him a puzzled look.

  “Don’t you remember me? Eh, don’t you?” said the teller, getting up and heading toward the door at the end of the partition.

  Montalbano racked his brain but couldn’t come up with a name. Meanwhile the teller came straight up to him, un-shaven, arms half open and ready to embrace his long-lost friend. But don’t these people who expect to be recognized after forty years realize that time has done its work on their faces? That forty winters, as the poet says, have dug deep fur-rows in the field of what was once adorable youth?

  “You r
eally don’t remember, do you? Let me give you a little hint.”

  A little hint? “What was this, a TV game show? “Cu…Cu… “

  “Cucuzza?” the inspector took a wild stab.

  “Cumella! Giogid Cumella!” said the other, leaping at his throat and crushing him in a pythonlike grip.

  “Cumella! Of course!” Montalbano mumbled.

  In truth he didn’t remember a goddamned thing. Night and fog.

  “Let’s go have a drink. We need to celebrate!Matre santa,it’s been so many years!”

  When passing in front of the guard’s little cage, Cumella informed him:

  “Lullu, I’ll be at the bar next door with my friend. If anyone comes, tell ‘em to wait.”

  But who was this Cumella? A former schoolmate? University chum? Student protester from ‘68?

  “You married, Salvu?”

  “No.”

  “I am. Three kids, two boys and a girl. The girl, who’s the youngest, is a beauty. Her name’s Natasha.”

  A Natasha in Fanara. Like Ashanti in Canicatti, Samantha in Fela, and Jessica in Gallotti. Didn’t anybody name their little girls Maria, Giuseppina, Carmela, or Francesca anymore?

  “What’ll you have?”

  “A coffee.”

  At that hour, one coffee more or less made no difference. “Me, too. Why did you come to our bank, Inspector? I’ve seen you a couple of times on television.”

  “I need some information. Perhaps the manager—” “I’m the manager. What’s this about?” “One of your clients, Angelo Pardo, was murdered.” “I heard.”

  “I couldn’t find any of your statements in his apartment.”

  “He didn’t want us to send them to him. And he sent us those instructions in a registered letter! Imagine that! He would come and pick up the statements in person.”

  “I see. Could you tell me how much is in his account and if he made any investments?”

  “No, unless you’ve got a judge’s authorization.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Then I can’t tell you that until the day he died he had somewhere around eight hundred thousand.”

  “Lire?” asked Montalbano, a little disappointed. “Euros.”