The Age of Doubt

by Andrea Camilleri

  The so-called boat was a rather large and elegant yacht, and it was docked at the central quay. It was flying, go figure, a Panamanian flag. Waiting for him at the foot of the gangway was a naval lieutenant, who must have been Garrufo, and Dr. Raccuglia.

  A short distance away, a sailor from the Harbor Office stood guard over a dinghy lying on the quay.

  There was no sign of anybody on the yacht’s decks. The owner and crew must have been below.

  “What’s the problem, Doctor?”

  “Sorry to make you come all the way here, but I wanted you to see the body before the ambulance comes and takes it away to Montelusa for the autopsy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the corpse shows certain—”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor, I didn’t make myself clear. Why do you think the matter falls within my jurisdiction? Wasn’t the body found in international—”

  “The dinghy with the corpse in it,” Lieutenant Garrufo interrupted him, “was intercepted right outside the mouth of the harbor, not in international waters.”

  “Oh,” said Montalbano.

  He’d tried to unload the case onto someone else and it hadn’t worked. But perhaps all was not lost, and he could still push the bitter cup away from his lips. (Damn clichés!)

  “But the boat may have been brought here from far away by the currents, which have been very strong with all the bad weather . . .”

  Garrufo smiled at this second, pathetic attempt.

  “Inspector, I realize it’s a headache for you, but there’s no doubt whatsoever that the boat had just drifted out of this port, indeed because of the very same currents you mention. Understand?”

  The lieutenant placed special emphasis on the word this. Montalbano surrendered.

  “All right, let’s have a look,” he said. “Where is he?”

  “Follow me,” said the lieutenant. “I’ll lead the way.”

  On the deck, not a soul. They went below to the mess room. On the table in the middle of the space lay the body, covered by an oilcloth.

  Montalbano had imagined the corpse differently. Lying before him was a well-built male specimen of about forty, completely naked. Aside from the face, there were no wounds or scars on the front of the body. The face, on the other hand, had been reduced to a pulp of flesh and bone that didn’t look like anything.

  “Did you take off his clothes or was he . . . ?”

  “They told me that’s how they found him in the dinghy. Naked,” said Garrufo.

  “And on the back, are there any—?”

  “No wounds on the back, either.”

  A sickly-sweet smell festered in the room. The corpse wasn’t fresh. As the inspector was about to ask another question, a woman appeared through a door, dressed in greasy overalls and wiping her hands with an equally greasy rag.

  “How much longer you guys going to keep that thing here?” she asked gruffly.

  She opened the door to one of the two cabins giving onto the mess room, went inside, and closed the door behind her.

  At once a man of about fifty with a goatee came in, skinny as a rail and sunburnt, wearing spotless, wrinkleless white trousers, a blue blazer with silver buttons, and a military sort of cap on his head.

  “Hello. I’m Captain Sperlì,” he said, introducing himself to Montalbano.

  Apparently he’d already met the other two. Based on his accent, he had to be from Genoa.

  “Is your engineer a woman?” the inspector asked.

  The captain chuckled.

  “No, she’s the owner. Since the auxiliary engine wasn’t doing too well, which is what’s been holding us up for so long, the lady wanted to check it out for herself.”

  “And she’s competent?” Montalbano asked again.

  “She certainly is,” said the captain. Then, in a lower voice: “She’s better than the engineer himself.”

  At that moment they heard someone calling from the deck.

  “Anybody there?”

  “I’ll take care of this,” said the captain.

  A few moments later, two men in white tunics came down, lifted the oilcloth together with the corpse, and carried it away.

  “In your opinion, Doctor,” Montalbano said, “how long—”

  He was interrupted by the reappearance of the captain. Behind him was a sailor in a black wool sweater with the name Vanna written across the chest. In his hands he had a bottle of mineral spirits and a rag. He cleaned off the surface of the tabletop and then spread over it a white tablecloth he had taken from a small closet.

  “Please make yourselves comfortable,” said the captain. “Will you have a drink?”

  Nobody declined.

  “In your opinion, Doctor,” Montalbano began again after a sip of a whisky he’d never had before which tasted like the best he’d ever drunk, “how long—”

  The cabin door opened again, and the woman from before reappeared. She had changed her clothes and was now wearing jeans and a blouse. She had no trace of jewelry on her. She was tall, dark, attractive, and elegant. She must have been close to fifty but had the body of a forty-year-old. She went to the closet, took a glass, and held it out, without a word, in front of the captain. He filled it almost to the brim with whisky. Still standing, she brought it to her lips and drank half of it in a single gulp. Then she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and said to the captain:

  “Sperlì, tomorrow morning we’re getting out of here, so I want you to—”

  “Just a minute,” Montalbano cut in.

  The woman looked at him as if noticing only then that he was there. And instead of speaking to him directly, she addressed the captain.

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s Inspector Montalbano.”

  “Inspector of what?”

  “Police,” replied the captain, a bit embarrassed.

  Only then, after looking him up and down, did the woman deign to ask him directly:

  “What were you going to say?”

  “There’s no way you can leave the port tomorrow.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because we have to investigate the circumstances of that man’s death. The judge is going to want to question you and—”

  “What did I say, Sperlì?” the woman asked severely.

  “All right, all right, just drop it,” the captain said.

  “Signora, tell me, too, what you said to the captain,” Montalbano butted in.

  “I’d simply advised him to forget about the dinghy and not bring the body aboard because it was bound to create a host of problems for us. But he—”

  “I am a man of the sea,” said the captain, to justify his actions.

  “You see, signora—” Lieutenant Garrufo began.

  “No, I don’t see, I’ve seen enough,” the woman cut him off, upset. Then, setting her now empty glass down on the table, she added: “And how long, Inspector, do you think we’ll be kept here?”

  “In the best of cases, no more than a week, signora.”

  She stuck her hands in her hair.

  “But I’ll go crazy! What the hell am I going to do in a hole like this?”

  Despite her obnoxious words and manner, the woman was unable to make Montalbano dislike her.

  “You can go visit the Greek temples of Montelusa,” he suggested, half seriously and half mockingly.

  “And then what?”

  “Then there’s the museum.”

  “And then what?”

  “I dunno, you could visit some of the neighboring towns. At Fiacca, for example, they make a kind of pizza called tabisca, which has—”

  “I’ll need a car.”

  “Can’t you use your niece’s?”

  She looked at him in amazement.

  “What niece?”

  3

  Maybe she has more than one niece, the inspector thought.

  “Vanna.”

  The woman looked at him as if he were speaking in tongues.

  “Vanna?!”


  “Yes, looks about thirty, with glasses and black hair, lives in Palermo, and her surname is . . . wait . . . ah, Digiulio.”

  “Ah, yes. She’s already left,” the woman replied abruptly.

  Montalbano noticed that, before replying, she had exchanged a quick glance with the captain. But he realized that this wasn’t the time to press the matter.

  “Perhaps you could rent a car, with or without a driver,” Dr. Raccuglia suggested.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said. “And now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  She withdrew into her cabin.

  “Nice little disposition,” said the lieutenant.

  Captain Sperlì rolled his eyes heavenward, as if to evoke all the things he had to put up with, then threw his hands up.

  “I think you wanted to ask me something,” the doctor said to the inspector.

  “It’s no longer important,” Montalbano replied.

  He had other things to think about.

  When they went back out on deck, the inspector noticed that there was now a huge motorboat moored alongside the yacht, so big he’d only seen its equal in some 007 movies. And, lo and behold, it was flying a Panamanian flag.

  “Did that just come in?” he asked the lieutenant.

  “No, that cruiser’s been in the harbor for the past five days. It’s here for an engine check. They realized it wasn’t running properly and summoned a technician from Amsterdam.”

  Back on the wharf, Montalbano read the cruiser’s name: Ace of Hearts. Dr. Raccuglia said goodbye to the two men and headed for his car.

  “There’s something I want to ask you,” the lieutenant said to Montalbano.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why were you so interested in the Vanna even before they told us they’d found the dinghy with the corpse in it?”

  Smart question, worthy of a cop, and it put the inspector in a bit of a quandary. He decided to sing only half the Mass to the lieutenant.

  “That niece I mentioned, the one the lady said had just left, had turned to the police—”

  “I see,” said Garrufo.

  “I think you’ll be hearing from me again very soon,” Montalbano said to him.

  “I’m at your service.”

  They shook hands.

  He followed the lieutenant’s car for a short distance, waited for him to park, get out, and go into the Harbor Office, then waited five more minutes and did the same himself.

  “Can I help you?” the guard asked him.

  “I need some information on recruitment.”

  “First door on the right.”

  Behind a counter sat an old officer with the Settimana Enigmistica in his hand.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Inspector Montalbano,” said the inspector, showing the man his badge.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Were you on duty here this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember whether a young woman of about thirty with glasses came in here asking if you had any news of a yacht, the Vanna, which was—”

  “Just a second,” the officer interrupted him. “I remember the girl perfectly well, but she didn’t ask me anything about a yacht.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Look, Inspector, you’re the fourth person to come into this office all day. Three men, counting you, and one girl. How could I be mistaken?”

  “And what did she ask you?”

  “She asked me if there was a sailor who worked here at the Harbor Office named . . . Give me a minute to check, because I also asked the Coast Guard . . . Here it is, Angelo Spitaleri, a cousin of hers.”

  “And does he work here?”

  “No.”

  That girl, whose real name might be anything at this point, had taken him for a nice little ride, no doubt about it.

  A little wet dog, she had seemed to him! He’d even felt sorry for her!

  Whereas in fact she must be a very great actress. He could only imagine how hard she must have laughed inside at this inspector whom she was able to manipulate like a puppet.

  But what could be her reason for telling him such a pile of lies? She must have had a purpose. But what?

  Despite the late hour, he returned to the station. Gallo was still there.

  “Listen, do you remember the license-plate number of the car belonging to the girl who spent the day here?”

  “I didn’t look, Chief. All I remember is that it was a blue Fiat Panda.”

  “So there’s no way to identify her?”

  “I’m afraid not, Chief.”

  The inspector called Catarella in.

  “That girl from this morning . . . ,” he began.

  “The one ’at was waitin’ inna waitin’ room?”

  “That’s the one. Did she come and talk to you at any point or ask you anything?”

  “She come once, Chief.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She wannit a know where there’s a batroom.”

  “And did she go?”

  “Yessir, Chief. I’s ’er escort.”

  “Did she do anything strange?”

  Catarella blushed.

  “I dunno.”

  “What do you mean, ‘You don’t know’? Did she or didn’t she?”

  “How’s am I asposta know what the young lady did inna batroom? I ’eard ’er pull the chain, but—”

  “I wasn’t referring to what she did in the bathroom! I meant did she do anything strange when you were escorting her?”

  “I don’ remimber, Chief.”

  “All right, then, you can go.”

  “Unless you’s referrin’ to the noise.”

  “What noise?”

  “Seein’ as how the foresaid young lady was carryin’ a kinda cloth handbag in ’er hand, as the foresaid young lady was goin’ in, the foresaid handbag crashed aginst the door frame, producin’ the foresaid noise.”

  Montalbano could barely refrain from getting up and pummelling him.

  “And what kind of noise was it?”

  “Like a kinda heavy, metal-like ting. An’ so I axed m’self wha’ coulda made the noise. An iron bar? A horseshoe? A li’l branze statue? A—”

  “Could it have been a weapon?” the inspector cut in, interrupting the litany.

  “A dagger?”

  “Or a gun, a pistol.”

  Catarella thought this over for a minute.

  “Possible.”

  “All right, go get me the Palermo phone book.”

  It was something he had to do simply to set his mind at rest. He looked for Vanna Digiulio, thinking it would be useless, but then he actually found the name in the directory.

  He dialed the number and a woman’s voice answered, though it was quite different from the girl’s voice.

  “Hello, this is Dr. Panzica, I was looking for Vanna.”

  “Vanna? Vanna Digiulio?”

  What was so strange about that?

  “That’s right.”

  “But she died years ago!”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “And who are you, may I ask?”

  “Fabio Panzica, a probate lawyer. It was over a question of inheritance.”

  At the mere mention of the word inheritance, people almost always rush forward faster than a school of starved fish. And this case was no exception.

  “Perhaps it would be better if you gave me a few more details,” the woman said.

  “Gladly. But who are you, if I may ask?”

  “I am Matilde Mauro. I was Vanna’s best friend, and she left me her apartment in her will.”

  And, sure as death, Signora Matilde now was hoping for a supplement to that inheritance.

  “May I ask, Signora Mauro, how Vanna died?”

  “On a mission. The helicopter she was in crashed. She was unharmed but immediately captured. Since they thought she was a spy, she was tortured and then killed.”

  Montalbano balked.

  “But when was this? And
where?”

  “In Iraq. Two months before Nasiriyah.”

  “Why was this never reported?”

  “Well, it was a covert mission, as they say. I can’t tell you any more than that.”

  And he didn’t want to know any more, either. It was an interesting case but, as far as he was concerned, he was merely wasting his time.

  “I thank you for your courtesy, signora, but . . . Do you, by any chance, know any other Vanna Digiulios?”

  “No, I don’t, I’m sorry.”

  Dining on the veranda was out of the question. True, half a day had gone by without more rain, but it was still too damp. He set the table in the kitchen, but didn’t feel much like eating. He was still smarting from being made a fool of by the girl.

  He sat down, picked up a pen and a sheet of paper, and started writing a letter to himself.

  Dear Montalbano,

  Glossing over the distinction of Dipshit Emeritus that you earned by letting the so-called Vanna Digiulio (clearly an assumed name) lead you around by the nose, I feel I have no choice but to bring the following to your attention:

  1) Your meeting with Vanna was pure chance. But as soon as she learned that the person taking her to safety was you, a well-known police inspector, she was able to exploit the situation with great skill and lucidity. What does this mean? That Vanna is a person endowed with quick reflexes and a keen ability to adapt to unforeseen situations in order to gain a maximum advantage from them. As for her humble, wet-dog manner, which touched you so deeply, that was just a put-on, not an amateur but a professional performance, staged to fool a sitting duck (rhymes with stupid fuck) like you.

  2) There is no doubt that Vanna was aware of the imminent arrival of the Vanna.

  3) There is no doubt that Vanna is not the niece of the yacht’s owner.

  4) There is no doubt, however, that she is, in some way, and for reasons unknown, known to the owner and to Captain Sperlì (the glance they exchanged was rather telling).

  5) There is no doubt that Vanna has never been aboard the Vanna.