6) There is no doubt that by saying Vanna had left, and thereby ending all discussion of the subject, the yacht’s owner wanted to avoid arousing suspicion in you, my dear inspector.
7) There is no doubt that, in having no doubts, you find yourself, without a doubt, neck-deep in shit.
So perhaps you’d better start thinking of some doubts you may have.
Come to think of it, when Vanna was drinking her caffelatte, she told you some things about her supposed aunt that she had no reason whatsoever to tell you. But she said them anyway.
A few examples:
1) That the aunt’s husband, Arturo, was very rich.
2) That he had bought the Vanna and then left it to his wife in his will.
3) That he was always at sea (like his widow, after him).
4) That nobody knew how he had earned all the money he had. In other words, with this last statement, Vanna left the field open to every supposition, even the worst.
Why did she want to instill such doubt in you? She could have avoided it. But she didn’t.
Think about it.
Affectionately yours,
Since it was still too early to go to bed, he sat down in the armchair and turned on the TV. On the Free Channel, his friend, the newsman Nicolò Zito, was interviewing a man of about fifty with a beard, who turned out to be Captain Zurlo, chief navigation officer of the port.
Naturally, they were talking about the topic of the day, the Vanna’s discovery of the stray dinghy. Zito’s questions were, as always, quite intelligent.
“Captain Zurlo, how far from the mouth of the port did the people on the Vanna say they were when they spotted the dinghy?”
“A little more than an Italian mile.”
“Why do you say ‘Italian’ mile? Aren’t all nautical miles the same?”
“Theoretically speaking, a nautical mile, being one sixty-sixth of one degree of a meridian, should correspond to 1.852 meters. But in fact, in Italy it is equal to 1.851 meters and 85 centimeters; in England it’s 1.853 meters and 18 centimeters; in the U.S. it’s—”
“Why these differences?”
“To make life complicated for us.”
“I know exactly what you mean. Therefore we can say that the dinghy with the corpse inside was very close to the port.”
“Quite so.”
“Could you explain for us why the Vanna, after taking the dinghy and corpse on board, took so many hours to enter the port? Was it because of the storm?”
The captain smiled.
“It wasn’t actually a sea storm, far from it.”
“No? Then what was it?”
“Technically speaking, it’s called a strong gale, corresponding to winds of force 9 on the Beaufort scale.”
“In plain language?”
“It means that the wind is approaching forty-five knots and waves can reach a height of twenty feet. The Vanna was in danger of crashing against the eastern cape. Since the auxiliary engine wasn’t working very well, they had to go back out to the open sea and find a more favorable tack.”
“How come the dinghy hadn’t capsized?”
“Chance, or maybe it was caught between two conflicting currents.”
“Here comes the most important question. In your opinion, with your many years of experience, was the dinghy being carried away from the port by the currents, or was it heading towards the port, also on the currents?”
Montalbano pricked up his ears.
“It’s sort of hard to say with any certainty. You see, there’s always a current flowing out of the port, but it’s also true that, given the weather conditions, this permanent current was nullified, so to speak, by the stronger currents coming in from the southeast.”
“But what’s your personal opinion?”
“I wouldn’t want to be held to this in an official report, but I’d say the dinghy was probably being carried by the outward current.”
“So it had come from inside the harbor?”
“What do you mean by ‘inside’?”
“The central wharf, for example.”
“No, if the dinghy had started there, it would have ended up against the eastern cape.”
“So where did it come from, in your opinion?”
“Probably from a point much closer to the mouth of the harbor.”
“Thank you very much, Captain.”
As the inspector lay down in bed, something was troubling him. But this did not prevent him from getting a good night’s sleep.
When he got to Vigàta just before nine o’clock the next morning, he didn’t go straight to the station but pulled up in front of the Harbor Office.
“Can I help you?” asked the usual guard.
“I’d like to speak with Lieutenant Garrufo.”
“Please ask at the information desk.”
The officer at the counter looked as if he hadn’t moved since the day before. He was in the exact same position, holding the same issue of the Settimana Enigmistica in his hand. Maybe he never went home to sleep. Maybe in the evening a sailor came in and covered him with an oilcloth, turned off the light, and closed the door behind him. The following morning, the cleaning crew would wash the oilcloth, dust the man off, and the officer would go back to work.
“I’m looking for Lieutenant Garrufo.”
“He’s not in.”
“Is there anyone here in his place?”
“Of course. Lieutenant Belladonna.”
“I’d like to—”
“Just a minute. You, if I remember correctly, are Inspector Montalbano.”
The man picked up the telephone, dialed a number, said a few words, and hung up.
“The lieutenant is waiting for you. Second floor, second door on the right.”
The door was open and the inspector instinctively poked his head inside. He was sure it was the wrong room, and so he knocked on the next door down.
“Come in.”
He opened the door and went in. The officer sitting behind the desk stood up. Montalbano realized he’d got the wrong room again. The man had the rank of captain.
“I was looking for Lieutenant Belladonna.”
“It’s the door right before this one.”
So he hadn’t been mistaken after all. Lieutenant Belladonna was a woman.
“May I come in? I’m Inspector—”
“Please come in and sit down,” she said, getting up to greet him.
The lieutenant not only lived up to her surname, she exceeded it. She wasn’t only beautiful; she was a knockout. For a brief moment, Montalbano was speechless. She was a good six inches taller than him, dark, with bright, sparkling eyes, red lips in no need of lipstick, and, above all, a very pleasant manner.
“I’m entirely at your disposal,” she said.
I wish! thought the inspector.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware of the corpse that was found by the people on a yacht sailing—”
“I know the whole story.”
“There’s one thing I’d like to know. When a craft wants to call at our port, does it have to give you advance notice of its arrival?”
“Of course.”
“And its time of arrival?”
“Especially.”
“Why?”
“For any number of reasons: ships maneuvering inside the harbor, lack of berths, availability of navigation officers . . .”
“I see. If it’s not too much trouble for you, could you tell me how far in advance the Vanna notified you that she would be calling at port here?”
“Yes, I can. Come with me.”
Following behind her, Montalbano was spellbound by the undulating motion her skirt made as she walked. They came to a vending machine.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“I’d love some.”
Montalbano let her work the machine. He was utterly inept at such things. He always pushed the wrong buttons, and instead of coffee he got plastic-wrapped sandwiches, ice- cream cones, or candies.
The coffee was good.
“Please wait for me here,” she said.
The lieutenant opened a door over which there was a sign saying AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and went inside. She returned five minutes later.
“Actually, the Vanna wasn’t expected,” she said. “They contacted us at six o’clock yesterday morning, saying they were forced to head for our harbor because of the terrible weather conditions.”
This was the confirmation he had wanted of the concern that had come into his mind before falling asleep. How did the girl who called herself Vanna know that the yacht was supposed to arrive that morning? She must have been informed very early that same morning. Had she received this information from someone at the Harbor Office, or from the yacht itself?
Montalbano thanked the woman and took his leave.
“I’ll come downstairs with you,” she said. “I’d like to have a cigarette outside.”
They smoked their cigarettes together. She said her name was Laura. And since they hit it off well, they each smoked a second cigarette while telling each other a few things about themselves. When they said goodbye, it was clear that they would have liked to smoke another ten cigarettes together.
4
Getting out of the car, he saw two workmen on the roof of the police station. As he watched them, he felt suddenly worried.
“Get me Fazio,” he said to Catarella, going in.
His office had been cleaned, but the ceiling was covered with damp spots. Once they dried, they would have to be painted over. He also noticed with some satisfaction that there wasn’t a single document to be signed on his desk.
“Good morning, Chief.”
“Listen, Fazio, what sort of protection do these roofers have? I wouldn’t want our police station to contribute to the increase in work-related murders.”
For years that’s what he’d been calling them, murders, not work-related deaths, because he was more than convinced that ninety percent of the fatal accidents were the fault of the work providers.
“Not to worry, Chief. They’re wearing safety harnesses. You may not have noticed.”
“So much the better. Fazio, I need you to do one of those things you’re so good at.”
“What?”
“I want you to go aboard the Vanna—with the excuse, say, that you need to draw up a complete list of the people to be summoned by the prosecutor—and get me all the vital information you can, official and unofficial, on the owner of the boat, the captain, and the four crew members.”
Fazio gave him a questioning look.
“I’m sorry, Chief, but what would any of that information have to do with the corpse they found?”
Smart question, but dictated by the fact that Fazio knew nothing of what the inspector had discovered concerning the so-called niece, Vanna.
“I’m just curious.”
Fazio looked even more doubtfully at him.
“And what do you plan to do with all this official and unofficial information on them?” he asked after a pause.
“I want to know what the mood is on that boat, what sort of relationships they have among themselves . . . You know, people who spend so much time together, in such a small space, morning, noon, and night, often end up hating each other or can’t stand one another . . . Sometimes a word slips out and the whole house of cards collapses.”
This explanation clearly failed to convince Fazio, but he didn’t venture to ask anything else.
Towards late morning, the inspector decided to phone the medical examiner.
It was probably too early to do so, but there was no harm in trying.
“Montalbano here. I’m looking for Dr. Pasquano.”
“The doctor’s busy,” the operator said.
“Could you do me a favor?”
“If possible.”
“Could you find out from his assistant when the doctor plans to perform the autopsy on the body that was found at sea yesterday?”
“Just a minute.”
By the time the other person came back, Montalbano had already reviewed the multiplication tables for seven and eight. It was a good way to make the time pass when he had to wait.
“He’s working on it right now.”
“I’m so sorry, Inspector,” Enzo said, throwing his hands up the moment Montalbano walked into the trattoria.
“What are you sorry about?”
“I haven’t got any fresh fish. With the bad weather yesterday . . .”
“What have you got?”
“An antipasto of caponata made by my wife, a first course of pasta alla norma or with broccoli, and then, as a second course, an eggplant parmesan that’ll have you licking your fingers.”
He was right. But instead of licking his fingers or his mustache, the inspector decided to order a second helping of eggplant.
Once outside, he realized he needed to take a long meditative-digestive walk all the way out to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty. He’d really stuffed himself this time. He even decided to go a bit out of his way, so he could walk past the Vanna and the Ace of Hearts docked beside it.
There wasn’t anybody on the deck of either boat, which probably meant that they, too, were eating.
When he got to the end of the jetty, he sat down on the usual flat rock. The spot afforded him a good view of the yacht and cruiser.
Halfway through his cigarette, he noticed a wooden crate, of the sort used for fish, floating on the water near the Ace of Hearts. He remembered what the harbor captain, Zurlo, had said on TV, and decided to wait and see where the currents would take the crate.
Sticking a hand in his pocket, he counted the cigarettes he had left. There were about ten; that would suffice.
A good hour later, the crate got wedged against the breakwater protecting the arm of the jetty. Captain Zurlo had been right. The outward currents, starting from the quay, necessarily carried all floating objects as far as the eastern arm, exactly where he was sitting.
He had an idea.
Making his way over the rocks, slipping and cursing, he was able to recover the crate. Grabbing it, he brought it back to the flat rock, and then chucked it back into the sea.
This time, it took barely half an hour for him to see that the crate was heading straight out of the harbor.
He got back in his car and headed off to Montelusa to talk with Dr. Pasquano.
“The doctor’s in his office,” said the operator/doorman.
Arriving at the door, Montalbano knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Nothing. So he turned the doorknob and went in.
Pasquano was sitting behind the desk, engrossed in writing, and didn’t even look up to see who had come in.
“I’ll bet my balls,” he said, “that it was the woefully impolite Inspector Montalbano who just entered the room.”
“Your balls are safe, Doctor. You’re right on the money.”
“Only momentarily safe, because you certainly will now try to break them.”
“Right again.”
“If only I could be so right when I play poker!”
“How’d it go at the club last night?”
“Don’t remind me! I had three-of-a-kind in my hand and asked for two cards and . . . Never mind. What do you want?”
“You know damn well what I want.”
“Just over forty, athletic build, in perfect physical condition, white skin, no sign of surgery, teeth that had never seen a dentist, perfect heart and lungs, and he wore neither glasses nor contact lenses. Is that enough for you?”
“Yes, for when he was alive. And after his death?”
“Let’s say that when he was found, he’d been dead for at least three days.”
“Was he killed when they smashed up his face that way?”
“Nuh-unh,” said the doctor, shaking his head.
“Shot or stabbed?”
“Nuh-unh.”
“Strangled?”
“Nuh-unh.”
“You could at least say if I’m getting war
mer or colder! Eh? A little help, the way they do on quiz shows?”
“Poisoned, my friend.”
“With what?”
“Common rat poison.”
Montalbano was so obviously bewildered that Pasquano noticed.
“Do you find that disturbing?”
“Yes. Nowadays, poison is—”
“No longer in fashion?”
“Well . . .”
“Listen, I would strongly advise all aspiring murderers to use it. A gunshot makes such a racket that the neighbors are sure to hear it; stabbing spatters blood all over the place: on the floor, the walls, your clothes . . . Whereas poison . . . Don’t you agree?”
“And what about his face?”
“They worked on that postmortem.”
“Apparently to make it harder to identify him.”
“I’m glad to see that, despite your considerably advanced age, you, Inspector, still possess a certain degree of lucidity.”
Montalbano decided to ignore the provocation.
“What state are the fingertips in?”
“Intact, in keeping with the rest of the body except the face.”
“Which means his fingerprints are not on file.”
“Impeccable conclusion, deduced by extreme logical rigor. Congratulations. And now, if you’re done turning my balls to dust . . .”
“One last question. Was he married?”
“You’re asking me? All I know is that there was no trace of a ring on any of his fingers. But that means nothing.”
“Another thing. Can you tell me—”
“Oh, no you don’t, my friend! You said your question about his marital status was the last. Keep your word for once in your life!”
Since he was already in Montelusa, he went to central police headquarters, to see if he could talk to someone in Forensics. He knew that the chief of Forensics, Vanni Arquà, whom he couldn’t stand, was on vacation, with his deputy Cusumano taking his place.
The Age of Doubt Page 4
