So he moved on to the Mercedes. The road maps in the glove compartment didn’t have any particular routes highlighted, and the car’s documents were all in order. He lowered the visors, examined the CDs one by one, stuck his hands in the side pockets, pulled out the ashtray, got out, opened the hood, saw only the motor in there. He went behind the car, opened the trunk: spare tire, jack, red triangle. He closed it.
He felt a kind of ever-so-light electric shock and reopened the trunk. Here was the detail he’d neglected. A tiny paper triangle sticking out from under the rubber carpeting. He leaned forward for a better look: It was the corner of a linen envelope. He eased it out with two fingers. It was addressed to Signor Angelo Pardo, and Signor Angelo Pardo, after opening it, had put three letters, all addressed to him, inside it. Montalbano pulled out the first and looked down at the signature. Elena. He put it back in the linen envelope, closed up the car, turned off the lights in the garage, lowered the metal shutter and, with the linen envelope in hand, headed back to his car, which he’d left a few yards away from the garage.
“Stop! Thief!” yelled a voice that seemed to come down from the heavens.
He stopped and looked up. On the top floor was an open window; against the light, the inspector recognized His Royal Majesty Victor Emmanuel III, pointing a hunting rifle at him.
What, was he going to start arguing from two stories away with a raving lunatic at that hour of the night? Anyway, when that guy got a bee up his ass, there was nothing doing. Montalbano turned his back to him and walked away.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Montalbano kept walking, and His Majesty fired. Everyone knew, of course, that the last Savoys were notoriously trigger-happy. Fortunately, Victor Emmanuel was not a good shot. The inspector dived into his car, turned on the motor, and drove off, screeching his tires even worse than the cops in American movies, as a second shot ended up some thirty yards away.
As soon as he got home, he started reading Elena’s letters to Angelo. All three had the same two-part plot.
Part one consisted of a kind of passionate erotic delirium—clearly, Elena had written the letters right after a particularly steamy encounter—where she remembered, with a wealth of detail, what they had done and how many orgasms she had had during Angelo’s endless tric-troc.
Montalbano stopped, perplexed. Despite his personal experience and his readings of a variety of erotic classics, he didn’t know what “tric-troc” meant. Maybe it was a term from the sort of secret jargon that lovers always invent between themselves.
Part two, on the other hand, was in a completely different tone. Elena imagined that Angelo, when he went on his business trips to the different towns in the province, had girlfriends galore in each place, like those sailors who supposedly have a woman in every port. This drove her mad with jealousy. And she warned him: If she could ever prove that Angelo was cheating on her, she would kill him.
In the first letter, in fact, she claimed she had followed Angelo in her car all the way to Fanara, and she asked him a precise question: Why had he stopped for an hour and a half at Via Libertà 82, seeing that there was neither a pharmacy nor a doctor’s office at that address? Did another mistress of his live there? Whatever the case, Angelo would do well to remember: Any betrayal meant sudden, violent death.
When he finished reading the letter, Montalbano wasn’t entirely convinced. True, these letters proved Michela right, but they didn’t correspond to the Elena he thought he’d met. It was as though they’d been written by a different person.
And anyway, why would Angelo have kept them hidden in the trunk of the Mercedes? Did he not want his sister to read them? Was he perhaps embarrassed by the first part of the letters, which told of his acrobatics between the sheets with Elena? That might explain it. But did it make sense that Elena, who was so attached to money, would murder the person who was giving her a great deal of money, if only in the form of presents?
Without realizing it, he grabbed the telephone.
“Hello, Livia? Salvo here. I wanted to ask you something. In your opinion is it logical for a woman to kill a lover who lavishes her with expensive gifts, just because she’s jealous? What would you do?”
There was a long silence.
“Hello, Livia?”
“I don’t know if I would kill a man out of jealousy, but if he woke me up at five o’clock in the morning, I certainly would,” said Livia.
And she hung up.
He got to work a bit late. He hadn’t managed to fall asleep until around six, after tossing and turning with a single thought lodged in his brain—namely, that according to the most elementary rules, he should have apprised Prosecutor Tommaseo of Elena Sclafani’s situation. Whereas he didn’t feel like it. And the problem set his nerves on edge just enough to prevent him from sleeping.
One look at his face sufficed to tell the entire police station that this wasn’t a good day.
In the closet there was somebody else in Catarella’s place. Minnitti, a Calabrese.
“Where’s Catarella?”
“He stayed up all night working at the station, Chief, and this morning he collapsed.”
Maybe he’d taken Angelo Pardo’s computer home with him, because there was no sign of it anywhere. The moment the inspector sat down at his desk, Fazio came in.
“Two things, Chief. The first is that Commendator Ernesto Laudadio came here this morning.”
“And who is Commendator Ernesto Laudadio?”
“You know him well, Chief. He’s the man that called us when he got it in his head you wanted to rape the murder victim’s sister.”
So His Majesty Victor Emmanuel III went by the name of Ernesto Laudadio! And while he was earnestly lauding God, he was busting his fellow man’s balls.
“What’d he come for?”
“He wanted to report a crime committed by persons unknown. Apparently last night somebody tried to force open the victim’s garage door, but the commendatore foiled the plot, firing two rifle shots at the unknown man and chasing him away.”
“Did he injure him?”
Fazio answered with another question.
“Are you injured, Chief?”
“No.”
“Then the commendatore didn’t injure anyone, thank God. Would you please tell me what you were doing in that garage?”
“I’d gone there earlier to look for the strongbox, since both you and I had forgotten to look there.”
“That’s true. Did you find it?”
“No. Then I went back later, because all at once a small detail came back to me.”
He didn’t tell him what this detail was, and Fazio didn’t ask.
“And what was the second thing you wanted to tell me?”
“I got some information on Emilio Sclafani, the schoolteacher.”
“Oh, good, tell me.”
Fazio slipped a hand in his jacket pocket, and the inspector shot him a dirty look.
“If you pull out a piece of paper with the teacher’s father’s name, the teacher’s grandfather’s name, the teacher’s father’s grandfather’s name, I’ll—”
“Peace,” said Fazio, removing his hand from his pocket.
“Will you never rid yourself of this public-records vice?”
“Never, Chief. So anyway: The teacher is a repeat offender.”
“In what sense?”
“I’ll explain. The man’s been married twice. The first time, when he was thirty-nine and teaching at Comisini, with a nineteen-year-old girl, a former pupil of his from the liceo. Her name was Maria Coxa.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“Albanian. But her father was born in Italy. The marriage lasted exactly one year and three months.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. At least that’s what people say. After being married a year, the bride realized that it was mighty strange that every evening when her husband lay down beside her, he would say, ‘Good night, my love,’ kiss her o
n the forehead, and go to sleep. Get the drift?”
“No.”
“Chief, our schoolteacher did not consummate.”
“Really?”
“So they say. So his very young wife, who needed to consummate—”
“Went consummating elsewhere.”
“Exactly, Chief. A colleague of the husband’s, a gym teacher…you get the idea. Apparently the husband found out but didn’t react. One day, however, he came home at an unexpected time of day and caught his wife trying out a particularly difficult exercise with his colleague. Things got nasty and reversed.”
“Reversed?”
“I mean our schoolteacher didn’t touch his wife, but took it out on his colleague and beat him to a pulp. It’s true the gym teacher was stronger and in better shape, but Emilio Sclafani put him in the hospital. He went berserk; something turned him from a patient cuckold into a wild beast.”
“What was the upshot?”
“The gym teacher decided not to press charges, Sclafani split up with his wife, got himself transferred to Montelusa, and got a divorce. And now, in his second marriage, he finds himself in the exact same situation as in the first. That’s why I called him a repeat offender.”
Mimì Augello walked in and Fazio walked out.
“What are you still doing here?” Mimì asked.
“Why, where am I supposed to be?”
“Wherever you want, but not here. In fifteen minutes Liguori’s going to be here.”
The asshole from Narcotics!
“I forgot! I’ll just make a couple of phone calls and run.”
The first was to Elena Sclafani.
“Montalbano here. Good morning, signora. I need to talk to you.”
“This morning?”
“Yes. Can I come by in half an hour?”
“I’m busy until one o’clock, Inspector. If you want, we could meet this afternoon.”
“I could make it this evening. But will your husband be there?”
“I already told you that’s not a problem. At any rate, he’s coming back this evening. Listen. I have an idea. Why don’t you invite me out to dinner?”
They agreed on the time and place.
The second call was for Michela Pardo.
“I’m sorry, Inspector, I was just on my way out. I have to go to Montelusa to see Judge Tommaseo. Fortunately, my aunt was able…What is it?”
“Do you know Fanara?”
“The town? Yes.”
“Do you know who lives at Via Libertà 82?”
Silence, no answer.
“Hello, Michela?”
“Yes, I’m here. It’s just that you took me by surprise…Yes, I know who lives at 82 Via Libertà.”
“Tell me.”
“My aunt Anna, my mother’s other sister. She’s paralyzed. Angelo is—was—very close to her. Whenever he went to Fanara, he always dropped in to see her. But how did you know—”
“Routine investigation, I assure you. Naturally I have many other things to ask you.”
“You could come by this afternoon.”
“I have a meeting with the commissioner. Tomorrow morning, if that’s all right with you.”
He dashed out of the office, got in the car, and drove off. He decided he needed to have another look at Angelo’s apartment. Why? Because. Instinct demanded it.
Inside the front door, he climbed the silent staircase of the dead house and cautiously opened, without a sound, the door to Angelo’s flat, terrified that His Majesty Victor Emmanuel III might burst out of his apartment with a dagger in his hand and stab him in the back. He headed to the study, sat down behind the desk, and started to think.
As usual, he sensed that something didn’t tally but couldn’t bring it into focus. So he got up and started walking around the apartment and fussing about in each room. At one point he even opened the shutter to the balcony off the living room and went outside.
In the street right in front of the building, a convertible had stopped, and two young people, a boy and a girl, were kissing. They had the radio—or whatever it was—at full volume.
Montalbano leapt backwards. Not because he was scandalized by what he saw, but because he finally understood why he’d felt the need to return to the apartment.
He went back to the study, sat down, searched for the right key in Angelo’s set, put it in the lock to the middle drawer, opened this, took out the little book entitled The Most Beautiful Italian Songs of All Time, and started leafing through it.
“Pale little lady, sweet fifth-floor neighbor / From across
the way…”
“Today the carriage may seem / A strange relic from the
olden days…”
“Don’t forget these words of mine / Little girl, you don’t
know what love is…”
All the songs dated back to the forties and fifties. He, Montalbano, probably wasn’t even born when people were singing those songs to themselves. And, more importantly—or so it seemed to him—they had nothing to do with the CDs in the Mercedes, which all had rock music.
8
There were numbers written in the narrow white margin on each page of the booklet. The first time he’d seen them, the inspector had thought they involved some sort of analysis of the meter. Now, however, he realized that the numbers referred to only the first two lines of each song. Next to the lines Pale little lady, sweet fifth-floor neighbor / From across the way, were the numbers 37 and 22, respectively; next to Today the carriage may seem / A strange relic from the olden days, 23 and 29; while Don’t forget these words of mine / Little girl, you don’t know what love is had 26 and 31. And so on down the line for all the other ninety-seven songs in the book. The answer came to him all too easily: Those numbers corresponded to the total number of letters in the respective line of the song. A code, apparently. The hard part was figuring out what it was for. He put the booklet in his pocket.
As he was about to enter the Trattoria da Enzo, Montalbano heard someone call him. He stopped and turned. Elena Sclafani was getting out of a sort of red missile, a convertible, which she had just parked. She was wearing a track suit and gym shoes, her long hair flowing onto her shoulders and held in place only by a light blue headband slightly above her forehead. Her blue eyes were smiling, and her red lips, which looked painted, were no longer pouting.
“I’ve never eaten here before. I’ve just come from the gym, so I’ve got a hearty appetite.”
A wild animal, young and dangerous. Like all wild animals.
And, in the end, like all youth, the inspector thought with a twinge of melancholy.
Enzo sat them down at a table a bit apart from the others. But there weren’t many people there in any case.
“What would you like?” he asked.
“Is there no menu?” asked Elena.
“It’s not the custom here,” said Enzo, looking at her disapprovingly.
“Would you like a seafood antipasto? It’s excellent here,” said Montalbano.
“I eat everything,” Elena declared.
The look Enzo gave her suddenly changed, turning not only benevolent but almost affectionate.
“Then leave it up to me,” he said.
“There’s a slight problem,” said Montalbano, who wanted to cover himself.
“What’s that?”
“You suggested we go out to lunch together, and I was happy to accept. But…”
“Come on, out with it. Your wife—”
“I’m not married.”
“Something serious?”
“Yes.” Why was he answering her? “The problem is that when I eat, I prefer not to talk.”
She smiled.
“You’re the one who’s supposed to ask the questions,” she said. “If you don’t, then I don’t have to answer. And anyway, if you really must know, when I do something, I like to do only that one thing.”
The upshot was that they scarfed down the antipasto, the spaghetti with clam sauce, and crispy fried mu
llets, all the while exchanging only inarticulate sounds along the lines of ahm, ohm, and uhm, which varied only in intensity and color. And a few times they said ohm ohm in unison, while looking at each other. When it was over, Elena stretched her legs under the table, half closed her eyes, and heaved a deep sigh. Then, like a cat, she stuck out the tip of her tongue and licked her lips. She very nearly started purring.
The inspector had once read a short story by an Italian author that told of a country where making love in public not only caused no scandal but was actually the most natural thing in the world, whereas eating in the presence of others was considered immoral because it was such an intimate thing. A question came into his head and almost made him laugh. Want to bet that before long, because of age, he would be content to take his pleasure from women merely by sitting at the same table and eating with them?
“So where do we go now to talk?” asked Montalbano.
“Do you have things to do?”
“Not immediately.”
“I’ve got another idea. Let’s go to my place, I’ll make you some coffee. Emilio’s in Montelusa, as I think I already told you. Did you bring your car?”
“Yes.”
“Then just follow me, so you can leave whenever you like.”
Keeping up with the missile was not easy. At a certain point Montalbano decided to forget it. He knew the way, after all. In fact, when he arrived, Elena was waiting for him at the front door, a gym bag hanging from her shoulder.
“That’s a very nice car you’ve got,” said Montalbano as they were going up in the elevator.
“Angelo bought it for me,” the girl said almost indifferently while opening the door, as though she were talking about a pack of cigarettes or something of no importance.
This girl’s trying to pull the rug out from under me, thought Montalbano, feeling angry either because he’d thought of a cliché or because the cliché corresponded exactly with the truth.
“It must have cost him a lot of money.”
“I’d say so. I need to sell it as soon as possible.”
She led him into the living room.
The Paper Moon Page 8
