Death at Sea: Montalbano's Early Cases

by Andrea Camilleri

  Montalbano had no choice but to take a long walk along the jetty, otherwise he risked falling asleep the moment he returned to his office.

  He found Augello at the station, but not Fazio.

  “Feel like going to see the prosecutor, Mimì?”

  “But we said we’d—”

  “There’s a new development.”

  And he told him, adding:

  “The grocer lady is willing to testify that Annarosa was allergic to apricots. Apparently her killer didn’t know that.”

  “Therefore they hadn’t known each other for very long.”

  “That’s quite likely. Oh, and Mimì, I want you to get everything back: her house keys, purse, everything.”

  Just as Augello was going out, Fazio came in. Montalbano also told him about the girl’s allergy. And Fazio said the same thing as Mimì.

  “That means the killer hadn’t known Annarosa for very long.”

  “Don’t you, too, get started on that,” Montalbano reacted.

  “Get started on what?”

  “Look, you can’t be sure about that. Maybe the killer had been with her for a good while but they’d never eaten together or talked about fruit. Or else . . .”

  “Or else . . .”

  “Nothing. Just an idea I had. Too complicated to explain. Never mind.”

  * * *

  Augello got back around six. The prosecutor had opened a case file for murder by persons unknown. The investigation could now get under way. Mimì had also brought back the keys and the large handbag. Inside the latter, aside from a wallet with IDs and five hundred lire, and the usual feminine things, including a little beauty kit, there was also a pair of clean panties and bra inside a plastic bag.

  “Let’s go and have a look at the girl’s home,” said Montalbano.

  “Want to bet we’ll find her parents there?” said Augello.

  “No, we won’t,” Fazio interjected, being always the best informed of the three. “The girl’s mother, as soon as she heard the news, had a cardiac episode and was hospitalized, and her husband doesn’t want to leave her side.”

  Annarosa’s apartment was small and in perfect order. The armoire in the bedroom was full of very fine clothes and fancy underwear. In the little hallway was a second, tiny armoire. In the large, well-lit bathroom was a white chest stuffed full of creams, perfumes, little jars, and tubes. All the walls in the apartment were plastered with photos of her: in a bathing suit, in a long dress, in jeans, in skirt and blouse, as well as close-ups of her beautiful face. In one corner of the little living room was a tiny desk with a telephone and a small answering machine beside it.

  Montalbano pressed the “listen” button, and three messages began playing. The first was from Annarosa’s mother, who asked her to call back. The second was from a Milanese girlfriend who mentioned a photo shoot. The third was a male voice that said, “This is Giuliano,” and he, too, wanted Annarosa to call him back as soon as she returned. When the tape finished, a canned voice said these messages were left on the afternoon of the previous Friday. In a small closet they found a complete set of elegant suitcases, and another medium-sized one of a different color.

  “If you ask me,” said Augello, “the girl was not returning from a trip. And in fact we didn’t find any baggage in her car. She’d only brought what she needed to spend the night out.”

  “Okay, now we’ll ask for confirmation,” said Montalbano.

  When they were out on the street, the inspector went straight into the greengrocer’s shop.

  “I’m sorry, Signora, but do you remember the last time Annarosa bought some fruit from you?”

  “Of course I remember. She bought five apples. It was probably around eight o’clock last Saturday evening, ’cause I was already closing up shop.”

  “Did she say anything to you?”

  “She said: ‘I’ll see you Monday.’ Then she got in her car and left.”

  “How was she dressed?”

  “In jeans and a blouse, and wearing the usual coral necklace, which she was really fond of.”

  Montalbano and Fazio exchanged a meaningful glance. No trace of that necklace had been found in the overturned car.

  * * *

  They held a brief meeting at the station. The only way to find out more about Annarosa was to talk to Giuliano Toccaceli, her ex-boyfriend, the one who’d left a message. Fazio went to call him, and they arranged for him to come to the office at nine the following morning.

  Montalbano grabbed his agenda and went home, where he found Livia sitting on the veranda, watching the sea.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Training.”

  “For what?”

  “For getting used to your absence.”

  He noticed that Duilio, a fisherman, was pulling his boat to shore.

  “Excuse me just a minute.”

  Montalbano went down onto the beach, exchanged a few words with Duilio, and came back to the veranda.

  “Excuse me just a minute.”

  Livia looked at him in shock and was even more shocked when she heard the sound of Salvo getting back in his car and driving away.

  Half an hour later he returned with a large plastic bag in his hand. In it, Livia got a glimpse of some wrapped-up panini and two bottles of wine.

  “Let’s go.”

  He took her by the hand and led her to Duilio’s boat.

  “Take off your sandals and help me get the boat in the water.”

  They ate and drank on the open sea, and spent three enchanted hours in the boat. They even made love in it. Then, upon returning, Livia went to bed, and Montalbano joined her.

  * * *

  Before receiving Toccaceli, Montalbano pointed out to Fazio and Augello that if the girl bought fruit at eight in the evening and was killed just after midnight, after having eaten, she could not have gone very far from Vigàta. Then he had Giuliano come in.

  He was an elegant man of about forty with refined manners, the classic tall, dark, and handsome type. He wasn’t the least bit nervous.

  “Signor Toccaceli, as you were told over the phone, this is about the tragic accident that killed Annarosa Testa, who it turns out had been your girlfriend.”

  “Yes, we were together until late May. But what is there to discuss? Isn’t the whole thing pretty clear, unfortunately?”

  “The accident, yes, but what caused the accident is not clear. It could have been a sudden malaise that came over her as she was driving back to Vigàta around midnight, shortly after she’d finished dinner. Since you knew her well, we’d like to know whether, for example, she drank too much, or took drugs . . .”

  “Are you kidding?” Toccaceli snapped. “She was a very wholesome girl! I’m sorry, but didn’t the autopsy—”

  “It hasn’t been performed yet,” Montalbano lied.

  “Ah, okay. The only thing she had a weakness for was fruit. God, did she ever eat a lot of it! Except for apricots, that is. She was allergic to them.”

  “Oh, really?” said Montalbano, showing interest.

  “Yes, she only needed to take one in her hand for her skin to break out in a rash and for her to start sneezing—”

  “Listen,” the inspector said, interrupting him. “After the two of you broke up, did you ever try to see Annarosa again?”

  Toccaceli became a little awkward.

  “I have to confess that . . . just last Friday I tried to call her. I wanted to see her again. I’ve never been able to forget her. I wanted her to come to the little house I have by the sea, near Montereale . . . But she adamantly refused.”

  “Do you know who she was seeing lately?”

  “I’ve heard a few rumors . . . but I wouldn’t in any way want to . . . Well, she had a favorite photographer of hers, named Giovagnoli, Marcello Giovagnoli, and apparently ove
r the last few months the two of them—”

  Montalbano stood up and held out his hand.

  “Thank you so much, and I apologize for having disturbed you. You’ve been extremely helpful.”

  Fazio saw the man out and immediately returned.

  “So, what was your impression?” the inspector asked his two assistants.

  “To me he seemed sincere,” said Mimì.

  “To me, too,” said Fazio.

  “To me he smells from a mile away,” said Montalbano.

  The other two gave a start.

  “I’d bet the family jewels that he’s the killer,” the inspector continued. “He’s one very clever son of a bitch. The minute he was told that an autopsy hadn’t been done yet he came out with the business about her allergy. And what had we been thinking? That the killer didn’t know that Annarosa was allergic to apricots. Therefore, since he himself knew, he couldn’t possibly be the killer. Secondly: It’s possible that Annarosa hadn’t erased his phone message because she wanted us to know. Thirdly: He told us—before we could find out on our own—that he has a little house at Montereale, in other words, not far from the Calizzi bend. How much do you want to bet that this photographer Giovagnoli also has a house near the Calizzi bend?”

  “So what’s the plan?” asked Fazio, ignoring the challenge of the bet.

  “You find out exactly where Toccaceli’s house is and let me know.”

  “If he’s as clever as you say, he’ll be hard to trap,” said Augello.

  “Mimì, sometimes these smarty-pants types get screwed by chance.”

  * * *

  Montalbano, however, was also of the opinion that chance sometimes needed a little help. And so, after midnight, and after giving Livia an excuse about having some late work to do, he left home and headed for Montereale. Fazio had told him that Toccaceli’s little house was green and on the beach, just below Punta Rosa. He had no trouble finding it. It was in a secluded spot. It took him about fifteen minutes to unlock the door using the various skeleton keys he’d brought with him. He focused all his attention on the dining room, where he thought the quarrel had taken place. It was clean and in perfect order. Toccaceli had surely gone over the whole place with a fine-tooth comb. Montalbano put on his gloves and started looking for something, without knowing what. An hour and a half later he still hadn’t found anything, and so he decided to move the furniture and have a look behind the different pieces.

  In this way, in a spot hidden behind one of the two rear feet of the hutch, he saw, almost directly against the wall, a tiny piece of red coral, which he picked up and examined. There was no doubt about it. It had been part of a necklace. Apparently the necklace was broken during a struggle, and Toccaceli had collected the pieces and thrown them away who knows where. But as chance would have it, he hadn’t seen that minuscule piece.

  He put it back in place, arranged the furniture, went out, locked the door again, and returned home.

  The following morning he went to see the commissioner and confessed to having conducted an unauthorized search. Burlando flew off the handle, and couldn’t even refrain himself from cuffing his subordinate upside the head, but then he did everything in his power to get the prosecutor to authorize a search.

  Toccaceli was arrested.

  He confessed he killed Annarosa because, after persuading her to spend the weekend with him, swearing he wouldn’t lay a hand on her, he’d lost his head after dinner, she’d refused, and . . .

  THE HONEST THIEF

  1

  As Fazio had gone to Palermo to accompany his father for a medical checkup and would be away for a few days, Montalbano summoned Augello when a certain Signor Donato Butera came into the station at nine o’clock one morning to report a burglary of his home.

  But it was immediately clear to both Montalbano and Augello that if they were going to deal with Butera they would have to be as patient as saints.

  Butera was a well-dressed man of sixty who, upon sitting down, removed his glasses, cleaned them with a handkerchief, adjusted his tie and the crease in his trousers, cleared his throat, pulled his shirt cuffs out from the sleeves of his jacket, adjusted his buttocks on the chair as best he could, and finally made up his mind to speak.

  “You must know, Mr. Inspector, that since I’m a widow and have been living alone ever since my only son, Jacono, went to work at a good job in Germany and even got married there, every evening when I come home, I prepare myself a little something to eat. After eating, I sit down in front of the TV with a flask of wine and watch a movie. And then, when I start to feel sleepy, I get up and go to bed.”

  He took off his glasses and started cleaning them again. Montalbano and Augello looked at each other in dismay. He sure took his time, this Signor Butera. Then the inspector, feeling a little impatient, said:

  “Signor Butera, I’m sorry, but you still haven’t told us your reason for coming here . . .”

  “Just be patient for a minute, and I’ll get to that. But first I have to tell you that before falling asleep, while I’m lying there with my eyes half-closed, I sometimes see characters from the movie walking around the room.”

  “You see scenes from the film?” Montalbano asked.

  “Not scenes, but characters. Like they were there in the flesh.”

  At this point Augello wanted more details.

  “When you’re watching the film, do you drink the whole flask of wine?”

  “Oh, yes. And, as I was about to say, that was why last night I didn’t worry about the man in the beret who was walking around in my bedroom.”

  Montalbano’s patience had run out, and he sat there in silence. Augello asked the questions.

  “But, so, was the man in the beret a character in the film or not?”

  “I thought he was, at least until this morning.”

  “And what happened this morning?”

  “You need to know something first.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “You need to know that before going to bed, I always take my wallet out of my trouser pocket and put it on the bedside table.”

  “Okay, now we know. Then what happened?”

  “This morning, when I looked inside my wallet, I realized there was only five hundred lire where last night I had fifteen hundred.”

  At this point the inspector decided to intervene.

  “Let me get this straight. So, you’re saying the burglar stole a thousand lire and left you five hundred?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”

  “Of course it does. Logically speaking, he should have taken all the money. But in fact he didn’t.”

  “Are you absolutely sure that there was fifteen hundred lire in your wallet the night before?”

  “Absolutely certain. I was given the money just before coming home, and then I checked again before putting my wallet on the nightstand.”

  “Was anything else stolen?”

  “No, sir, nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course! Just think, right next to the wallet was my watch—and it’s a good watch, which my wife, rest her soul, gave me as a present for our silver anniversary—and the burglar didn’t touch it.”

  “Did you notice any signs indicating that your front door had been forced?”

  “What kind of signs?”

  “Did it look like the lock had been tampered with?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What about the windows?”

  “They were all shut tight.”

  “So how do you think he got in?”

  “You’re asking me? Then what did I come here for? You’re the guys who’re supposed to find out.”

  You couldn’t say he was wrong.

  “All right, Signor Butera, please follow Inspector Auge
llo, who will take a statement from you. Have a good day.”

  * * *

  Augello returned fifteen minutes later.

  “If you ask me, he was drunk as a skunk and who the hell knows where he lost his thousand lire, if it was ever in his wallet in the first place,” said Augello.

  “I agree.”

  They were both wrong. And the first indications of their mistake came when Catarella informed them that a Signora Fodaro was there to see them. Who naturally was not named Fodaro but Todaro: Nunziata Todaro.

  “Mr. Inspector, I work nights lookin’ after a ninety-year-old woman. I go to her house at nine in the evening after the woman’s daughter has already put her to bed, and I spend the whole night there, till seven in the morning. My son Peppi, who isn’t married, lives with me. But by the time I come home in the morning he’s already gone, ’cause he leaves at six-thirty to go to work.”

  “Listen, signora . . .”

  “I get it, you want me to hurry up. But if I don’t explain the whole story to you good, you won’t understand a thing.”

  Montalbano and Augello exchanged glances and resigned themselves.

  “All right, go on.”

  “But this morning he was there.”

  “Who was there?” asked Augello, momentarily distracted.

  “What do you mean, ‘who’? My son Peppi was there. He hadn’t left for work yet.”

  “Was he unwell?” Montalbano ventured.

  “Nah, he wa’n’t no well or unwell, ’e was mad as a hornet!”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause he cou’n’t find his damned thirteen hunnert lire! All’s he could find was three hunnert!”

  “But where was the money supposed to be?”

  “On the kitchen table.”

  “Did you put it there yourself?”

  “I sure did! The night before, just before going out. He’d asked me for some money ’cause he had to pay the installment on a machine he uses in his workshop.”