Now more than ever.
The first thing Poldi did when she got home was reexamine her corkboard and go through her notes. What did she know? Where had she got to? Who could be ruled out?
She made another list.
UNRESOLVED
red sand
topographical map
cash at Valentino’s
knockout drops
Femminamorta
Valérie’s phone
murder motive
Montana (personal)
RESOLVED
Tannenberger (Mr X)
Montana (personal)
A definite misunderstanding. Poldi felt in her handbag and found the paper napkin with the list of names.
RUSSO
PATANÈ
TANNENBERGER
VALÉRIE
HÖLDERLIN MIMÌ
TURI
One of them had called Valentino from Valérie’s phone. All of them had been at the wedding party. One of them must have slipped the knockout drops into her wine. One of them had broken into her house and possibly killed the unknown cat as well.
One of them had killed Valentino.
But why?
Poldi stepped back from her corkboard for a better overall view, but it wasn’t enough, so she went up to the roof. To the sea, Etna and the lion. And there she asked herself another question: why had the intruder run such a risk for the sake of a stone lion that might earn him a mere thousand euros? The lion itself clearly disapproved of this question, because it promptly looked a trifle more dyspeptic, but Poldi was undeterred. The only explanation she could find was that the intruder must have been interested in something more than just the lion.
In no time at all Poldi had armed herself with a hammer and chisel and was preparing to take up where the intruder had left off. It was a devil of a job. Valentino must have used the hardest cement in Italy. The sweat was trickling from under Poldi’s wig after only a few hammer blows, but she persevered until she had chipped off the cement all round the base of the lion and was able to detach it from the wall completely with a vigorous jerk.
Panting hard, Poldi hefted the lion off the wall and onto the floor of the terrace. Clunk, clunk, clunk. Something went rolling across the floor. A small metal capsule that had been lodged in a recess in the base of the stone gatekeeper: an old, egg-shaped tea infuser composed of two halves screwed together. Inside was a closely written inventory with prices listed in date order. In short, the murder motive.
“The winner takes it all,” I said when Poldi told me all this.
“As I told you,” she said. “At that moment I also recalled what Tannenberger had said in Munich – that Valentino had found something someone would pay him a lot of money to keep quiet about. I naturally realized that that something could only be this list.”
“And who was Valentino putting the squeeze on?”
“My, aren’t you impatient? One thing at a time.”
Poldi did, of course, have a definite suspicion, but she had to prove it before she could rub Montana’s nose in it. And in order to do that she first had to stir up a lot of dust. Red dust.
But one thing at a time. First came some arithmetic. Poldi added up the individual sums on the list and arrived at a total of over two million euros. The most expensive item was a complete seventeenth-century fresco for half a million. There couldn’t have been a better motive for murder.
Still taking one thing at a time, Poldi found that the last item on the list was dated more than a year earlier. She compared that date with the newspaper reports of thefts from old country houses and found a match. The first report of such a theft was dated one day later. The subsequent dates also predated similar newspaper reports by a day or two. Poldi said “Bingo”, kissed her corkboard, and blessed Uncle Martino for his thorough research work. Uncle Martino had Swiss ancestors, and that leaves its genetic mark on a person. Swissness combined with oriental generosity and Sicilian crisis management produces psychological mettle of the very finest quality.
Still taking one thing at a time, Poldi made it her next step to check off all the listed dates on a calendar, and was surprised to find that every one of them had fallen on a Saturday.
“And what does that tell us?” she asked me later.
“No idea.”
“Think. Why Saturday, do you reckon?”
“Go on, tell me.”
“A little tip: because Sunday is the Lord’s day, and one can have a good lie-in.”
“What’s the connection between that and theft?”
“Why, nothing as a rule. Not unless the thief has a strenuous full-time job and needs to recuperate if he spends the whole night stealing from country houses.”
“That’s pretty far-fetched,” I ventured to object.
“But I’d recognized the intruder, don’t forget, so I was bound to put two and two together.”
At that point in her investigations, Poldi had a flash of inspiration. She was “in the zone”. It was pure intuition. She had simply seen the full picture. Going to the phone, she called Valérie.
“Just a quick question, my dear. I need an address from you.”
That evening she rang the doorbell of a small house situated on a bend in the Provinciale just before Riposto. Not the best of locations, it must be said, and the house itself was a little old cottage with peeling walls. Behind it, however, Poldi made out an almond orchard, and no one who owns a cottage and an almond orchard is a total pauper.
The windows of the little house were tightly shuttered in the usual Sicilian way, and no sounds were coming from inside. It wasn’t until she had rung the bell a second time that Poldi heard a suspicious voice.
“Who is it?”
“Donna Poldina.”
Poldi heard shuffling footsteps and coughing. Then the door opened a crack and a face filled with suspicion and apprehension peered out of the frowsty interior.
“What do you want?”
“Good evening, Turi. I think we need to talk.”
The old agricultural labourer peered around mistrustfully.
“I’m on my own, Turi, and that’s the way it’ll stay if you let me in.”
“I can’t think what you want from me, Donna Poldina.”
Poldi said nothing.
Turi hesitated for a moment, then sighed and let her in. The house was gloomy and stuffy. The heat of the day still lingered in its interior, which was redolent of sweat, old age and solitude. Two well-fed cats were romping around on the worn old sofa in the living room, which also contained a shabby carpet and a flat-screen television. The whole house shook as a lorry thundered past outside.
“Let’s go into the orchard,” said Turi. “It’s quieter out there. Would you like some iced tea?”
“Please,” said Poldi. The old man was limping, she saw. “How’s the leg?”
Turi turned and gave her a sorrowful look. “Oh, Donna Poldina, you almost shot me like a mad dog.”
Poldi nodded. “You shouldn’t have jumped over the wall like that.”
“But you fired at me.”
“I didn’t. I just shouted ‘Bang’.”
“You shouted what?”
“Bang.”
“You didn’t fire?”
“Certainly not.”
“But I heard the bullet whizz past me.”
“Pure imagination. My old musket can’t fire.”
Turi shook his head in bewilderment. “I’m getting too old for these things.”
“How old are you, Turi?”
“Seventy-two.”
“You really ought to retire.”
“How can I, Donna Poldina? I can’t survive on my pension alone.” Having rinsed two glasses, he took an old mineral-water bottle full of amber-coloured iced tea from the refrigerator and filled them.
“Would you care for some lemon ice in it?”
“Yes please.”
Taking a spoon, Turi scooped some water ice from a plastic mug, carefully stirred it int
o the golden liquid, and then led the way out into the orchard. The forty-odd almond trees arrayed there in neat rows were heavy with furry green capsules. Turi had planted a vegetable garden along the wall and installed a plastic table and two chairs nearby. In the background the traffic on the main road roared past like an unpleasant but inextinguishable memory, though the orchard itself made a quiet, peaceful impression. The two cats, which had followed Turi and Poldi outside, were aimlessly roaming around and mewing. Turi coaxed them over by clicking his tongue. They played coy at first, but then the fatter of the two leapt onto his lap and consented to be stroked. The other did the honours with Poldi.
“Nice orchard,” said Poldi.
“A lot of work.”
Poldi stroked the cat, sipped her iced tea, which tasted both sweet and bitter, and waited.
“How did you recognize me?” asked Turi.
“When you raised your hands on the roof, one finger of your left-hand glove hung limp.”
Turi held up his left hand, the one with the little finger missing. “Madonna, you mean to say you noticed that in the dark?”
“To be honest, it only occurred to me this morning.” Poldi’s cat had evidently had enough. It leapt off her lap and retired into the shade of an almond tree, leaving a warm patch of white hairs on her skirt. My aunt stroked the cat hairs into a little ball with her fingers. “Somebody left a dead cat outside my front door this morning. With its throat cut.”
“Madonna,” Turi exclaimed in dismay. “Surely you don’t think I —”
“No, not now. Any idea who it could have been?”
He slowly shook his head, which might have meant either that he really didn’t know, or that he didn’t want to say. “May he roast in hell.”
“He will.”
“I didn’t kill Valentino.”
“So who did?”
“If I knew that, I’d have gone to the police a long time ago, believe me. Valentino was a good lad.”
“And there’s no one you suspect?”
Turi shook his head again, this time decisively. He stared at his almond trees in silence.
“Who was Valentino blackmailing?” asked Poldi. “Russo or Patanè?”
“I don’t know, Donna Poldina. I had an idea Valentino was in some kind of trouble, but he never spoke to me about it.”
“Then why did you call him from Valérie’s phone the night before his death?”
“What? I didn’t. Why should I use Signorina Belfiore’s telephone, anyway? I have a mobile phone of my own. Besides, everyone knows that phone is rubbish.”
Poldi thought for a moment. “We’re getting nowhere, Turi.”
The old man stroked his cat. “Are you going to the police, then?”
A difficult question. Poldi sighed. It was such a nice evening, too. The moon was rising above the almond trees, greeted by countless cicadas.
“You know the joke about God making Sicily out of bits of clay left over from the five continents?” asked Poldi.
“The one where he creates the Sicilians to even things up?”
“That’s the one.”
Turi nodded. “Great joke. Why?”
Poldi shrugged her shoulders. “I suddenly remembered it, that’s all. You’re still a thief and a burglar, Turi.”
“I’m really sorry I broke in, I shouldn’t have got involved, but I’m no thief.”
“No? What about all those country houses?”
“But Donna Poldina, those weren’t robberies.”
And he proceeded to explain.
When Poldi got home late that evening with a basket of ripe tomatoes and a big lump of pasta di mandorle, she was in high spirits. The first thing she did was strike Turi off her list of suspects, which now read:
RUSSO
PATANÈ
TANNENBERGER
VALÉRIE
HÖLDERLIN MIMÌ
TURI
Only five names left, and one of those she could really have struck off after listening to Turi’s account, but she was reluctant to be overhasty. One thing at a time. She didn’t want to call Montana either, for one thing because of the lido episode but also because she had given Turi her word. Besides, one important piece of the puzzle was still missing: the scene of the crime.
But Poldi was a step closer to that as well.
Despite the lateness of the hour, she called Aunt Teresa.
“Has something happened?” Teresa demanded, instantly on the alert.
“Don’t worry, I’m absolutely fine.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“No, I’m stone-cold sober. Listen, I need your help – or rather, Martino’s. Could the two of you drop in here early tomorrow morning?”
Teresa’s suspicions were promptly aroused, of course. “What’s it about?”
“Why,” said Poldi with lamblike innocence, “the case, of course.”
A brief silence.
“I thought you intended to drop it.”
“I did, but there’s just been an important development. It’s like a stalled car. If we give it a little push, it may start. Then the case will be solved.”
Teresa reinjected some steel into her voice. “Tell all that to Montana. You’re off the case, Poldi.”
“You’ve no idea how utterly depressed I’m feeling.”
My Auntie Poldi was adept at subtle hints, disguised threats and delicate allusions.
“Is that a threat, Poldi?”
“No, it’s just that I’m so emotionally unstable.”
Teresa emitted a grunt of disapproval. “What sort of help?”
“Just local knowledge, that’s all. We might go on a little trip.”
“A trip?”
“Not far. Please, Teresa.”
Poldi heard her sister-in-law say something unintelligible to Martino, the only word she distinguished being “amore”. Soon afterwards she heard Totti bark and knew it was a done deal.
Martino, Teresa and Totti appeared on the doorstep on the stroke of nine the next morning. Poldi, who was again wearing her khaki linen outfit with the uniform jacket, had everything ready. On the table in the courtyard was a pitcher of ice-cold almond milk made with Turi’s pasta di mandorle, and beside it the photo of the topographical map, the rolled-up strip of paper from the lion, and a map of Sicily with the thefts of recent months marked on it. Poldi was trembling with excitement. So was Totti, and Martino was only just controlling himself. Aunt Teresa alone remained entirely cool because Poldi’s little attempt at blackmail still rankled with her. She calmly sampled the almond milk.
“Excellent. How did you make it?”
“With my informant’s pasta di mandorle.”
Teresa ignored the keyword. “It’s really excellent.”
Poldi got the message. “Please forgive me, Teresa. The bit about being depressed just slipped out.”
Teresa put her glass down. “So who is this informant?”
When describing this scene to me in September, my Auntie Poldi broke off to interpolate a little footnote. “The thing is,” she said, “all your aunts are Taureans, which means they never bear a grudge. They’re the opposite of Scorpios, and I know what I’m talking about. Make one mistake with a Scorpio, drop one little clanger, and you’ll be on their blacklist for the rest of your days. Sooner or later, when you’ve forgotten all about it long ago – ouch, they sting you.”
“Who was the Scorpio in this case?” I asked.
“Oh, that would be going too far.”
“I mean, did that play a role in your investigations?”
Poldi looked at me as if I’d just discovered the formula for world peace. Without another word she disappeared into her bedroom, rummaged in the cardboard box containing her investigative notes, and eventually turned up what she was looking for.
“Hallelujah,” I heard her cry. “Now I’ll believe anything.”
“So who was the Scorpio?” I asked when she returned.
Instead of replying she showed me a s
lip of paper.
“All three?” I exclaimed in bewilderment.
“You bet. And one of them is Valentino’s murderer.”
But back to that morning in the courtyard. Poldi kept quiet about the identity of her “informant”, as she had promised. With due brevity, she gave an account of recent developments, including the dead cat, the restoration of her memory and the discovery of the antiquities price list.
“My informant confessed that he took part in the thefts with Valentino. But they weren’t real thefts because they all took place with the tacit approval of the owner of the houses, who naturally took his cut.”
“Why on earth should he do such a thing?”
“Because he’s broke.”
“Then he could simply have sold the houses.”
“Yes, but only with the land that goes with them, and that’s what the gentleman wanted to hang onto.”
“Who?” demanded Teresa.
“Mimì Pastorella di Belfiore, of course. All the looted houses belong to him. That’s to say, the ownership of some of the properties is unclear. He may not have wished to go shares with his relations.”
“Then it remains theft,” said Teresa.
“In principle, yes,” Poldi conceded. “Valentino used that to blackmail Patanè too.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s obvious.”
“Patanè is Valentino’s murderer, you mean?” Uncle Martino chimed in.
“I’m convinced of it. Patanè compelled my informant to break in and steal the lion. That’s why it was probably him that slipped the knockout drops into my wine, the same as he did with Valentino. So he’s the murderer. I’m sure it was also him that left the dead cat outside my door.”
“You must speak to Montana at once, then.”
Poldi shook her head. “I must prove it first, and for that we must find the scene of the crime.”
“We?”
“Yes. The thing is, Valentino told me before his death that he had something important to do at Femminamorta, so I assumed that Valérie had something to do with it, because of the lion and Russo and so on. But yesterday my informant hinted that this wasn’t necessarily so. Because – brace yourselves – there isn’t just one Femminamorta in Sicily, there’s a whole bunch of them.”
Teresa and Martino exchanged a look.
Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions Page 21
