IM4 The Voice of the Violin (2003)

by Andrea Camilleri

  From whom could they have learned this if not from the manager himself? The inspector imagined Pizzotta on the phone, summoning reporters with the promise of shocking revelations on the young, attractive, and, most importantly, naked murder victim...

  'Do whatever the hell you want. Listen, did Mrs Licalzi normally wear any of the jewellery she had? Did she own a watch?'

  'Of course she wore it. Discreetly, though. Otherwise, why would she bring it all here from Bologna? As for the watch, she always wore a splendid, paper-thin Piaget on her wrist.'

  Montalbano thanked him, hung up, and told Signora Clementina what he'd just learned. She thought about it a minute.

  'We must now establish whether we are dealing with a thief who became a murderer out of necessity, or with a murderer who is pretending to be a thief

  'For no real reason -- by instinct, I guess -- I don't believe in this thief.'

  'You're wrong to trust your instinct,'

  'But, Signora Clementina, Michela Licalzi was naked, she'd just finished taking a shower. A thief would have heard the noise and waited before coming inside.'

  'And what makes you think the thief wasn't already inside when the lady came home? She comes in, and the burglar hides. When she goes into the shower, he decides the time is right. He comes out of his hiding place, steals whatever he's supposed to steal, but then she catches him in the act, and he reacts in the manner he does. He may not even have intended to kill her.'

  'But how would this burglar have entered?'

  'The same way you did, Inspector.' A direct hit, and down he went. Montalbano said nothing.'

  'Now for the clothes,' Signora Clementina continued. If they were stolen just for show, that's one thing. But if the murderer needed to get rid of them, that's another kettle of fish. What could have been so important about them?'

  'They might have represented a danger to him, a way of identifying him,' said Montalbano.

  'Yes, you're right, Inspector. But they clearly weren't a danger when the woman put them on. They must have become so afterwards. How?'

  'Maybe they got stained,' Montalbano said, unconvinced. 'Maybe even with the killer's blood. Even though...'

  'Even though?'

  'Even though there was no blood around the bedroom. There was a little on the sheet, which had come out of Mrs Licalzi's mouth. But maybe it was another kind of stain. Like vomit, for example.'

  'Or semen,' said Mrs Vasile Cozzo, blushing.

  It was too early to go home to Marinella, so Montalbano decided to put in an appearance at the station to see if there were any new developments.

  'Oh, Chief, Chief!' said Catarella as soon as he saw him. 'You're here? At least ten people called, and they all wanted a talk to you in poisson! I didn't know you was comin' so I says to all of 'em to call back tomorrow morning. Did I do right, Chief?'

  'You did right, Cat, don't worry about it. Do you know what they wanted?'

  'They all said as how they all knew the lady who was murdered.'

  On the desk in his office, Fazio had left the plastic bag with the papers they'd seized from room 118. Next to it were the notices of incoming calls that the manager Pizzotta had turned over to Gallo. The inspector sat down, took the diary out;ofxthe bag, and glanced through it. Michela Licalzi's diary was as orderly as her hotel room: appointments, telephone calls to make, places to go. Everything was carefully and clearly written down.

  Dr Pasquano had said the woman was killed sometime between late Wednesday night and early Thursday morning, and Montalbano agreed with this. He looked up the page for Wednesday, the last day of Michela Licalzi's life -- 4 pm., Rotondo's Furniture; 4.30 p.m., phone Emanuele; 5 p.m., appt with Todaro gardeners; 6 p.m., Anna; 8 p.m., dinner with the Vassallos.

  The woman, however, had made other engagements for Thursday, Friday and Saturday, unaware that someone would prevent her from attending them. On Thursday, again in the afternoon, she was to have met with Anna, with whom she was to go to Loconte's (in parentheses: 'curtains') before ending her evening by dining with a certain Maurizio. On Friday she was supposed to see Riguccio the electrician, meet Anna again, then go out to dinner at the Cangelosi home. On the page for Saturday, all that was written down was: '4.30 pm, flight from Punta Raisi to Bologna.'

  It was a large-format diary. The telephone index allowed three pages for each letter of the alphabet, but she'd copied down so many phone numbers that in certain cases she'd had to write the numbers of two different people on the same line.

  Montalbano set the diary aside and took the other papers out of the bag. Nothing of interest. Just invoices and receipts. Every penny spent on the construction and furnishing of the house was fastidiously accounted for. In a square-lined notebook Michela had copied down every expense in neat columns, as if preparing herself for a visit from the revenue officers. There was a cheque book from the Banca Popolare di Bologna with only the stubs remaining. Montalbano also found a boarding pass for Bologna--Rome--Palermo from six days earlier, and a return ticket, Palermo--Rome--Bologna, for Saturday at 4.30 pm.

  No sign whatsoever of any personal letter or note. He decided to continue working at home.

  FIVE

  The only things left to examine were the notices of incoming calls. The Inspector began with the ones Michela had collected in the little desk in her hotel room. There were about forty of them, and Montalbano arranged them according to the name of the person calling. In the end he was left with three small piles somewhat taller than the rest. A woman. Anna, would call during the day and usually leave word that Michela should call her back as soon as she woke up or when she got back in. A man, Maurizio, had rung two or three times in the morning, but normally preferred the late-night hours and always insisted that she call him back. The third caller was also male, Guido by name, and he phoned from Bologna, also late at night; but, unlike Maurizio, he never left a message.

  The slips of paper the hotel manager had given to Gallo were twenty in number, all from the time Michela left the hotel on Wednesday afternoon to the moment the police showed up at the hotel. On Wednesday morning, however, during the hours Mrs Licalzi devoted to sleep, the same Maurizio had asked for her at about ten thirty, and Anna had done likewise shortly thereafter. Around nine o'clock that evening, Mrs Vassallo had called looking for Michela, and had rung back an hour later. Anna had phoned back shortly before midnight.

  At three o'clock on Thursday morning, Guido had called from Bologna. At ten thirty, Anna, apparently unaware that Michela hadn't returned to the hotel that night, called again; at eleven, a certain Mr Loconte called to confirm the afternoon appointment. At midday, still on Thursday, a Mr Aurelio Di Blasi phoned and continued to phone back almost every three hours until early Friday evening. Guido from Bologna had called at two o'clock on Friday morning. As of Thursday morning, Anna had started calling frantically and also didn't stop until Friday evening.

  Something didn't add up. Montalbano couldn't put his finger on it, and this made him uncomfortable. He stood up, went out on the veranda, which gave directly onto the beach, took off his shoes, and started walking in the sand until he reached the water's edge. He rolled up his trouser legs and began wading in the water, which from time to time washed over his feet. The soothing sound of the waves helped him put his thoughts in order. Suddenly he understood what was tormenting him. He went back in the house, grabbed the diary, and opened it up to Wednesday. Michela had written down that she was supposed to go to dinner at the Vassallos' house at eight. So why had Mrs Vassallo called her at the hotel at nine and again at ten? Hadn't Michela shown up for dinner? Or did the Mrs Vassallo who phoned have nothing to do with the Vassallos who'd invited her to dinner?

  He glanced at his watch: past midnight. He decided the matter was too important to be worrying about etiquette. There turned out to be three listings under Vassallo in the phone book. He tried the first and guessed right.

  'I'm very sorry. This is Inspector Montalbano.'

  Inspector! I'm Erne
sto Vassallo. I was going to come to your office myself tomorrow morning. My wife is just devastated; I had to call a doctor. Is there any news?'

  'None. I need to ask you something.'

  'Go right ahead, Inspector. For poor Michela--'

  Montalbano cut him off.

  'I read in Mrs Licalzi's diary that she was supposed to have dinner--'

  This time it was Ernesto Vassallo who interrupted.

  'She never showed up, Inspector! We waited a long time for her. But nothing, not even a phone call. And she was always so punctual' We got worried, we thought she might be sick, so we rang the hotel a couple of times, then we tried her friend Anna Tropeano, but she said she didn't know anything. She said she'd seen Michela at about six and they'd been together for roughly half an hour, and that Michela had left saying she was going back to the hotel to change before coming to dinner at our place.'

  'Listen, I really appreciate your help. But don't come to the station tomorrow morning, I'm full up with appointments. Drop by in the afternoon whenever you want. Goodnight.'

  One good turn deserved another. He looked up the number for Aurelio Di Blasi in the phone book and dialled it. The first ring wasn't even over when someone picked up.

  'Hello? Hello? Is that you?'

  The voice of a middle-aged man, breathless, troubled.

  'Inspector Montalbano here.'

  'Oh.'

  Montalbano could tell that the man felt profound disappointment. From whom was he so anxiously awaiting a phone call?

  'Mr Di Blasi, I'm sure you've heard about the unfortunate Mrs--'

  'I know, I know, I saw it on TV.'

  The disappointment had been replaced by undisguised irritation.

  'Anyway, I wanted to know why, from midday on Thursday to Friday evening, you repeatedly tried to reach Mrs Licalzi at her hotel.'

  'What's so unusual about that? I'm a distant relative of Michela's. Whenever she came to Vigata to work on the house, she would lean on me for help and advice. I'm a construction engineer. I phoned her on Thursday to invite her here to dinner, but the receptionist said she hadn't come back that night. The receptionist knows me, we're friends. And so I started to get worried. Is that so hard to understand?'

  Now Mr Di Blasi had turned sarcastic and aggressive. The inspector had the impression the man's nerves were about to pop.

  'No.'

  There was no point in calling Anna Tropeano. He already knew what she would say, since Mr,Vassallo had told him beforehand. He would summon Ms Tropeano to the station for questioning. One thing at this point was certain: Michela Licalzi had disappeared from circulation at approximately seven o'clock on Wednesday evening. She had never returned to the hotel, even though she'd expressed this intention to her friend.

  He wasn't sleepy, so he lay down in bed with a book, a novel by Marco Denevi, an Argentine writer he liked very much.

  When his eyes started to droop, he closed the book and turned off the light. As he often did before falling asleep, he thought of Livia. Suddenly he sat up in bed, wide awake. Jesus, Livia! He hadn't phoned her back since the night of the storm, when he'd made it seem as if the line had been cut. Livia clearly hadn't believed this, since in fact she'd never phoned back. He had to set things right at once.

  'Hello? Who is this?' said Livia's sleepy voice.

  It's Salvo, darling.'

  'Oh, let me sleep, for Christ's sake!'

  Click. Montalbano sat there for a while holding the receiver,

  It was eight thirty in the morning when Montalbano walked into the station carrying Michela Licalzi's papers. After Livia had refused to speak to him, he'd become agitated and unable to sleep a wink. There was no need to call in Anna Tropeano; Fazio immediately told him the woman had been waiting for him since eight

  'Listen, I want to know everything there is to know about a construction engineer from Vigata named Aurelio Di Blasi'

  r 'Everything eveiything?' asked Fazio. 'Eveiything everything.'

  'To me, everything everything means rumours and gossip, too.' 'Same here.'

  'How much time do I get?'

  'Come on, Fazio, you playing the unionist now? Two hours ought to be more than enough.'

  Fazio glared at his boss with an air of indignation and went out without even saying goodbye.

  In normal circumstances. Anna Tropeano must have been an attractive woman of thirty, with jet-black hair, dark complexion, big, sparkling eyes, tall and full-bodied. On this occasion, however, her shoulders were hunched, her eyes swollen and red, her skin turning a shade of grey.

  'May I smoke?' she asked, sitting down.

  'Of course.'

  She lit a cigarette, hands trembling. She attempted a rough imitation of a smile.

  'I quit only a week ago. But since last night I must have smoked at least three packets.'

  'Thanks for coming in on your own. I really need a lot of information from you.'

  'That's what I'm here for.'

  Montalbano secretly breathed a sigh of relief. Anna was a strong woman. There wasn't going to be any sobbing or fainting. In fact, she had appealed to him from the moment he saw her in the doorway.

  'Even if some of my questions seem odd to you, please try to answer them anyway.'

  'Of course.'

  'Married?'

  'Who?'

  'You.'

  'No, I!m not. Not separated or divorced, either. .And not even engaged. Nothing. I live alone.' 'Why?'

  Though Montalbano had forewarned her, Anna hesitated a moment before answering so personal a question.

  'I don't think I've had time to think about myself, Inspector. A year before graduating from university, - my father died. Heart attack. He was very young. The year after I graduated, my mother died. I had to look after my little sister, Maria, who's nineteen now and married and living in Milan, and my brother, Giuseppe, who works at a bank in Rome and is twenty-seven. I'm thirty-one. But aside from all that, I don't think I've ever met the right person.'

  There was no resentment. On the contrary, she seemed slightly calmer now. The fact that the inspector hadn't launched immediately into the matter at hand had allowed her in a sense to catch her breath. Montalbano thought it best to steer clear for a while.

  'Do you live in your parents' house here in Vigata?'

  'Yes, Papa bought it. It's sort of a small villa, right where Marinella begins. It's become too big for me.'

  'The one on the right, just after the bridge?'

  'That's the one.'

  'I pass by it at least twice a day. I live in Marinella myself.'

  Anna Tropeano eyed him with mild amazement What a strange sort of policeman! 'Do you work?'

  'Yes, I teach at the liceo scientifico of Montelusa.'

  'What do you teach?'

  'Physics.'

  Montalbano looked at her with admiration. In physics, at school, he'd always been between a D and an F. If he'd had a teacher like her in his day, he might have become another Einstein.

  'Do you know who killed her?'

  Anna Tropeano jumped in her chair and looked at him imploringly: we were getting along so well, why do you want to play policeman, which is worse than playing hunting dog?

  Don't you ever let go? she seemed to be asking.

  Montalbano, who understood what the woman's eyes were saying to him, smiled and threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation, as if to say: It's my job.

  'No,' replied a firm, decisive Anna Tropeano.

  'Any suspicion?'

  'No'

  'Mrs Licalzi customarily returned to her hotel in the wee hours of the morning. I'd like to know--'

  'She was at my house. We had dinner together almost every night And if she was invited out she would come along afterwards.'

  'What did you do together?'

  'What do two women friends usually do when they see each other? We talked, we watched television, we listened to music Sometimes we did nothing at all. It was a pleasure just to know the other one was th
ere.'

  'Did she have any male friends?'

  'Yes, a few. But things were not what they seemed. Michela was a very serious person. Seeing her so free and easy, men got the wrong impression. And they were always disappointed, without fail'

  'Was there anyone in particular who bothered her a lot?'

  'Yes.'

  'What's his name?'

  'I'm not going to tell you. You'll find out soon enough.'