A Nest of Vipers

by Andrea Camilleri

  Because it was one thing to send the killer of a good man to jail, and it was something else entirely to put away someone who had killed a stinking scoundrel.

  The other Montalbano, the one who lurked inside him, ready to pop up at the slightest excuse, immediately came forward.

  ‘Congratulations, Salvo. You really have a lofty sense of justice! Talk about double standards!’

  ‘You know that’s just the way I am.’

  ‘Then I guess you weren’t made right!’

  ‘No, I certainly wasn’t! And I don’t know what to do about it. If an honest man resolves to kill someone who has driven him to despair, I tend to take his side.’

  ‘And so, with that kind of thinking, you end up justifying those who take justice into their own hands.’

  ‘Not on your life! I’m only saying that when I have to put the handcuffs on a person like that, a person who rebels against his oppressor, I feel nothing but “comprassion”, as Catarella would say. And now that’s enough, because I have to go back to the office.’

  He took his time returning to the office as well, since there were still a few octopuses that hadn’t yet surrendered.

  *

  ‘Is Fazio here?’ he asked as he entered the station.

  ‘’E’s onna premisses, Chief.’

  ‘Tell him to come to my office.’

  The moment he set foot in his office, he noticed that the teetering stack of papers had disappeared from his desktop. Was it possible? Had a miracle occurred? Had the Good Lord ordered his angels to make all bureaucratic memos disappear from the face of the earth?

  Fazio came in with the plastic bag in his hand. ‘Oh, Chief, I removed the papers myself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’d fallen on the floor. I put them in the cupboard.’

  What a disappointment. For a moment, the inspector had hoped the Supreme Being had had a bout of good sense . . . Fazio, meanwhile, emptied the bag onto the desk.

  ‘We can have a look at these later,’ said Montalbano, gathering up the yellow envelopes with the pictures of the girls inside and putting them in the middle drawer.

  ‘I found something out about Barletta,’ Fazio said as he was sitting down.

  ‘Just one thing?’

  ‘I haven’t had much time yet, Chief. But what I did find out seems pretty important to me.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Barletta was a loan shark.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. Do you remember that great big clothing warehouse near the war memorial that went bankrupt?’

  ‘Sure, the Brancato warehouse.’

  ‘That’s the one. The bankruptcy was Barletta’s handiwork. He ate up Brancato’s capital with four hundred per cent interest. And he snatched up the warehouse while he was at it. They also told me Brancato wasn’t his only victim. Apparently another businessman committed suicide because of him.’

  That was all they needed. Not only was Barletta an unscrupulous businessman, a womanizer, and a blackmailer, he was also a loan shark!

  ‘Try to find out more.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Do you realize that with this wonderful news you’ve just brought me, half the people in town could now be considered suspects?’

  ‘You’re right, Chief, but that’s just the way it is. Where should we start, in your opinion?’

  Good question. The inspector hadn’t the slightest idea. Then the only thing possible came to mind.

  ‘Is Inspector Augello around?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Go and get him, would you?’

  While Fazio was out, Montalbano took the yellow envelopes out of the drawer and put them on the desk.

  ‘Hello,’ said Mimì Augello, coming in with Fazio behind him.

  ‘Hi, have a seat.’

  Picking up an envelope at random, the inspector pulled out a photo and looked at it.

  A naked young woman lay on a bed with her legs raised and spread as far as they would go.

  He showed it to Mimì.

  ‘You like the merchandise, sir?’ he asked in the tone of a street pedlar.

  ‘I’ll say!’ exclaimed Mimì.

  ‘Good. Then you and Fazio will stay here and examine these photos one by one. See if you can manage to recognize any of the girls. I’m going to Montelusa and will be back in about an hour and a half at the latest.’

  He got up.

  ‘Are you going to see the commissioner?’ asked Mimì.

  ‘Not a chance! No, I’m going to see Pasquano.’

  *

  The traffic seemed snakebitten, convulsive and chaotic, and the inspector, who didn’t like to drive, spent thirty minutes sweating more profusely than in a sauna.

  He pulled up in front of the institute, but before getting out of the car, he smoked a cigarette to settle his nerves and dry off a little.

  Then he made up his mind and went inside.

  ‘Is the doctor in?’ he asked the porter, who he knew.

  ‘He’s in his office.’

  ‘What kind of mood is he in?’

  ‘The usual.’

  Which meant proceed with caution.

  He knocked lightly at the door. No answer. He knocked a little harder. Nothing. And so he opened the door and went in.

  He was greeted by a yell.

  ‘You are the only person I know who will enter a room even if no one says to come in! And you are the only person I know liable to come and get in a good man’s way when he is hard at work!’

  ‘Does your work involve principally eating the four cannoli you have in front of you?’

  Pasquano chuckled.

  ‘They’re very good, you know. Would you like one?’

  Montalbano accepted. It was truly good, and he savoured it.

  ‘Now that you’ve satisfied your gluttony – which no doubt stems from your growing senility – do you mind telling me what the hell you want?’

  Always so courteous and kind, the doctor. ‘Can’t you guess?’

  ‘I can. But I enjoy hearing you ask me things.’

  Montalbano put on a very serious, concerned face. ‘I don’t know whether . . .’

  ‘Go on, go on.’

  ‘Would you do me a favour and lend me fifty thousand euros? I’m badly in need.’

  Pasquano did a double take. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘No, but since you like to hear me ask for things, I thought I would lay it on thick.’

  Pasquano started laughing.

  ‘You know I fell for it? You’re a good actor! Is that how you screw all the poor bastards who fall into your hands? My compliments. So, do you want to know about Ragioniere Barletta?’

  ‘If you would be so kind.’

  ‘My, my, such fancy language! But, just to make conversation and pass the time, tell me: how, according to your acute intelligence, do you think he was killed?’

  ‘By a gunshot to the base of the skull.’

  Pasquano looked at him with an air of commiseration and shook his head repeatedly.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fifty-eight.’

  ‘Then that doesn’t explain the deterioration of your brain, which must be premature. You’re too old to continue this job. Why don’t you retire? I’ve already told you a dozen times. Take the advice of a friend. It would be to your advantage, and it would be to mine, too, because I wouldn’t have you here every other day driving me mad.’

  ‘Doctor, between all your poker games and postmortems, have you ever stopped to think that you’re one year older than me?’

  ‘Of course, my friend, but age has nothing to do with it! My head works just fine!’

  ‘Which one?’

  Pasquano absorbed the blow in his own way. He threw his head back and started laughing to the point of tears. Then he caught hold of himself.

  ‘But can you explain to me how, with all your experience, you didn’t notice that there was—’

  ‘Not much blo
od spilt for the kind of wound it was?’

  ‘There you go!’

  ‘Well, I did notice, as you can see.’

  ‘And, if you noticed, why didn’t you work it out? Why didn’t you draw the obvious conclusion?’

  ‘Conclusions are your domain, Doctor, and I always respect assigned roles.’

  ‘You? Don’t make me laugh! Come on, out with your questions.’

  ‘Why did you want Forensics to examine the remains of the coffee?’

  ‘See? Even you worked that one out.’

  ‘Was he already dead when he was shot?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Was he poisoned?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘But why did the killer first poison him and then shoot him?’

  ‘That’s not my job to find out, but yours. All the same, I’ll give you a little hint, like they do on TV game shows: whoever said it was the same person?’

  ‘What time did he die?’

  ‘That’s the first intelligent question you’ve asked,’ said Pasquano. ‘No later than six a.m.’

  ‘What kind of poison?’

  ‘I can see that, however sporadically, your brain still functions. I’ll spare you the scientific name and tell you only that it produces immediate paralysis followed by sudden death.’

  ‘Let me get a handle on that.’

  ‘OK. But how long will that take? Because, if it’s going to be long, I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘Just a few more questions and you can eat the last cannolo.’

  ‘No, not “a few” more questions. That’s too vague. Let’s say two questions.’

  ‘OK. One: is it possible the paralysis brought on by the poison kept Barletta sitting up in his chair as if he was still alive?’

  ‘Quite possible.’

  ‘Had he had sexual relations?’

  ‘Barletta didn’t like water and didn’t wash very often. Yes, he had indeed had sexual relations.’

  ‘Can you tell me whether—’

  ‘Time’s up. I won’t see you to the door; you know the way out.’

  ‘Can you give me half a cannolo?’

  ‘Not even if you get down on your knees and beg.’

  *

  When he got back to the office, Pitrotta, a Vice Squad officer, was with Fazio and Augello.

  ‘We asked for help,’ said Mimì.

  ‘You were right. Any results?’

  ‘We’ve identified two girls. I recognized one, Pitrotta the other.’

  Montalbano looked inquisitively at the vice officer, who picked up an envelope with the name Janicka on it and handed it to him. Montalbano didn’t open it.

  ‘In the usual poses?’

  ‘In the usual poses.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘A Slavic girl, nineteen years old,’ said the vice officer. ‘We arrested her three months ago because she had no papers. I think she was repatriated.’

  ‘Try to confirm and then get back to me. Thanks, Pitrotta.’

  The officer said goodbye and left.

  ‘And who’s your girl?’ Montalbano asked Mimì.

  ‘This one,’ Augello replied, handing him an envelope with the name Stefania on it.

  ‘Which brothel did you meet her in?’

  Augello looked over at Fazio, who immediately got the message.

  ‘Excuse me, I’ll be back in five minutes,’ said Fazio, getting up hastily and going out.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I didn’t meet her in a brothel, but at some friends’ place. She’s twenty-one years old and works as a salesgirl in a perfume shop.’

  ‘And she prostitutes herself?’

  ‘Salvo, you’ve got to believe me: When you talk about women, you’re a hundred years behind the times.’

  ‘Then explain to me what kind of woman lets herself be photographed while she’s—’

  ‘She’s someone who’s OK with it if she feels like it.’

  ‘But she gets paid for it.’

  ‘Not always. Don’t start categorizing.’

  ‘Did you do it with her?’

  ‘I appreciate the delicacy with which you pose the question. I could have, but I decided not to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t trust her.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘She seemed like the clinging type, you know what I mean? The type liable to ring you at home . . . to write you notes – very dangerous notes. I keep away from women like that.’

  ‘You prefer the hit-and-run types?’

  ‘Listen, we’re not here to discuss my tastes in women. Do you want me to summon the girl here?’

  ‘No. You go and talk to her yourself, since you already know her.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Everything. How they started, how long it lasted, where they used to meet, why the relationship ended, what kind of man Barletta was, what kind of presents he gave her . . .’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Do you need the photos?’

  ‘No,’ said Mimì, handing him the envelope.

  Montalbano put it back with the others. What a fine collection Barletta had built up!

  Fazio returned.

  ‘Can I go?’ asked Augello.

  ‘Just five more minutes. Fazio, have a seat. Pasquano told me that Barletta wasn’t killed by a gunshot.’

  Fazio jumped out of his chair. ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So how’d he die?’

  ‘Poisoned. Somebody spiked his coffee.’

  ‘Mind telling me what you two are talking about?’ asked Augello, who wasn’t well informed about Barletta’s death.

  Montalbano brought him up to speed.

  ‘So there were two killers?’ Augello asked when he’d finished.

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘But what need was there to shoot him after he was already dead?’

  ‘I know a possible explanation.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The two killers acted without knowledge of each other’s actions. The first one killed him with poison, and—’

  ‘Wait a second,’ Fazio cut in. ‘He was drinking his coffee when he died – we know that because he knocked the cup over. So why didn’t the body fall to the floor?’

  ‘And how do you know they didn’t fire the shot when he was already on the ground?’

  ‘No, Inspector Augello, they couldn’t have. The bullet’s trajectory speaks loud and clear. It entered at the base of the skull, came out through his face, and ended up in the wall in front of him.’

  ‘He died sitting up and stayed that way,’ said Montalbano, to clarify. ‘Pasquano told me this was possible because the poison used paralyses its victims. Turns them stiff as statues. Which can mean only one thing.’

  ‘What?’ Mimì and Fazio asked in chorus.

  ‘That the second person, the one who shot him, thought he was alive.’

  Fazio gave him a puzzled look.

  ‘But that’s hard to believe!’ was Mimì’s comment.

  ‘That’s why, I repeat, we are dealing with two people acting without each other’s knowledge.’

  ‘That’s giving me an idea,’ said Fazio.

  ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘On the rack over the kitchen sink there was a coffee cup, a saucer, and a little spoon, all washed and rinsed. Which means that the killer had coffee with Barletta, slipped the poison into his cup when he wasn’t looking, and when he was sure he was dead, carefully washed the things he’d touched, and then calmly left, closing the door behind him. But my conclusion is this: that the killer was not a he but a she, the same woman who spent the night with him. Poisoning, after all, is a favourite female way of killing.’

  ‘That’s no longer the case,’ said Montalbano. ‘Ever since Hedda Gabler, women have been using guns.’

  ‘Who’s this Grabber?’ asked Mimì.

  Montalbano felt like playing.

  ‘Some Nordic woman who shot herself. The ca
se was written about by a famous nineteenth-century criminologist named Ibsen.’

  ‘I think I remember that Ibsen was somebody who wrote stuff for the theatre,’ said Mimì.

  ‘Very good, Mimì. The Ibsen I’m talking about was his twin brother.’

  ‘It used to be that when women wanted to kill themselves, they either took poison or threw themselves out the window,’ Fazio commented.

  ‘The good old days!’ Montalbano exclaimed. ‘Anyway, Fazio’s reconstruction is plausible.’

  FIVE

  ‘The total implausibility begins the moment a second person comes in to kill Barletta,’ Mimì continued.

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘Pasquano said he was killed no later than six a.m., right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Fazio’s reconstruction is convincing. But before we go any further, I’d like to make one thing clear. Which is that Barletta and the woman he spent the night with had to have got out of bed no later than around five-thirty that morning. Otherwise six o’clock as the time of death makes no sense. So the two get dressed and go down to the kitchen. The man makes coffee for both of them and dies from poison. Now my question is this: why did they get up so early? According to what his son told us, Barletta had been planning to stay at home all day. There was no need for him to get up early. That probably means, therefore, that the woman had an engagement that prevented her from staying any longer with him. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Go on,’ said the inspector, taking interest.

  ‘Therefore the woman who was with him must not be just any old prostitute, but a non-professional, a woman with commitments relating to family or work.’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ said Fazio.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Maybe Barletta was afraid his son Arturo would come earlier than planned and didn’t want him to see the woman there.’

  ‘That’s also possible,’ Augello admitted. ‘But we’re left with the inexplicable fact that as soon as the woman leaves, after Barletta has died, the other killer comes in right after her. Which means: two people decide to kill the same person on the same day and at almost the same time of day. That’s what doesn’t make sense to me.’

  ‘Why did you say “right after her”? Pasquano didn’t tell me exactly when the gun was fired,’ said the inspector.

  ‘But if there was blood around the body, it means he was shot right after he died! Maybe fifteen minutes later, but no more! Otherwise there wouldn’t have been even a single drop of blood!’