A Nest of Vipers

by Andrea Camilleri

‘Yessir.’

  ‘Put him through.’

  ‘Dear Inspector, how are you?’ Tommaseo opened.

  ‘And how are you, good sir?’

  ‘I don’t want to waste your time, so I’ll get straight to the point. I’ve received the report from Forensics. Apparently, they recovered, in the bed of that long-time widower, Signor Galletta—’

  ‘Barletta.’

  ‘Between the rumpled sheets . . .’

  The prosecutor’s thoughts at that moment must have been a whirlwind of erotic images.

  ‘. . . three strands of female hair, long and blonde! And then . . . and then . . .’

  Montalbano imagined his superior with white beads of spittle foam forming at the corners of his mouth. The moment a murder investigation involved a woman, he lost his head.

  ‘And what else?’

  Tommaseo, who seemed for a moment as if he was suffocating, managed to catch a breath.

  ‘And . . . some . . . pubic hair . . . did you know?’

  Maybe he had it there in front him, in a little plastic bag, and was contemplating the kinky strands spellbound. Montalbano decided to give him some rope.

  ‘Is it the same colour as her hair?’

  ‘A little redder.’

  ‘So you think Barletta actually took two women to bed with him?’

  ‘No, no! It’s not uncommon for blonde women – natural blondes, that is – to have pubic hair . . .’ he started panting again ‘. . . tending towards red.’

  ‘You know, my question wasn’t as far-fetched as you may think, because the further we get in the investigation, the more we discover that Barletta was a tremendous womanizer.’

  ‘Really? What have you found out?’

  ‘That he photographed all the women who went with him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Naked, and in poses you can’t imagine!’

  ‘Oh, I can imagine, I can, and you must tell me!’

  ‘And even while they were having intimate relations – full relations, oral, anal, and so on . . .’

  ‘Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod . . .’

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  ‘Wait just a second while I go and drink some water.’ He returned moments later, but still quite agitated. ‘But . . . you say . . . you found these photos?’

  ‘Yes. There’s about a hundred and eighty of them.’

  For a few moments all the inspector could hear over the line was Tommaseo’s breathing, which sounded like that of a deep-sea diver whose tank had run out of oxygen.

  ‘You must send them to me at once!’ the prosecutor ordered him.

  Montalbano decided to obey immediately. That way he would lose himself poring over the photos and stay out of his hair for a while.

  *

  Livia wouldn’t get to Vigàta before two-thirty. He glanced at his watch. It was already one o’clock.

  Just to be safe, he rang Enzo and warned him that he would be coming late to eat with Livia.

  And now, how was he going to make the time pass? There was only one thing to do: sign a few papers. Sighing, he got up, went over to the cupboard, opened it, picked up a handful of files, put them down on the desk, sat back down, found a pen, and started scribbling.

  *

  Just as he’d calculated, at half-past two, Catarella informed him that his ‘ladygoilfrenn’’ had arrived. Montalbano put the papers back in the cupboard and went out.

  Livia was waiting for him outside his car. As he drew near, he noticed that she was a little thinner but also gave the impression of being a little younger.

  They embraced and held each other tight. Their bodies understood one another in an instant, even though their brains often operated on different planes.

  ‘Don’t you have any luggage?’

  ‘Yes. One suitcase. Catarella’s already put it in the car for me.’

  ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Yes, I’m a little hungry.’

  ‘You can imagine me!’

  To celebrate Livia’s arrival, Enzo had done things up in grand fashion. Livia didn’t know how to cook, that was certain, but she certainly knew how to eat.

  When they’d finished, the inspector thought that a walk along the jetty would be a blessing, but with Livia there it wasn’t going to work.

  ‘Let’s drive you home.’

  As soon as they arrived, Montalbano took the suitcase out of the car while Livia unlocked the front door with her own set of keys. Montalbano called to her, and she turned around. It had stopped raining.

  ‘Look over at the hill, halfway up. See the hole near that large clump of sorghum? That’s the entrance to the cave where our tramp lives.’

  He carried the suitcase into the bedroom and then asked: ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘Do you have to leave immediately?’

  Montalbano looked at his watch.

  ‘I guess I’ve got about an hour.’

  Without a word, Livia embraced him and pulled him down onto the bed.

  *

  ‘But what did you do?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about this. And this . . . and this . . . and this . . .’

  ‘Ah! Ah! You’re tickling me! No, stop, please!’

  ‘You have marvellous skin. And you’re all . . . I don’t know how to put it . . . you’re all firmed up.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you, but I’ve been going to the gym for the past six months. You should do the same, it would do you some good.’

  That was all he needed, a gym! Anyway, he had other things on his mind at that moment.

  ‘Oh my God! Your body is so . . .’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘I’ll show you how much I like it!’

  ‘But didn’t you have to go back to work?’

  ‘I can waste another half-hour or so.’

  ‘What did you say? So with me it’s time wasted?’

  ‘You didn’t hear right. I said: “I can take another half-hour or so.” ’

  ‘You said “waste”, I heard you perfectly!’

  ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry, I used the wrong verb.’

  ‘Idiot.’

  ‘Listen, can we postpone the quarrel until this evening?’

  *

  It was past four when he got to the office.

  ‘Ah, Chief! ’Ere’s ’at young lady wit’ a sister’s name ’oo’s waitin’ f’ yiz inna waitin’ room.’

  ‘Show her into my office.’

  Stella Lasorella came in and looked around, pressing her lips together. She was even more frightened than the first time.

  ‘Why did you . . .’

  ‘Please sit down. And please don’t worry. I called you in here first of all to tell you that I found the photos that Barletta secretly took of you.’

  Stella gave such a start in her chair that she risked falling. She turned bright red and hung her head and stared at the floor.

  ‘Did you . . . look at them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how do you know they’re of me?’

  Montalbano took the yellow envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

  ‘The envelope’s got your name on it.’

  The girl opened it, took out a photo, and looked at it. Immediately she threw the envelope and photo back onto the desk and shot to her feet. She was deathly pale.

  ‘Please . . . a toilet.’

  Montalbano got up, grabbed her by the arm, led her down the hall, opened the toilet door, pushed Stella inside, followed her in, and closed the door behind him. The girl propped herself against the wall with her hand and started vomiting into the toilet bowl, with Montalbano holding her head.

  Then he took her over to the basin, turned on the water, splashed some around her mouth, and dried her face with his handkerchief.

  ‘Do you feel up to going back into my office?’

  He was talking to her in a familiar tone, as if to a . . . daughter.

  She nodded. But as
they came out she seized the inspector’s arm. She was having trouble standing, her legs giving out from under her. Once back in the office, he sat her down.

  ‘Would you like some water?’

  ‘No.’

  She swallowed and then frowned in disgust. ‘I have this nasty taste . . .’

  It occurred to Montalbano that he had a box of chocolates somewhere for reasons unknown even to him. He found it at the bottom of a drawer and gave it to her.

  Stella took one, unwrapped it, and put it in her mouth.

  Watching her movements, Montalbano felt sorry for her. She seemed like a little girl.

  He put the photo back in the envelope and handed it to her.

  ‘You can take these with you. I advise you to burn them.’

  The girl’s face brightened. ‘So no one will see them?’

  ‘No one at all.’

  Stella sat there for a moment holding the envelope. She was thinking of something. Then, brusquely, she handed the envelope back to him.

  ‘Could you burn them?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He put the envelope back in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Listen, I also called you in here to ask you something.’

  ‘You can ask me whatever you like.’

  ‘You told me you weren’t with Barletta that night.’

  Stella got upset. ‘I swear it’s true! I wasn’t at his house that night! I can prove it to you by—’

  ‘I don’t need any proof. I believe you. That wasn’t my question. When was the last time you were with him?’

  ‘A little over a month ago.’

  ‘Why did he let so much time go by?’

  ‘Well, it went like this. The very same day my dad found a new job, I called Barletta and told him I couldn’t see him any more. But he said that it was better if we met in person. And he told me to come and see him at the usual hour.’

  Could that have been the phone call Giovanna overheard?

  ‘Try and remember. When you made that phone call, was he the one who answered?’

  ‘No, it was his daughter. She put him on right away.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘I went there determined to put an end to it. But as soon as I started talking, he interrupted me and told me he had photographed me and would show those photos – which were explicit and compromising – to my parents if I didn’t . . . What could I do? In the end he told me he would want me again soon and that if I didn’t obey . . . My nights became a living hell. I didn’t know what to do. Should I accept going to bed with him again? Or should I cut things off, knowing he would take revenge by revealing the photos? I already told you that when he wanted me, he would . . .’

  ‘Arrange the doormat a certain way, I remember.’

  ‘Every evening I would pass by his door with my heart racing, but I always found the doormat in its normal position. And it stayed that way for a month, until I learned he’d been killed.’

  ‘Why do you think he never called you again?’

  Stella thought about this for a moment.

  ‘I’m sure he met another woman he was more interested in.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because Barletta was a maniac. He was obsessed. He couldn’t go for a whole month without . . .’

  ‘Do you have even a vague idea of who this last girl might be?’

  ‘I don’t think so . . .’

  ‘Think it over before answering. In your last meetings with him, did you notice any kind of change in him?’

  A furrow appeared in the middle of the girl’s brow. She was leaning back in her chair and keeping her eyes closed. She sat there a long time in silence, then made up her mind to talk. ‘As far as I can recall, he was the same. Odious, disgusting, and mean.’

  Stefania had spoken differently of him, however. ‘Why mean? How did he treat you? Did he ever hit you?’

  ‘No. But he treated me like something to use up and throw away.’

  ‘But did he talk to you? What did he say?’

  ‘He never talked to me.’

  ‘Not a single word?’

  ‘Not in any proper sense. He would speak only to order me around. When I would get there he would already be naked, and he would say: “Take your clothes off slowly.” He got the most pleasure in humiliating me. He would say things like: “Turn around, get down on all fours, open your mouth.” He made me do horrible things, and he was never satisfied. He would say things like: “You’re basically worthless, you know.” Or: “You were better last time.” And when he was done with me he would simply say: “Get out of here.” Never a kind word.’

  She paused and then said: ‘I’m convinced that, in the end, he didn’t really like me physically.’

  ‘Then why did he keep on . . .?’

  ‘Because I think he found it terribly exciting to have me completely in his power.’

  And that went a long way towards explaining a character as complex as Barletta.

  The inspector wrote down some numbers on a sheet of paper and stood up as he handed it to the girl.

  ‘Here are the numbers to my office and my home. If you happen to remember anything strange in Barletta’s behaviour, or anything else – even the slightest thing, mind you – call me.’

  *

  Later he got a call from Mimì Augello. ‘We’ve just finished searching the house.’

  ‘Find anything?’

  ‘Nothing of any importance. Now we’re going to his place in town. I think that’ll take a bit longer.’

  ‘Think you’ll be there till nightfall?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do me a favour, Mimì. If you find anything, ring me at home. I’ll be going out to dinner with Livia around eight, but we’ll definitely be back by ten.’

  *

  He’d arranged with Livia to come and pick her up in Marinella at eight.

  It was seven o’clock, but since he had nothing to do at the station other than sign those hated papers, he left to go home.

  There was little traffic, and so by seven-twenty he was opening his front door. Livia wasn’t there. Perhaps she’d taken the bus from Montereale and gone into town to do some shopping. The return bus would pass at quarter to eight, so she would still be in time for their appointment.

  He knew there was nothing in the fridge or oven. It was as sure as death that Adelina, out of spite over Livia’s arrival, hadn’t prepared anything to eat for that evening. He looked inside both just to pass the time, and indeed there was nothing but air.

  He decided to take a leisurely shower. There was time, after all. Having done this, he changed all his clothes.

  He looked at his watch. It was eight. He went to the door and looked outside to see if there was any sign of Livia coming down the road. Nothing. He went back in.

  Maybe she’d missed the bus. The next one would pass at nine.

  But why didn’t she call? Did she think he was still at the office?

  The best thing was to ring her. He dialled her mobile number, but the usual obnoxious female voice came on, telling him the person he was trying to reach was unavailable.

  Where the hell had she got to? He rang the office.

  ‘At yer orders, Chief!’

  ‘Listen, Catarella, has Livia by any chance come by there or called?’

  ‘Nah, Chief, she din’t come by or call, no ways.’

  ‘Well, if she does come by or call, tell her to ring me at home.’

  At quarter past eight he finally heard the front door open. Livia came in, out of breath.

  ‘Sorry, I’m fifteen minutes late.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes? I’ve been waiting for you since seven-thirty!’

  ‘Our appointment was for eight, so I’m only fifteen minutes late. If you want to come home half an hour early, that’s your business. Seven-thirty and eight o’clock are not the same thing!’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I went to see someone.’

  ‘Who?’
>
  ‘Listen, don’t you use that police-inspector tone of voice with me!’

  ‘Tell me who you went to see!’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you, OK? And don’t insist!’

  ‘As you wish. Come on, let’s go eat.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Enzo’s.’

  ‘Wait while I go and change my shoes. I got these ones all muddy.’

  As she went into the bedroom to change, Montalbano realized who it was she’d gone to see. The tramp. She’d climbed up the hill to the cave and in the process had muddied her shoes.

  ‘OK, I’m ready,’ she said, coming out.

  They went out in silence, drove in silence, and entered Enzo’s trattoria in silence.

  Not until they’d eaten a seafood antipasto that could wake the dead did the inspector speak.

  ‘So, tell me, how did your visit to the cave go?’

  SEVEN

  She’d spent too many years at Montalbano’s side to be surprised by his question.

  ‘You worked it out from the shoes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that was why I told you. I wanted to see if you could do it, to see whether your policing abilities, at least, still functioned.’

  ‘What do mean, “at least”? Are you implying that some of my other abilities don’t function?’

  ‘I’m not saying they don’t function. All the same . . .’

  Was she spoiling for a fight?

  ‘Listen, Livia, you’re trying to provoke me simply because you don’t want to admit you gave yourself away. So knock it off with the barbs about my more or less functional abilities and tell me about your visit.’

  ‘Well, when I decided to go to the cave, I really didn’t think I would find him there.’

  ‘Then why did you go?’

  ‘To leave him a present.’

  ‘What kind of present?’

  ‘Two new shirts of yours.’

  Montalbano felt his blood run cold. ‘The ones Adelina bought me?’

  ‘Yes. They were ghastly.’

  This was a genuine low blow of the kind that should be outlawed in the rules of marriage. Or quasi-marriage, that is. She’d done it not out of generosity, but to make trouble between him and his housekeeper. So what was he going to tell Adelina now, when she discovered that the shirts were no longer in his wardrobe?

  He certainly couldn’t tell her that Livia had given them away, or things between the two women would end up in the gutter and he would suffer the consequences. In other words, it would be playing right into Livia’s hands. Good thing he had two days to think of a good excuse. He remembered a little proverb he’d made up once, which went as follows: