A Nest of Vipers

by Andrea Camilleri

  If Adelina gets mad, it means you eat bad.

  For this reason, it was best to pretend it was nothing and not give Livia anything else to feel spiteful about.

  ‘So tell me what you did.’

  ‘Well, I put them in a plastic bag and went to the cave. He was inside, sitting on a rickety chair, reading a book by the light of an oil lamp.’

  ‘What was the book?’

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to see the title. He got up, bowed to me, and told me to make myself comfortable in his chair while he put the book away in one of the cardboard boxes in the corner. Then he sat on the box. He didn’t ask me what I was doing there. We just sat in silence for a spell.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I gave him the bag with the shirts. He thanked me, looked inside, and then asked me if I was your wife. Who knows how he’d managed to work out . . .’

  ‘He didn’t work anything out. In fact, you’re not my wife.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you witty tonight!’

  ‘Come on, I was just kidding! He’s an intelligent man. He must have wondered how it could be that in the course of a few days, first a man and then a woman brought him clothing as gifts. And his answer must have been that the two visits were related, and so he asked you the most logical question.’

  ‘He seems like a cultured man.’

  ‘I got the same impression.’

  ‘He’s polite and has perfect manners. And so . . .’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘You end up wanting to ask him why he lives that way.’

  ‘I don’t. It would be improper.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Didn’t he tell you anything about himself of his own accord?’

  ‘Nothing about before.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me anything about his previous life, from before he became an actual vagrant. Which I suppose he isn’t really. The only thing you can really tell about him is that he’s definitely not Sicilian. You can hear it in his accent. He said he came this way six years ago almost by chance, and that he liked it here and stayed. When he was talking I felt like laughing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He sounded like a rich tourist telling you why he’d decided to spend the rest of his days in Hawaii.’

  ‘Funny, I never noticed that before.’

  ‘He explained that when he first arrived six years ago, he’d set himself up in a district called . . . wait, I can’t remember . . . the name had something to do with a dog . . . well, never mind, it’s not important . . . But after a while he didn’t like being there any more, so he came to the Scala dei Turchi . . . He discovered the cave only three months ago.’ She paused a moment and cast a quick glance at Montalbano.

  ‘You know what?’

  ‘I’m no mind-reader.’

  ‘But obnoxious, yes. If I tell you, will you get angry?’

  ‘You let him seduce you among the cardboard boxes?’

  ‘You are such a moron! I’m not telling you anything else!’

  ‘If you tell me I’ll give you this crispy little calamari ring.’

  Livia laughed and continued.

  ‘I invited him to lunch tomorrow.’

  Montalbano got worried. He was terrified not by the idea of the tramp’s presence, but by the prospect of Livia’s cooking.

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He refused, but with the utmost politeness.’

  ‘And this confirms that he’s a very intelligent man.’

  ‘But I would like to get to know him better, to help him . . .’

  ‘Did he tell you he needed help?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So then why do you want to help him?’

  ‘Because I can feel that he wants—’

  ‘He wants to be left alone, believe me. Listen: since, like all women, you’re extremely curious, you’re just dying to know this man’s secret.’

  ‘So you’re saying it’s only curiosity on my part?’

  ‘I would say so, yes.’

  Livia resumed eating her second course and said no more.

  *

  When he got to the station the following morning, Mimì Augello was already there waiting for him.

  He was unshaven, his clothes rumpled, eyes glazed, face sagging with fatigue.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me last night when you finished?’

  ‘Because I didn’t finish last night, but barely ten minutes ago. That is, we stopped because we were all dead tired. We’re going to resume work this afternoon at four.’

  ‘How come you haven’t finished searching—’

  ‘Because the house has an attic full of old stuff, including hundreds of packets of letters and documents. I decided it was better to sift through all the papers there, instead of filling up our offices here with bags.’

  ‘Listen, come to think of it, did you find a will?’

  ‘No. If he made one, it may be among all those papers I haven’t looked at yet.’

  ‘Have you found anything useful?’

  ‘Maybe. Barletta engaged in a lot of activities in his life, always with an eye to making money, and so there’s tons of contracts, notarized deeds, and documents of all kinds. It’s a big pain.’

  ‘Any love letters?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Written messages?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You yourself told me that Stefania badgered him with phone calls and written messages . . . How come there are none to be found?’

  ‘What makes you think he kept them?’

  ‘Come on! A vain man like that? So he kept the photos of the women but not their letters?’

  ‘I repeat: we haven’t finished looking at everything.’

  ‘Tell me meanwhile what you did find.’

  ‘These two letters.’

  Mimì took them out of his jacket pocket and laid them on the desk.

  ‘I’ll be seeing you. I’m going to get some sleep.’

  *

  The two letters consisted of two sheets of paper without an envelope. The inspector read the first, which was handwritten. It was dated twenty days before. It read:

  Ever since I asked you for the loan I knew you would ignobly take advantage of the fact. I had no illusions. Your ruthless loan-sharking ways had been described to me by two of your victims. But I had no choice but to turn to you because the banks had cut off all my credit. And, as could have been expected, you managed in just two years to reduce me and my family to utter misery. Now I have nothing more to lose. Do you know what that means? A man who has nothing to lose can be dangerous. I bid you pleasant dreams, if you’re capable.

  At the bottom there was even a signature: Riccardo Noto.

  So, they were finally starting to have something to work with. This was a concrete death threat.

  The second letter was also handwritten, but it had no date and read:

  A frend a mine warned me you was capable of anything but I dint believe it You aint a man but a piece of shit, a disgusting animal whos head should be squarshed one day some ones gonna kill you and when he does hell rid the earth of one a the worse criminils an if some body dont do it Ill do it myself with no regrets and in fact itll be a pleasure You took everything I had an made my wife go crazy.

  It wasn’t signed.

  This, too, was a death threat. Which, with the first, made two. Too much of a good thing! Anyway, searching Barletta’s residences had been a good idea.

  He called Fazio and gave him the two letters to read. When he was done, Fazio looked at him and said: ‘This is our proof that he was loan-sharking.’

  ‘Do you know this Riccardo Noto?’

  ‘The name rings a bell but I don’t remember why.’

  ‘Well, when you do remember, let me know. And we have to find out who wrote the unsigned letter.’

  ‘The guy says his wife went crazy. If he’s just saying it in a m
anner of speaking, it’ll be hard to find out his name. But if his wife really did go crazy and was taken to a lunatic asylum, then the whole thing becomes a lot easier.’

  ‘But there aren’t any lunatic asylums any more!’

  ‘There are still mental-health care homes and treatment centres.’

  ‘OK. Start looking right away.’

  *

  Barely ten minutes passed before Fazio reappeared in front of the inspector.

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s already taken care of or I’ll get pissed off!’

  ‘No, Chief, I just wanted to tell you I remember what it was that I’d heard about Riccardo Noto, and I made a few phone calls to confirm. He died.’

  Montalbano gave a start in his chair. ‘How’d he die?’

  ‘Killed by a hit-and-run driver, about ten days ago.’

  ‘Have they found the driver?’

  Fazio smiled.

  ‘I was thinking the same thing when I heard. Namely, that Barletta, after Noto threatened him, decided to take him out of the picture.’

  ‘Whereas?’

  ‘Whereas the hit-and-run driver has been identified and arrested by the carabinieri. And it turns out it was a woman who had no dealings whatsoever with Barletta.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘That she had no dealings with Barletta? Absolutely sure.’

  One down. Damn.

  *

  The only way to find out whether Barletta had drawn up a will was to ask his notary. But perhaps in order to ask a lawyer for information about a client one needed authorization from the courts. So Montalbano rang Tommaseo. A woman whose voice he didn’t recognize answered.

  ‘Inspector Montalbano here. I want to talk to Prosecutor Tommaseo.’

  ‘He’s not in.’

  ‘Do you know where I can reach him?’

  ‘Listen, just leave him alone.’

  How dare she?

  ‘And who are you, if I may ask?’

  ‘A colleague of his. Call back the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘I haven’t got all that time to waste!’

  ‘I don’t know how I can help you. My colleague was taken to the hospital.’

  ‘When?!’

  ‘This morning?’

  ‘Why, what was wrong with him?’

  ‘He was indisposed.’

  More likely he’d looked at the photos and had a stroke!

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is a notary sworn to secrecy concerning his clients?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘So if I need information on one of his clients, I need to ask for authorization?’

  ‘That seems rather elementary to me.’

  ‘Thank you. If you see Mr Tommaseo please give him my best wishes for a speedy recovery.’

  And above all take those photos away from him, he thought. Immediately afterwards, it occurred to him that he had nothing to lose by giving the notary a ring just the same. If he refused to talk, too bad, he would simply wait for Tommaseo to recover.

  But what was the notary’s name?

  Giovanna had told him. He tried to remember.

  Pirrocco? Pissipo? Pitino? No, it wouldn’t come to him.

  The best thing was to call her and ask her for his name. ‘Good morning, signora. Montalbano here.’

  ‘Good morning. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘Never mind about that.’

  ‘I need to know the name of the notary your father—’

  ‘His name is Piscopo.’

  ‘Thank you. That was all I needed.’

  ‘Mind you, there’s . . .’ She hesitated a moment, then continued. ‘There’s no will with the notary.’

  ‘And how do you know that, if I may ask?’

  ‘Arturo told me, after calling him yesterday.’

  So the son had wasted no time finding out how much of the estate was his, before there’d even been a funeral.

  ‘So can we assume he didn’t draw up a will?’

  ‘No, I don’t think that’s the case, either.’

  ‘So what is the case?’

  ‘Listen, Inspector, couldn’t we meet and discuss these things in person? Because I too—’ She broke off again.

  ‘You too . . .?’

  ‘Have a favour to ask you.’

  ‘Could you come to the office at four o’clock this afternoon?’

  ‘All right.’

  *

  ‘Ahh, Chief! Ahh, Chief!’

  This was the jeremiad that Catarella customarily intoned when ‘’izzoner the c’mishner’, as he called him, was on the phone.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘’Izzoner the c’mishner’s onna line! ’E wants t’know if you – ’oo’d be yiz – are in yer affice cuz as insohow ’e wants to talk t’yiz.’

  ‘And you’re going to tell him that you looked for him far and wide in this building and couldn’t find him.’

  ‘’Oo’s ’im, Chief?’

  ‘Him’s me, naturally.’

  ‘Matre santa, I din’t unnastan’ a ting!’

  The inspector hung up.

  *

  At ten to one he went home to fetch Livia.

  Instead of letting himself in with his key, he rang the doorbell. He liked it when Livia came and opened the door and greeted him with a kiss as soon as he went in.

  He was quite surprised to see her in a dressing gown and wearing an apron to boot.

  ‘Why are you still not dressed?’

  ‘Surprise! I’ve already been into town, I went shopping, and I made lunch!’

  Getting clubbed in the head from behind would have been better.

  A sort of nostalgic, melancholy canticle passed through his head, a Manzonian sort of thing that went as follows:

  Farewell, sea-scented mullet, fried so light by Enzo’s hand they lift you up to heaven! Farewell . . .

  ‘What’s wrong? You look so pale.’

  He quickly seized upon her words.

  ‘Yeah, I actually don’t feel well,’ he said, closing the door and putting a hand over his stomach.

  ‘What do you feel?’

  ‘Terribly nauseated. For the last hour or so. I’m afraid I won’t be able to enjoy your . . . What a shame!’

  Livia was disappointed.

  ‘Come into the kitchen, at least, and see . . .’

  ‘No, no, I really don’t feel like it, I’m sorry. I think the smell would only aggravate—’

  ‘But it’s a wonderful smell! For the first course I made spaghetti with clam sauce!’

  ‘I don’t doubt that the smell must be heavenly, but, believe me . . . Look, let’s do this. You go and eat, and I’ll wait on the veranda for you to finish.’

  ‘At least keep me company while I—’

  ‘Forgive me, but it would only make me feel worse.’ It was better to fast.

  Not once in her life had Livia ever cooked pasta properly. Ninety-nine per cent of the time it came out all squishy and disgustingly soft. And the other one per cent it was still as raw as if it had just left the pasta factory.

  Or it was either so salty it became bitter, or so insipid that you felt as if you were swallowing worms.

  No, it was a thousand times better to go hungry.

  *

  He did, however, have a cup of coffee with her. Then he looked at his watch. It was three.

  ‘I have to go back to the office.’

  ‘But do you feel up to it?’

  ‘No, but I have to go. There’s an urgent matter that can’t wait.’

  He got in his car and drove off wildly.

  It was three-twenty when he screeched to a halt outside Enzo’s trattoria.

  He dashed in like a bat out of hell, scaring Enzo.

  ‘What is it, Inspector?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m in a rush. Just bring me a big platter of antipasti.’

  ‘Just antipasti? I was frying a few mullets for mysel
f and I—’

  ‘OK, but in the meantime bring me some antipasti.’

  He stuffed himself and didn’t get to the station until ten past four.

  EIGHT

  ‘Ah, Chief! ’Ere’d happen a be the signora—’

  ‘I know. Show her into my office.’

  As she entered, Giovanna flashed a big smile. Jesus, what lips, what teeth! She looked even more elegant than the last time, but beautiful as always.

  She was wearing an austere suit with a knee-length skirt.

  Which meant that when she sat down, she displayed her beautiful, very long legs, on which the inspector, against his will, dutifully let his eyes linger. Anyway, she no longer had dark circles under her eyes, having apparently recovered from the initial shock of her father’s death.

  ‘I’m sorry if I made you wait, signora, but something unpleasant came up and I was detained.’

  The rest of the statement should have been: . . . when Livia, my girlfriend, whimsically decided to cook a meal and I, to avoid the mortal danger, had to go and eat a late lunch at a trattoria.

  But of course he never said this, and so Giovanna immediately replied:

  ‘No problem!’

  And she smiled at him again. She certainly had quite a mouth!

  ‘You know, I really didn’t feel like talking about the will over the phone,’ she began. ‘The nanny was around . . .’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Remember when I told you there’d been a rift between Papa and Arturo over his last will and testament?’

  Those were her exact words, ‘last will and testament’.

  ‘Yes, I remember perfectly well.’

  ‘Well, the Sunday after that, Papa told me he’d done it.’

  ‘Made a will?’

  ‘Yes.’

  But hadn’t she been unsure the last time she mentioned it?

  ‘Was your brother also present?’

  ‘No, not that time. But Papa said he would tell him the following day.’

  ‘So what did he do, pick up a sheet of paper, write out his will by hand, sign it, and put it in an envelope with the classic words My Last Will written on it?’

  ‘Something like that, actually. I think he left what they call a holographic will.’

  ‘So why didn’t he solicit the help of his friend the notary?’