A Nest of Vipers

by Andrea Camilleri

  He kissed Livia and Beba goodbye and dashed off.

  *

  Once he was out of their range, he called Mimì on his mobile.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At headquarters.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘Sweet FA. I’m just hanging around here because—’

  ‘I know why you’re there. Because I summoned you for a twelve-thirty meeting. But you’re early!’

  They laughed.

  ‘Where are you going to eat?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Listen, wait for me to get there.’

  Mimì was waiting for him in the car park.

  ‘Get in. I’ll take you to Fiacca,’ the inspector invited him. ‘We’ll have some nice lobster – you have no idea how much I’ve been wanting some. It feels like a hundred years since I last ate lobster.’

  ‘OK,’ said Augello. ‘But let’s do things right. You get in my car.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Salvo, if we take yours and you drive, at your cruising speed we won’t get there till three.’

  *

  As they drove, Montalbano asked: ‘Did you have time to look at the letters?’

  ‘Yeah, I looked at them, but not the six that were in a separate drawer. Those are long and it looked like they needed to be gone over very carefully, without haste. But I read all the ones that were in the other drawer, and, believe me, there were a lot.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, in fact there were probably only about ten proper letters in all.’

  ‘It looked to me like there was more than that.’

  ‘There was, but the others were all little messages of one or two sentences. And ninety per cent of them weren’t signed.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Most of them involved the moment when Barletta got tired of the girl and started skipping the meetings. “Why didn’t you turn up yesterday?” Or, “If you treat me the way you treated me last time, I don’t know if I’ll come or not.” I even recognized some notes from Stefania, which really put the boot in.’

  ‘But why did they write to him instead of phoning him?’

  ‘I wondered the same thing until I read a note that said, “Since you won’t answer your phone . . .” Get it? When he was getting ready to dump one of them, the first thing he did was stop taking their calls.’

  ‘And what about the letters?’

  ‘Four of them, all in the same handwriting, are quite interesting but not for the investigation.’

  ‘Then in what way are they interesting?’

  ‘For knowing Barletta’s sexual preferences. In each letter the woman gives a kind of review of everything they did the last time they saw each other. And she makes some suggestions as to what to do the next time. I have to admit, they both had a lot of imagination.’

  ‘And the other letters?’

  ‘There are only two that seem in some way important.’

  ‘Are they signed?’

  ‘No. In the first one the girl senses that Barletta is going to leave her, in the second she’s sure of it. And in reading the second one you realize she’s actually in love with him. The letter ends by saying that if he dumps her, he’ll pay dearly.’

  ‘Mimì, how can you say that letter “seems in some way important”? It seems extremely important to me! It’s a death threat!’

  ‘Salvo, it’s a death threat made by a woman.’

  ‘So what does that mean?’

  ‘Look, Salvo, I’ve received at least three such threats and I’m still here driving you to Fiacca.’

  ‘Well, I want to see them anyway.’

  ‘I’ll bring them tomorrow.’

  ‘And read the others too, I mean it.’

  ‘As I was reading those letters and notes,’ Mimì said after a pause, ‘I remembered the photos I saw and tried to play a kind of game, but it didn’t really work.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘To match certain letters and notes with some of the girls photographed. But I couldn’t. One thing’s certain, though, which is that photographing every girl he’d taken to bed seems to me like a pretty insane thing to do.’

  ‘Mimì, when you were a little kid, did you collect stamps?’

  ‘No, but I don’t see the connection.’

  ‘Well, you should. This is just another collection mania. A lot of sex maniacs have it. They say that D’Annunzio used to keep specimens of pubic hair of all the women who had passed through his hands, in a cabinet made specially for that purpose.’

  Then he fired a barb at his friend:

  ‘Strange that you, who love women so much, don’t—’

  ‘I like them in the flesh,’ Augello said, cutting him off.

  *

  Ten minutes later, another question occurred to the inspector.

  ‘But did Barletta have a safe in his house?’

  ‘Yes. One at home in town and another in the beach house. Not proper safes, really, but walled strongboxes of the kind you usually hide behind a painting.’

  ‘Did you open them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did he keep the keys?’

  ‘Both in the same place: in the drawer of the night-stand in the bedroom.’

  ‘What was in them?’

  ‘In the one in the country, just ten thousand euros; in the one in the apartment, two hundred thousand euros, a Rolex, and some jewellery.’

  ‘Did you draw up an inventory?’

  ‘Yes, in duplicate. Sent one copy to Tommaseo.’

  ‘So apparently nothing was stolen. The murder motive could not have been theft.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  At the restaurant, Mimì tried to put some Parmesan cheese on his pasta with clam sauce, but Montalbano grabbed his wrist and threatened to cut his hand off if he dared commit such a sacrilege.

  The lobster they served the inspector was a true delight.

  Mimì, who wasn’t big on seafood, had ordered rabbit cacciatore.

  In short, they had a good time of it.

  On the way back, Montalbano asked Mimì: ‘What are you doing later?’

  ‘Well, tonight I’m going to the movies with our women. What about you?’

  ‘Pay close attention, so you know what to say later.’

  The inspector took his mobile phone out of his pocket and rang Livia.

  ‘Hi. Unfortunately, as I’d expected, I can’t come to the movies with you. I did manage, however, to free up Mimì, so you’ll be in good company. So what’s the plan?’

  ‘I’ll be home by ten,’ said Livia, hanging up.

  ‘So if they ask what our engagement actually involved – you know how curious they are – what should I tell them?’ asked Mimì.

  ‘Tell them we were on a long stakeout that came to nothing, and that’s why I have to stay on. Now take me to the office.’

  ‘And what’ll you do this evening?’

  ‘There’s a film with De Niro and Pacino showing in Montelusa.’

  ‘And what if the women decide they want to see it, too?’

  ‘Oh, come on! Beba wouldn’t dream of suggesting a film like that!’

  *

  When he unlocked the front door of his house it was halfpast nine. And Livia, naturally, arrived punctually at ten.

  ‘Do you do it on purpose?’ was all she said when she saw him.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Wait for me here at home. How long have you been here?’

  ‘Since nine-thirty.’

  ‘But our rendezvous was for ten! Just like last time! Half an hour’s difference matters! You just want to make me feel guilty!’

  ‘Are you kidding me? I do not do it on purpose! Think for a second. This is my house. Am I not free to come home whenever I want? Why do we always have to fight?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m a little on edge and talking nonsense.’

  ‘Why are you on edge?’

  ‘Before coming ho
me I went to see Mario and I realized that he was unwell. He had a touch of fever. I’m worried about having to fly home tomorrow morning and leaving him there all alone. Will you promise me—’

  ‘All right, I get it. I promise I’ll go and see how he’s doing tomorrow, either in the morning or in the afternoon.’

  ‘Have you eaten anything?’

  ‘A sandwich. You know how it is, on a stakeout . . .’

  Livia knitted her brow.

  ‘How is it then that Mimì said he had rabbit cacciatore?’

  The idiot!

  ‘Well, I made him go and eat. I could carry on the stakeout by myself for a short while.’

  Livia swallowed the lie. Montalbano changed the subject. ‘So what film did you see?’

  ‘Some teenage love story, totally trite. It was already obvious from the title. But Beba wanted to see it, and so . . .’

  ‘Listen, where are we going to eat?’

  ‘Are you really up to going out again? It’s our last night together. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Well, having had only a sandwich . . .’

  ‘Let’s see what there is in the kitchen. If there’s enough, I’ll make something myself. What do you say?’

  ‘I say that’s a great idea,’ said the inspector. ‘Go and see.’

  He was unconcerned, having checked before she came home. And indeed, moments later, Livia emerged from the kitchen looking rather disappointed.

  ‘I’m afraid we really do have to go out,’ she said.

  ‘Damn!’ exclaimed noted hypocrite Salvo Montalbano.

  *

  He took her to Enzo’s.

  ‘We’re in something of a hurry,’ said Livia.

  ‘I’ll make you wait as little as possible,’ Enzo promised.

  Two hours later, they were back home in Marinella.

  ‘Shall we have a drop?’ Livia suggested.

  As she was opening the French windows to the veranda, Montalbano went and found a bottle of chilled white wine for Livia and the whisky bottle for himself. They sat down beside each other on the bench. Livia drank half a glass and leaned her head on Montalbano’s shoulder. He then reached out with one arm and wrapped it around her waist.

  And they stayed that way, drinking in silence and enjoying the night.

  *

  The following morning he drove her to Montelusa to get the seven o’clock bus to Palermo’s Punta Raisi airport. Montalbano hugged her so tight, and held her so long, that Livia became concerned.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m sorry you’re leaving.’

  ‘But are you OK?’

  ‘I’m great, don’t worry.’

  But it wasn’t true.

  He could tell he would miss Livia a lot.

  On the drive back, he was overcome by a great wave of melancholy.

  This always happened to him when Livia went away, but this time it was stronger than ever before.

  A sign of ageing?

  This time, along with the melancholy, there was also a twinge of personal malaise that he couldn’t explain.

  Since the weather that morning was so beautiful it looked fake, he turned onto an unmade road, drove about a hundred yards, stopped the car, got out, and started walking through groves of almond and Saracen olive trees, the latter somewhat rarer.

  Then suddenly he realized why he felt the way he did. This time, the sadness he felt over the departure of his beloved was magnified by an awareness of how alone he was.

  His was a loneliness crowded by all his colleagues in the police department, but it was still loneliness.

  He spent almost every evening of his life alone; he ate alone; he went for walks alone. He didn’t have a single friend to talk with about things that mattered to him, to ask for advice, to confide in.

  He used to like this situation. Solitude gave him a feeling of freedom. Lately, however, it had started to weigh on him.

  Deep down, what difference is there, he thought, between my life and that of the tramp in the cave?

  Don’t be silly, the other Montalbano promptly cut in. For starters, one difference is that your life is useful to others, while the tramp’s is useless. On top of this, the tramp was probably forced into solitude by circumstances, whereas your solitude is the result of a free choice. Like yesterday, when you did your own thing even though Livia was around. And when you get so tired or scared of your solitude that you can’t take it any more, all you have to do is call Livia and she’ll be there, dependably, at your side.

  He felt somewhat reassured.

  And it was certainly because of this line of reasoning that when he got to Vigàta, he continued on to Marinella to pay a call on the man in the cave.

  *

  ‘How are you? Livia told me yesterday you had a temperature.’

  The man was sitting on the broken chair. He stood up when the inspector entered. They shook hands.

  ‘I just checked it again, and it’s going down. No need to worry. It’s just a common flu. But keep your distance, please. I wouldn’t want you to catch it.’

  ‘Would you like me to take you to see a doctor?’

  The tramp smiled. ‘A doctor wouldn’t tell me anything I don’t already know.’

  A little pretentious, their friend. ‘Do you need any medicine?’

  ‘I have some aspirin, thank you.’

  Montalbano didn’t know what else to say. The other broke the silence.

  ‘The lady left?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take good care of her.’

  Montalbano looked at him, a bit perplexed.

  ‘She’s a rare jewel.’

  Livia was a good, kind person, and he loved her from the bottom of his heart, but a rare jewel? Then the man seemed to read his mind.

  ‘You know, it’s not uncommon that after one has been with another person for a long time, one’s ability to see that person’s qualities fades a little.’

  This was true.

  But it was also true that this man was himself an extraordinary person.

  ‘Well,’ said Montalbano, ‘I should go. Let me repeat that if there’s anything you need . . .’

  ‘I’ll certainly be down to see you, don’t worry about that. But that would be premature now.’

  Why premature? What did he mean by that?

  He must have meant something. He never talked just for the sake of talking. But there was no point in pressing him.

  Montalbano shook his hand and went off to the station.

  ELEVEN

  ‘Ahh, Chief! Ahh, Chief, Chief!’

  Whenever Catarella said this, it meant ’izzoner the c’mishner had called. And the fact was that the commissioner had already called and Montalbano had got Catarella to tell him he wasn’t there. He couldn’t keep pretending not to be in.

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘’E called jus’ now! An’ ’e tol’ me ta tell yiz ’at as soon as ya do like wha’ the Madonna does . . .’

  The inspector was stumped. ‘Is that what he said?’

  ‘Nah, nat azackly, Chief, bu’ sints I fuhgot wha’ ’izzoner the c’mishner said azackly, I t’ought ’at mebbe if I mintioned the Madonna ya might figger out wha’ ’izzoner the c’mishner said. Know what I mean?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sorry, Chief, the quession might seem kinda priestly, but wha’ does the Madonna do?’

  ‘She performs miracles.’

  ‘No, no, Chief. ’Ass not it, if you’ll forgive me sayin’ so. ’Izzoner the c’mishner din’t say nothin’ ’bout miracles. But ’e said the same t’ing ’at the Madonna did at Lourdies in France.’

  Montalbano had a bright idea, perhaps by the Madonna’s good graces.

  ‘You mean she appeared?’

  ‘ ’Ass azackly it, Chief, ya got it right! ’Izzoner the c’mishner tol’ me a tell yiz atta minnit ya appeared inna affice, you’s a sposta call ’im straightawayslike.’

  ‘OK, I’ll call him later. Is Fazio here?’


  ‘Yeah, ’e’s onna premisses.’

  ‘Send him to me.’

  *

  ‘Yes, Chief?’

  ‘Listen, Fazio, do you remember when, just after Barletta was killed, I told you I wanted to know everything about him and his son Arturo?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Well, now I know more about Barletta than I would ever want to know, but it seems we’ve forgotten about Arturo.’

  ‘That’s true. But I made up for it.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I spent yesterday working on him.’

  ‘Excellent! Find anything out?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Fazio stopped and made an appropriate face.

  ‘Can I look at the piece of paper I have in my pocket?’

  ‘If your intention is to read me some of those personal particulars that you’re so obsessed with, forget about it.’

  ‘They’re not personal particulars.’

  ‘Then all right.’

  Fazio took out a sheet of squared notebook paper and looked at it.

  ‘Remember when Arturo told us he was married with no children?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Arturo’s wife, Michela Lollo . . .’ he began, then, all at once, extremely fast: ‘daughter of Giuseppe Lollo and Concetta Virzì, born in Montelusa on the twenty-fourth of April 1980, and residing in Vigàta in a—’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ the inspector interrupted him. ‘Do you realize what you’re reading?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Fazio said hastily. ‘I got distracted.’ He put the piece of paper back in his pocket.

  But he was satisfied. At least he’d managed to smuggle in one piece of records-office information.

  ‘Apparently this Michela is a good-looking woman. She married Arturo when she was twenty-two.’

  ‘If I remember correctly, Barletta didn’t get along with his daughter-in-law.’

  ‘From what I found out, that wasn’t quite the case.’

  ‘Oh, no? Then what was the case?’

  ‘It was Arturo who didn’t want his wife to see his father.’

  ‘He was afraid Barletta couldn’t keep his hands off her?’

  ‘As far as that goes, Mr Barletta’s hands had already been on Michela.’

  Montalbano was stunned. ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, I can’t really swear to it on a stack of Bibles, but, anyway, people say Arturo fell in love with Michela when the girl was still his father’s mistress. Got that?’