A Nest of Vipers

by Andrea Camilleri

He could have refrained from giving her that last bit of information. She hadn’t asked anything of that nature, but he wanted to see what she would do with it.

  His curiosity was immediately satisfied.

  ‘Listen, if we don’t get back too late from the restaurant, will you show me your house?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  *

  She was a good driver, no doubt about that. Self-assured, precise, and perhaps a bit too speedy for the inspector’s tastes.

  ‘Do you smoke?’ she asked him out of the blue.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’

  Montalbano took out his pack and showed it to her.

  ‘Would you light one for me?’

  The inspector lit one, took a drag, and passed it to her. Then he lit one for himself as well.

  ‘Normally I don’t smoke,’ she said. ‘I only do it when I feel a little nervous.’

  ‘So you feel a little nervous now?’

  ‘I just said I did.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Because I’m with you.’

  Montalbano pretended not to have understood anything and deflected the ball she’d just passed to him to a corner.

  ‘It’s a pretty common phenomenon. Even the most honest people, when they find themselves in front of a police detective . . .’

  But she put the ball immediately back in play. ‘You didn’t understand what I said.’

  ‘What didn’t I understand?’

  ‘I didn’t mean you as a policeman.’

  When the lady sank her teeth into you, she didn’t let up, even for a second.

  Why was she acting this way? What was her purpose?

  Clearly she wasn’t doing it because she felt overwhelmed by his charm, even though she was doing everything in her power to make him think this was the reason.

  ‘Now you need to guide me.’ Montalbano guided her.

  And, naturally, he had her make a wrong turn, and they ended up outside a peasant’s house with ten or so enraged dogs surrounding their car, barking and baring their teeth.

  ‘Who’s there?’ said a voice.

  ‘Let’s get out of here before they start shooting,’ said Montalbano.

  On second try, they managed to take the right road.

  In the distance they saw that the restaurant’s neon sign was lit.

  After the first five antipasti, Giovanna asked: ‘Why so quiet?’

  Montalbano chuckled.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just a habit of mine. I have to confess I don’t like to talk while I eat.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I think I’m better able to savour what I’m eating if I don’t talk. That way I’m not distracted.’

  This time it was she who laughed. ‘You find that funny?’

  ‘No, but I just thought of something, and I was wondering whether . . .’

  ‘Whether what?’

  ‘I can’t say it. I’m a lady.’

  ‘Forget that fact for a moment.’

  ‘Oh, OK. I was wondering whether you also become quiet when you . . . when you make love.’

  At this point it was clear to even a half-wit that her intention was for the night to come to a specific conclusion. So the question was: should he give her rope or not?

  He decided he should.

  ‘You know what? I really don’t know. We could do a test.’

  She looked at him. She was about to say something but changed her mind and said something else instead.

  ‘These antipasti are truly delicious.’ End of the first round.

  *

  Giovanna was a hearty eater. Montalbano liked women who could enjoy a good meal without worrying about their figure.

  She wasn’t up to ordering a second course, however. ‘I couldn’t get even a grape past my lips.’

  Montalbano didn’t order anything else, either.

  An assortment of some twenty-odd antipasti and a big platter of spaghetti with clam sauce had sufficed. And they still had a nearly full bottle of white wine, just opened, in front of them.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ he asked her.

  ‘No. Let’s finish the bottle and leave.’

  ‘OK,’ said the inspector, filling her glass.

  ‘Where are you in the investigation? Provided of course that protocols of official secrecy don’t prevent you from telling me . . .’

  Giovanna had decided to move to a full-frontal attack.

  ‘Frankly, there hasn’t been much progress.’

  ‘Are you still stuck at square one?’

  ‘No, of course not. We have managed to take a few steps forward, mostly by a process of elimination.’

  ‘Could you tell me, again provided that—’

  ‘I really shouldn’t. But since you’re the victim’s daughter . . .’

  ‘What do you mean by process of elimination?’

  ‘First I must ask you a question: can I feel free to speak of your father without you getting offended?’

  ‘I knew my father quite well, you know.’

  ‘Then you must know that he lent money at extremely high rates of interest.’

  ‘I was aware of the fact that he was often a loan shark. There’s no need to pick and choose your words with me.’

  ‘We’ve managed to rule out that the murder was committed by one of the people he ruined.’

  ‘But if you rule out the motive of self-interest—’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Then I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’ll try and explain.’

  Here he needed to proceed carefully. One word too many or too few could compromise everything.

  ‘Perhaps we need to look at the self-interest motive within a more limited circle.’

  She understood at once.

  ‘You mean . . . within the family circle?’

  Come on, Montalbano, get that idea out of her head at once. It’s still too early to talk about that.

  ‘Not only those. Your father was very generous with the girls he went with. It’s possible one of them . . .’

  Giovanna wasn’t biting, however.

  ‘Then how do you explain the fact that there were two killers?’

  Indeed, from this perspective, you couldn’t explain that fact. Let’s shunt the discussion in another direction without answering the question, the inspector said to himself.

  ‘Of course, if we could just find the will . . .’ he said practically under his breath, as though talking to himself.

  ‘What’s the will got to do with it?’

  ‘A lot. But are you really sure he made one?’

  ‘He told me he did. And I’m certain he did. But explain to me why the will is so important.’

  ‘You put me in an awkward position.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘If we could find it, it would be better for you and your brother, in that you would be immediately cut out of the investigation.’

  ‘Whereas now we’re in it?’

  ‘Well, Prosecutor Tommaseo, you see, has no choice but to . . .’

  He was expecting a furious reaction. In essence, he was telling her straight to her face that both she and her brother were suspected of patricide. The stuff of Greek tragedy!

  Whereas she remained extremely calm. ‘Have you conducted a thorough search?’

  ‘Yes. We even discovered two secret drawers in the desk. Did you know about them?’

  ‘No.’

  First point against Giovanna. That ‘no’ was as fake as the Modigliani heads that were found in Livorno.

  Also false was the tone of the question that followed. ‘What was in them?’

  She knew perfectly well what was in them. Just as she knew that her father kept the photographic documentation of his amatory exploits in the desk as well.

  ‘Letters and messages from the girls he—’

  ‘I get the picture. So now you’re going to interrogate all those poor girls who were unlucky enough to have
written to him?’

  ‘They won’t be so easy to identify.’

  ‘They’re not signed?’

  ‘Some of them are. But a first name like Silvia or Francesca doesn’t get us very far.’

  ‘So you haven’t been able to trace them back to their senders?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You can’t identify them from the photos either?’

  ‘Oh, two or three have been identified, but I don’t . . .’

  She smiled.

  ‘I guess things are dragging on a little. Would you like my own little personal contribution to the investigation?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘I can’t be the one who took that document. When my brother Arturo called me from the beach house at seven- thirty that Sunday morning to tell me that Papa . . .’

  The sound inside Montalbano’s head was not the ringing of a bell, but the crash of a bell clapper striking his skull. ‘Didn’t he call at eight?’

  ‘No, it was seven-thirty. I’m quite certain of that. I believe I already told you that the children—’

  ‘Yes, yes, now I remember. They were having breakfast before going to school. But wasn’t it Sunday?’

  ‘Of course it was. But their school had organized an excursion for that morning.’

  ‘So, you were saying?’

  ‘That when Arturo rang, I was the one who answered. He called me at home, in Montelusa. I’d woken the kids up at seven. So I couldn’t very well have entered my father’s house before Arturo to take the will. And apart from that, I hadn’t set foot in my father’s flat in town for a very long time. And I can prove it.’

  In other words, dear Salvo, what Giovanna is telling you is that nobody could have made that will disappear but her brother Arturo. And that’s not all she’s saying. She’s also leading you down a specific logical path: that is, that in order to steal the will, one had to kill Barletta first.

  What’s two plus two?

  She was indirectly throwing the murder onto her brother’s shoulders.

  Not content with this, Giovanna threw fuel on the fire. ‘On top of everything else, as I said last time, the disappearance works only to my disadvantage . . .’

  . . . whereas my brother Arturo would only benefit, Montalbano finished her sentence in his mind.

  The wine was finished. ‘Shall we go?’ she asked.

  *

  For the whole journey back she didn’t say a word. Every so often a hint of a melody escaped her fine half-open lips. The wine seemed to have put her in a good mood.

  Suddenly she asked:

  ‘Do I have to take the next turning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She pulled up in front of the inspector’s house and they got out. He opened the front door, turned on the light in the hall, and stood aside to let her in.

  ‘I’m going to show you the most beautiful thing about the house,’ said the inspector.

  He went and opened the French windows.

  ‘This is fabulous!’

  ‘Have a seat.’

  She sat down on the bench.

  ‘Something to drink?’

  ‘No, thanks, I’ve already had enough. Anyway, I have to drive.’

  She sat there a few moments in silence, gazing at the sea. ‘When I stayed at Papa’s house I also used to spend a good hour gazing at the sea before going to bed.’

  She sighed.

  ‘Think I could have another cigarette?’ she asked.

  ‘Are you feeling nervous?’

  ‘No. I also smoke when I’m happy.’

  He handed her the pack and lighter. She lit a cigarette, took a puff, passed it back to him, then lit a second one for herself.

  ‘Why don’t you come and sit down beside me.’

  They sat there close together, smoking.

  Montalbano was now expecting her to make a move – her head on his shoulder, a caress of his hand – but it never came.

  It was as if Giovanna had suddenly changed her mind. Maybe she no longer felt like concluding the evening in Montalbano’s bed.

  Or else she was one of those women who step hard on the accelerator in the early going but then realize they’ve exceeded the speed limit and start to slow down.

  ‘I really should be going,’ she said, standing up after stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray.

  Montalbano got up to let her by, then went to show her out.

  She did exactly the same thing she’d done at her father’s house.

  She stopped in front of him and kissed him. But on the lips this time. For a long time.

  ‘Thanks for everything,’ she said.

  Montalbano opened the car door for her, shut it behind her after she got in, then waited for her to drive off. Before she vanished at the end of the unmade road, Giovanna stuck her arm out the window and waved bye-bye.

  The inspector went inside, ran into the bathroom, and washed his face.

  FOURTEEN

  Sitting on the veranda, he started thinking about Giovanna’s behaviour. Undoubtedly the evening had ended better than he’d feared. From the very first moments of their encounter, she’d had a mischievous, provocative, openly inviting attitude. And this had worried him, in as much as he had no desire to follow her down that path. He’d decided to play along because he wanted to understand what was behind her great display of availability. But to play along only up to a point.

  Luckily this attitude on her part had changed the moment she set foot in his house, but not because of any change of mood. In fact the whole way back she’d done nothing but hum to herself in the car. Maybe she’d simply decided she no longer needed to keep up the charade she’d been acting for him up to that point.

  Which meant that during dinner she must have told him what she wanted to tell him or else found out what she wanted to know.

  Part one: what had she wanted to tell him?

  She’d wanted to tell him that the only person in a position to make off with the will was her brother Arturo, and that therefore he alone could have killed Barletta.

  And she’d even unwittingly provided him with proof of this.

  While Arturo had always claimed he’d arrived at his father’s beach house at eight in the morning, Giovanna maintained he called her at seven-thirty.

  ‘Seven-thirty is seven-thirty and not eight! There’s a half an hour difference!’

  That was more or less what Livia had said to him. And it was more or less what he’d said to Mimì.

  Conclusion: Arturo was inside the house well before eight o’clock.

  And she’d also provided an alibi for herself.

  Part two: what had she wanted to know? This was the real question.

  Try as the inspector might to remember their entire conversation from the restaurant, he couldn’t find a single point where Giovanna had shown greater interest than the others and asked more questions than usual.

  So was the only purpose of the evening to put Arturo in hot water?

  The telephone rang as he was closing the French windows before going to bed.

  It was Livia.

  ‘Did you make it home all right?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t Catarella tell you?’

  ‘Yes, he did. Oh, after dropping you off, I went and paid a visit to our friend.’

  ‘How was he?’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘Did you go back in the afternoon?’

  What was he, some sort of errand boy for the Sisters of Charity?

  ‘I didn’t have time.’

  ‘Promise you’ll go tomorrow?’

  The woman was obsessed!

  ‘I promise.’

  The last thing he needed was the hassle of having to go and help a tramp who had no desire to have people about trying to help him!

  *

  He didn’t sleep too well.

  He woke up several times, always with the same question in his head: what had Giovanna wanted to know? He was certain that she’d given him the answer without wanting to, b
ut he couldn’t work out what it was.

  As soon as he got to the station he called Fazio.

  ‘Did you draft a report of Arturo Barletta’s declarations?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve got it in my office.’

  ‘Go and see what time he says he got to his father’s beach house that morning.’

  Fazio went out and then came back. ‘Eight o’clock.’

  ‘And do you remember at what time his sister Giovanna said he called her in Montelusa to tell her their father had been murdered?’

  Fazio gave him a confused look, then slapped himself in the forehead.

  ‘See? You’re getting old yourself!’ said Montalbano. ‘Yesterday evening Giovanna, who I ran into by chance, reconfirmed that Arturo called her at seven-thirty.’

  ‘Who knows how long Arturo had already been at the house!’ Fazio exclaimed.

  ‘Anyway, he didn’t get there before six.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because Pasquano claims that’s more or less when Barletta died of poisoning.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but if he was poisoned at six, Arturo must have got there a few minutes earlier.’

  ‘But if things went the way I think they went, it wasn’t Arturo who poisoned his father.’

  ‘It wasn’t?’

  ‘No. He was the one who shot him, thinking he was still drinking his morning coffee.’

  ‘We would have to prove that.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Shall I call him in?’

  ‘Wait. So you call him in and then what? You politely ask him whether he killed his father? No, we have to find another way. What was his wife’s name?’

  ‘Michela Lollo.’

  ‘Go and pick her up. And bring her here to me before she has time to talk to her husband.’

  Fazio dashed out faster than a lightning bolt.

  *

  ‘Did you read the letters?’ Mimì asked when he came in.

  ‘Only about ten lines in the first one.’

  ‘Hurry up and finish them so we can talk.’

  ‘Do they seem so important to you?’

  ‘That’s the feeling I get.’

  ‘Listen, Mimì; Fazio and I discovered something.’ And he told him about the two different versions of Arturo’s time of arrival at the house, about his pressing need for money, and about how important the will was for him.

  ‘So we finally have something to work with,’ was Augello’s comment.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s still not much. I want to question Arturo’s wife. You need to try to find out at what time that Sunday morning Arturo left his place in Montelusa to drive out to the country house.’