A Nest of Vipers

by Andrea Camilleri

  But Michela had firmly rejected her husband’s proposal. And he’d insisted, because that was to be his last desperate attempt before he was forced to take the terrible, final, definitive step . . .

  Yes, that must be how it had happened.

  *

  Back at the station, he related to Fazio what he’d been thinking, and Fazio was in complete agreement.

  ‘When you got back to Michela’s house, was her husband there?’

  ‘No, he hadn’t returned yet.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll tell him what she told us?’

  ‘I don’t think she’ll even tell him she came here. At least that’s what she led me to believe.’

  ‘So Arturo still doesn’t know we’ve got him in our sights?’

  ‘I really don’t think so.’

  Montalbano sat there thinking for a moment. Then he started laughing.

  ‘Care to let me in on the joke?’ said Fazio.

  ‘Can you tell me exactly what we will have achieved by arresting Arturo?’

  Fazio looked perplexed.

  ‘What do you mean, “what we will have achieved”? We will have arrested the killer!’

  ‘You call someone who shoots a man already dead a killer?’

  ‘His intention was to kill his father. The fact that he was already dead is irrelevant to me.’

  ‘Fazio, you’ll see at the trial whether it’s relevant or not! But the real problem is that we haven’t the slightest idea who the woman was that killed him!’

  ‘So for you it was definitely a woman?’

  ‘I’m ninety-nine per cent certain. It was the one who’d slept with him that last night.’

  ‘Then why let the whole night go by?’

  ‘Maybe because she didn’t have an opportunity to use the poison before then. Say they went out to a restaurant for dinner. How’s she going to poison his dishes with all those people around? And apparently Barletta didn’t get thirsty at night; in fact there was no water glass on his bedside table. The murderess had no choice but to wait until the next morning’s coffee.’

  ‘But why did they wake up so early?’

  ‘There must be an explanation. Maybe she told him she could spend the night with him at the house but had to be back at home by seven in the morning at the latest.’

  Fazio seemed satisfied with this.

  ‘Chief, here’s a question just for the sake of argument: if Michela had agreed to do what her husband wanted, are you so sure Barletta would, in the end, have helped his son? I don’t think so. He would have enjoyed Arturo’s wife and then let his son stew in his own juices.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Montalbano.

  *

  Mimì Augello came back to the office around six that evening. He looked pleased. He must have discovered something good.

  ‘Call Fazio,’ he said to Montalbano as he sat himself down. ‘That’ll spare me having to say the same thing twice.’

  Fazio showed up at once.

  ‘I got really lucky,’ Augello began. ‘Remember when I said that since it was Sunday morning, the shops would be all closed and therefore there would be no witnesses?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was wrong.’

  ‘They were open?’ asked Fazio.

  ‘No, all closed. Except one. A bookshop directly opposite the front door of Arturo Barletta’s building.’

  ‘Why was it open?’

  ‘They were doing a stock-check.’

  ‘They saw him go out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘The bookshop’s owner, whose name is Varvaro, was familiar with the car that Arturo usually parked outside his front door. Varvaro arrived at the shop with an employee at six o’clock that Sunday morning. And Arturo’s car was there. They went in and rolled the shutter back down. Five minutes later, Varvaro realized he’d left his cigarettes in the car. So he reopened the shutter, went out, and noticed that Arturo’s car was no longer there.’

  ‘And it takes about half an hour to drive from Montelusa to the beach house,’ Fazio commented.

  ‘For me it’s not enough,’ said Montalbano.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Fazio.

  ‘Because Arturo can always maintain that he had to do something else before going to his father’s house. Or that the car broke down or something similar. And that was why he got to the house at eight.’

  Mimì Augello smiled.

  ‘But didn’t I tell you guys I got really lucky? I found another witness. Mr Modica.’

  ‘And who’s he?’

  ‘The owner of a house about a quarter of a mile past Barletta’s beach house, down the same road. I thought I should go and talk to him. He told me where he lives in town, and I met him there. He said that on that Sunday morning he was on his way to his house when another car passed him aggressively, running him off the road and not stopping to help. It was Arturo’s.’

  ‘Does he remember what time it was?’

  ‘Yes. It was probably around six thirty-five, six forty. Modica’s wife hurt her forehead. When Modica got to his house, he gave his wife first aid then got back in his car in a rage and drove to Barletta’s house. When he pulled up and got out, he saw Arturo come running to him all upset, yelling: “Papa’s been shot! Go away!” Modica got scared, put the car in gear, and drove off. Is that enough for you?’

  ‘So he’s certain Arturo was chasing him away?’ asked Montalbano.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So Arturo behaved unnaturally. Because someone who’s just found his father shot dead isn’t going to send people away. If anything, he’s going to ask the first person he sees for help. Whereas Arturo doesn’t want any outsiders in his hair. He wants both hands free to look for the will. It’s all pretty clear,’ the inspector concluded.

  ‘So what now?’ asked Augello.

  ‘Now I have to go and talk to Tommaseo. Congratulations, Mimì, not just on your luck, but on your police work. Well done.’

  *

  As he was entering the prosecutor’s office, Montalbano stopped dead in his tracks.

  Standing on a chair, Tommaseo was attaching enlargements of Barletta’s photographs to the wall with thumbtacks. One wall was already entirely covered. On the desk lay another fifty or so photographic enlargements. The room looked like the editorial office of a pornographic magazine.

  ‘You really ought to put a sign on the door saying “Minors forbidden to enter”, don’t you think?’ Montalbano joked.

  But Tommaseo took him seriously.

  ‘You may be right,’ he said, climbing down from the chair.

  He looked around and seemed satisfied.

  ‘I had them enlarged so you could see the details better.’

  On the desk there was even a magnifying glass worthy of Sherlock Holmes. Montalbano decided that Tommaseo, forever fixated on fantasies of women, must be spending tortured nights in bed turning the images of the exhibition he’d mounted over and over in his head.

  ‘Have you identified any of them?’

  ‘Four, so far. Inspector Mazzacolla is doing a remarkable job.’

  The inspector noticed that the prosecutor’s face looked waxen and bloodless, and his hands were trembling slightly. Surely he was on the verge of collapse.

  ‘Have you interrogated them?’

  ‘Oh, yes, oh, yes! At length! I’ve penetrated their innermost depths!’

  He felt around in his pocket and took out a small box, which he opened, extracting a pill that he then swallowed, drinking it down with half a glass of water he had within reach.

  This stuff’s going to kill the poor man, thought Montalbano. ‘And have you come up with anything?’

  ‘Well . . . These are girls who lie without hesitation, you know . . . One says she was with Barletta only once because he got her drunk . . . Another says she was forced to give in . . . The fact of the matter is that Barletta had a solid argument for persuading them to go to bed with him: money. And he didn’t skimp on them
, either. Just think, the last one he was with—’

  ‘You’ve discovered who Barletta’s last girlfriend was?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t Inspector Mazzacolla tell you? It’s that one there, see?’

  He pointed to one of the photos posted on the wall. A girl who could not even have been twenty – gorgeous, portrayed completely nude from behind, with her head turned to look at the photographer.

  ‘As you can see,’ Tommaseo continued, ‘she’s a brunette. So she couldn’t have been the girl from Barletta’s last night. She also has an unassailable alibi.’

  ‘How long had she been going with Barletta?’

  ‘For a month. And he claimed to be madly in love with her! Imagine that! She even said – though it’s clearly a lie – that Barletta had solemnly sworn to her that he would make out his will in her favour and show it to her the next time they met, on the following Monday. But he was murdered on Sunday.’

  Montalbano felt a violent electrical shock run through his entire body. He managed to control himself. Then he started laughing.

  ‘That’s the most absurd thing I’ve heard so far about Barletta! But, just out of curiosity, what’s her name?’

  ‘The girl’s? Alina Camera. She’s from Vigàta. But what did you come here to tell me?’

  ‘Nothing. I was just passing by and came to say hello.’

  ‘Well, thanks. How’s your slice of the investigation going?’

  ‘We suspect the son, Arturo – but it’s only a hunch, mind you.’

  ‘Really? And why would he have killed his father?’

  ‘Because the father was preying on his wife.’

  ‘The man didn’t spare anyone!’ Tommaseo exclaimed, slightly envious. ‘So he wanted to . . . even with his daughter-in-law?’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘Is she attractive?’ Tommaseo asked, licking his lips.

  But weren’t all the girls he had around him, even if only in photographs, enough for him? He had to sidetrack him. That was all the wretched Michela needed, to have the public prosecutor all over her!

  ‘Well, that’s the strange thing.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘She’s rather plain, that’s what. Slightly bowlegged, a little hint of a moustache . . . Who knows what he saw in her.’

  Tommaseo seemed disappointed.

  ‘Oh, when it comes to sex, man is inscrutable!’ he said philosophically.

  Montalbano concurred, nodding in understanding. Then he asked:

  ‘Do you want to interview her yourself?’

  Tommaseo didn’t seem too enthusiastic.

  ‘No, no . . . That’s your slice of the investigation, anyway. Well . . .’

  He stood up and held out his hand. Which was sweaty. He was anxious to get back to studying those photos with his magnifying glass.

  *

  Once outside, the inspector checked his watch. Ten past eight exactly. If they didn’t waste any time, he and the others might just manage. He called Catarella.

  ‘Yer orders, Chief!’

  Are Augello and Fazio still there?’

  ‘Yessir, Chief, ’ey’re still onna premisses.’

  ‘Tell them to wait for me. I’m on my way. Meanwhile pass me Fazio.’

  ‘What is it, Chief?’

  ‘Fazio, write this name down: Alina Camera. She’s a girl of about twenty, from Vigàta. If possible, bring her to my office. Even if it’s impossible.’

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘Right now.’

  ‘Did Prosecutor Tommaseo sign an arrest warrant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I didn’t ask him to. It seemed better to hear first what this girl has to say. Don’t waste any time. Find me Alina.’

  *

  ‘She’s here,’ Fazio said to the inspector as he entered the station.

  ‘Alina?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well done! How did you manage?’

  ‘I got the idea to look her up in the phone book. There she was: first name, last name, and address. I got lucky too, just like Inspector Augello, because when I got there she was on her way to the movies with a girlfriend.’

  ‘What was her reaction?’

  ‘As if I’d invited her for a cup of coffee. She said goodbye to her friend and didn’t make a peep of protest the whole way here in the car.’

  ‘Bring her into my office, and you and Augello come too.’

  SIXTEEN

  In person, Alina Camera was even better than in the photograph. Mimì gazed at her, spellbound by her beauty. You certainly couldn’t say that Barletta didn’t know how to pick his women. But how was it that when Barletta walked about town he was able to flush out all these beautiful girls, whereas he, the inspector, never saw a single one? Maybe Barletta was endowed with an eye for it, like a dog with a nose for truffles.

  ‘Please sit down. I’ll only keep you a few minutes.’

  ‘OK.’

  She was completely indifferent, as Fazio had said. Actually, she seemed a little bored.

  ‘Do you work?’

  ‘No. I’ll be studying modern literature in Palermo. I just enrolled, a little over a week ago.’

  ‘Do you live alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your parents?’

  ‘They live here, in Vigàta.’

  ‘Do you rent the apartment you live in?’

  ‘No. It’s mine.’

  ‘Did your parents buy it for you?’

  ‘My parents? They barely have enough money to make it to the end of the month.’

  ‘Then how . . .’

  ‘Cosimo bought it for me, two months ago.’

  And who was that? She saw the question in the inspector’s eyes.

  ‘Barletta,’ she explained.

  Right. His first name was Cosimo. She felt the need to add:

  ‘I’ve already said that to Inspector Mazzacolla and Prosecutor Tommaseo – that he bought me the apartment.’

  ‘Were you already his mistress?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why did he buy you an apartment?’

  ‘To persuade me to go with him.’

  ‘Were you persuaded?’

  ‘Yes. The same day he gave me the keys.’

  ‘I see. Listen, it’s late, so I’ll get straight to the point. Is it true that Barletta fell in love with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He never did with any of his other girls; why with you?’

  ‘Maybe because, unlike the other girls, I resisted his advances for three months before I . . . I have letters from him in which it’s clear . . .’

  Now this was news! ‘He wrote you letters?’

  ‘Yes, about ten or so. They’re funny.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘An old man writing love letters, like a little boy . . . And the grammar’s terrible . . .’

  Though she was indeed speaking, it was as though she had no part in the words she was saying. She wasn’t really a girl of flesh and blood, but a sort of refrigerator.

  ‘Did you talk about these letters with Prosecutor Tommaseo?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should have. Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Because when I told them that Cosimo was in love with me, they started laughing and didn’t believe it. So . . .’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘The letters? At my place.’

  ‘Would you have any problem with us reading them?’

  ‘I couldn’t care less.’

  ‘What were the circumstances when Barletta told you he would change the will in your favour?’

  Fazio and Augello, who knew nothing about this detail, pricked up their astonished ears.

  ‘The second time he came to see me, I told him that twice was quite enough for me and I no longer wanted to . . . that he could even take back the apartment. He started crying. He wrote me a desperate letter . . . It’s with the others . . . I let him come back, on the con
dition that he pay for my studies. He deposited a large sum in the bank in my name, enough to get me to graduation. I want to study, but my parents aren’t in a position to support me . . . And so, it was either him or someone else . . . Since then, he’s wanted me almost every day.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘It was a Thursday. That was when he told me that he would change the will in my favour, on the condition that I wouldn’t leave him till he died. He said he would show it to me the next time we met, which would have been the following Monday. He specified that it would be a proper will, drawn up by a notary, and that he wasn’t kidding. But he was killed on Sunday.’

  She told the story without any alteration in her tone of voice, without once showing any emotion – whether shame, displeasure, resentment, or sorrow. Nothing.

  ‘Why did you not see him after Thursday?’

  ‘I went to Palermo on Friday morning because the university had opened for registration. A girlfriend of mine had agreed to put me up for two days. And in fact I came back to Vigàta on Sunday evening. I only found out from the TV that Cosimo had been killed. Inspector Mazzacolla has checked all this out.’

  Montalbano, Augello, and Fazio all exchanged a quick glance. There was nothing else to discuss.

  ‘All right, then, thanks. You can go. Fazio, please give the young lady a lift home and have her give you the letters.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Alina.

  She stood up, adjusted her skirt, and went out as indifferently as she had come in.

  ‘You know what?’ said Mimì the moment the two were alone in the room. ‘That girl scares me.’

  ‘Me too,’ Montalbano concurred.

  ‘Good thing she has an alibi, because that kid would be fully capable of killing a man without a second thought.’

  ‘I think I understand why Barletta fell in love with her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she was just like him. Totally devoid of humanity.’

  It took Fazio less than half an hour to go and come back. He dropped a packet of letters on the desk.

  ‘Can I say something?’ he said. ‘That girl . . .’

  ‘Scared you?’ said Montalbano and Augello in unison.

  ‘You too?’

  ‘What Alina told us,’ said the inspector, ‘helps us understand at least two things. The first is that Arturo was aware of his father’s intention to change the will. Something that he had always feared – that his father would fall in love with some girl and do something really stupid – was actually happening. He’d talked about it with Giovanna. Changing the will meant that he would lose even the lesser part of the inheritance, since the greater part would go to his sister. In short, he wouldn’t see a penny. The second thing is that we finally have the answer to a question that has long been swirling in my brain: what was it that Barletta absolutely had to be prevented from doing on that Sunday? The answer: changing the will. Sunday was the last possible day; Monday would have been too late, since Barletta had promised Alina he would let her read it that day. Is that much clear?’