A Nest of Vipers

by Andrea Camilleri

  ‘Quite,’ said Augello.

  Montalbano glanced at his watch. It was half-past nine. ‘Now, let’s look for a final confirmation. Fazio, do you remember the name of Barletta’s notary friend, the one Giovanna mentioned to us?’

  ‘Piscopo, I think she said. He’s in Montelusa.’

  ‘Look him up in the phone book and ask him if we can come and pay him a visit.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘You bet your life, at this hour. Explain to him that we have no choice. All three of us will go.’

  ‘I’m going to call Beba and tell her I’ll be home late,’ said Mimì, getting up and going out.

  Fazio returned in about ten minutes.

  ‘He made something of a fuss, but in the end he gave in. He’ll be waiting for us at his place.’

  *

  They left in a squad car with Fazio at the wheel. When they were near the street where the notary lived, Montalbano said:

  ‘Turn the siren on.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For psychological effect. The notary has to think this is something very serious. That’ll lessen his resistance to our questions.’

  The notary himself answered the door.

  He was a distinguished man of about sixty, well dressed with gold-rimmed glasses.

  ‘I heard you arrive. Please come in.’

  ‘Mr Piscopo, I’m Inspector Montalbano.’

  He then introduced Augello and Fazio. They were shown into a sitting room with fine furnishings.

  ‘I wish I could offer you something, but I’m not sure I have anything . . . I’m a bachelor and I live alone. I mostly come here just to sleep.’

  ‘Please don’t trouble yourself. I thank you for being so kind as to receive us, and I apologize for the hour. I’ll take as little of your time as possible. Was Cosimo Barletta a friend of yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did he file his last will and testament with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So he wasn’t a client of yours. But as a friend, did he ask you for advice on how to draw up a holographic will?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, as a friend, you’re not held to any code of professional secrecy.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I just want to know whether or not he made one.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘And Giovanna, Barletta’s daughter . . . do you know her?’

  The notary gave a hint of a smile before answering. ‘Pretty well.’

  ‘Giovanna told me that the will favoured her over her brother Arturo. Because she had children and Arturo didn’t. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Barletta later express to you any intention to annul this will?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And to change it to favour someone outside the family?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With both children left completely out of the will?’

  ‘As he intended it, yes. He might have left a small sum for Giovanna. But, you see . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A will of the sort that Cosimo had in mind isn’t so easy to draw up. There are not only problems of legitimacy . . . it’s too easily contested . . . it can be challenged if every possible exception isn’t anticipated . . . In short, I offered to lend him a hand, as I’d done with the first will.’

  ‘Did he accept?’

  ‘Yes. He called me on Friday morning – I remember it well – to invite me to come and spend Sunday with him at his house.’

  ‘Did he tell you that Arturo would also be there?’

  ‘Arturo? His presence would have been inconvenient, to say the least. He would have had to witness the drafting of a will that was going to disinherit him! No, Cosimo stated explicitly that it would be just the two of us.’

  ‘When did you learn that your friend had been murdered?’

  ‘That same Sunday, at around eight-thirty in the morning.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Giovanna called. It was a terrible blow for me. I was just on my way to see him.’

  Montalbano stood up, and Augello and Fazio did likewise.

  ‘I thank you for your courtesy and cooperation, sir,’ said Montalbano, shaking his hand.

  ‘So what now?’ asked Fazio as they were driving back to Vigàta.

  ‘Now you’re going to take me home. I want Arturo in front of me at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Mimì, you pass by the office and get Barletta’s letters to Alina. I want you to read them tonight and—’

  ‘Why always me?’

  ‘Because I still have to finish reading the other ones, from the unknown woman.’

  *

  His home telephone lately was in the habit of starting to ring every time he was unlocking the front door. Fortunately he picked it up in time.

  ‘Where were you? This is the second time I’ve called,’ said Livia.

  ‘I was just coming home.’

  ‘Did you go and see Mario?’

  Good God, this was becoming an obsession! ‘Believe me, I didn’t have a free moment . . .’

  ‘You never have a free moment to do the things I ask you to do!’

  ‘Don’t put it that way!’

  ‘Then how should I put it?’

  ‘That I absolutely had no time, full stop. I didn’t refrain from going just to spite you.’

  ‘I wish I could believe you, but . . .’ They were off to a very bad start.

  They squabbled for about ten minutes, then, to conclude, Montalbano swore to her that he would visit the tramp the following day.

  *

  Adelina had made him fried pasta with broccoli and a salad of calamari rings, shrimps, celery, carrots, and passuluna olives. As he was heating the pasta in the oven, he laid the table outside on the veranda.

  When he’d finished, he cleared the table, picked up his cigarettes and lighter, and sat back down outside. He stuck a hand in his jacket pocket, took out the letters, and started reading them.

  You’re pig-headed. You never give up until everyone, like it or not, submits to your desires. This time, however, I will stand up to you.

  You will never make me change my mind. I’ve told you this in writing and in person.

  And I’ll say it again: I will not get an abortion.

  We shall be forever bound by this being, even more than we are by the secret that we’ve been harbouring deep in our hearts for years.

  We made a lightning decision that terrible day. Do you remember?

  Without saying a word, without exchanging a glance, we acted in unison and let things take their course.

  Now, however, you do not agree with me. And this pains me.

  But my mind is made up.

  I shall make my own choice —for both of us.

  He looked at the other letters. In one she talked about a trip they had taken together; in another she thanked him for the presents he’d lavished on her and the money he was continually giving her; in a third she reproached him for his continual affairs with other women and declared that she would get her revenge by paying him back ‘in kind’ . . . The last letter particularly struck him.

  In it she remembered when she was a little girl and Barletta took her to the circus . . .

  This was an important clue. It meant that Barletta had known her – the woman who would one day become his mistress and the mother of his child – when she was still a little girl. She must have been the daughter of a close friend of his.

  But, apart from this last letter, there was nothing in the others that might help to identify the woman who wrote them.

  He went inside, closed the French windows, and got into bed.

  For some reason, the letters had made him uneasy.

  *

  ‘Fazio, before bringing Arturo in, I want to tell you that I absolutely need you to inform yourself as to who Barletta’s friends were, what people used to come to his house, and so on. You can start on it this afternoon. I’m going to go
now.’

  ‘What?’ said a shocked Mimì. And what about interrogating Arturo?’

  ‘You guys can take care of it.’

  ‘Excuse me, Salvo, but—’

  ‘Mimì, the man killed his father over a question of money. It’s the basest motive conceivable. On top of that, he killed him in the stupidest fashion imaginable, letting himself be seen by the neighbour like that, calling his sister at seven-thirty and telling us that it was eight when we know he was already at the house before seven, and shooting his father without realizing he was already dead! Why should I waste an hour of my life interrogating a moron like that? Tell him about the witnesses – the bookseller, the neighbour – and tell him what the notary and his wife Michela told us. He’ll crack, you’ll see.’

  ‘And what if he wants a lawyer?’

  ‘You’ll get him one. Then you’ll handcuff him and take him to Tommaseo. And since I think this business will keep you busy all morning, we’ll meet after lunch.’

  *

  He went out, got in his car, and sped home to Marinella.

  ‘ What’s happened?’ asked Adelina, taken by surprise when he charged in at an unusual time of day.

  ‘ Nothing, nothing.’

  He took off his clothes, put on his trunks, ran down to the beach, and threw himself into the sea.

  Merely talking about Arturo had made him feel dirty all over.

  Seeing his face might well have made him vomit. The water was cold, but it washed him clean.

  He went back into the house, grabbed the unknown woman’s letters, and took them out on the veranda.

  ‘Could you make me some coffee, Adeli?’

  ‘Comin’ right up, sir.’

  There was something in those letters that made him suspicious, but he couldn’t bring it into focus.

  ‘. . . the same that has overwhelmed us for so many years . . .’

  ‘. . . because of all that time too long apart . . .’

  ‘ . . . nobody will suspect that the child is ours, neither him nor those around us . . .’

  ‘. . . a time in our lives when we met almost daily, despite the extreme risks . . .’

  What were these extreme risks? Apparently it was risky not only for her, but for Barletta as well.

  But normally Barletta didn’t give a flying fuck about the risks his lusts created for him! One needed only to look at the way he behaved with Michela, having tried to rape her in the kitchen while the rest of the family was on the beach, within shouting distance!

  So what was it about their meetings that made them so dangerous?

  ‘Yer coffee, Inspector.’

  He went over the letters for an hour but got nowhere.

  ‘Why dona you stay anna eat atta home, issead a allway goin’ out to the restaurant! ’Oo knows wha’ kinda ’sgustin’ stuff ’ey givin’ you ta eat! Oil ’ass fried anna riffried, sauce ’assa gonna bad, rottin’ fish . . .’

  One ate magnificently at Enzo’s, but Adelina was convinced she was the best housekeeper and cook in the world.

  ‘What will you make for me?’

  ‘I mekka li’l pasta ’ncasciata.’

  He managed to control himself – otherwise he would have hugged her, kissed her, and danced a waltz with her.

  ‘And you’ll also make something for this evening?’

  ‘O’ course!’

  Adelina laid the table on the veranda, and he had a feast. Not so much owing to the dish his housekeeper had cooked – which was always the quintessence of heaven – but because the meal came with the best seasoning one could ever hope for: a day of sun, with an ever-so-light breeze that not only was not a disturbance, but also carried the scent of the sea.

  Instead of taking his walk out to the end of the jetty, he strolled along the beach, barefoot, with the water every so often caressing his feet.

  *

  By the time he got back to the office, it was three o’clock. In the main entrance he ran into Fazio, who was on his way out.

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘To do what you asked me to do this morning. Look for close friends of Barletta’s . . .’

  ‘Is Augello in?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then stay here. Go and get him, then both of you come to my office.’

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘Tell me how it went this morning,’ he said, as soon as both of his men had sat down in front of him.

  ‘How would you expect?’ said Mimì. ‘When I read him all the charges he turned as white as a corpse, and the only thing he said in the end was that he wanted his lawyer. But his lawyer wasn’t available, so we took Arturo to see Tommaseo, whom Fazio had called to let him know we were coming. Tommaseo took me aside and wanted me to tell him everything. He didn’t start the interrogation until after the lawyer arrived, about half an hour later. All by the book.’

  ‘What did Arturo say in his own defence?’

  ‘He kept insisting that he got to his father’s house a little before eight, but Tommaseo summoned the bookseller and Modica, the neighbour, for this afternoon. He’ll definitely crack with them there.’

  ‘Did he say anything that might be of interest to us?’

  ‘He laid into his sister Giovanna,’ said Fazio.

  ‘Called her a slut and a whore,’ said Mimì.

  ‘And said she was her father’s daughter,’ Fazio continued.

  ‘What kind of accusation is that?’

  ‘Meaning that in taking lovers, she was no slouch,’ Mimì explained.

  ‘Did he name any names?’

  ‘Absolutely!’ said Fazio. ‘The notary Piscopo himself, Lamantia the engineer, a lawyer named Di Stefano, Santo Fallace, who is a businessman dealing in pharmaceuticals—’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Montalbano interrupted him. ‘The fact that his sister had a lot of lovers doesn’t mean he’s not a murderer.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Mimì. ‘But he pointed out that they were all people whom his father knew and whom Giovanna used to make him look bad. He said that his father, in leaving the greater part of his inheritance to Giovanna, didn’t do it because she had two children, but because he’d been prevailed upon by Giovanna and the friends of his who’d been her lovers.’

  In short, in front of the prosecutor, Arturo, mincing no words, had his revenge on Giovanna for the accusations she had made against him.

  Quite a family, you had to admit! A nest of vipers might be a better description.

  ‘OK,’ Montalbano concluded. ‘Fazio, you can go and get started on your search.’

  Fazio said goodbye and left.

  ‘What search?’ asked Augello.

  ‘I’ll tell you in a second. First you tell me what Barletta’s letters to Alina were like.’

  ‘They’re exactly like the girl said: awkward and ungrammatical. But they do show that he was genuinely in love with her. And he would definitely have made out the will in her favour. He’d lost his head over her. By that point the girl was the only thing in the world that mattered to him.’

  ‘So let’s talk about some of the other love letters.’

  He took the packet of letters from the unknown girl and held it out to Augello.

  ‘But I’ve already read them!’

  ‘I want you to look at the passages I underlined.’

  When Mimì had finished, the inspector said to him: ‘Now, try and bear with me, Mimì. I’m going give a kind of summary. What emerges from these letters is, first, that Barletta knew this woman when she was a little girl; second, that their relationship had its ups and downs; third, that their meetings were extremely risky; fourth, that in the meantime she’s gone with another man; fifth, that they had a new opportunity to become lovers again; sixth, that she got pregnant from this and kept the child; seventh, that we’re looking at an affair that lasted years and years; eighth, that the two shared another secret besides the fact of being lovers.’

  ‘That’s a summary of past episodes. Now tell me
what happens next.’

  ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that this woman must be the daughter of a very good friend of Barletta’s, a friend who used to come to his house. And that’s the research I want Fazio to do.’

  Mimì remained pensive.

  ‘You don’t agree?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘I completely agree. But I wonder why Barletta kept those letters.’

  ‘Aside from the fact that Barletta kept everything, those letters contain written, irrefutable proof that this woman had a child from him.’

  ‘Yeah, but what use to him was this proof?’

  ‘How can anyone answer a question like that? You would have to go inside Barletta’s soul to know. Which wouldn’t be easy. Meanwhile it’s clear that he was in love with this woman, but in his own way. It might have been his strategy for keeping her tied to him for ever.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Mimì, say she threatened to leave him. He could blackmail her with this business of the child.’

  ‘But I got the impression that she was more in love with him than vice versa.’

  ‘Exactly. So the question is this: how would a woman so in love react if she found out that the most important man in her life had fallen head over heels for a twenty-year-old girl? That she’d been definitively replaced?’

  ‘She might kill him.’

  ‘That’s what I say too. And that’s why I put Fazio to work.’

  ‘Wait a second. If Barletta was so much in love with Alina, why did he spend his last night with another woman?’

  ‘Well, the fact that he spent his last night with a woman is something we have inferred from the blonde hair we found in the double bed, which had clearly been slept in by two people. But something Giovanna said makes me unsure.’