The Paper Moon - Inspector Montalban 09

by Andrea Camilleri

  "How did he die?" "Shot." "Where?" "In the face."

  She gave a start, trembling as though she felt suddenly cold.

  "No, I meant where did it happen?"

  "At his place. Do you know that room he had up on the terrace?"

  "Yes, he showed it to me once."

  "Listen, ma'am, I have to ask you some questions."

  "Well, here I am."

  "Did your husband know?"

  "About my affair with Angelo? Yes."

  "Was it you who told him?"

  "Yes. I never kept anything from him."

  "Was he jealous?"

  "Of course. But he could control himself. Anyway, Angelo wasn't the first."

  "Where would the two of you meet?"

  "At his place."

  "In the room on the terrace?"

  "No, never. As I said, he showed it to me once. He told me he went up there to read and sunbathe." "How often did you meet?"

  "It varied. Normally, when one of us felt like it, we would call the other. Sometimes we went as long as four or five days without seeing each other, maybe because I was too busy or because he had to go out on his rounds of the province."

  "Were you ever jealous?"

  "Of Angelo? No."

  "But Michela told me you were. And that lately the two of you had been quarreling a lot."

  "I don't even know Michela. I've never met her. But Angelo used to tell me about her. I think she's mistaken."

  "About what?"

  "About our quarrels. Jealousy wasn't the reason."

  "Then what was?"

  "I wanted to leave him."

  "You did?!"

  "Why are you so surprised? The feeling was fading, that's all. And then . . ." "And then?"

  "And then I realized Emilio was taking it too hard, even though he didn't let it show. It was the first time he felt so bad."

  "Angelo didn't want you to leave him?"

  "No. I think he was starting to develop a feeling for me that he hadn't counted on at the beginning. You know, in matters of women, Angelo was rather inexperienced."

  "Forgive my asking, but where were you Monday evening?"

  She smiled.

  "I was wondering when you would ask. I have no alibi." "Can you tell me what you did? Did you stay home? See friends?"

  "I went out. Angelo and I had planned to get together Monday evening at his place, around nine o'clock. But when I went out, almost unconsciously, I took a wrong turn. And I kept on going, forcing myself not to turn back. I wanted to see whether I could actually give Angelo up, as he was waiting to make love to me. I drove around aimlessly for two hours, then went back home."

  "Weren't you puzzled that Angelo didn't contact you the following morning and in the days that followed?"

  "No. I thought he wasn't calling me out of spite."

  "Didn't you try to call him?"

  "No, I would never have done that. It would have been a mistake. Maybe it really was all over between us. And I felt relieved at the thought of it."

  4

  The telephone rang again.

  "Excuse me," said Elena, getting up.

  But before leaving the room, she asked:

  "Do you have many more questions to ask me? Because I'm sure this is a girlfriend whom I'm supposed to—"

  "Ten more minutes at the most."

  Elena went out, answered the phone, returned, and sat down. From the way she walked and talked, she seemed completely relaxed. She had managed to metabolize the news of her lover's death in a hurry. Maybe it was true she no longer gave a damn about the man. So much the better. Montalbano wouldn't have to hold back or feel embarrassed.

  "There's one thing that now seems a bit—how shall I say?—odd to me...Forgive me, I'm not very good with adjectives ...or maybe it seems odd only to me, since I'm... I couldn't...

  He felt completely nonplussed. He didn't know how to put the question to this beautiful girl, who was a pleasure just to look at.

  "Say it," she encouraged him with a little smile.

  "Okay. You told me you went out Monday evening to go to Angelo's place, where he was waiting to make love with you. Is that right?" "That's right."

  "Were you planning to spend the night there with him?"

  "Absolutely not. I never spent the night there. I would have come back home around midnight."

  "So you would have stayed about three hours with Angelo."

  "More or less. But why ...?"

  "Did you ever happen to arrive late for a date with him?"

  "A few times."

  "And how did Angelo behave in those instances?"

  "How was he supposed to behave? He was usually nervous, irritated. Then he would slowly calm down and . . ." She smiled in a completely different way from a moment be-fore. A smile half concealed, secret, self-directed, eyes sparkling with amusement. "And try to make up for the time lost."

  "What if I were to tell you that Angelo, that evening, didn't wait for you?"

  "What do you mean? I really don't think he went out, since you said they found him on the terrace . . ."

  "He was killed right after having sexual relations."

  She was either as great an actress as La Duse or truly shaken. She quickly made a few meaningless gestures, stood up and sat down, brought her empty demitasse to her lips, put it down as if she'd drunk from it, pulled a cigarette out of her pack but didn't light it, stood up and sat down, knocked over a small wooden box that was on the coffee table, looked at it, then set it down.

  "That's absurd," she finally said.

  "You see, Angelo behaved as if he was absolutely certain you were no longer going to his place on Monday evening. Out of some sort of resentment towards you, or out of spite, or to get back at you, he may have called another woman. And now you must answer me truthfully: That evening, as you were driving around in your car, did you phone Angelo and tell him you weren't going to his place?"

  "No. That's why I say it's absurd. One time, you know, I even showed up two hours late. And he was beside himself, but still waiting. Monday evening he had no way of knowing what I'd decided. I could have descended on him at any moment and surprised him!"

  "No, I don't think so," said Montalbano.

  "Why?"

  "Because Angelo, in a way, had taken a precaution: He'd gone up to the room on the terrace. And the glass door leading to the terrace was locked. Do you have a key for that door?"

  "No."

  "So you see? Even if you'd arrived unexpectedly, there was no way you could have surprised him. Do you have keys to his apartment?"

  "No."

  "So all you could have done was knock on the apartment door, and nobody would have answered. Before long you would have concluded that Angelo wasn't home, that he'd gone out, perhaps to blow off some steam, and you would have given up. In his room on the terrace, Angelo was out of your reach."

  "But not the killer's," Elena said, almost angrily.

  "That's another matter," said Montalbano. "And you can help me in this."

  "How?"

  "How long had you been with Angelo?" "Six months."

  "During that time, did you have a chance to meet any of his friends, male or female?"

  "Inspector, perhaps I didn't make myself clear enough. When we got together, it was always to . . . well, it was always for a very specific purpose. I would go to his place, we'd have a whisky, get undressed, and go to bed. We never once went to the movies together, or to a restaurant. More recently he wanted to do those kinds of things, but I didn't. And that also led to quarrels."

  "Why didn't you want to go out with him?"

  "Because I didn't want to give people a reason to laugh at Emilio."

  "But surely Angelo must have spoken to you about some of his friends or girlfriends!"

  "He did. He told me, shortly after we met, that he had just broken up with a certain Paola, 'the red,' as he called her. He also told me about a certain Martino, with whom he often went out to lunch and dinner. But th
e person he spoke most often about was his sister, Michela. They were very close, and had been so since childhood."

  "What do you know about this Paola?" "I've already told you everything I know: Paola, red hair."

  "Did he talk about his job?"

  "No. One time he mentioned that it paid well but was boring."

  "Did you know that he'd had a medical practice for a while and then gave it up?"

  "Yes. But he didn't give it up. The only time he ever spoke to me about it, he made vague mention of some episode that had forced him to stop practicing. It was totally unclear to me, but I didn't probe any further because I didn't care."

  This was absolutely new. He had to find out more about it.

  Montalbano stood up.

  "Thank you for your openness. A rare thing, I assure you. I think, however, I'll need to meet with you again."

  "Whatever you say, Inspector. But please do me a favor." "At your service."

  "Next time don't come so early in the morning. You can even come in the afternoon. As I said, my husband knows everything. Sorry, but it's just that I'm a late riser."

  He pulled up in front of Angelo Pardo's building over half an hour late. But he could take his time, since the meeting with the commissioner had been postponed. He rang the intercom bell, and Michela buzzed open the door. As he was climbing the stairs, the building still seemed dead. No voices, no sounds. Who knew whether Elena, when coming to see Angelo, had ever run into any of the other tenants?

  Michela was waiting for him at the door.

  "You're late."

  Montalbano noticed she was wearing a different dress, but one still made to hide what could not be hidden. She'd also changed her shoes.

  Did she therefore keep a whole wardrobe in her brother's apartment?

  Michela realized what was going through the inspector's head.

  "I went home early this morning. I wanted to see how Mama had spent the night. And so I took the opportunity to change clothes."

  "Listen, this morning you have to go see the Public Prosecutor Tommaseo. I'd meant to go with you, but I think there's no point in my being there."

  "What does this man want from me?"

  "He needs to ask you some questions about your brother. Could I use the telephone? I'll tell Tommaseo you're on your way."

  "But where am I supposed to go?" "To the courthouse, in Montelusa."

  He went into the study and immediately sensed some-thing strange. Something had changed, but he didn't know what. He called up Tommaseo and told him he couldn't attend the meeting with Pardo's sister. The prosecutor, though he didn't show it, was naturally pleased.

  Back in the hallway, Michela was ready to leave. "Could you please give me the keys to this apartment?" She hesitated a moment, unsure, then opened her purse and handed him the set.

  "What if I need to come back here?"

  "Come to the station and I'll give them back to you. Where can I find you this afternoon?" "At home."

  He closed the door behind Michela and ran into the study.

  From time immemorial the inspector had a kind of photographic eye built into his head. When, for example, he entered a room that was new to him, he could capture in a single glance not only the arrangement of the furniture but also the objects sitting on top of the different pieces. And he would remember all this even after some time had passed.

  He stopped in the doorway, leaned his right shoulder against the jamb and, looking very carefully, discovered at once what didn't tally.

  The overnight bag.

  The previous evening the bag was resting upright on the floor beside the desk, whereas now it was entirely under the desk. There was no reason to move it; it was not in the way, even if one had to use the phone. Michela must therefore have picked it up to see what was inside and not put it back where it was before.

  He cursed. Shit, what a big mistake he'd made! He should not have left the woman alone in the murdered man's home. He had made it as easy as possible for her to get rid of anything that might prove in some way compromising for her brother.

  He grabbed the overnight bag and set it down on the desk. The little suitcase opened up at once; it was not locked. Inside, a great mass of papers with letterheads of a variety of pharmaceutical companies, instruction inserts for medicines, order forms, receipts.

  There were also two datebooks, one big and one small. He looked first at the big one. The index of addresses was densely packed with the names and telephone numbers of doctors all over the province, hospitals, and pharmacies. In addition, Angelo Pardo diligently wrote down every work-related appointment he had.

  Montalbano set this aside and thumbed through the smaller one. It was Pardo's private datebook. It contained the names and phone numbers of Elena Sclafani, his sister, Michela, and many others the inspector didn't know. He looked at the page for the previous Monday. Pardo had writ-ten, 9 pm E. Thus what Elena had told him about her rendezvous with Angelo was true. He set the little datebook aside as well and picked up the phone.

  "Montalbano here, Cat. Lemme talk to Fazio."

  "Straightaway, Chief."

  "Fazio, could you come meet me right now at Angelo Pardo's place?"

  "On the terrace?"

  "No, downstairs, in the apartment."

  "I'm on my way."

  "Oh, and bring Catarella along with you."

  "Catarella?!"

  "Why, can't he be moved?"

  The desk had three drawers. He opened the one on the right. Here, too, papers and documents relating to the man's career as—what was that again?—ah, yes, as a "pharmaceutical industry informer." The one in the middle wouldn't open. It was locked, and the key was nowhere to be seen. Probably Michela had taken it. What a goddamn idiot he'd been! He was about to open the drawer on the left when the telephone on the desk rang so suddenly and loudly that it scared him. He picked up the receiver.

  "Yes?" he said, squeezing his nostrils with the index fin-ger and thumb of his right hand to alter his voice.

  "You got a cold?"

  "Yes."

  "Izzat why you din't come lass night, scumbag? I'll be waitin f'r ya t'night. And ya better come, even if you got pneumonia."

  End of phone call. A man of few but dangerous words. A commanding voice. Surely some doctor upset at a pharmaceutical informer's failure to show would not call him a scumbag. Montalbano picked up the big datebook and looked at the page for the previous day, Thursday. The part for the evening was blank. There was no writing. Whereas the morning part featured an appointment in Fanara with a certain Dr. Caruana.

  He was about to open the left-hand drawer when the phone rang again. Montalbano began to suspect that there was some sort of connection between the drawer and the telephone.

  "Yes?" he said, doing the same rigmarole with his nostrils.

  "Dr. Angelo Pardo?"

  The voice of a woman, fiftyish and stern. "Yes, it's me."

  "Your voice sounds strange." "A cold."

  "Ah. I'm a nurse with Dr. Caruana in Fanara. The doctor waited a long time for you yesterday morning, and you didn't even have the courtesy to inform us you weren't coming."

  "Please give my apologies to Dr. Caruana, but this cold...I'll get back in tou—"

  He interrupted himself. Wasn't he taking this a bit too far? How could the dead man he was pretending to be ever get back in touch?

  "Hello?" said the nurse.

  "I'll call back as soon as I can. Good day."

  He hung up. An entirely different tone from that used by the unknown man in the first phone call. Very interesting. But would he ever succeed in opening the drawer? He moved his hand carefully, keeping it out of the telephone's view.

  This time he succeeded.

  It was stuffed full of papers. Every possible and imagina-ble kind of receipt of the sort that help keep a household running: rent, electricity, gas, telephone, maintenance. But nothing concerning him, Angelo, personally in person, as Catarella would say. Maybe he'd kept the papers and thi
ngs more directly related to his own life in the middle drawer.

  He closed the left-hand drawer, and the telephone rang. Perhaps the phone had realized a bit late that he'd tricked it, and it was now taking revenge.

  "Yes?"

  Again with nostrils plugged.

  "What the hell happened to you, asshole?"

  Male voice, fortyish, angry. He was about to respond when the other continued:

  "Hold on a second, I've got a call on the other line."

  Montalbano pricked his ears but could only hear a confused murmur. Then two words loud and clear:

  "Holy shit!"

  Then the other hung up. What did it mean? Scumbag and asshole. It was anyone's guess how a third anonymous caller might define Angelo. At that moment the intercom next to the front door rang. The inspector went and buzzed open the door downstairs. It was Fazio and Catarella.

  "Ahh, Chief, Chief! Fazio tol' me you was needin' me poissonally in poisson!"

  He was all sweaty and excited by the high honor the inspector was bestowing on him by asking him to take part in the investigation.

  "Follow me, both of you."

  He led them into the study.

  "You, Cat, take that laptop that's on the desk and see if you can tell me everything it's got inside. But don't do it in here; take it into the living room."

  "Can I also take the prinner wit' me, Chief?"

  "Take whatever you need."

  "With Catarella gone, Montalbano filled Fazio in on everything, from his fuckup in leaving Michela alone in Angelo's apartment to what Elena Sclafani had told him. He also told him about the phone calls. Fazio stood there pensively.

  "Tell me again about the second call," he said after a moment.

  Montalbano described the call again.

  "Here's my hypothesis," said Fazio. "Let's say the guy who phoned the second time is named Giacomo. This Giacomo doesn't know that Angelo's been killed. He calls him up and hears him answer the phone. Giacomo's angry be-cause he's been unable to get in touch with Angelo for several days. "When he's about to start talking to him, he tells him to hold on because he's got a call on another line. Right?"

  "Right."

  "He talks on the other line and somebody tells him something that not only upsets him but makes him break off the conversation. The question is, what did they tell him?"