A Voice in the Night

by Andrea Camilleri

‘The fact is that I absolutely do not want . . .’ he started with effort, a lot more nervous than before.

  ‘Wait, Mr Strangio. I would like to put on the record my profound regret that your lawyer isn’t here, although I’d alerted him as to our meeting beforehand. You can, if you wish, refuse to proceed any further.’

  Strangio didn’t give it a moment’s thought.

  ‘Let’s carry on. The sooner we get this over with, the better.’

  ‘Fazio, did you put on the record that I made it clear to Mr Strangio that we could, upon his request, suspend the interrogation? Yes? All right then, we can go on. Mr Strangio, can you tell us what you did after the meeting?’

  The young man swallowed twice before opening his mouth.

  ‘I wanted to avoid involving . . . Yes, it’s true, I dropped in at the hotel, paid the bill, got them to call me a taxi, and then I went . . . to see a friend, a woman.’

  ‘And what time was it when you got to this friend’s place?’

  ‘I dunno . . . around six-thirty.’

  ‘What did you do with her?’

  ‘We . . . talked. And then we had dinner. We ate in. Because . . . I’d told her I was free.’

  ‘Did you sleep there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And from there you went to the airport the following morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you look up this friend of yours every time you go to Rome?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So she’s a steady lover of yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Good for Strangio and his Roman mistress!

  ‘Can I smoke?’ the young man asked.

  ‘No, not at the moment. How long have you been in a relationship with this woman?’

  ‘About two years, except for a period of interruption that lasted a few months.’

  ‘Was your girlfriend aware of this situation?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I want this girl’s first and last name, address, and telephone number.’

  ‘Couldn’t we keep her out of—’

  ‘No, Mr Strangio. You should realize she’s your alibi.’

  ‘All right, then, if it can’t be avoided . . . Her name is Stella Ambrogini, and she lives on Via Sardegna, number 715. Her phone number is 06 321 7714, and her mobile is 338 55833. She can confirm everything. But . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘At the press conference I said I slept at the hotel.’

  What was he talking about?

  ‘You held a press conference?!’

  ‘Yes.’

  Montalbano started swearing under his breath. He noticed that Fazio and Mimì also seemed stunned.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They were so insistent!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The journalists.’

  A question came out of the inspector’s mouth before he could hold it back.

  ‘Was your father in agreement with this?’

  ‘My father’s not around. He’s in Naples and will be back this evening. I haven’t told him anything.’

  ‘Where did you hold the press conference?’

  ‘At my dad’s house, where I live at present.’

  ‘Was your lawyer there?’

  ‘No.’

  Of course not! The guy was never around. If he hadn’t actually seen him in person, Montalbano might doubt that he even existed.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Strangio, but I need to interrupt things for a moment. Fazio, take him to Catarella, who can escort him outside to have a cigarette, then show him into the waiting room. But you come back here.’

  Fazio and Strangio went out. ‘Well done, Mimì! I can see we haven’t lost our feel for team play.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Fazio returned and sat down in Strangio’s chair.

  ‘This business of the press conference caught me unawares,’ said the inspector. ‘What do you two think?’

  ‘He denies it, but it might be a move his father suggested to him,’ said Mimì.

  ‘I don’t agree,’ said Fazio. ‘His father normally uses journalists like Ragonese. The kid clearly isn’t quite right in the head, and to expose his son like that, without even his lawyer at his side, doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a clever man like the provincial president would do.’

  ‘I agree with Fazio,’ said the inspector. ‘It was a brilliant idea cooked up independently by the kid himself. But the real question is: to what end? There must be a reason.’

  ‘Listen, we’ll just have to wait and watch the press conference this evening, then we can discuss it,’ Augello concluded.

  ‘The main new development is that Strangio seems to have a solid alibi,’ said Montalbano. ‘Fazio, go into your office and call this woman. See whether she’s willing to confirm everything in front of a judge. I’m going to go and have a cigarette.’

  ‘But Strangio’s already in the courtyard,’ said Mimì.

  ‘So I’ll smoke in the toilet.’

  FOURTEEN

  When Montalbano returned, Fazio and Mimì were in his office, chatting.

  ‘Did you talk to her?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Apparently Strangio had already informed her. She knew about the murder. She’s ready to confirm everything in court.’

  ‘Confirming it in court doesn’t mean anything,’ said Mimì. ‘People lie under oath all the time.’

  ‘And for that reason, we’ll carry on,’ said Montalbano. Then, turning to Fazio:

  ‘Go and get Strangio.’

  *

  ‘Were you in love with your girlfriend?’

  The young man hesitated for a moment.

  ‘I was very fond of her.’

  He said it the same way somebody might say he had been very close to his dog, who had just died. He seemed to realize this, and so felt compelled to explain.

  ‘After we’d been living together for about two months, Mariangela and I became . . . well, good friends. Even though we did happen, now and then, or even often, to sleep together. We both realized we’d made a mistake; there was no more rapture, no more passion. Affection, yes. A lot. It was like . . . a wind that suddenly drops. That’s how it was.’

  ‘Did the two of you talk about this new situation?’

  ‘Of course. At great length, even. We decided that we should each live our own life.’

  ‘Well, you weren’t legally bound to each other: why did you keep living under the same roof?’

  ‘I dunno. Maybe – though this may sound strange – out of laziness. I think . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I think – but it’s just a guess on my part, mind you – I think that over the last few months, Mariangela, feeling herself emotionally free, may have . . . become interested in someone else.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Well . . . A certain change of mood . . . She . . . yes, she’d started seeming more cheerful again, more . . . But at other times she was also very sad, closed . . .’

  ‘She was two months pregnant,’ Montalbano shot out.

  Augello and Fazio were even more surprised than Strangio.

  ‘Oh, really? She never told me.’

  A pause. Then:

  ‘Who knows whether I was the father . . .’

  Neither worried nor pleased. Just mildly curious. ‘That period you mentioned, when you broke off relations with your girlfriend in Rome, when was that?’

  ‘During the first two months I was living with Mariangela.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who might be the man Mariangela became “interested” in, as you put it?’

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea.’

  The answer had come too promptly. Maybe he did have an idea, and not a very foggy one at that.

  ‘When, on your return from Palermo airport, you got home and opened the door . . . Speaking of which, was it locked?’

  ‘Of course it was locked. Mariangela, especially when she was alone, was always afraid that—’

  ‘Did you noti
ce any signs of forced entry?’

  ‘No, there weren’t any. Or, if there were, I didn’t see any.’

  ‘Can you confirm that you came directly here, to the police, after discovering the murder?’

  ‘Yes, I can. I landed at Punta Raisi airport at nine, was here in Vigàta by ten-thirty, and at eleven I came to the police.’

  ‘Only an hour and a half from the airport to Vigàta?’

  ‘Yes. I’m a good driver. An hour and a half if there’s no traffic, naturally.’

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Ah, Chief! Proxicutter Gommaseo jess called an’ since I said you was encaged wit’ Stranger, ’e said to tell yiz, meanin’ you, to tella foresaid ’atta Proxicutter Gommaseo’s waitin’ f’r ’im, not f’r yiz, ’oo’d be you, butta foresaid Stranger, t’marra mornin’ a’ nine-toity in ’is affice in Montelusa a’ nine-toity tamarra mornin’.’

  ‘Prosecutor Tommaseo will be waiting for you tomorrow morning, though it’s a Sunday, at nine-thirty, at the courthouse of Montelusa,’ Montalbano communicated to the young man.

  Then he said:

  ‘I think that’s enough for today.’

  ‘There’s something that doesn’t make sense to me,’ Strangio said unexpectedly.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘When I saw Mariangela from the hallway, she was naked and lying on the desk in the study. Did you find any of her clothes in the room?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s strange.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Normally, before going to bed at night, she would shower and then go around the house in a white bathrobe made of terrycloth. Did you find it?’

  ‘It wasn’t in the study.’

  ‘There’s another thing . . . Prosecutor Tommaseo wanted me to put my car in the garage, and then had seals put up on the garage. I forgot my computer in the car, and without it I can’t even work. I’d like to have it back. Is that possible?’

  ‘You can ask Prosecutor Tommaseo tomorrow. And listen: make sure that your lawyer is also present tomorrow morning. Mimì, please show the gentleman out.’

  They said goodbye, and Augello and Strangio left.

  ‘I want you to summon Mariangela’s close friend for tomorrow morning,’ the inspector said to Fazio, ‘even though it’s Sunday. After what Strangio told us, we absolutely need to talk to her.’

  *

  When Fazio had also left, the inspector resumed looking for the pages with the transcriptions. He couldn’t find them anywhere. And so he concluded that he’d probably taken them home to Marinella.

  By now it was late. He rang Tommaseo, hoping to keep things short.

  ‘Montalbano? Are you coming too tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Actually, I have—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Did you pressure him well? I’ve worked out how Strangio killed her, you know.’

  ‘Oh, really? Tell me.’

  ‘It all revolves around flight timetables. Listen closely. So, Strangio flies out of Rome on the—’

  ‘I had the same idea, sir, so I informed myself. What you are suggesting would be possible only if—’

  ‘See? You yourself came to the same conclusion. And Dr Pasquano has even supplied the motive! She was pregnant! Strangio discovers that Mariangela is pregnant, becomes suspicious, since he’s almost certain that he’s not the father, and then, in a jealous rage, he decides to kill her. So he catches a flight out of Rome—’

  ‘We’ve already said that.’

  ‘Ah, right.’

  ‘The problem is, Strangio has a solid alibi.’

  ‘What alibi?’

  ‘He spent the night in Rome with his mistress. And the girl is ready to testify in court.’

  ‘But the testimony of a call girl is basically worthless!’

  Montalbano was stumped.

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘No. I don’t even know her name, you haven’t told me.’

  ‘So how can you say—’

  ‘I just know by intuition!’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘Trust me, Montalbano, I’m right on this. Come on: you’ve got in your hands a wonder of nature, a gem, a sheer delight, a fragrant flower, a jewel of a—’

  ‘I’m sorry, but who are you referring to?’

  ‘To Mariangela, of course! I’m looking at her photos as we speak. So you’ve got in your hands an angel and you go with a woman of sin like that call girl, who for a handful of cash is ready to bear false witness?’

  Could Tommaseo be falling hopelessly in love with the dead Mariangela? If so, Strangio, whether guilty or innocent, was going to be put through a meat grinder. Better clear things up immediately.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Tommaseo, but I think you’re making a big error of judgement.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t agree with your focusing the investigation only on Strangio.’

  ‘Listen, Inspector. Who is directing this investigation?’

  ‘You, sir. But I repeat: I don’t agree. There’s still a whole array of—’

  ‘Well, if you don’t agree, you know what will happen? I’ll be forced to talk about this with the commissioner.’

  ‘Do as you see fit.’

  *

  He’d gone this far, he might as well go all the way. Instead of taking the road to Marinella, he turned onto a parallel road, Via Pirandello, the one that led to Strangio’s house. He’d had Fazio give him the keys. He parked outside the gate, which had been left open, and got out of the car. There wasn’t anyone on the street. He walked down the little lane, up to the front door, removed the seals, opened the door, went inside, and closed the door behind him. He turned on the light and went upstairs.

  The smell of blood was still strong in the study. He looked at the desk on which they’d found Mariangela sprawled out in an obscene pose. As if the killer had murdered her as they were about to make love.

  He went out of the study and looked back in from the hallway. Strangio had been telling the truth: from there you could see everything. There was no need for him to enter the room to realize what had happened.

  He went back in. On the large desk were some files with the name Ugotti on them, books, architectural designs, city maps, urban-planning manuals, large sheets of transparent paper, drawing paper, pencils of many different colours, erasers, highlighters, T-squares . . . all drenched in blood.

  The white bathrobe was not in the study.

  He looked for it all over the house but didn’t find it. Perhaps the killer had taken it away with him, maybe putting it in an ordinary plastic bag.

  But why did Strangio place so much importance on this bathrobe?

  The inspector went out again, locked up, and put the seals back in place. Then he went down the little street that led behind the house, which was called Via Brancati.

  Here was the garage, with seals on it. He removed them, raised the rolling door, and a little slip of paper fluttered in the air and onto the floor. Curious, he turned on the garage light in order to see better, then bent down and picked it up. It was a small flier with the words SLEEP EASY Security Institution.

  Apparently the nightwatchman, when he passed at night, would slip a flier between the garage door and the wall to show that he’d done his job. When one raised the door, the slip of paper fell to the ground. The inspector wanted to do a test. He lowered the garage door, stuck the paper in, then raised it again. The paper fell out. He picked it up again and started staring at it, then realized that there were another three on the ground that must have been there for a few days already. He picked these up, folded them, and put them in his pocket with the other one. There was something that didn’t add up, but he couldn’t work out what. He went into the garage.

  Inside was Strangio’s BMW. A computer was visible on the back seat. At the opposite end of the garage was another rolling door exactly the same as the one through which he’d entered. He raised this one too. Here, too, they’d put up seals. He was now in th
e garden.

  It was a convenient setup. One arrived by car on Via Brancati, put it in the garage, and then entered the house through the garden, without having to backtrack on foot. Just as one could enter through the gate with the car and then put it in the garage by opening the inside garage door.

  He locked everything up again, went out onto the street, and put the seals back in place.

  Happening to look up, he noticed, on a fourth-floor balcony of the apartment building next door, a woman looking out at him. She was definitely the same woman he’d seen sunning herself the first time he’d come to the house. Was the woman out on her balcony day and night?

  He went back to his car and drove home.

  *

  He looked all over the house for those transcriptions but didn’t find them. The only possible explanation was that someone had taken the pages away when they’d come to pick up the documents he’d signed. He would ask Catarella about it in the morning.

  As usual he laid the table on the veranda, then went to get the dish of mullet and onions that Adelina had prepared. A sheer delight. But he didn’t savour them fully as they deserved, since he had something on his mind that prevented him.

  He finished, cleared the table, replaced the dishes and cutlery with whisky and cigarettes, then went back inside to get the leaflets, spread them out on the table, sat down, and put them in chronological order.

  There were four of them, and they went from the fifth of the month to the eighth.

  It seemed all in order. He was wasting his time. On the other hand . . .

  He grabbed the bottle and was about to open it when, at that exact moment, a light gust of wind carried away the leaflets. With both his hands occupied, he was unable to prevent them from flying away. Cursing the saints, he started chasing them down. Two came to rest on the floor of the veranda itself, the third ended up on the sand not far away, while the fourth disappeared. Muttering ever new variations of curses, he ran into the house, grabbed a small pocket lamp, and went back out. It took him ten minutes to find the other leaflet. At last he had it in his hand.

  Meanwhile, however, he’d realized why the whole thing hadn’t added up for him from the start, from the moment he’d entered the garage.

  But he needed immediate confirmation; otherwise he wouldn’t sleep a wink that night.

  He went to the phone, bringing the leaflets with him, and dialled a number.