“You never saw each other again?”
“No. We never spoke again either.”
“And did you maintain friendly relations with Mr. Sclafani?”
“Yes. But I never invited him to dinner again.” “Have you seen him since Angelo died?” “Yes. Just this morning.” “How did he seem?” “Upset.”
Montalbano hadn’t expected such a prompt reply. “In what way?”
“Don’t get the wrong idea, Inspector. Emilio’s upset because his wife lost her lover, that’s all. Elena probably confessed to him how attached she was to him, how jealous—”
“Who told you she was jealous? Emilio?”
“Emilio has never said anything to me about Elena’s feelings towards Angelo.”
“It was me,” Michela cut in.
“She also gave me a sort of summary of Elena’s letters.” “Speaking of which, have you found them?” asked Michela.
“No,” said Montalbano, lying.
On this matter he sensed intuitively, in his gut, that the more he muddied the waters, the better.
“She obviously got rid of them,” Michela said, convinced.
“What for?” the inspector asked.
“What do you mean, ‘what for’?” Michela reacted. “Those letters could be used as evidence against her!”
“But, you know,” Montalbano said with an innocent, angelic look on his face, “Elena has already admitted writing them. Jealousy and death threats included. If she admits this, what reason would she have to get rid of them?”
“Well, then, what are you waiting for?” said Michela, summoning her special sandpaper voice.
“To do what?”
“Arrest her!”
“There’s a problem. Elena says those letters were practically dictated to her.” “By whom?” “Angelo.”
The two women had entirely different reactions.
“Slut! Bitch! Liar!” Michela screamed, springing to her feet.
Paola instead sank further into her armchair.
“What could have possessed Angelo to have her write him jealous letters?” she asked, more curious than confused.
“Even Elena couldn’t tell me,” said Montalbano, lying again.
“She couldn’t tell you because it’s totally untrue!” Michela said, practically screaming.
Her voice was turning dangerously from sandpaper into grindstones again. Having no desire whatsoever to witness another scene from a Greek tragedy, Montalbano thought he could be satisfied with the evening’s proceedings.
“Did you write down those addresses for me?” he asked Michela.
The woman gave him a puzzled look. “Remember? The two women, one of whom, I think, was named Stella …”
“Oh, right. Just a minute.” She left the room.
Then Paola, leaning slightly forward, said to him softly:
“I need to talk to you. Could you call me tomorrow morning? There’s no school. I’m in the phone book.”
Michela returned with a sheet of paper, which she handed to the inspector.
“The list of Angelo’s past loves.”
“Is there anyone I don’t know?” asked Paola.
“I don’t think Angelo hid any of his amorous history from you.”
Montalbano stood up, and it was time for fond good-byes.
It had become so humid that there was no point in staying out on the veranda, even though it was covered. The inspector went inside and sat down at the table. His brain, after all, functioned the same way inside or outside. For the past half hour, in fact, a lively debate had been raging inside him.
The theme was: During an investigation, does a real policeman take notes or not?
He, for example, had never done so. In fact, it irritated him when others did, even if they were better policemen than he.
But that was in the past. Because for a while now he’d been feeling the need to do so. And why did he feel the need to do so? Elementary, my dear Watson. Because he realized he was starting to forget some very important things. Alas, old friend, good Inspector, it’s nowlas cinco de la tarde,and we’ve touched the sore spot of the whole matter. One starts to forget things when the weight of years begins to make it-self felt. What was it, more or less, a poet once said?
How the snow weighs down the branches and the years stoop the shoulders so dear; the years of youth are faraway years.
Perhaps it was better to change the title of the debate: During an investigation, does anoldpoliceman take notes or not?
By adding age into the equation, taking notes seemed less unbecoming to Montalbano. But this implied unconditional surrender to the advancing years. He had to find a compromise solution. Then a brilliant idea came to him. He picked up paper and pen and wrote himself a letter.
Dear Inspector Montalbano,
I realize that at this moment your cojones are in a dizzying spin for entirely personal reasons concerning the idea of old age stubbornly knocking on your door, but I am pleased to remind you, with the present letter, of your duties, and would like to present you with a few observations on the ongoing investigation into the murder of Angelo Pardo.
First. “Who was Angelo Pardo?
A former doctor who’d had his medical license revoked for an abortion involving a girl made pregnant by him(absolutely must talk to Teresa Cacciatore who lives in Palermo).
He begins working as a medical/pharmaceutical “informer,” earning much more than what he tells his sister. In fact, he lavishes extremely expensive gifts on his last mistress, Elena Sclafani.
He very likely has a bank account somewhere, which we have not yet managed to locate.
He most certainly owned a strongbox that has never been found.
He was murdered by a gunshot to the face (isthis significant?)
At the moment of death, moreover, his cock was hanging out(this certainly is significant, but exactly what does it signify?)
Possible motives for the murder:
a)female troubles;
b)shady influence peddling and kickbacks, a lead suggested by Nicold and possibly worth pursuing.(Check with Marshal Lagana.)
He uses a secret code (for what?).
He has three computer files protected by passwords. The first of these, which Catarella succeeded in opening, is entirely in code.
“Which means that Angelo Pardo definitely had something he wanted to keep carefully hidden.
One last note:Why were the three letters from Elena hidden under the carpet in the trunk of the Mercedes?(I have a feeling this point is of some importance but can’t say why) Please forgive me, dear Inspector, if this first section, devoted to the murder victim, is a bit disorganized, but I wrote these things down as they came into my head, not according to any logical sequence.
Second. Elena Sclafani.
You’re wondering, naturally, why I wrote Elena Sclafani’s name second. I realize, my friend, that you’ve taken quite a shine to the girl. She’s pretty (okay, gorgeous—I don’t mind you correcting me), and of course you would do everything in your power to keep her off the top of the list of suspects. You like the sincere way she talks about herself, but has it never occurred to you that sincerity can sometimes be a deliberate strategy for leading one away from the truth, just like the apparently opposite strategy, that is, lying? You think I’m talking philosophy?
Okay, then I’ll brutally play the cop.
There is no question that there are letters from Elena in which, out of jealousy, she makes death threats to her lover.
Elena admits to having written these letters but claims that they were dictated to her by Angelo. There is no proof of this, however; it is only an assertion with no possibility of verification. And the explanations she gives for why Angelo made her write them are, you must admit, dear Inspector, rather fuzzy.
For the night of the murder, Elena has no alibi.(Careful: You were under the impression she was hiding something, Don’t forget
She says she went out driving around in her car, with
no precise destination, for the sole purpose of proving to herself that she could do without Angelo. Does her lack of an alibi for that evening seem like nothing to you?
As for Elena’s blind jealousy, there are not only the letters to attest to his but also Michela’s testimony. Debatable testimony, true, but it will carry weight in the eyes of the public prosecutor.
Would you like me to describe a scenario, dear Inspector, that you will surely find unpleasant? Just for a moment, pretend that I am Prosecutor Tommaseo.
Wild with jealousy and now certain that Angelo is being unfaithful to her, Elena, that evening, arms herself—where and how she obtained the weapon, we’ll find out later—and goes and waits outside Angelo’s building. But first she calls her lover to tell him she can’t come to his place. Angelo swallows the bait, brings the other woman home, and, to be on the safe side, takes her up to the room on the terrace. For reasons we may or may not discover, the two do not make love. But Elena doesn’t know this. And in any case this detail is, in a way, of no consequence. When the woman leaves, Elena enters the building, goes up to the terrace, quarrels or does not quarrel with Angelo, and shoots him. And as a final outrage, she zips open his jeans and exposes the bone, as it were, of contention. This reconstruction, I realize, is full of holes. But do you somehow expect Tommaseo not to revel in it? Why, the man will dive into it headfirst.
I’m afraid your Elena’s in quite a pickle, old boy.
And you, if I may say so, are not doing your duty, which would be to tell the public prosecutor where things stand. And the worst of it—given the unfortunate fact that I know you very well—is that you have no intention of doing it. Your duty, that is.
All I can do, therefore, is take note of your deplorable and partisan course of action.
The only course left is to find out, as quickly as possible, the meaning of the code contained in the little songbook—what it refers to, and what the hell the first file opened by Catarella means.
Third. Michela Pardo.
Despite the woman’s manifest inclination towards Greek tragedy, you do not consider her, as things now stand, capable of fratricide. It is beyond all doubt, however, that Michela is ready to do anything to keep her brother’s name from being sullied. And she certainly knows more about Angelo’s dealings than she lets on. Among other things, you, distinguished friend, suspect that Michela, taking advantage of your foolishness, may have removed something crucial to the case from Angelo’s apartment. But I’ll stop here.
With best wishes for success, I remain
Yours sincerely,
SALVOMONTALBANO
The following morning the alarm clock rang and Montalbano woke up, but instead of racing out of bed to avoid unpleasant thoughts of old age, decrepitude, Alzheimer’s, and death, he just lay there.
He was thinking of the distinguished schoolmaster Emilio Sclafani, whom he’d not yet had the pleasure of meeting personally in person, but who nevertheless deserved to be taken into consideration. Yes, the good professor was definitely worthy of a little attention.
First of all, because he was an impotent man with a penchant for marrying young girls—whether in first or second blush, it didn’t matter—who could have been, in both cases, his daughters. The two wives had one thing in common, which was that meeting the schoolteacher helped them to pull themselves out of difficult situations, to say the least. The first wife was from a family of ragamuffins, while the second was losing her way down a black hole of prostitution and drugs. By marrying them the schoolteacher was, first and foremost, securing their gratitude. We want to call a spade a spade, don’t we? The professor was subjecting them to a sort of indirect blackmail: He would rescue them from their poverty or confusion on the condition that they remained with him, even while knowing his shortcomings. So much for the kindness and understanding Elena talked about!
Second, the fact that he himself had chosen the man with whom his first wife might satisfy her natural, young-womanly needs was in no way a sign of generosity. It was, in fact, a refined way to keep her even more tightly on a leash. And it was, among other things, a way to fulfil, so to speak, his conjugal duty, through a third party appointed by him for that purpose. The wife, moreover, was supposed to inform him every time she met with the lover and even describe the encounter to him in detail afterwards. Indeed, when the schoolteacher surprised them during an encounter about which he had not been informed, things turned nasty.
After his experience with his first wife, the schoolteacher allowed the second wife freedom of masculine choice, without prejudice to the obligation of prior notification of the day and time of mounting (could you really put it any other way?).
But why, knowing his natural deficiency, did the distinguished professor want to get married twice?
Perhaps the first time he’d hoped that a miracle, to use Elena’s word, would occur, so we’ll leave it at that. But the second time? How is it he hadn’t become more savvy? Why didn’t he marry, for example, a widow of a certain age whose sensual needs had already been abundantly mollified? Did he need to smell the fragrance of young flesh beside him in bed? Who did he think he was, Mao Tse-tung?
Anyway, the inspector’s talk the night before with Paola the Red (speaking of whom, he mustn’t forget she wanted him to call her) had brought out a contradiction that might or might not prove important. Namely, Elena maintained she had never wanted to go out to dinner or to the movies with Angelo, to keep people from laughing at her husband behind his back, whereas Paola said that she’d learned of the relationship between Elena and Angelo from the schoolteacher himself. Thus, while the wife was doing everything she could to keep her hanky-panky from becoming the talk of the town, her husband didn’t hesitate to state flat out that his wife was engaging in hanky-panky.
The schoolmaster, moreover, had, according to Paola, seemed upset about the violent death of his wife’s lover. Does that seem right?
He got up, drank his coffee, took a shower, and shaved, but, as he was about to go out, a wave of lethargy swept over him. All of a sudden he no longer felt like going to the office, seeing people, talking.
He went out on the veranda. The day looked like it was made of porcelain. He decided to do what his body was telling him to do.
“Catarella? Montalbano here. I’ll be coming in late to-day.”
“Aahhh, Chief, Chief, I wanneta say—”
He hung up, grabbed the two sheets of paper Catarella had printed out and the little songbook, and laid them down on the table on the veranda.
He went back inside, looked in the phone book, found the number he wanted, and dialed it. As the number was ringing, he checked his watch: nine o’clock, just the right time to call a schoolteacher who was staying home from school.
Montalbano let the phone ring a long time and was about to lose patience when he heard someone pick up at the other end.
“Hello?” said a male voice, sounding slightly groggy.
The inspector hadn’t expected this and felt a little bewildered.
“Hello?” the male voice repeated, now not only slightly groggy but also slightly irritated.
“Inspector Montalbano here. I would like—”
“You want Paola?”
“Yes, if it’s not—”
“I’ll go get her.”
Three minutes of silence passed.
“Hello?” said a female voice the inspector didn’t recognize.
“Am I speaking with Paola Torrisi?” he asked, doubtful.
“Yes, Inspector, it’s me, thanks for calling.”
But it wasn’t the same voice as the previous evening. This one was a bit husky, deep, and sensual, like that of someone who…He suddenly realized that maybe nine in the morning wasn’t the right time of day to call a schoolteacher who, staying home from work, might be busy with other things.
“I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you …” She giggled.
“It’s no big deal. I want to tell you something, but not over the phone. Co
uld we meet somewhere? I could drop by the station.”
“I won’t be in my office this morning. We could meet later this morning in Montelusa. You tell me where.”
They decided on a cafe on the Promenade. At noon. That way Paola could finish at her own pace what she had started before being interrupted by his phone call. And maybe even allow herself an encore.
“While he was at it, he decided to confront Dr. Pasquano. Better over the phone than in person.
“What’s the story, Doctor?”
“Take your pick. Little Red Riding Hood or Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.” “No, Doctor, I meant—”
“I know what you meant. I’ve already let Tommaseo know that I’ve done what I was supposed to do and that he’ll have the report by tomorrow.”
“What about me?”
“Have Tommaseo give you a copy.”
“But couldn’t you tell me—”
“Tell you what? Don’t you already know he was shot in the face at close range? Or would you rather I use some technical terms where you wouldn’t understand a goddamn thing? And haven’t I also told you that although his thing was exposed, it hadn’t been used?”
“Did you find the bullet?”
“Yes. And I sent it over to Forensics. It entered through the left eye socket and tore his head apart.”
“Anything else?”
“Do you promise not to bug me for at least ten days if I tell you?” “I swear.”
“Well, they didn’t kill him right away.” “What do you mean?”
“They stuck a big handkerchief or a white rag in his mouth to prevent him from screaming. I found some filaments of white cloth wedged between his teeth. Sent them down to the lab. And after they shot him, they pulled the cloth out of his mouth and took it with them.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“If it’s the last.”
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