Paper Moon

by Andrea Camilleri

  “That’s what I thought, too. Except Liguori, who’s a first-class asshole but knows his trade well, explained to me that when coke isn’t properly cut, or is cut with certain other substances, it can turn poisonous. And in fact both Nicotra and Di Cristoforo died of poisoning.”

  “But I don’t get it, Mimi. What interest could a dealer have in killing his clients?”

  “Well, in fact, it wasn’t intentional. It’s just a little collateral damage. According to Liguori, our dealer didn’t just deal. He also further cut the merchandise, by himself and with inadequate means, doubling the quantity before putting it on the market.”

  “So there might be other deaths.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And what’s lighting a fire under us all is the fact that this dealer supplies a high-flying circle of politicians, businessmen, established professionals, and so on.”

  “You said it.”

  “But how did Liguori come to the conclusion that the dealer is in Vigata?”

  “He merely hinted that he deduced it from clues provided by an informer.”

  “Best wishes, Mimi.”

  “What do you mean, ‘best wishes’? Is that all you have to say?”

  “Mimi, I told you yesterday what I had to say. Make your moves very carefully. This is not a police operation.” “It’s not? Then what is it?”

  “It’s a secret service operation, Mimi. For the guys who work in the shadows and are followers of Stalin.” Mimi scowled.

  “What’s Stalin got to do with this?”

  “Apparently Uncle Joe once said that when a man becomes a problem, you need only eliminate the man to eliminate the problem.”

  “What’s that got to do with this?”

  “I’ve already told you, and I repeat: The only solution is to kill this dealer or have him killed. Think about it. Let’s say you go by the book and arrest him. When you’re writing the report, you can’t very well say he’s responsible for the deaths of Nicotra and Di Cristoforo.”

  “I can’t?”

  “No, you can’t. Mimi, you’re more thickheaded than a Calabrian. Senator Nicotra and MP Di Cristoforo were respectable, honorable men, paragons of virtue—all church, family, public service. No drugs of any sort, ever. If need be, ten thousand witnesses will testify in their favor. So you weigh the pros and cons and come to the conclusion that it’s better to gloss over this business of their deaths. And you end up writing that the guy’s a dealer and that’s all. But what if the guy starts talking to the prosecutor? What if he blurts out the names of Nicotra and Di Cristoforo?”

  “Nobody would voluntarily incriminate himself in two homicides, even unintentional ones! What are you saying?”

  “Okay, let’s say he doesn’t incriminate himself. There’s still the risk that someone else might link the dealer to the two deaths. Don’t forget, Mimi, Nicotra and Di Cristoforo were politicians with many enemies. And in our neck of the woods, and not only our neck of the woods, politics is the art of burying one’s adversary in shit.”

  “What’s politics got to do with me?”

  “A lot, even if you don’t realize it. In a case like this, do you know what your role is?” “No. What’s my role?” “You supply the shit.” “That sounds a little excessive.”

  “Excessive? Once it comes out that Nicotra and Di Cristoforo used drugs and died from it, their memory will be unanimously dumped on in direct proportion with the equally unanimous praise that will be heaped on you for having arrested the dealer. Some three months later, at most, somebody from Nicotra and Di Cristoforo’s party will start by revealing that Nicotra took very small doses of drugs for medicinal purposes and that Di Cristoforo did the same for his ingrown toenail. We’re talking medicine here, not vice. Then, little by little, their memory will be rehabilitated, and people will start saying that it was you who first started slinging mud at the dear departed.”

  “Me?!”

  ‘Yes Sir, You, by making a careless arrest to say the least.

  Augello stood there speechless. Montalbano threw down his ace.

  “Don’t you see what’s happening to the ‘Clean Hands’ judges? They’re being blamed for the suicides and heart attacks of some of the accused. The fact that the accused were corrupt and corrupters and deserved to go to jail gets glossed over. According to these sensitive souls, the real culprit is not the culprit who in a moment of shame commits suicide but the judge who made him feel ashamed. But we’ve talked enough about this. If you get it, you get it. If you don’t, I’m tired of explaining it to you. Now get out of here, I got work to do.”

  Without a word, Mimi got up and left the room, even glummer than before. Montalbano started eyeing four pages densely covered with numbers, unable to make anything whatsoever of them.

  After five minutes of this, he pushed them away in dis-gust and called the switchboard. A voice he didn’t recognize answered.

  13

  “Listen, I want you to find me the phone number of a Palermo contractor named Mario Sciacca.” “Home phone or business phone?” “Home.” “All right.”

  “But just find me the number, understand? If the home phone’s not listed, ask our colleagues in Palermo. Then I’ll call myself from a direct line.”

  “I understand, Inspector. You don’t want them to know it’s the police calling.”

  Smart kid. Knew his stuff.

  “What’s the name?”

  “Sciacca, Inspector.”

  “No, yours.”

  “Amato, Inspector. I started working here a month ago.”

  He made a mental note to talk to Fazio about this Amato. The kid might be worth having on the squad. A few minutes later, the phone rang. Amato had found Mario Sciacca’s home phone number.

  The inspector dialed it.

  “Who’s this?” asked an old woman’s voice. “Is this the Sciacca residence?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Antonio Volpe. I’d like to speak with Signora Teresa.”

  “My daughter-in-law’s not home.” “Is she away?”

  “Well, she’s gone to Montelusa. Her father’s sick.”

  What a stroke of luck! This might spare him the boring drive to Palermo. He looked for the number in the phone book. There were four people named Cacciatore. He would have to be patient and call them all.

  “The Cacciatore residence?”

  “No, the Mistrettas’. Look, this whole thing is a big pain in the ass,” said an angry male voice. “What whole thing, if I may ask?”

  “The fact that you all keep calling, when the Cacciatores moved away a year ago.”

  “Do you know their number, by any chance?”

  Mr. Mistretta hung up without answering. A fine start, no doubt about it. Montalbano dialed the second number.

  “The Cacciatore residence?”

  “Yes,” replied a pleasant female voice.

  “Signora, my name is Antonio Volpe. I tried to get in touch with a certain Teresa Sciacca in Palermo and was told—”

  “I’m Teresa Sciacca.”

  Astonished by his sudden good fortune, Montalbano was speechless.

  “Hello?” said Teresa.

  “How’s your father? I was told that—” “He’s doing much better, thank you. So much better that I’ll be going back to Palermo tomorrow.”

  “I absolutely must speak to you before you leave.” “Signor Volpe, I—”

  “Actually, my name’s not Volpe. I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

  Teresa Sciacca let out a kind of gasp between fright and surprise.

  “Oh my God! Has something happened to Mario?”

  “Don’t worry, signora, your husband is fine. I need to talk to you about something involving you.”

  A very long pause. Then a “yes” that was a sigh, a breath.

  “Believe me, I would have preferred not to stir up unpleasant memories, but—” “I understand.”

  “I guarantee you that our meeting will remain confidential, and I give you
my word never to mention your name in the investigation, for any reason whatsoever.”

  “I don’t see how I could be of any use to you. It’s been so many years since … In any case, you can’t come here.”

  “Could you come out?”

  “Yes, I could leave for about an hour.”

  “Tell me where you want to meet.”

  Teresa gave him the name of a cafe in the elevated part of Montelusa. For five-thirty. The inspector glanced at his watch. He had just barely enough time to get in his car and go. To arrive in time, he would have to drive at the insane speed of forty to forty-five miles per hour.

  Teresa Sciacca, nee Cacciatore, was a thirty-eight-year-old woman who looked like a good mother, and it was immediately clear that this look was not facade but substance. She was quite embarrassed by their meeting, and Montalbano immediately came to her aid.

  “Signora, in ten minutes, at the most, you’ll be able to go back home.”

  “Thank you, but I really don’t see how what happened twenty years ago could have anything to do with Angelo’s death.”

  “It has nothing to do with it, actually. But it’s essential for me to establish certain modes of behavior. Understand?”

  “No, but go ahead and ask your questions.”

  “How did Angelo react when you told him you were expecting?”

  “He was happy. And we immediately talked about getting married. In fact, I started looking for a house the very next day.”

  “Did your family know?”

  “My folks didn’t know anything; they didn’t even know Angelo. Then one evening he told me he’d changed his mind. He said it was crazy to get married, that it would ruin his career. He showed a lot of promise as a doctor, that was true. And so he started talking about abortion.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I took it badly. We had a terrible row. When we finally calmed down, I told him I was going to tell my parents everything. He got really scared. Papa’s not the kind of man to kid around with, and he begged me not to do it. I gave him three days.”

  “To do what?”

  “To think about it. He phoned me on the second day, in the afternoon. It was a Wednesday. I remember it well. He asked if we could meet. When I got there, he immediately told me he’d found a solution and needed my help. His solution was this: The following Sunday he and I would go to my parents and tell them everything. Then Angelo would explain to them why he couldn’t marry me right away. He needed at least two years without any ties. There was a famous doctor who wanted him for an assistant, which meant he would have to live abroad for eighteen months. In short, after giving birth, I would live at home with my parents until Angelo had set himself back up here. He even said he was ready to acknowledge paternity of the child, to set my parents’ mind at rest. And then he would marry me in about two years’ time.”

  “How did you take this?”

  “It seemed like a good solution to me. And I told him so. I had no reason to doubt his sincerity. So he suggested we celebrate, and he even invited Michela, his sister.”

  “Had you already met?”

  “Yes, we’d even got together a few times, though she didn’t seem to like me very much. Anyway, we were all supposed to meet at nineP.M.in the medical office of a colleague of Angelo’s, after visiting hours.”

  “Why not at his own office?”

  “Because he didn’t have one. He worked out of a little room this colleague let him use. When I got there, the colleague had already left and Michela hadn’t arrived yet. Angelo gave me a glass of bitter orange soda to drink. As soon as I drank it, everything started to turn foggy and confused.

  I couldn’t move or react… I remember Angelo putting on his smock, and …”

  She tried to go on, but Montalbano interrupted her.

  “I get the picture. No need to continue.”

  He fired up a cigarette. Teresa wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “What do you remember after that?”

  “My memory is still cloudy. Michela in a white smock, like a nurse, Angelo saying something …Then I’m in Angelo’s car, I remember…then at Anna’s place…She’s a cousin of mine who knows everything. I spent the night there—Anna had called my parents and told them I’d be sleeping over. The next day I had a terrible hemorrhage and was rushed to the hospital and had to tell Papa everything. And so Papa pressed charges against Angelo.”

  “So you never saw Angelo’s colleague?”

  “Never.”

  “Thank you, signora. That’ll be all,” said Montalbano, standing up.

  She looked surprised and relieved. She held out her hand, to say good-bye. But instead of shaking it, the inspector kissed it.

  13

  He arrived a bit early for his appointment with Marshal Lagana.

  “You’re looking good,” said the marshal, eyeing him.

  Montalbano got worried. Often of late that statement didn’t sound right to him. If someone tells you you’re looking good, it means they were expecting you not to look so good. And why were they thinking this? Because you’ve reached an age where the worst could happen overnight. To take one example: Up to a certain point in life, if you slip and fall, you get right up, because nothing’s happened to you. Then the moment comes when you slip and fall and you can’t get up anymore, because you’ve broken your femur. What’s happened? What’s happened is you’ve crossed the invisible boundary between one age of life and the next.

  “You’re looking good yourself,” the inspector lied, with a certain satisfaction.

  To his eyes Lagana looked in fact like he’d aged quite a bit since the last time he’d seen him.

  “I’m at your service,” said the marshal.

  Montalbano filled him in on the murder of Angelo Pardo. And told him how Nicold Zito, the newsman, when speaking to him in private, had led him to suspect that the motive for the homicide could perhaps be found in the work that Pardo was doing. He was beating around the bush, but Lagana understood at once and interrupted him: “Kickbacks?”

  “It’s a possible hypothesis,” the inspector said cautiously.

  And he told him about the gifts beyond his means that Pardo had given to his girlfriend, the missing strongbox, the secret bank account he hadn’t been able to locate. In the end he pulled from his jacket pocket the four computer printouts and coded songbook and laid them down on Lagana’s desk.

  “You can’t say this gentleman was very fond of transparency,” the marshal commented after examining these ma-terials.

  “Can you help me?” asked Montalbano.

  “Certainly,” said the marshal, “but don’t expect anything overnight. And before I begin, I’ll need some basic but essential information. What firms was he working for? And what doctors and pharmacies was he in contact with?”

  “I’ve got a big datebook of Pardo’s in the car that should have most of the things you’re looking for.”

  Lagana gave him a confused look.

  “Why did you leave it in the car?”

  “I wanted first to make sure you were interested in the case. I’ll go get it.”

  “Yes, and in the meantime I’ll photocopy these pages and the songbook.”

  Therefore—the inspector recapitulated while driving back to Vigata—Signora (pardon,Signorina)Michela Pardo had only told him half the story concerning the abortion performed on Teresa Cacciatore, completely leaving out her own major role. For Teresa it must have been like a scene from a horror film: first the deception and the trap, then, in crescendo, her boyfriend turning into her torturer and poking around inside her while she lay there naked on the examination table unable even to open her mouth; then her future sister-in-law in a white smock, preparing the instruments …

  What sort of complicity had there been between Angelo and Michela? Out of what twisted instinct of sibling attachment had it arisen and solidified? How far had they taken their bond? And, given all this, what else were they capable of?

  Th
en again, on second thought, what had any of this to do with the investigation? From Teresa’s words—and there was no doubt she was telling the truth—it became clear that Angelo was a rascal, which Montalbano had been thinking for some time, and that his dear sister wouldn’t have hesitated to commit murder just to please her dear brother, which Montalbano had also been thinking for some time. What Teresa had told him confirmed what the brother and sister were like, but it didn’t move the investigation a single inch forward.

  “Ahh, Chief, Chief!” Catarella yelled from his closet. “I got some importance to tell ya!”

  “Did you beat the last last word?”

  “Not yet, Chief. Iss complex. What I wannet a say is ‘at Dacter Arquaraqua called.”

  What was going on? The chief of Forensics called for him?The tombs shall open, the dead shall rise…

  “Arqua, Cat, his name’s Arqua.”

  “His name’s whatever ‘is name is, Chief, you got the pitcher anyways.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He didn’t say, Chief. But he axed me to ax you to call him when you got back.” “Fazio here?” “I tink so.”

  “Go find him and tell him to come to my office.” While waiting, he called the lab in Montelusa. “Arqua, were you looking for me?”

  The two men didn’t like each other, and so, by mutual, tacit agreement, they dispensed with greetings whenever they spoke.

  “I suppose you already know that Dr. Pasquano found two threads of fabric stuck between Angelo Pardo’s teeth.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve analyzed the threads and identified the fabric. It’s Crilicon.”

  “Does that come from Krypton?”

  It was a stupid quip that just slipped out of him. Arqua, who obviously didn’t read comic books and didn’t know of the existence of Superman, balked.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, never mind. Why does that fabric seem important to you?”

  “Because it’s very particular and is mainly used for a specific article of clothing.”

  “Namely?”

  “Women’s panties.”

  Arqua hung up, and Montalbano sat there flummoxed, receiver in hand.

  Another noir film? As he set the phone down, he imagined the scene.