Paper Moon

by Andrea Camilleri

  That put things in a whole new light. Over a billion and a half lire.

  “Investments?”

  “None whatsoever. He needed ready cash.”

  “Why did you specify ‘until the day he died’?”

  “Because three days before, he’d taken out a hundred thousand. And from what I’ve heard, if he hadn’t been shot, within three days he would have made another withdrawal.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “That he lost it all gambling, at Zizino’s den.”

  “Can you tell me for how long he was a client of yours?”

  “Less than six months.”

  “Was he ever in the red?”

  “Never. Anyway, for us at the bank it wasn’t a problem, no matter what happened.” “Explain.”

  “When he opened the account, he came accompanied by MP Di Cristoforo. But now that’s enough, let’s talk a little about old times.”

  Cumella did all the talking, reminiscing about episodes and people the inspector had no recollection of. But to make it look like he remembered everything, Montalbano had only to say, every now and then, “Right!” and, “How could I forget?”

  At the end of their conversation, they said good-bye, embracing and promising to stay in touch by telephone.

  On the way back, not only was the inspector unable to en-joy the discovery he’d made, but his mood turned darker and darker. The moment he got in the car and drove off, a question started buzzing about in his head like an annoying fly: How come Giogid Cumella could remember their grammar-school days and he couldn’t? From a few of the names Giogid had mentioned and a few of the events he’d recounted, elusive flashes of memory had come back to him in fits and starts, but like pieces of an unsolvable puzzle with no precise outline, and these inklings had led him to situate the time of his friendship with Cumella in their grammar-school days. Unfortunately, there could be only one answer to his question: He was beginning to lose his memory. An indisputable sign of old age. But didn’t they say that old age made you forget what you did the day before and remember things from when you were a little kid? Well, apparently that wasn’t always the case. Obviously there was old age and old age. What was the name of that disease where you forget that you’re even alive? The one President Reagan had? What was it called? There, see? He was even starting to forget things of the present.

  To distract himself, he formulated a proposition. A philosophical proposition? Maybe, but tending towards “weak thought”—exhausted thought, in fact. He even gave this proposition a title: “The Civilization of Today and the Ceremony of Access.” What did it mean? It meant that, today, to enter any place whatsoever—an airport, a bank, a jeweler’s or watchmaker’s shop—you had to submit to a specific ceremony of control. Why ceremony? Because it served no concrete purpose. A thief, a hijacker, a terrorist—if they really want to enter—will find a way. The ceremony doesn’t even serve to protect the people on the other side of the entrance. So whom does it serve? It serves the very person about to enter, to make him think that, once inside, he can feel safe.

  “Aahhh, Chief, Chief! I wannata tell you that Dacter Latte wit’ anscalled! He said as how the c’mishner couldn’t make it today.”

  “Couldn’t make what?”

  “He din’t tell me, Chief. But he said that he can make it tomorrow, at the same time of day.”

  “Fine. Getting anywhere with the file?”

  “I’m almost somewhere. Right at the tip o’ the tip! Ah, I almost forgot! Judge Gommaseo also called sayin’ you’s asposta call ‘im when you get in so you can call ‘im.”

  He’d just sat down when Fazio came in.

  “The phone company says that it’s not technically possible to retrace the phone calls you received when you were at Angelo Pardo’s place. They even told me why, but I didn’t understand a word of it.”

  “The people who called didn’t know yet that Angelo’d been shot. One of them even hung up. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t have something to hide. We’ll deal with it.”

  “Chief, I also wanted to mention that I don’t know anybody in Fanara.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I figured it out myself.” “How did you do that?”

  “I knew for certain that Angelo had an account at the Banca Popolare in Fanara. So I went there. The bank manager is an old schoolmate of mine, a dear friend, and so we reminisced about the good old days.”

  Another lie. But its purpose was to make Fazio believe that he still possessed an ironclad memory.

  “How much did he have in the account?”

  “A billion and a half old lire. And he really gambled big time, as you told me yourself. Betting money he certainly didn’t earn as a pharmaceutical representative.”

  “The funeral’s tomorrow morning. I’ve seen the announcements.”

  “I want you to go.”

  “Chief, it’s only in movies the killer goes to the funeral of the person he killed.”

  “Don’t be a wise guy. You’re going anyway. And take a good look at the names on the ribbons on the wreaths and pillows.”

  Fazio left, and the inspector phoned Tommaseo. “Montalbano! What are you doing? Did you disappear?” “I had things to do, Judge, I’m sorry.” “Listen, I want to fill you in on something I think is really serious.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “A few days ago, you sent Angelo Pardo’s sister, Michela, to see me, do you remember?” “Of course.”

  “Well, I’ve interrogated her three times. The last time just this morning. A disturbing woman, don’t you think?” “Oh, yes.”

  “Something troubled about her, I’d say, don’t you think?” “Oh, yes.”

  And you had a ball in those troubled waters, like a little pig under your august magistrate’s robes. “And what unfathomable eyes she has.” “Oh, yes.”

  “This morning she exploded.” “In what sense?”

  “In the sense that at a certain point she stood up, summoned a very strange voice, and her hair came undone. Chilling.”

  So Tommaseo, too, had witnessed a bit of Greek tragedy. “What did she say?”

  “She started inveighing against another woman, Elena Sclafani, her brother’s girlfriend. She claims she’s the killer. Have you interrogated her?”

  “Sclafani? Of course.”

  “Why didn’t you inform me?”

  “Well, it’s just that …”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Beautiful.”

  “I’m going to summon her immediately.” How could you go wrong? Tommaseo was going to dive into Elena like a fish. “Look, Judge, I—”

  “No, no, my dear Montalbano, no excuses. Among other things, I must tell you that Michela accused you of protecting Mrs. Sclafani.”

  “Did she tell you why Mrs. Sclafani would—”

  “Yes, jealousy. She also told me that you, Montalbano, have in your possession some letters Sclafani wrote in which she threatens to kill her lover. Is that true?” “Yes.”

  “I want to see them at once.” “Okay, but—”

  “I repeat, no excuses. Don’t you realize how you’re acting? You hid from me—”

  “Don’t piss outside the urinal, Tommaseo.” “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll explain. I said don’t piss outside the urinal. I’m not hiding anything from you. It’s just that Elena Sclafani has an alibi for the evening Pardo was killed, and it’s one you’re really going to like.”

  “What does that mean, that I’ll really like Sclafani’s alibi?”

  “You’ll see. Make sure she goes into great detail. Have a good evening.”

  “Inspector Montalbano? It’s Lagana.”

  “Good evening, Marshal. What can you tell me?” “That I’ve had a stroke of luck.” “In what sense?”

  “Last night, entirely by chance, I got wind of a huge operation that’s going to be revealed to the press tomorrow. We’re going to make a big sweep of over four thousand people, including docto
rs, pharmacists, and representatives, all accused of corruption and graft. So today I called a friend of mine in Rome. Well, it turns out the pharmaceutical firms represented by Angelo Pardo haven’t been implicated.”

  “That means Pardo couldn’t have been killed by some rival, or for not making payoffs.” “Exactly.”

  “And what do you make of those four pages covered with numbers I gave you?”

  “I turned them over to Melluso.” “Who’s he?”

  “A colleague of mine who knows all about that sort of thing. I’m hoping I’ll have something to tell you tomorrow.”

  “Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!”

  A high-pitched, piercing, prolonged yell terrorized everyone who was still at the station. It came from the entrance. With a chill running down his spine, Montalbano rushed into the corridor, crashing into Fazio, Mimi, Gallo, and a couple of uniformed policemen.

  Inside his closet stood Catarella, back glued to the wall, no longer screaming but rather whimpering like a wounded animal, eyes popping out of his head, pointing with a trembling finger at Angelo Pardo’s open laptop on the little table.

  Matre santa!What could have appeared on the screen to frighten him that way? The devil? Osama bin Laden?

  “Everybody stay outside!” Montalbano ordered, going into the closet.

  He looked at the monitor. It was blank. There was nothing.

  Maybe Catarella’s brain, having so strained itself in the struggle with the passwords, had completely melted. Which, in any case, wouldn’t have taken much.

  “Go away!” the inspector yelled to his men.

  When he was alone with Catarella, he embraced him. Feeling him trembling, he told him to sit down.

  “There’s a good boy,” he murmured, stroking his head.

  And, just like a dog, Catarella started to calm down. When he saw him no longer trembling, Montalbano asked him:

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Catarella made a gesture of despair.

  “Come on, try to talk. Do you want a little water?”

  Catarella shook his head no and swallowed twice.

  “It…it…deleted isself, Chief,” he said in a voice about to break into a heartrending wail.

  “Come on, speak up. What deleted itself?”

  “The third file, Chief. And it deleted the other two, too.”

  Therefore everything that might have been of interest in the computer had been lost.

  “How is that possible?”

  “Oh, iss possible, Chief. There musta been an abortion pogram.”

  Abortion? Maybe Angelo Pardo, aside from performing illegal abortions on women, had also found a way to perform them on computers?

  “What have abortions got to do with this?”

  “Chief, whatta you say when you got a militiry operation going an’ you wanna stop it?”

  “I dunno, I guess you could say you abort it.”

  “And in’t that what I said? Iss what I said. Iss got an abortion pogram pogrammed to delete what’s asposta be deleted in the abortion pogram pogrammed to be deleted after a week, a month, two months, tree months …You follow?”

  “Perfectly. A timed deletion program.”

  “Just like you say, Chief. But iss not ‘cause of my fault or negleck, Chief! I swear!”

  “I know, Cat, I know. Don’t worry about it.”

  He patted his head again and went back into his office. Angelo Pardo had taken every possible precaution to make sure nobody ever found out how he got the money he needed to gamble and buy expensive gifts for his girlfriend.

  16

  The first thing he did when he got home was attack the salmon. A hefty slice dressed with fresh lemon juice and a special olive oil given him by the person who made it. (“The virginity of this olive oil has been certified by a gynecologist,” said a little ticket that came with it.) After eating he cleared the veranda table and replaced the dish and silver-ware with a brand-new bottle of J&B and a glass. He knew at last that he held the end of a long thread in his hand.And if you even think of calling it Ariadne’s thread, I’ll slash your face,he warned himself. But that thread might in fact lead him, if not to a solution, at least down the right path.

  It was Prosecutor Tommaseo who, without knowing it, had handed him the thread. He’d told him that during the last interrogation, Michela had made a scene straight out of a Greek tragedy, screaming that he, Montalbano, didn’t want to take any action against Elena even though he had in his possession the letters in which Elena had threatened to kill Angelo. And while it was absolutely true that he had those compromising letters, there was a small detail that could not be ignored: Michela should not have known this.

  Because the day before, when Michela asked him if he’d found the letters, he’d said no, just to keep the waters muddy. And he remembered this perfectly clearly—forget about old age and Alzheimer’s (there, that’s what that disease was called!). And Paola the Red had also been present and could testify.

  The only person who knew he’d found the letters was Elena, because he’d shown them to her. But the two women didn’t speak. And so? There was only one answer. Michela had gone to the garage to check if the envelope with the three letters was still in the Mercedes’ trunk, and when she saw it was gone, she’d come to the logical conclusion that the inspector had discovered it and taken it.

  Wait a second, Montalbano. How could Michela have known the letters were lying hidden under the carpet in the trunk of the Mercedes? She said that Angelo kept his letters in one of the desk’s drawers. Angelo had no logical reason to move them out of the house and into the Mercedes in the garage—hiding them, yes, but making sure they weren’t entirely hidden, so that if anyone looked with any care, that person would find them. Therefore Michela must have moved them. But when? The very night Angelo was found dead, when he, Montalbano, had committed the colossal boner of leaving her alone in her brother’s apartment.

  Why had Michela gone to such elaborate lengths?

  Why would someone hide something in such a way that it can be discovered as if by chance? To make the discovery seem more significant, of course. Explain yourself better, Salvo.

  If he opened the desk drawer, found the letters there, and read them, everything would seem normal. Let’s set the value of the words in those letters at ten. But if he found those letters after driving himself crazy looking for them, because they were hidden, it would mean that the letters were not supposed to have been read, and thus the value of their words climbed to fifty. This lent weight and truth to the death threats; they were no longer the generic statements of a jealous lover.

  Compliments to Michela. As an attempt to screw the hated Elena, it was brilliant. But her excessive hatred had betrayed her in front of Tommaseo. It was easy for her to enter the garage, since she had copies of all Angelo’s keys.

  Wait a minute. The other night, after the dream about the bath at Michela’s, something about a key had occurred to him. Whose key?

  Inspector Montalbano, review everything from the start.

  From the very beginning?

  From the very beginning.

  Could I pour myself another whisky first?

  So one fine day, Signora (“excuse me,Signorina”)Michela Pardo appears at the station to tell me she’s had no word of her brother, Angelo, for two days. She says she even went into his apartment, since she has a set of keys, but found everything in order. She comes back the same evening. We go to look at the apartment together. Everything still in order. There’s no trace of any sudden departure. When we’re outside the building, about to say good-bye, it occurs to her that we haven’t checked the room Angelo has on the terrace, having rented both room and terrace. We go back upstairs. The glass door giving onto the terrace is locked. Michela opens it with one of her keys. The door to the little room on the terrace is also locked, but Michela tells me she doesn’t have the key to this one. So I break down the door. And I find …

  Stop right there, Montalbano. There’s t
he rub, as Hamlet would say. This is the part of the story that doesn’t make sense.

  What sense is there in Michela’s having only the key to the terrace door, which is completely useless if not accompanied by the key to the former laundry room? If she has copies ofallher brother’s keys, she must also have the one to the room on the terrace. All the more because Angelo used to go there to read or sunbathe, as Michela herself said. He did not go up there to be with his women. What did this mean?

  Montalbano noticed that his glass was empty again. He refilled it, stepped off the veranda and onto the sand, and, taking a sip of whisky every few steps, arrived at the water’s edge. The night was dark, but it felt good. The lights of the fishing boats on the horizon line looked like lowlying stars.

  He picked up the thread of his argument. If Michela had a key to the little room but told him she didn’t, the lie meant that she wanted him, Montalbano, to break down the door and find Angelo shot dead inside. And this because Michela already knew that her brother’s corpse was in that room. By staging this whole scene, she was trying to make herself appear, to the inspector’s eyes, completely extraneous to the entire event, when in fact she was in it up to her neck.

  He returned to the veranda, sat down, poured another whisky. How could things have gone?

  Michela says that on Monday, Angelo phoned her to tell her that Elena would be coming over to his place that evening. Thus Michela made herself scarce. But what if, on the other hand, Angelo, seeing that Elena wasn’t coming, and realizing that in fact she wasn’t going to come, called his sister back, and Michela went to see him? Maybe Angelo even told her he was going up to the terrace room to get some air. Then, when Michela showed up, she found her brother murdered. She’s convinced it was Elena, who, having arrived late, had a quarrel with Angelo. Especially since Angelo must have wanted to have sex with the girl, which was all too clear. So she decides to play her ace, to prevent Elena from getting away with it. She locks everything up, goes down into the apartment below, spends the night removing everything that might reveal anything about Angelo’s shady dealings, above all the strongbox, and takes the letters down to the garage, as these will serve as evidence against Elena …