Paper Moon

by Andrea Camilleri

  “So it’s all over,” Michela said suddenly, leaning against the back of her chair and closing her eyes.

  “It’s not all over. The investigation is still open.”

  “Yes, but it’ll never be properly closed. Either it’ll be shelved or you’ll arrest someone who had nothing to do with it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I found out Prosecutor Tommaseo didn’t file any charges against Elena after interrogating her. He’s taken her side. As you, too, seem to have done, Inspector.”

  “It was you who first brought her up, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, because I was waiting for you to do so!”

  “Did you tell Tommaseo I had Elena’s letters to your brother in my possession?”

  “Shouldn’t I have?”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “Why not? So you could continue to keep Elena out of this?”

  “No, so I could continue to keep you out of this, Michela. By telling the judge what you told him, you made a mistake. You kicked the ball into your own goal.”

  “Explain what you mean.”

  “Certainly. I never told you I found those letters. And if I didn’t tell you, how did you find out?”

  “But I’m sure you did tell me! In fact, I remember that even Paola was here …”

  Montalbano shook his head.

  “No, Michela, your friend Paola, if you call on her to testify, will only confirm that on that evening, when asked explicitly by you, I denied having found those letters.”

  Michela said nothing, but only sank further into the armchair, her eyes still closed.

  “It was you, Michela,” the inspector went on, “who took the letters that Angelo kept in his desk, put them in a large envelope, went down to the garage, and hid them under the carpeting in the trunk of the Mercedes. But you made sure that a corner of the envelope remained visible. You wanted those letters to be found. So that I, after reading them, would wonder who might have a reason to hide them. And there could only be one answer: Elena. When you went to check and saw that the envelope was gone, you were sure that I had taken the letters.”

  “And when would I have done all this?” she asked in a tense voice, newly attentive and alert.

  Should he tell her his hypothesis? Perhaps it was premature. He decided instead to blame himself for something he now knew to be of no importance.

  “The night we found Angelo. When I let you sleep alone in this apartment, which was a big mistake.”

  She relaxed.

  “That’s pure fantasy. You have no proof.”

  “We’ll discuss proof in a few minutes. As you know, I looked in vain for the strongbox Angelo used to keep in his apartment. I imagine you took that away, too, Michela, the same night you took the letters.”

  “Then explain to me,” the woman said ironically, “why

  I would want you to find the letters and not the strongbox?”

  “Because the letters might incriminate Elena, whereas the contents of the strongbox would certainly have incriminated your brother.”

  “And what could there have been in the strongbox that would have been so compromising, in your opinion? Money?”

  “No, not money. That he kept in Fanara, at the Banca Popolare.”

  He was expecting a different reaction from Michela. At the very least, Angelo had not revealed to her that he had another account, and, given their relationship, the omission would have been very close to a betrayal.

  “Oh, really?” she said, only slightly surprised.

  Her indifference stank of falsehood a mile away. So Michela knew damn well that Angelo had another account. And therefore she must have known all about her brother’s little side business.

  “You knew nothing about this other account, correct?”

  “Nothing at all. I was sure he only had the joint account. I think I even showed it to you.”

  “Where, in your opinion, did the money deposited in Fanara come from?”

  “Oh, it must have been productivity bonuses, incentives, extra commissions, that sort of thing. I thought he kept that money at home, but apparently he put it in the bank.”

  “Did you know he gambled heavily?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  Another lie. She knew that her brother had caught the bug. And in fact she limited herself to denying it. She didn’t ask how Montalbano had found out, where Angelo gambled, how much he lost or won.

  “If there was a lot of money in the account,” said Michela, “it probably means he had a few lucky evenings at the gambling table.”

  The girl fenced well. She would parry and immediately follow with a thrust, exploiting her adversary’s reaction. She was ready to admit everything, so long as the real source of that money never came out.

  “Let’s return to the strongbox.”

  “Inspector, I know nothing about that strongbox, just as I knew nothing about the account in Fanara.”

  “In your opinion, what could there have been in that box?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “I do,” Montalbano said in a low voice, as though giving no importance to the assertion.

  Michela showed no interest in knowing what the inspector’s idea was.

  “I’m tired,” she said instead, sighing.

  Montalbano felt sorry for her. For in those two words, he’d felt the weight of a deep, genuine weariness, a weariness not only physical, of the body, but also of the mind, the emotions, the soul. An absolute weariness.

  “I can leave, if you—”

  “No, stay. The sooner we finish, the better. But I ask only one thing of you, Inspector. Don’t play cat and mouse with me. By this point you’ve figured out many things, or so it seems to me. Ask me only precise questions, and I’ll answer them as best I can.”

  Montalbano couldn’t tell whether the woman was merely trying to change strategy or really asking him to bring things to a close because she couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “It’ll take a little time.”

  “I’ve got as much time as you want.”

  “I’d like to start by telling you that I have a very precise idea where the box is presently located. I could have checked before our meeting tonight and confirmed my suspicion, but I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s no saying I necessarily have to check. It’s up to you.”

  “Up to me? And where do you suspect the box is?” “At the cemetery. Inside the coffin. Under Angelo’s body.”

  “Oh, come on!” she said, even attempting a little smile that must have cost her a tremendous effort.

  “We’re getting nowhere, Michela. If you carry on this way, I’m going to be forced to check the coffin. You know what that means? It means I’ll have to request a great many authorizations, the whole affair will become official, the strongbox will be opened, and everything you’ve done to save your brother’s good name will have been all for naught.”

  It was perhaps at this instant that Michela realized the jig was up. She opened her eyes and looked at him for a moment.

  Montalbano instinctively grabbed the arms of the easy chair as if to anchor himself. But there were no stormy seas in those eyes, just a liquid expanse, yellowish and dense, slowly moving and seeming to breathe, rising and falling. It didn’t frighten him, but he had the impression that if he put his finger in that liquid, it would have been burnt down to the bone. The woman closed her eyes again.

  “Do you also know what’s inside the box?”

  “Yes, Michela. Cocaine. But not only.”

  “What else?”

  “There must also be the substance with which Angelo mistakenly cut the last part of the cocaine, turning it, without wanting to, into a deadly poison. And thereby causing the death of Nicotra, Di Cristoforo, and others whose secret supplier he was.”

  The woman took off her kerchief and shook her head, making her hair fall onto her shoulders.

  How did I ever no
t notice before that she had so much white hair?the inspector asked himself.

  “I’m tired,” Michela repeated.

  “When did Angelo first start frequenting gambling dens?”

  “Last year. He went out of curiosity. And that was the beginning of the end for him. The money he earned was no longer enough. So he accepted an offer somebody made to him: to supply important clients with large quantities. Given his profession, he could travel all over the province without arousing any suspicion.”

  “How did you manage to discover that Angelo—”

  “I didn’t. He told me himself. He never kept anything from me.”

  “Do you know who made him this offer?” “I do, but I’m not going to tell you.”

  “Did he also tell you he’d adulterated the last batch of cocaine?”

  “No, he didn’t have the courage.” “Why not?”

  “Because he did it for that slut Elena. He needed a lot of money to buy her other gifts and keep her close. And with this new system, he could double the amount of stuff they gave him and keep the difference for himself.”

  “Michela, why do you hate Elena so much, but not the other women your brother went with?”

  Before she answered, a painful grimace twisted her mouth.

  “Angelo fell truly in love with that woman. It was the first time that happened to him.”

  The moment had come. Montalbano summoned inside him everything there was to summon: muscles, breath, nerves. Like a diver at the edge of the diving board, an instant before taking the plunge. Then he jumped.

  “Angelo was supposed to love only you, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  He’d done it. Penetrating that shadowy undergrowth of intertwined roots, snakes, tarantulas, vipers’ nests, wild grasses, and thorny brambles had been easy. He’d had no trouble entering the dark wood. But walking through it would take courage.

  “But hadn’t you once been engaged? Weren’t you in love?”

  “Yes. But Angelo …”

  There, under a tree, he’d found the malignant plant. Beautiful to look at, but put a leaf in your mouth and it’s lethal.

  “Angelo got rid of him, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  There was no end to this sick forest and its stench of death. The farther in you went, the greater the horror you wanted neither to see nor to smell, waiting in ambush.

  “And when Teresa got pregnant, was it you who persuaded Angelo to have the girl abort and set a trap for her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nobody was supposed to interfere with your … your… “

  “What’s wrong, Inspector?” she whispered. “Can’t find the right word? Love, Mr. Montalbano. The word is ‘love.’ “

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. On the surface of the yellowish liquid expanse, there were now large bubbles, popping as if in slow motion. Montalbano imagined the stink they gave off, a sickly-sweet smell of decomposition, of rotten eggs, of miasmas and fetid swamps.

  “How did you find out Angelo’d been killed?”

  “I got a phone call. That same Monday, around nineP.M.They told me they’d gone to talk to Angelo but had found him already dead. They ordered me to remove everything that might reveal the sort of work Angelo was doing for them. And I obeyed.”

  “You not only obeyed. You also went into the room where your brother had just been killed and planted false evidence against Elena. It was you who staged that whole scene of the panties in the mouth, the unbuckled jeans, his member hanging out.”

  “Yes. I wanted to be sure, absolutely certain, that Elena would be charged with the crime. Because she did it. When those other people arrived, Angelo was already dead.”

  “We’ll see about that later. They may have lied to you, you know. For now, tell me: Do you know who it was that called you to tell you your brother was dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me his name.”

  Michela stood up slowly. She spread her arms as though stretching.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, “I need a drink of water.”

  She left the room and headed towards the kitchen, her shoulders more hunched than ever, feet dragging on the floor.

  Montalbano didn’t know how or why, but all at once he got up and ran into the kitchen. Michela wasn’t there. He went out on the open balcony. A small light illuminated the area in front of the garage, but its dim glow was enough to reveal a kind of black sack, immobile, on the ground. Michela had thrown herself down below, without a word, without a cry. And the inspector realized that tragedy, when acted out in front of others, strikes poses and speaks in a loud voice, but when it is deep and true, it speaks softly and makes humble gestures. There: the humility of tragedy.

  He made a snap decision. He’d never gone to Angelo’s apartment that evening. When the woman’s body was discovered, they would think she killed herself because she couldn’t get over the loss of her brother. And that was how it should be.

  He closed the door to the apartment softly, terrified that His Majesty might catch him in the act. He descended the lifeless stairs, went outside, got in his car, and drove home to Marinella.

  18

  The moment he entered his house, he felt very tired. Great was the desire to lie down, pull the covers up over his head, and stay that way, eyes closed, trying to blot out the world.

  It was elevenP.M.As he was taking off his jacket, tie, and shirt, he managed, like a magician, to dial Augello’s number.

  “Salvo, are you crazy?”

  “Why?”

  “Calling at this hour? You’ll wake up the baby!”

  “Did I wake him up?”

  “No.”

  “So why are you being such a pain in the ass? I have something important to tell you. Come right away, to my place.”

  “But, Salvo—”

  He hung up. Then he called Livia, but there was no answer. Maybe she’d gone to the movies. He undressed completely, went into the shower, used up all the water in his first tank, cursed the saints, was about to open the reserve tank but stopped. If they didn’t deliver any water during the night, how was he going to wash in the morning? Better play it safe.

  Waiting for Mimi, he decided to busy himself cutting his toenails and fingernails. Just when he’d finished, the doorbell rang and he went to open the door, still naked.

  “But I’m married!” said Mimi, scandalized. “You didn’t by any chance invite me over to see your butterfly collection, did you?”

  Montalbano turned his back to him and went to put on a pair of underpants and a shirt.

  “Will this take long?” asked Mimi.

  “Fairly.”

  “Then give me a whisky.”

  They sat down on the veranda. Before drinking, Montalbano raised his glass:

  “Congratulations, Mimi.” “What for?”

  “For solving the case of the wholesale dealer. Tomorrow you can strut your stuff for Liguori.” “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Not at all. It’s too bad they killed him, but he betrayed the trust of the Sinagra family.” “Who?” “Angelo Pardo.” Augello’s jaw dropped.

  “The guy who was found shot with his dick hanging out?”

  “The very one.”

  “I was convinced it was a crime of passion. Women problems.”

  “That’s what they wanted us to think.”

  Augello twisted up his mouth.

  “Are you sure of what you’re saying, Salvo? Do you have proof?”

  “The proof is in a strongbox that you’ll find inside Angelo Pardo’s coffin. Go get authorization, open it up, grab the strongbox, open that, too—with the key that I’ll give you in a second—and inside you’ll find not only cocaine, but also the other stuff that turned it into poison.”

  “Excuse me, Salvo, but who put the strongbox in the coffin?”

  “His sister, Michela.”

  “So she’s an accomplice!”

  “You’re mistaken. She
had no idea what her brother was up to. She thought the box—which she didn’t have the key to—contained personal items of Angelo’s, and so she put it in his coffin.”

  “Why?”

  “So that every now and then, in the afterlife, he could open it up, look at the things inside, and remember the good old days when he was alive.”

  “Am I supposed to believe that?”

  “You mean the story of the dead guy opening the strongbox now and then?”

  “I mean the bit about his sister being unaware of her brother’s dealings.”

  “No. Not you. But everyone else, yes.Theyare supposed to believe it.”

  “And what if Liguori interrogates her and she ends up contradicting herself?”

  “Don’t worry, Mimi. She won’t be interrogated.” “How can you be so sure?” “I just am.”

  “Then tell me everything, from the beginning.”

  He told him almost everything, but sang only half the Mass. He didn’t tell him that Michela was neck-deep in that shit, only knee-deep; he explained that Angelo’s need for money came from his gambling addiction, thus leaving Elena discreetly in the shadows; and he informed him that Customs Police Marshal Lagana and a colleague of his could provide him and Liguori with a host of useful information.

  “But how did Pardo come to know the Sinagra family?”

  “Pardo’s father was a big political supporter of Senator Nicotra. And the senator had introduced Angelo to some of the Sinagras. When the Sinagras found out that Pardo was hard up for cash, they got him to work for them. Angelo betrayed their trust, so they had him killed.”

  “I thought I heard that some threads of women’s panties were f—”

  “Just for show, Mimi, to muddy the waters.”

  They talked a little while longer. Montalbano gave him Angelo’s keys, and as Mimi was saying good-bye, the telephone rang.

  “Livia, darling?” the inspector asked.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Chief.”

  It was Fazio.

  “I just learned that Michela Pardo’s been found dead. A suicide. Threw herself off the balcony at her brother’s place.

  I’m at the station, but I have to go over there. Do you have the keys to the apartment?”