The Age of Doubt

by Andrea Camilleri

  “If things went the way the captain says, then the case doesn’t fall into my jurisdiction, but yours, Lieutenant. It looks like an accident that occurred within the precincts of the port. Don’t you think?”

  “I guess so,” the lieutenant said reluctantly.

  This time it would be his turn to stay up all night. As for Signora Giovannini, she could forget about leaving any time soon.

  As he was driving the inspector back to Marinella, Fazio asked him:

  “Do you really think it was just an accident?”

  Montalbano answered with another question.

  “Can you explain to me why the captain felt the need to grab a flashlight to go out and see if there was anyone on the wharf? The wharf is lit up, isn’t it?”

  “Of course. So why’d he grab it?”

  “So he could feed us that bullshit about how he happened to find the corpse, that’s why. No flashlight, no way he notices the body.”

  “So you don’t think it was an accident.”

  “I’m convinced it wasn’t.”

  Fazio was confused.

  “Then why didn’t you—”

  “Because it’s better this way, I tell you. We’ll let him believe we’ve swallowed his story. The body’s going to end up in Pasquano’s hands anyway. And tomorrow I’ll give the doctor a ring.”

  When he got undressed again, it was almost five o’clock in the morning. But he no longer felt the least bit sleepy.

  He prepared a pot of coffee, drank a mug of it, and sat down at the kitchen table with a sheet of paper and ballpoint pen.

  He started wondering how the killers had managed to discover that the poor Arab was a sort of fifth column in their midst. Maybe the guy had done something stupid. Like getting himself arrested twice.

  As he was thinking, his hand started tracing lines randomly on the paper.

  When he looked down, he realized he’d tried to sketch a portrait of Laura.

  But since he didn’t know how to draw, the portrait looked as if it had been done by an abysmal imitator of Picasso in a moment of total drunkenness.

  At six o’clock, despite all the coffee he’d drunk, an irresistible need to sleep came over him. He went and lay down, slept three hours, and woke up to the sound of clatter in the kitchen.

  “Adelina?”

  “Ah, you’s aweck? I bring you coffee now.”

  As he was drinking it, he asked her:

  “How are you feeling? Is the headache gone?”

  “Yes, iss much better.”

  Thank God for Adelina’s headache! If not for the fact that his housekeeper hadn’t made him anything to eat for dinner, he wouldn’t have dined at Enzo’s, would not have gone for a walk along the jetty, and would not have run into Laura.

  He left the house around ten o’clock. As soon as he sat down in his office, he phoned Pasquano.

  “The doctor’s busy and doesn’t want—”

  “Listen, could you give him a message from me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell him the mountain needs Mohammed.”

  The switchboard operator balked.

  “But . . . but . . .”

  The inspector hung up. And the very next second Mimì Augello came in. He looked a bit haggard.

  “Busy night, eh, Mimì?” Montalbano said sarcastically.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “So it went badly?”

  “In a sense . . .”

  “So she said no?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “So tell me, then!”

  “Look, Salvo, before I start talking, I need to drink a double coffee. I sent Catarella to get some.”

  “And a nice zabaglione to give you strength, no? You look a little worn out to me.”

  Augello didn’t reply. He just sat there in silence, waiting for Catarella to return.

  He spoke only after he’d drunk the coffee, as promised.

  “Yesterday evening, as I think I mentioned to you on the phone, I took Livia out to dinner.”

  Montalbano, who at that moment was lost in thoughts of Laura, leapt out of his chair.

  “You did what to Livia?!”

  “Salvo, have you forgotten that Signora Giovannini has the same first name? Don’t worry, it wasn’t your Livia. So, anyway, I look her to a restaurant in Montelusa. She ate heartily and downed a bottle and a half of wine. Am I going to be reimbursed for expenses?”

  “Weren’t you reimbursed in kind? Go on.”

  “Well, on the way back, she took the initiative.”

  “How?”

  “Listen, I’d rather skip the details.”

  “Just tell me how it started. What did she say?”

  “What did she say? She didn’t say a word!”

  “Then what did she do?”

  “We’d been in the car barely five minutes when she put her hand you know where.”

  So romantic, La Giovannini!

  “And then she asked me where I intended to take her. I replied that, if she liked, we could go to my place, but she said she would feel more comfortable in her cabin.”

  “What time was it?”

  “I didn’t look at my watch, but it must have been past midnight. So we went aboard and the minute we went below decks we ran into the captain.”

  “But they say he’s La Giovannini’s lover! Did he get upset? Angry? Did he say anything?”

  “Not a word. He politely wished us goodnight and went up on the deck.”

  “Maybe they’re lovers in the sense that La Giovannini turns to him when she hasn’t got anybody else.”

  “Maybe. At any rate, he didn’t make a scene. So, the minute we went into her cabin, Livia took off all her clothes and—”

  “Would you do me a favor, Mimì?”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t call her Livia.”

  “Why not?”

  “It makes me feel weird.”

  “All right, then. So, anyway, she got right down to business. And never stopped. Believe me, she’s not a woman but an electrical meat grinder that’s always plugged in. Maybe that’s why the captain grinned at me when he saw me with her. I was sparing him a night of forced labor! Luckily, around two-thirty, we heard that something serious had happened.”

  “What do you mean, ‘luckily’?”

  “I mean that she pulled the plug, even if only for a little while.”

  “Mors tua vita mea, in short.”

  “I’m sorry, Salvo, but that’s really the way it is.”

  “So you heard a scream.”

  “A scream? There wasn’t any scream.”

  “What did you hear, then?”

  “We heard the captain talking loudly over the telephone, saying that there’d been an accident.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then Liv—I mean La Giovannini—got up, put on a bathrobe, and left the cabin. When she got back she said it was nothing serious. One of the crew had got drunk and fallen into the water, but they’d fished him back out.”

  “But do you know that in fact the man died?”

  “Of course, I found that out later. She’d told me a different story.”

  “And why’d she do that?”

  “Why? Because she wanted to grind the pestle in the mortar some more! She was afraid that if I found out that the guy was not only dead but stuck right there, just a few yards away from us, I wouldn’t feel like doing it anymore.”

  “When were you able to leave the yacht?”

  “Around six-thirty this morning, after they took the body away. I went home, dozed a bit, and now here I am. I’m going to go and get some more sleep in a little while, because tonight, Liv—La Giovannini wants a second round.”

  “Were you able to talk to her during any lulls in the action?”

  “Yes. At one point she wanted to know how much I earned, and so I came up with a figure a little higher than what our government hands out.”

  “Did she comment?”

  “No
. She wanted to know if I was married and whether I had any children. I said no. It’s a good thing we didn’t go to my house! She would have immediately noticed Salvuzzo’s toys all over the place.”

  “They seem like perfectly normal questions.”

  “Yes, except that I was convinced they were asked with a specific purpose in mind. And so I told her I was unhappy at my job, and if I could find another I would be so much happier and grateful to anyone who gave me the chance . . . In short, I let her know I was available. I think she’s already percolating something in her head.”

  “Listen, so, how did you make out on the boat?”

  “Not too badly, if I may say so myself. I think I was up to the task.”

  “I wasn’t referring to the excellence of your performance in bed, about which I haven’t the slightest doubt, but to the fact that you didn’t get to have your lesson in boat fuels with Lieutenant Belladonna.”

  “Ah, so you heard? But we were still able to have the lesson. It was all very quick, there wasn’t much time.”

  A rafter falling on his head would have stunned the inspector less.

  “Wh . . . when? Wh . . . where?”

  “The poor thing! After being on her feet all night she phoned me at six in the morning.”

  “And she c . . . came to y . . . your place?”

  “Salvo, what’s got into you? Have you become a stutterer? No, she had me come to the Harbor Office.”

  Ding dang dong, ding dang dong.

  “My dear Mimì,” he said, standing up suddenly and going over and putting his arms around Augello. “Now go and get some rest, so you’ll be strong for tonight.”

  Fazio, who was entering at that very moment, stopped dead in his tracks. What was happening to the inspector to make him go around embracing everybody?

  “What do you want?” Montalbano asked him after Augello had gone.

  “I’ve come to remind you about calling Dr. Pasquano.”

  “I’ve already called him, you know. What do you think, that I’ve gotten so old I’m starting to forget things?”

  “What are you talking about, Chief? I didn’t—”

  “Look what I can still do.”

  And the inspector hopped up, feet together, onto the desktop.

  “Upsy daisy!”

  Fazio just looked at him, eyes popping out of his head. No doubt about it, the inspector needed to see a doctor.

  “Ahh Chief! ’At’d be Dacter Pasquino who—”

  “Lemme talk to him.”

  “The phones are out of order here, Montalbano. All service has been interrupted.”

  “So where are you calling from?”

  “I’m calling from a stinking cell phone. But don’t keep me on this gadget for long. What does Mohammed want?”

  “Today you were brought a sailor who’d fallen—”

  “I worked on him early this morning.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “Not over the cell phone. If you can be here in half an hour, I’ll wait for you.”

  13

  Halfway between Vigàta and Montelusa there were two large trucks stopped along the road, one pointing in one direction, the other pointing in the other, so that both lanes, which were rather narrow, were blocked. The only vehicles that managed to pass through were scooters and motorcycles.

  The truck drivers must have been old friends who hadn’t seen each other for a long time. They’d got out of their respective cabs and were chatting blithely and laughing, slapping each other on the shoulders from time to time and not giving a damn about blocking traffic. Behind Montalbano, who happened to be right behind the truck pointed in the direction of Montelusa, a long queue of horn-blasting cars had formed.

  At any other time Montalbano would have raised hell himself, honking the horn and yelling obscenities, and he would have ended up getting out of the car, spoiling for a fight. Instead he just sat there, a doltish smile on his face, waiting for the truckers to finish at their convenience and leave.

  Ding dang dong.

  And why was Dr. Pasquano also in a good mood?

  After greeting him, the doctor had shown him into his office without uttering a single nasty word or insult as he normally did. He must surely have won at poker the night before at the club.

  But was the doctor really in a good mood, or was that just how it seemed to him, Montalbano, given the fact that everything he saw now seemed enveloped in a sort of halo of candied pink?

  “So you want to know about the sailor? And why’s that?”

  “What do you mean, ‘Why’s that?’ It’s my job.”

  “But aren’t you losing your edge with age?”

  The inspector ignored this first provocation. He had to be patient and pretend not to have heard, because other, even more stinging insults were surely to follow.

  “Can you tell me your thoughts on the matter?”

  “To all appearances, an accident.”

  “Oh, no you don’t, Doctor! I’m not gonna let you play cat and mouse with me. You can’t say, ‘to all appearances’; you have to tell me what you know for certain.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t think the work you do is based on hypotheses, clues, conjectures, and vague stuff like that . . .”

  “Is that what you think of us? But aren’t you aware that there is nothing in the world vaguer than man? And that we, too, proceed by means of conjecture? Do you think we’re like a bunch of little popes who never make a mistake?”

  “Doctor, I didn’t come here to discuss the limitations of medical science. If you can’t tell me anything certain, tell me something half-certain.”

  Pasquano seemed persuaded.

  “I’ll start with a question. Do you smell a rat in this whole affair?”

  “Frankly, yes.”

  “Are you aware that when someone dies by drowning we normally find a great deal of water in the lungs?”

  “Yes, I know. But this guy didn’t have any.”

  “Who ever said that? He had plenty of water.”

  “So then he died by drowning.”

  “But why do you have this bad habit of always jumping to conclusions? Hasn’t old age made you a little more cautious?”

  All this talk of old age was starting to get on the inspector’s nerves.

  “C’mon, Doctor, get to the point. Did he have water in his lungs or not?”

  “Don’t get pissed off, mind you, or I’ll clam up and say no more. There was water there, but not enough to drown him.”

  “So how did he die, then?”

  “From a powerful blow to the nape of the neck, which killed him instantly. An iron bar. It fits.”

  “Fits with what?”

  “With a sort of iron hook I noticed sticking out from the wharf about a foot and a half above the water. You hadn’t noticed it?”

  “Doctor, when I looked, the hook was covered up by the body.”

  “Let me try to explain this a little better. The poor guy, drunk as he was—and he’d had a lot to drink—took a wrong step, fell into the narrow space between the wharf and the broadside of the yacht, smashed his head against the hook, and died.”

  “Doctor, now I’m completely confused.”

  “That’s natural, given your—”

  “What killed him, the hook or the iron bar?”

  “The fact that you don’t understand is clearly owing to your age and not to any lack of clarity in my explanation. What I’m saying is that the killers were very clever. They’re trying to make us believe he died when his head struck the hook. But the hook was green with sea moss. Whereas there was no trace of moss around the man’s wound.”

  “And how do you explain the water in the lungs?”

  “A precautionary measure.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you see what kind of shape you’re in? Why don’t you retire? Can’t you see for yourself your time is up? Here is what happened, in my opinion. The killers—because th
ere were at least two of them—grab the guy and dunk his head into the water to the point where he almost drowns and—”

  “But the wharf is tall!”

  “What makes you think they killed him there?”

  “Where’d they kill him, then?”

  “On the boat, of course! They take him aboard, shove his head into a basin or something like that full of water, let him have a good drink, then pull him back out, choking his guts out, deal him the fatal blow, take him to the appointed place, and chuck him into the water from the wharf.”

  “I still don’t understand why you called it a precautionary measure.”

  “Do you see how seriously impaired your brain is? It was to make it look like he took in the seawater in the few seconds of life he had left.”

  There wasn’t anything else to be learned here. On top of that, Montalbano couldn’t stand the bastard’s provocations any longer.

  “Thank you, Doctor. I’m sorry, but have you informed the commissioner’s office of the results of your autopsy?”

  “Of course. I did my duty as soon as I’d finished my work.”

  If Dr. Pasquano’s reasoning was correct, and it did seem to make a great deal of sense, then the killing, with all the commotion of shoving the guy’s head repeatedly into a bucket of seawater, could not have taken place aboard the yacht, no way. The risk would have been too great. Mimì Augello might hear something, however involved he was in bedroom gymnastics with La Giovannini at that moment.

  It’s possible they did, at first, intend to carry out the killing on the yacht, but when La Giovannini appeared with Mimì on her arm, they would have been forced to change their plans.

  Thus, when Captain Sperlì, while waiting for Shaikiri to return, saw Augello come aboard, his only course of action would have been to race over to the Ace of Hearts and tell them of the hitch in their plans.

  But there was no escaping it: if the killing did not take place on the yacht, it could only have occurred on the cruiser. Definitely not on the wharf—or, at least, only the last phase could have taken place on the wharf: moving the corpse and then chucking it into the water.

  And this brought up something very important for the investigation: namely, that there was some sort of amorous correspondence between the Vanna and the Ace of Hearts. No question but that there were strong elective affinities between the two boats. In less literary terms, they must have been complicit in affairs so shady as to lead to murder.