“Now, now!” said Paola, laughing.
“Why shouldn’t I call her that?”
“It doesn’t seem to be the case.”
“But for a while she actually was one! Inspector, when Elena was still a minor, she ran away to Milan—”
“I know the whole story,” the inspector cut her short.
Though Elena might have confided in Angelo about the errors of her youth, it was unlikely Angelo had communicated them to his sister. Apparently it was not beneath Michela to hire some private agency to dig up information on her brother’s lover.
“In any case he never gave me any gifts,” Paola said at this point. “Actually, no. One time he did buy me a pair of earrings at a sidewalk booth in Fela. Three thousand lire, I remember. We didn’t have the euro yet.”
“Let’s get back to the subject I’m interested in,” said Montalbano. “To buy these gifts for Elena, did Angelo take the money from your joint account?”
“No,” Michela said firmly.
“So where did he get it?”
“Whenever he got checks for incentives or bonuses, he would cash them and keep the money at home. Once he had a certain amount, he would buy a present for that…”
“So you rule out the possibility that he could have had a personal account in some bank without your knowledge?”
“Absolutely.”
Prompt, firm, decisive. Maybe too prompt, too firm, too decisive.
How was it she never had the slightest doubt? Or maybe she had, and it was not so slight, but since it might cast some suspicion, some shadow, on her brother, she figured it was better to deny it.
Montalbano tried to outflank her defenses. He turned to Paola.
“You just said Angelo once bought you a pair of earrings in Fela. Why in Fela, of all places? Had you accompanied him there?”
Paola gave a little smile.
“Unlike Elena, I used to go along with him on his rounds in the province.”
“He didn’t bring her along because she was already following him!” Michela let fly.
“When I was free of commitments at school, of course,” Paola continued.
“Did you ever see him go into a bank?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Was he very friendly with any of the doctors or pharmacists he used to visit?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Were there any of his…let’s call them clients, with whom he was a little friendlier than with others?”
“You know, Inspector, I didn’t know them all. He used to introduce me as his girlfriend. And it was sort of true. But it seemed to me like he treated them all the same way.”
“When he brought you along with him, were you present at all his meetings?”
“No, sometimes he would ask me to wait in the car or to take a walk.”
“Did he ever tell you the reason?”
“Well, he used to joke about it. He would say he had to go see a young and handsome doctor and he was afraid that…Or else he would explain that the doctor was a very devout, narrow-minded Catholic who might not approve of my presence—”
“Inspector,” Michela cut in, “my brother clearly distinguished his friends from the people he did business with. I don’t know if you noticed, but in his desk he kept two datebooks, one with the addresses of friends and family, the other with—”
“Yes, I noticed,” said Montalbano. Then, still speaking to Paola:
“You, apparently, teach at the liceo of Montelusa?”
“Yes. Italian.”
She gave another little smile.
“I see what you’re getting at. Emilio Sclafani is not just my colleague; we’re actually friends, in a way. One evening I invited Emilio and his young wife to dinner. Angelo was there, too, and that’s when it all started between them.”
“Listen, Elena told me her husband knew all about her affair with Angelo. Can you by any chance confirm that?”
“It’s true. In fact, the strangest thing happened.”
“Namely?”
“It was Emilio himself who told me that Angelo and his wife had become lovers. She’d told him just a few hours before. I didn’t want to believe it. I thought Emilio was pulling my leg. The next day Angelo phoned me to say he wouldn’t be able to see me for a while. So I blew up and told him what Emilio had told me. He stammered a bit and then owned up to it. But he pleaded with me to be patient, said it was just a little fling…But I was adamant, and our relationship ended there.”
“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 goodbyes.
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 now las 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 itself 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 an old policeman 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 (is this 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 Nicolò and possibly worth pursuing. (Check with Marshal Laganà.)
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 I 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,
SALVO MONTALBANO
11
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 ma
tter—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 fulfill, 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.
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