“You’re looking good yourself,” the inspector lied, with a certain satisfaction.
To his eyes Laganà 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 Nicolò 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 Laganà 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 Laganà’s desk.
“You can’t say this gentleman was very fond of transparency,” the marshal commented after examining these materials.
“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.”
Laganà 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 Vigàta—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?
Then 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 Arquaraquà called.”
What was going on? The chief of Forensics called for him? The tombs shall open, the dead shall rise…
“Arquà, Cat, his name’s Arquà.”
“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.
“Arquà, 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. Arquà, 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.”
Arquà hung up, and Montalbano sat there flummoxed, receiver in hand.
Another noir film? As he set the phone down, he imagined the scene.
TERRACE WITH ROOM. Outside/inside shot, night.
Through the open door, from out on the terrace, the camera frames the interior of the former laundry room. Angelo is sitting on the arm of the armchair. A woman, standing in front of him and seen from behind, puts her purse on the table and, moving very slowly, removes first her blouse, then her bra. The camera zooms entirely inside.
(Sensual music)
With desire in his eyes, Angelo watches the woman unfasten her skirt, letting it drop to her feet. Angelo slides off the arm and into the chair, almost lying down.
The woman takes off her panties, but keeps them in her hand.
Angelo opens the zipper on his jeans and gets ready to have sex.
(Extremely sensual music)
The woman opens her purse and extracts something we can’t see. Then she straddles Angelo, who embraces her.
Long, passionate kiss. Angelo’s hands caress the woman’s back. She suddenly breaks free of his embrace and points the pistol she took out of her purse at Angelo’s face.
CLOSE-UP of Angelo, terrified.
ANGELO: What…what are you doing?
WOMAN: Open your mouth.
Angelo automatically obeys. The woman sticks the panties in his mouth.
Angelo tries to scream but can’t.
WOMAN: Now I’m going to ask you a question. If you want to answer, just nod, and I’ll take them out of your mouth.
The camera follows her movements as she leans forward. She whispers something in his ear.
His eyes open wide as he starts desperately shaking his head no.
(Dramatic music)
WOMAN: I’ll repeat my question.
She leans forward again, brings her mouth to Angelo’s ear, her lips move.
CLOSE-UP of Angelo still refusing, in the throes of uncontrollable panic.
WOMAN: As you wish.
She gets up, takes a step back, and shoots Angelo in the face.
EXTREME CLOSE-UP of Angelo’s devastated head, a black, bloody hole where his eye used to be.
(Tragic music)
DETAIL of Angelo’s half-open mouth. Two tapered fingers reach into the mouth and extract the panties. To put them on, the woman turns toward the camera, but the frame is shot from an angle that keeps her face hidden. The woman continues getting dressed, without any hurry. There’s no trace of nervousness in her gestures.
EXTREME CLOSE-UP of Angelo’s head, a horrendous sight.
SLOW FADE-OUT.
Granted, a dreadful script from a B movie of the erotic-crime genre. It might, however, have had decent success on television, given all the other crap that gets broadcast. You know, TV movies. The inspector consoled himself with the thought that if he had to leave the police force, he could try his hand at this new profession.
Leaving his private cinema to return to his office, he saw Fazio standing in front of his desk, staring at him inquisitively.
“What were you thinking, Chief?”
“Nothing, I was just watching a film. What do you want?”
“Chief, you’re the one who
called me.”
“Ah, yes. Have a seat. Got any news for me?”
“You said you wanted to know everything I could find out about Emilio Sclafani and Angelo Pardo. As for the schoolteacher, I have to add a little detail to what I already told you.”
“What’s this little detail?”
“Remember how the schoolteacher sent his wife’s lover to the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he, too, was sent to the hospital.”
“By whom?”
“A jealous husband.”
“That’s not possible. The guy can’t—”
“Chief, I assure you it’s true. It happened before his second marriage.”
“He was caught in bed with the man’s wife?”
Montalbano couldn’t accept that Elena had told him a lie, a lie so big that it cast everything into doubt.
“No, Chief. The bed’s got nothing to do with it. The teacher lived in a great big apartment building, and two of his windows gave onto the courtyard. You remember that movie…”
Another film? This wasn’t an investigation anymore, it was one of the countless film festivals!
“…the one about a photographer with a broken leg who spends his time looking out his window across the courtyard and finds out some lady’s been killed?”
“Yes. Rear Window, by Hitchcock.”
“Well, the schoolteacher bought himself a powerful set of binoculars, but he only watched the window across from his, where a young bride of about twenty lived, and since she didn’t know she was being watched, she walked around her apartment half naked. Then one day the husband got wise to the teacher’s tricks, went over to his place, and busted his head and his binoculars.”
Montalbano became almost certain that Mr. Sclafani demanded that his wife give him a detailed report of what she did at each of her encounters with her lover. Why hadn’t Elena told him this? Perhaps because this little detail (and what a detail!) cast the schoolteacher in a different light from that of the understanding, impotent husband and brought to the surface all the murk deep down in his soul?
“And what can you tell me about Angelo Pardo?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”
“Chief, nobody had the slightest thing to say against him. As far as the present was concerned, he earned a good living as a pharmaceutical representative, enjoyed life, and had no enemies.”
Montalbano knew Fazio too well to let slide what he’d just said—that is, “as far as the present was concerned.”
“And as far as the past is concerned?”
Fazio smiled at him, and the inspector smiled back. They understood each other at once.
“There were two things in his past. One of these you already know, and it involves that business about the abortion.”
“Skip it, I already know all about it.”
“The other thing goes even further back—to the death of Angelo’s sister’s boyfriend.”
Montalbano felt a kind of jolt run down his spine. He pricked his ears.
“The boyfriend was named Roberto Anzalone,” said Fazio. “An engineering student who liked to race motorcycles as a hobby. That’s why the accident that killed him seemed odd.”
“Why?”
“My dear Inspector, does it seem normal to you that a skilled motorcyclist like that, after a two-mile straightaway, would ignore a curve and keep going, right off a three-hundred-foot cliff?”
“Mechanical failure?”
“The motorbike was so smashed up after the accident, the experts couldn’t make heads or tails of it.”
“What about the autopsy?”
“That’s the best part. When he had the accident, Anzalone had just finished eating at a trattoria with a friend. The autopsy showed he’d probably overindulged in alcohol or something similar.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘something similar’? Either it was alcohol or it wasn’t.”
“Chief, the person who did the autopsy was unable to specify. He simply wrote that he found something similar to alcohol.”
“Bah. Go on.”
“The only problem is that the Anzalone family, when they found this out, said that Roberto didn’t drink, and they demanded a new autopsy. Most importantly, the waiter at the trattoria also stated that he hadn’t served wine or any other kind of alcohol at that table.”
“Did they get the second autopsy?”
“They did, but they had to wait three months to get it. And, actually, given all the authorizations that were needed for it, that was pretty fast. The fact is that this time the alcohol, or whatever it was, wasn’t there anymore. And so the case was closed.”
“Tell me something. Do you know who this friend was who ate with him?”
Fazio’s eyes started to sparkle. This happened whenever he knew that his words would have a dramatic effect. He was foretasting his pleasure.
“It was…” he began.
But Montalbano, who could be a real bastard when he wanted to, decided to spoil the effect for him.
“That’s enough, I already know,” he said.
“How did you find out?” asked Fazio, between disappointment and wonder.
“Your eyes told me,” said the inspector. “It was his future brother-in-law, Angelo Pardo. Was he interrogated?”
“Of course. And he confirmed the waiter’s statement—that is, that they hadn’t drunk any wine or other alcoholic beverage at the table. In any case, for some reason or other, Angelo Pardo had his lawyer present every time he made his three depositions. And his lawyer was none other than Senator Nicotra.”
“Nicotra?!” marveled the inspector. “That’s way too big a fish for a testimony of so little importance.”
Fazio never found out whether, in uttering Nicotra’s name, he’d actually managed to get even for the disappointment of a moment before. But if anyone had asked Montalbano why he reacted so strongly to the news that Nicotra and Angelo had known one another for quite some time, the inspector would not have known what to answer.
“But where would Angelo have ever found the money to inconvenience a lawyer of Senator Nicotra’s stature?”
“It didn’t cost him a cent, Chief. Angelo’s father had been a campaigner for the senator, and they’d become friends. Their families spent time together. In fact, the senator also represented Angelo when he was accused of the abortion.”
“Anything else?”
“Yessir.”
“You going to tell me free of charge, or do I have to pay for it?” asked Montalbano when he saw that Fazio couldn’t make up his mind to go on.
“No, Chief, it’s all included in my salary.”
“Then out with it.”
“It’s something that was told me by only one person. I haven’t been able to confirm it.”
“Just tell me, for what it’s worth.”
“Apparently a year ago Angelo got into the bad habit of gambling and often lost.”
“A lot?”
“Lots and lots.”
“Could you be more precise?”
“Tens of millions of lire.”
“Was he in debt?”
“Apparently not.”
“Where did he gamble?”
“At some den in Fanara.”
“You know anyone around there?”
“In Fanara? No, Chief.”
“Too bad.”
“Why?”
“Because I would bet my family jewels that Angelo had another bank account than the one we already know about. Since it seems he didn’t have any debts, where was he getting the money he lost? Or to pay for the gifts to his girlfriend? After what you’ve just told me, I think this mysterious bank may very well be in Fanara. See what you can come up with there.”
“I’ll try.”
Fazio stood up. When he was at the door, Montalbano said in a soft voice:
“Thanks.”
Fazio stopped, turned, and looked at him.
“For what? It’s all included in my salary, Chief.”
The inspector hurried back to Marinella. The salmon that Ingrid had sent to him was anxiously awaiting him.
14
It was pouring. With him getting drenched, cursing, blaspheming, the water running down his hair, into his collar, and then sliding down his back, triggering cold shudders, his sodden socks now filtering the water flowing into his shoes, but, nothing doing, the door to his house in Marinella wouldn’t open because the keys wouldn’t fit in the lock, and when they did, they wouldn’t turn. He tried four different keys, one after the other, but it was hopeless. How could he go on like this, getting soaked to the bone, unable to set foot in his own house?
He finally decided to have a look at the set of keys in his hand. To his shock, he realized they weren’t his keys. He must have mistakenly grabbed someone else’s. But where?
Then he remembered that the mistake might have happened in Boccadasse, at a bar where they made good coffee. But he was in Boccadasse two weeks ago! How could he have been back in Vigàta for two weeks without ever going into his house?
“Where are my keys?” he shouted.
It seemed as though no one could hear him, so loud was the rain drumming on the roof, on his head, on the ground, on the leaves in the trees. Then he thought he heard a woman’s voice far, far away, coming and going with the intensity of the downpour.
“Turn the corner! Turn the corner!” said the voice.
What did it mean? Whatever the case, lost as he was, he took four steps and turned the corner. He found himself in Michela’s bathroom. The woman was naked and dipped her hand in the bathwater to feel the temperature. In so doing she offered him a remarkably hilly panorama on which the eye willingly lingered.
“Come on, get in.”
He realized he was also naked, but this did not surprise him. He got in the tub and lay down. It was a good thing he was immediately covered by soap suds. He felt embarrassed that Michela might see the semi-erection he got upon contact with the warm water.
The Paper Moon Page 14