“Did you take that yourselves? You made me turn the house upside down looking for it!”
“So it’s yours. You officially recognize it.”
“Of course I do. What use could you have for that cup?”
“It’s going to help me send you to jail.”
Of all the possible reactions, the widow chose one that, in a way, won the inspector’s admiration. In fact, she turned her head towards Fazio and politely, as if paying a courtesy call, asked him:
“Has he gone crazy?”
Fazio, in all sincerity, would have liked to answer that in his opinion the inspector had been crazy since birth, but he said nothing and merely stared out the window.
“Now I’ll tell you how things went,” said Montalbano. “That morning, hearing the alarm clock, you got up and went into the bathroom. You necessarily passed by the door to the study, which you noticed was closed. At first you thought nothing of it, then you reconsidered. And when you came out of the bathroom, you opened it. But you didn’t go in, at least I don’t think you did. You waited a moment in the doorway, reclosed the door, went into the kitchen, grabbed the knife, and put it in your purse. Then you went out, you caught the bus, you got off at Cannatello, you got on the bus to Vigàta, you went back home, you opened the door, you saw your husband ready to go out, you argued with him, he opened the door to the elevator, which was on your floor because you’d just used it. You followed behind him, you stabbed him in the back, he turned halfway around, fell to the ground, you started the elevator, you reached the ground floor, and you got out. And nobody saw you. That was your great stroke of luck.”
“But why would I have done it?” the woman asked calmly. And then, with an irony that seemed incredible at that moment and in that place: “Just because my husband had closed the door to his study?”
Montalbano, from a seated position, bowed admiringly to her.
“No, signora; because of what was behind that closed door.”
“And what was that?”
“Karima, your husband’s mistress.”
“But you said yourself that I didn’t go into the room.”
“You didn’t need to, because you were assailed by a cloud of perfume, the very stuff that Karima wore in abundance. It’s called Volupté. It has a strong, persistent scent.
You’d probably smelled it before from time to time on your husband’s clothes. It was still there in the study, less strong, of course, when I went in that evening, after you came home.”
The widow Lapècora remained silent; she was thinking over what the inspector had just said.
“Would you answer me one question?” she then asked.
“As many as you like.”
“Why, in your opinion, didn’t I go into the study and kill that woman first?”
“Because your brain is as precise as a Swiss watch and as fast as a computer. Karima, seeing you open the door, would have put herself on the defensive, ready for anything. Your husband, hearing her scream, would have come running and disarmed you with Karima’s help. Whereas by pretending not to notice anything, you could wait and catch him in the act a little later.”
“And how do you explain, just to follow your argument, that my husband was the only one killed?”
“When you returned, Karima was already gone.”
“Excuse me, but since you weren’t there, who told you this story?”
“Your fingerprints on the cup and on the knife told me.”
“Not on the knife!” the woman snapped.
“Why not on the knife?”
The woman started biting her lip.
“The cup is mine, the knife isn’t.”
“The knife is also yours; it’s got one of your fingerprints on it. Clear as day.”
“But that can’t be!”
Fazio did not take his eyes off his superior. He knew there were no fingerprints on the knife. This was the most delicate moment of the trick.
“And you’re so sure there are no fingerprints on the knife because when you stabbed your husband you were still wearing the gloves you’d put on when you got all dressed up to go out. You see, the fingerprint we took from it was not from that morning, but from the day before, when, after using the knife to clean the fish you had for dinner, you washed it and put it back in the kitchen drawer. In fact, the fingerprint is not on the handle, but on the blade, right where the blade and the handle meet. And now you’re going to go into the next room with Fazio, and we’re going to take your fingerprints and compare them.”
“He was a son of a bitch,” said Signora Lapècora, “and he deserved to die the way he did. He brought that whore into my home to get his jollies in my bed all day while I was out.”
“Are you saying you acted out of jealousy?”
“Why else?”
“But hadn’t you already received three anonymous letters? You could have caught them in the act at the office on Salita Granet.”
“I don’t do that kind of thing. But when I realized he’d brought that whore into my home, my blood started to boil.”
“I think, signora, your blood started to boil a few days before that.”
“When?”
“When you discovered your husband had withdrawn a large sum from his bank account.”
This time, too, the inspector was bluffing. It worked.
“Two hundred million lire!” the widow said in rage and despair. “Two hundred million for that disgusting whore!”
That explained part of the money in Karima’s bank book.
“If I didn’t stop him, he was liable to eat up the office, our home, and our savings!”
“Shall we put this all in a statement, signora? But first tell me one thing. What did your husband say when you appeared before him?”
“He said: ‘Get the hell out of my way. I have to go to the office.’ He’d probably had a spat with the slut, she’d left, and he was running after her.”
“Mr. Commissioner? Montalbano here. I’m calling to let you know that I’ve just now managed to get Mrs. Lapècora to confess to her husband’s murder.”
“Congratulations. Why did she do it?”
“Self-interest, which she’s trying to disguise as jealousy. I need to ask a favor of you. Could I hold a press conference?”
There was no answer.
“Commissioner? I asked if I could—”
“I heard you perfectly well, Montalbano. It’s just that I was speechless with amazement. You want to hold a press conference? I don’t believe it!”
“And yet it’s true.”
“All right, go ahead. But later you must explain to me what’s behind it.”
“Are you saying that Mrs. Lapècora had long known about her husband’s relations with Karima?” asked Galluzzo’s brother-in-law in his capacity as a reporter for Tele Vigàta.
“Yes. Thanks to no less than three anonymous letters that her husband had sent to her.”
At first they didn’t understand.
“Do you mean to say that Mr. Lapècora actually denounced himself to his wife?” asked a bewildered journalist.
“Yes. Because Karima had started blackmailing him. He was hoping his wife’s reaction would free him from his predicament. But Mrs. Lapècora did not intervene. Nor did their son.”
“Excuse me, but why didn’t he turn to the police?”
“Because he thought it would create a big scandal. Whereas, with his wife’s help, he was hoping matters would stay within the, uh, family circle.”
“But where is this Karima now?”
“We don’t know. She escaped with her son, a little boy. Actually one of her friends, who was worried about their disappearance, asked the Free Channel to air a photo of the mother and her son. But so far nobody has come forward.”
They thanked him and left. Montalbano smiled in satisfaction. The first puzzle had been solved, perfectly, within its specific outline. Fahrid, Ahmed, and even Aisha had been left out of it. With them in it, had they been properly u
sed, the puzzle’s design would have been entirely different.
He was early for his appointment with Valente. He stopped in front of the restaurant where he’d gone the last time he was in Mazàra. He gobbled up a sauté of clams in breadcrumbs, a heaping dish of spaghetti with white clam sauce, a roast turbot with oregano and caramelized lemon, and he topped it all off with a bitter chocolate timbale in orange sauce. When it was all over he stood up, went into the kitchen, and shook the chef ’s hand without saying a word, deeply moved. In the car, on his way to Valente’s office, he sang at the top of his lungs: “Guarda come dondolo, guarda come dondolo, col twist . . .”
Valente showed Montalbano into a room next to his own.
“It’s something we’ve done before,” he said. “We leave the door ajar, and you, by manipulating this little mirror, can see what’s happening in my office, if hearing’s not enough.”
“Be careful,Valente. It’s a matter of seconds.”
“Leave it to us.”
Commendatore Spadaccia walked into Valente’s office. It was immediately clear he was nervous.
“I’m sorry, Commissioner Valente, I don’t understand. You could have easily come to the prefecture yourself and saved me some time. I’m a very busy man, you know.”
“Please forgive me, Commendatore,” Valente said with abject humility. “You’re absolutely right. But we’ll make up for that at once; I won’t keep you more than five minutes. I just need a simple clarification.”
“All right.”
“The last time we met, you told me the prefect had been asked in some way—”
The commendatore raised an imperious hand, and Valente immediately fell silent.
“If that’s what I said, I was wrong. His Excellency knows nothing about all this. Anyway, it’s the sort of bullshit we see every day. The ministry, in Rome, phoned me; they don’t bother His Excellency with this kind of crap.”
Obviously the prefect, after getting the phone call from the bogus Corriere reporter, had asked the chief of his cabinet for an explanation. And it must have been a rather lively discussion, the echoes of which could still be heard in the strong words the commendatore was using.
“Go on,” Spadaccia urged.
Valente threw up his hands, a halo hovering over his head.
“That’s all,” he said.
Spadaccia, dumbstruck, looked all around as if to verify the reality of what was happening.
“Are you telling me you have nothing more to ask me?”
“That’s right.”
Spadaccia slammed his hand down on the desk with such force that even Montalbano jumped in the next room.
“You think you’ve made an ass of me, but you’ll pay for this, just wait and see!”
He stormed out, fuming. Montalbano ran to the window, nerves taut. He saw the commendatore shoot out the front door like a bullet towards his car, whose driver was getting out to open the door for him. At that exact moment, the door of a squad car that had just pulled up opened, and out came Angelo Prestìa, who was immediately taken by the arm by a policeman. Spadaccia and the captain of the fishing boat stood almost face-to-face. They said nothing to each other, and each continued on his way.
The whinny of joy that Montalbano let out now and then when things went right for him terrified Valente, who came running from the next room.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“It worked!”
“Sit down here,” they heard a policeman say. Prestìa had been brought into the office.
Valente and Montalbano stayed where they were; each lit a cigarette and smoked it without saying a word to the other. Meanwhile the captain of the Santopadre was simmering on a low flame.
They entered with faces like the bearers of black clouds and bitter cargoes. Valente went and sat behind his desk; Montalbano pulled up a chair and sat down beside him.
“When’s this aggravation gonna end?” the captain began.
He didn’t realize that with his aggressive attitude, he had just revealed what he was thinking to Valente and Montalbano: that is, he believed that Commendator Spadaccia had come to vouch for the truth of his testimony. He felt at peace, and could therefore play indignant.
On the desk was a voluminous folder on which Angelo Prestìa’s name was written in large block letters—voluminous because it was filled with old memos, but the captain didn’t know this. Valente opened it and took out Spadaccia’s calling card.
“You gave this to us, correct?”
Valente’s switch from the politeness of last time to a more coplike bluntness worried Prestìa.
“Of course it’s correct. The commendatore gave it to me and said if I had any trouble after taking the Tunisian aboard I could turn to him. Which I did.”
“Wrong,” said Montalbano, fresh as a spring chicken.
“But that’s what he told me to do!”
“Of course that’s what he told you to do, but as soon as you smelled a rat, you gave that calling card to us instead. And in doing so, you put that good man in a pickle.”
“A pickle? What kind of pickle?”
“Don’t you think being implicated in premeditated murder is a pretty nasty pickle?”
Prestìa shut up.
“My colleague Montalbano,” Valente cut in, “is trying to explain to you why things went as they did.”
“And how did they go?”
“They went as follows: if you had gone directly to Spadaccia and hadn’t given us his card, he would have taken care of everything, under the table, of course. Whereas you, by giving us the card, you got the law involved. So that left Spadaccia with only one option: deny everything.”
“What?!”
“Yessirree. Spadaccia’s never seen you before, never heard your name. He made a sworn statement, which we’ve added to our file.”
“The son of a bitch!” said Prestìa. Then he asked: “And how did he explain how I got his card?”
Montalbano laughed heartily to himself.
“He suckered you there, too, pal,” he said. “He brought us a photocopy of a declaration he made about ten days ago to the Trapani police. Says his wallet was stolen with everything inside, including four or five calling cards, he couldn’t remember exactly how many.”
“He tossed you overboard,” said Valente.
“Where the water’s way over your head,” Montalbano added.
“How long you gonna manage to stay afloat?” Valente piled it on.
The sweat under Prestìa’s armpits formed great big blotches. The office was filled with an unpleasant odor of musk and garlic, which Montalbano saw as rot-green in color. Prestìa put his head in his hands and muttered:
“They didn’t give me any choice.”
He remained awhile in that position, then apparently made up his mind:
“Can I speak with a lawyer?”
“A lawyer?” said Valente, as if greatly surprised.
“Why do you want a lawyer?” Montalbano asked in turn.
“I thought—”
“You thought what?”
“That we were going to arrest you?”
The duo worked perfectly together.
“You’re not going to arrest me?”
“Of course not.”
“You can go now, if you like.”
It took Prestìa five minutes before he could get his ass unstuck from the chair and run out the door, literally.
“So, what happens next?” asked Valente, who knew they had unleashed a pack of demons.
“What happens next is that Prestìa will go and pester Spadaccia. And the next move will be theirs.”
Valente looked worried.
“What’s wrong?” asked Montalbano.
“I don’t know . . . I’m not convinced . . . I’m afraid they’ll silence Prestìa. And we would be responsible.”
“Prestìa’s too visible at this point. Bumping him off would be like putting their signature on the entire operation. No, I’m convinced they
will silence him, but by paying him off handsomely.”
“Will you explain something for me?”
“Sure.”
“Why are you stepping into this quicksand?”
“And why are you following behind me?”
“First of all, because I’m a cop, like you, and secondly, because I’m having fun.”
“And my answer is: my first reason is the same as yours. And my second is that I’m doing it for money.”
“And what’ll you gain from it?”
“I know exactly what my gain will be. But you want to bet that you’ll gain something from it too?”
Deciding not to give in to the temptation, he sped past the restaurant where he’d stuffed himself at lunch, doing 120 kilometers an hour. A half kilometer later, however, his resolution suddenly foundered, and he slammed on the brakes, provoking a furious blast of the horn from the car behind him. The man at the wheel, while passing him, glared at him angrily and gave him the finger. Montalbano then made a U-turn, strictly prohibited on that stretch of road, went straight into the kitchen, and, without even saying hello, asked the cook:
“So, exactly how do you prepare your striped mullet?”
17
The following morning, at eight o’clock sharp, he showed up at the commissioner’s office. His boss, as usual, had been there since seven, amid the muttered curses of the cleaning women who felt prevented from doing their jobs.
Montalbano told him about Mrs. Lapècora’s confession, explaining how the poor murder victim, as if trying to side-step his tragic end, had written anonymously to his wife and openly to his son, but both had let him stew in his own juices. He made no mention of either Fahrid or Moussa—of the larger puzzle, in other words. He didn’t want the commissioner, now at the end of his career, to find himself implicated in an affair that stank worse than a pile of shit.
And up to this point it had gone well for him; he hadn’t had to pull any wool over the commissioner’s eyes. He’d only left a few things out, told a few half-truths.
“But why did you want to hold a press conference, you who usually avoid them like the plague?”
IM03 - The Snack Thief Page 17