A Voice in the Night (19 page)

She got up with effort, and Montalbano followed her.

So he’d been right about the security service’s slips of paper!

From the balcony you could see the garage and the entire garden of Strangio’s house.

‘The young man just sat still inside the car as if thinking things over, then started it up again and drove away. When he got to Via Pirandello, he turned left.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ Montalbano asked in surprise. If he turned left, this meant that he went directly to the police station. For him to stop in front of the gate and then go
and find his girlfriend’s dead body, he would have had to turn right.

Therefore Strangio hadn’t even felt the need to go into the house. There was no point. He’d already been told what had happened inside. And the only person who could have told him
this was the killer himself. A killer whom Strangio didn’t want to accuse, as in so doing he would risk being taken for the killer himself.

‘. . . and that’s why, I repeat, he turned left,’ the woman concluded.

Montalbano had missed what she’d just said.

‘I’m not doubting you, signora.’

‘An’ I can see well even in the dark,’ she said. ‘All I need is the light from that streetlamp there – see it? – and I can see like it’s day.’

‘I believe you.’

‘An’ you know what? I want to tell you something with no disrespect to the soul of that poor girl who was killed.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Let’s just say that for the last three months and more, even four, there was a man who came to see her in the evenings when Strangio was away.’

Montalbano held his breath.

‘What he would do was this,’ the woman continued. ‘He would pull up outside the garage, get out of the car, open the door – apparently he had the keys – put the car
inside, and then come out the back. I would see him walk through the garden and then disappear round the corner of the house.’

‘So he went into the house.’

‘Of course, otherwise I’d have seen him coming out the gate.’

‘Did you ever have a chance to see his face?’

‘Never. I always saw him from behind.’

‘But when he came back out of the house to go back to his car—’

‘He must have always left very early in the morning. I never saw him come out. I’m always sleeping at that hour. The only thing I can say is that he wasn’t a young man, but at
least fifty years old. I could tell by the walk.’

‘You said these visits occurred when Strangio was away?’

‘That’s right.’

*

Before going back to the station, he went first to a
pasticceria
and ordered a tray of twelve cannoli.

Catarella had the day off and was replaced by an officer named Sanfilippo.

‘Is Fazio here?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Tell him to come to my office.’

As soon as Fazio came in, Montalbano handed him the pastry tray.

‘Take this into your office, and after we’ve finished with the girl, I want you to deliver it to Mrs Concetta Arnone, who lives on the fourth floor of the apartment building on Via
Brancati.’

Fazio’s eyes sparkled.

‘Did she tell you something important?’

‘Extremely important. Go and put this tray away and I’ll tell you everything.’

But they didn’t manage in time, because the moment Fazio sat back down, Sanfilippo came and announced that a woman by the name of Amalasunta Gambardella had just arrived.

*

The inspector had noticed in the past that the bosom friends of beautiful girls were usually rather plain. And Amalasunta did not break the mould.

Bespectacled and shabbily dressed, she nevertheless had a determined air about her.

‘If you hadn’t sought me out, I would have come to you myself,’ was the first thing she said.

‘We summoned you here because Inspector Fazio, when looking through the deceased’s correspondence, realized you were her best—’

‘He’s right,’ Amalasunta cut him off. ‘She used to tell me everything.’

‘So you can be a big help to us.’

‘I think so too.’

‘So let’s start at the beginning. When did you first meet Mariangela?’

‘We used to be classmates in elementary school and remained friends ever after.’

‘So you must know how Mariangela and Giovanni met?’

‘Of course. The father introduced her to him.’

Montalbano was momentarily at a loss.

‘I’m sorry, but whose father?’

‘Giovanni’s father, the Honourable Michele Strangio, president of the province.’

Clearly Amalasunta wasn’t terribly fond of the Honourable Strangio.

‘And how did Giovanni’s father know her?’

‘He was her teacher at secondary school, at the
liceo scientifico
. Her maths professor. Mariangela was his pupil. When Giovanni and Mariangela met, she was in her third
year.’

‘I see,’ said the inspector.

‘No, I don’t think you do,’ the girl said breezily.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that four months ago Professor Strangio resumed the relationship he had with Mariangela when she was still in secondary school.’

Montalbano felt as if the chair beneath him were wobbling from a mild tremor in the earth.

‘But are you sure about what you’re—’

‘Shall I go into the details? How and where it happened the first time?’

‘And nobody ever found—’

‘Do you know Professor Strangio? He’s a very good-looking man, a widower, extremely charming, he speaks like a god, he’s spellbinding. As soon as he entered politics it became
his career.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Fifty-five, fifty-six. But he looks younger.’

‘So nobody at the school ever found out?’

‘No. People used to whisper that Strangio went with his girl students, but it was always just rumours, just gossip.’

‘Was Mariangela in love with him?’

‘Sort of. Just enough, in her own mind, to justify sleeping with him. But when the professor introduced his son to her, Mariangela had the impression that his intention was . . . well,
that he wasn’t introducing him without some self-interest . . . that he was . . . I don’t know how to put this . . . that he was sort of trying to “park” her with
Giovanni.’

‘Why didn’t she rebel?’

‘Mariangela had many gifts, on top of her beauty. But she was weak-willed and would let herself be dragged into things.’

‘And why did Giovanni accept?’

‘Inspector, Giovanni is totally dominated by his father. He does everything the man asks of him, without saying a word. And Mariangela was gorgeous. Boys used to lose their heads over her.
And Giovanni has been under the sway of his father ever since childhood. His father has always wanted him to be like a real son to him . . .’

Another mild tremor in the ground.

‘Why, is he not the professor’s son?’

‘No, he was adopted at the age of five. The professor’s wife, who died four years after the adoption, couldn’t have children. And that was how Giovanni grew up, and it’s
why he’s not really all there. It’s his father’s fault, because of the way he’s always treated him.’

Fazio and Montalbano exchanged a glance. They’d struck gold.

‘Listen, I have to ask you a question, and I’d like you to answer with the same frankness you’ve shown us thus far. Did Mariangela tell you she was pregnant?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was Giovanni the father?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know who was?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you tell me his name?’

Before answering, Amalasunta heaved a long sigh. ‘Inspector, when we entered the university, Mariangela chose architecture and I chose law. And I like it a lot. None of what I’ve
told you so far is of any strictly criminal consequence to anyone. But if I tell you that name, the whole picture changes. On top of that, I don’t think that there’s any evidence that
might prove the guilt of the person I would name. And Mariangela is dead, so no one could ever ask her whether I’m telling the truth or not.’

She would become an excellent lawyer, this Amalasunta; that much was clear.

‘Was the father of the child the man who had been going to see her for four months when Giovanni was out of town?’

The girl didn’t answer.

‘There’s an eyewitness,’ Montalbano pressed on.

‘And he recognized the man?’

‘In a certain sense.’

The girl thought this over for a moment.

‘I think you’re setting me up, and I’m not going to fall for it.’

She was smart, and shrewd. Montalbano didn’t comment.

‘Did Mariangela have any other lovers?’

‘No.’

‘Listen, would you also refuse to name this person in front of a judge? Let me explain. You study law, and therefore you should know that your refusal to reveal this person’s
identity could cost you, and dearly.’

‘I know.’

‘So you, in full awareness, refuse to give me the killer’s name.’

The girl’s composure and resolve suddenly vanished.

‘But whoever said he was the killer?’

‘Come on, you yourself suspect that Mariangela’s lover, the same one who got her pregnant, might also be her killer. Since it’s only a suspicion, however, you don’t want
to name him. But, you see, your attitude leads me to think that if this person were just anybody, you would have no problem naming him. The fact that you won’t is because you fear the
consequences.’

The girl could only hang her head and look at the floor.

‘Because we’re talking about a very important person,’ the inspector continued, ‘who could, if he wanted, take revenge on you. I understand you, you know. I’ll tell
you what. I won’t ask you to name him.’

The girl remained in the same position.

‘And I won’t name him either,’ Montalbano continued. ‘Though not out of fear. But because I don’t have any proof yet. When I do have proof, will you be willing to
confirm the name, even in court?’

This time the girl raised her head and looked at him.

‘In that case, yes.’

‘Thank you for everything. You can go now.’

The inspector stood up and held out his hand to her. The girl shook it. She said goodbye to Fazio and headed for the door but stopped when Montalbano asked:

‘Could I start my investigation with the hypothesis that the whole thing began with the rekindling of an old flame?’

The girl turned around.

‘Yes,’ she said, and then left.

‘Did you get all that, Fazio?’

‘Of course. What do you think I am, an idiot?’

‘Then get moving, even if it’s Sunday. Start making phone calls, gathering information, get all of heaven and earth involved. And don’t forget the cannoli for Mrs
Arnone.’

Fazio had barely left when the outside phone rang. It was Mr C’mishner.

‘Ah, good, I was really hoping to find you, Montalbano. I just got a long phone call from Prosecutor Tommaseo, who tells me that you’re not in agreement with his line of
investigation. Tommaseo leans towards complete culpability, whereas you supposedly have serious doubts. Is that correct?’

He didn’t once mention Strangio’s name. Was he afraid the phone might be bugged?

‘It’s not that I have serious doubts, it’s just that I took the liberty of suggesting to Tommaseo that we also follow other leads.’

‘But are there any?’

‘Look, just this morning, but purely by chance, I talked to a lady who told me that she saw a man pay the girl a visit several times, always at night and always when her boyfriend was
away. She even saw his face.’

He paused and then fired another lie.

‘A tall, good-looking young man of about thirty, driving a two-seater sports car.’

The commissioner remained silent for a moment. He was weighing his options. The arrest of Giovanni Strangio was certain to trigger some enormous political headaches, whereas the arrest of any
old killer would cause no trouble at all. On the contrary.

‘Listen, Montalbano. Let’s do this. I’ll assign Rasetti to Tommaseo’s investigation, and you continue to follow the lead of the thirty-year-old. I’m giving you
verbal authorization, naturally.’

‘Naturally. Thank you, Mr Commissioner.’

*

He hung up and went to Fazio’s office to search through all the papers he’d signed, which were about to be shipped out, for those pages with the transcriptions of
the recordings. At last he found them. He folded them and put them in his jacket pocket.

He went out, got in his car, and went to Enzo’s to eat. He really couldn’t complain about the morning’s catch.

After eating, he took his customary stroll along the jetty and then headed home.

*

He took his clothes off and got into bed.

‘I’ll just rest for a few minutes,’ he said to himself.

Instead he slept till five, when he was woken up by a phone call from Fazio.

‘Chief, can I come over with Inspector Augello?’

‘Come.’

He had just enough time to have a shower and get dressed before he heard the doorbell.

‘I dropped in at the station and ran into Fazio, who told me everything,’ said Mimì. ‘So I thought it was best if I came too.’

They sat down on the veranda. It was a stunning Sunday afternoon. There were many people lying on the beach enjoying the westering sun.

‘Can I get you two anything?’

‘Nothing, thanks,’ the two replied in chorus.

Then Fazio, without asking permission, pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘There’s nothing from the records office,’ he reassured Montalbano. And he continued:

‘On the morning of the murder, the president of the province had a meeting that lasted until one p.m., went to lunch, had another meeting that lasted until five, and then said he was going
home to pack, because he had to leave for Naples to attend another political meeting.’

‘We need to check whether—’ the inspector began.

‘Already taken care of. He took the nine o’clock flight out of Palermo.’

‘That would have given him all the time in the world to murder Mariangela,’ said Mimì.

Montalbano seemed not to have heard him.

‘We need to find out what hotel—’

‘Already taken care of.’

Montalbano shot to his feet, leaned against the veranda railing, took three deep breaths, and succeeded in dispelling the agitation that had come over him due to Fazio’s use of that
phrase. He sat back down.