The Paper Moon (13 page)

“The Cacciatore residence?”

“Yes,” replied a pleasant female voice.

“Signora, my name is Antonio Volpe. I tried to get in touch with a certain Teresa Sciacca in Palermo and was told—”

“I’m Teresa Sciacca.”

Astonished by his sudden good fortune, Montalbano was speechless.

“Hello?” said Teresa.

“How’s your father? I was told that—”

“He’s doing much better, thank you. So much better that I’ll be going back to Palermo tomorrow.”

“I absolutely must speak to you before you leave.”

“Signor Volpe, I—”

“Actually, my name’s not Volpe. I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

Teresa Sciacca let out a kind of gasp between fright and surprise.

“Oh my God! Has something happened to Mario?”

“Don’t worry, signora, your husband is fine. I need to talk to you about something involving you.”

A very long pause. Then a “yes” that was a sigh, a breath.

“Believe me, I would have preferred not to stir up unpleasant memories, but—”

“I understand.”

“I guarantee you that our meeting will remain confidential, and I give you my word never to mention your name in the investigation, for any reason whatsoever.”

“I don’t see how I could be of any use to you. It’s been so many years since…In any case, you can’t come here.”

“Could you come out?”

“Yes, I could leave for about an hour.”

“Tell me where you want to meet.”

Teresa gave him the name of a café in the elevated part of Montelusa. For five-thirty. The inspector glanced at his watch. He had just barely enough time to get in his car and go. To arrive in time, he would have to drive at the insane speed of forty to forty-five miles per hour.

Teresa Sciacca, née Cacciatore, was a thirty-eight-year-old woman who looked like a good mother, and it was immediately clear that this look was not façade but substance. She was quite embarrassed by their meeting, and Montalbano immediately came to her aid.

“Signora, in ten minutes, at the most, you’ll be able to go back home.”

“Thank you, but I really don’t see how what happened twenty years ago could have anything to do with Angelo’s death.”

“It has nothing to do with it, actually. But it’s essential for me to establish certain modes of behavior. Understand?”

“No, but go ahead and ask your questions.”

“How did Angelo react when you told him you were expecting?”

“He was happy. And we immediately talked about getting married. In fact, I started looking for a house the very next day.”

“Did your family know?”

“My folks didn’t know anything; they didn’t even know Angelo. Then one evening he told me he’d changed his mind. He said it was crazy to get married, that it would ruin his career. He showed a lot of promise as a doctor, that was true. And so he started talking about abortion.”

“And what did you do?”

“I took it badly. We had a terrible row. When we finally calmed down, I told him I was going to tell my parents everything. He got really scared. Papa’s not the kind of man to kid around with, and he begged me not to do it. I gave him three days.”

“To do what?”

“To think about it. He phoned me on the second day, in the afternoon. It was a Wednesday. I remember it well. He asked if we could meet. When I got there, he immediately told me he’d found a solution and needed my help. His solution was this: The following Sunday he and I would go to my parents and tell them everything. Then Angelo would explain to them why he couldn’t marry me right away. He needed at least two years without any ties. There was a famous doctor who wanted him for an assistant, which meant he would have to live abroad for eighteen months. In short, after giving birth, I would live at home with my parents until Angelo had set himself back up here. He even said he was ready to acknowledge paternity of the child, to set my parents’ mind at rest. And then he would marry me in about two years’ time.”

“How did you take this?”

“It seemed like a good solution to me. And I told him so. I had no reason to doubt his sincerity. So he suggested we celebrate, and he even invited Michela, his sister.”

“Had you already met?”

“Yes, we’d even got together a few times, though she didn’t seem to like me very much. Anyway, we were all supposed to meet at nine
P.M.
in the medical office of a colleague of Angelo’s, after visiting hours.”

“Why not at his own office?”

“Because he didn’t have one. He worked out of a little room this colleague let him use. When I got there, the colleague had already left and Michela hadn’t arrived yet. Angelo gave me a glass of bitter orange soda to drink. As soon as I drank it, everything started to turn foggy and confused. I couldn’t move or react…I remember Angelo putting on his smock, and…”

She tried to go on, but Montalbano interrupted her.

“I get the picture. No need to continue.”

He fired up a cigarette. Teresa wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

“What do you remember after that?”

“My memory is still cloudy. Michela in a white smock, like a nurse, Angelo saying something…Then I’m in Angelo’s car, I remember…then at Anna’s place…She’s a cousin of mine who knows everything. I spent the night there—Anna had called my parents and told them I’d be sleeping over. The next day I had a terrible hemorrhage and was rushed to the hospital and had to tell Papa everything. And so Papa pressed charges against Angelo.”

“So you never saw Angelo’s colleague?”

“Never.”

“Thank you, signora. That’ll be all,” said Montalbano, standing up.

She looked surprised and relieved. She held out her hand, to say good-bye. But instead of shaking it, the inspector kissed it.

He arrived a bit early for his appointment with Marshal Laganà.

“You’re looking good,” said the marshal, eyeing him.

Montalbano got worried. Often of late that statement didn’t sound right to him. If someone tells you you’re looking good, it means they were expecting you not to look so good. And why were they thinking this? Because you’ve reached an age where the worst could happen overnight. To take one example: Up to a certain point in life, if you slip and fall, you get right up, because nothing’s happened to you. Then the moment comes when you slip and fall and you can’t get up anymore, because you’ve broken your femur. What’s happened? What’s happened is you’ve crossed the invisible boundary between one age of life and the next.

“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.

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.”