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 nowlas 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 it-self 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 anoldpoliceman 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 (isthis 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 Nicold and possibly worth pursuing.(Check with Marshal Lagana.)
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 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.(Carefuclass="underline" 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,
SALVOMONTALBANO
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 matter—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 blackmaiclass="underline" 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!