“Meaning?”
“She wailed, she screamed, she cried, yes, but at the same time I sensed a feeling of liberation in her, at the unconscious level. It was as if she’d thrown off a burden. She seemed more serene, more free. You know what I mean?”
“Perfectly.”
Then, who knows why, a question popped into his mind.
“Has Michela ever had a boyfriend?” “Why do you ask?” “Dunno, just wondering.”
“She told me that when she was nineteen, she fell in love with a boy who was twenty-one. They were officially engaged for three years.”
“Why did they break up?”
“They didn’t. He died. He was a little too fond of driving really fast on his motorcycle, even though he was apparently a gifted cyclist. I don’t know the details of the accident. In any case, after that, Michela never wanted to get close to other men. And I think that from that moment on, she redoubled her vigilance over poor Angelo, until she became asphyxiating.”
“You’re an intelligent woman, you’re in no way under investigation, and you’ve long considered your relationship with Angelo over,” said Montalbano, looking her in the eye.
“Your preamble is a bit distressing,” said Paola with her usual grin. “What are you getting at?”
“I want an answer. Who was Angelo Pardo?”
She didn’t seemed surprised by the question.
“I’ve asked myself the same thing, Inspector. And I don’t mean when he left me for Elena. Because up till then I knew who Angelo was. He was an ambitious man, first of all.”
“I’d never thought of him in that light.”
“Because he didn’t want to appear so. I think he suffered a lot from being expelled from the medical association. It cut short a very promising career. But, you see, even with the profession he had, he would have had exclusive rights of representation for two multinational pharmaceutical companies across all of Sicily, not just Montelusa and its province.” “He told you this?”
“No, but I overheard many of his phone conversations with Zurich and Amsterdam.”
“And when did you start asking yourself who Angelo Pardo was?”
“When he was killed. Things began to appear in a different light, things for which you had an explanation before and which now, after his death, are not so easily explained anymore.”
“Such as?”
“Such as certain gray areas. He was capable of disappearing for a few days at a time and then, when he came back, he wouldn’t tell you anything. You couldn’t squeeze a single word out of him. In the end I was convinced he was seeing another woman, having some passing fling. But after the way he was killed, I’m no longer so sure he was having affairs.”
“What was he doing, then?”
Paola threw up her hands in despair.
12
Before going to eat, Montalbano dropped in at the station. Catarella was sleeping in front of the computer, head thrown back, mouth open, a bit of saliva trickling down his chin. He did not wake up. The next phone call would take care of that.
On the inspector’s desk was a dark blue canvas bag. A leather label stuck onto the front of it bore the words “Salmon House.” He opened it and realized it was insulated. Inside were five round, transparent plastic containers in which one could see large fillets of pickled herring swimming in multicolored sauces. There was also a smoked salmon, whole. And an envelope wrapped in cellophane.
He opened it.
From Sweden with love. Ingrid.
Apparently Ingrid had found someone there from Sicily and taken the opportunity to send along that little gift. He suddenly missed Ingrid so much that the desire to open one of those containers and have a little foretaste faded. When would she make up her mind to come back?
It was no longer possible to go to the trattoria. He had to race back home and empty that bag in the refrigerator.
Picking it up, he noticed there were three sheets of paper under it. The first was a note from Catarella.
Chief. Seeing as how I don’t know weather or not your coming personally in person to the ofice, I’m leving you the printout of the siccond file which I had to stay up all nite to figger out the past word for but in the end I stuck it to that file I did.
The other two pages were all numbers. Two columns, as before. The left-hand figures were exactly the same as those in the first file. He pulled the pages he’d worked on that morning out of his jacket pocket and checked.
Identical. All that changed were the numbers in the second column. But he didn’t feel like giving himself a headache.
He left the old pages, the new pages, and the coded songbook on the desk, grabbed the canvas bag, and went out of the room. Passing by the closet at the entrance, he heard Catarella yelling.
“No, sir, no, sir, I’m sorry but the inspector ain’t in, this morning he said this morning he wasn’t coming in this morning. Yessir, I’ll tell ‘im, certifiably. Have no fears, I’ll tell ‘im.”
“Was that for me, Cat?” asked the inspector, appearing before him.
Catarella looked at him as if he were Lazarus risen from the dead.
“Matre santa,Chief, where djouse come from?”
It was too complicated to explain that he’d been sleeping, drained from a night of battle with passwords, when the inspector came in. Never in a million years, moreover, would the diligent Catarella have admitted nodding off on the job at the switchboard.
“Who was it?” the inspector asked.
“Dr. Latte wit’ ansat the end. He said that seeing as how Mr. C’mishner can’t see you today, neither, the day we’re at now, as you guys prearraigned, he says he rearraigned it for tomorrow, atta zack same time as was sposed to be on the day of today.”
“Cat, do you know you are brilliant?”
“For as how the way I ‘splained what that Dr. Latte wit’ ansat the end said?”
“No, because you managed to open the second file.”
“Ahhh, Chief! I straggled all night wit’ it! You got no idea what kinda trouble I had! It was a past word that looked like one past word but rilly was—”
“Tell me about it later, Cat.”
He was afraid to waste time. The herring and salmon in the bag might start to spoil.
But the moment he got home and opened the first container, the persuasive aroma invading his nostrils made him realize he needed to equip himself at once with a plate, a fork, and a fresh loaf of bread.
At least half the contents of those containers needed to go not in the refrigerator but straight into his belly. Only the salmon went into the fridge. The rest he took outside onto the veranda, after setting the table.
The herring, which were high caliber, turned out to be marinated in a variety of preparations ranging from sweet-and-sour sauce to mustard. He had a feast. He really wanted to scarf them all down, but realized that he would spend the whole afternoon and evening wanting water like someone stranded for days in the desert.
So he put what remained into the fridge and replaced his customary walk along the jetty with a long walk on the beach.
Then he took a shower and lolled about the house a bit before returning to the station around four-thirty. Catarella was not at his post. In compensation he ran into a glum-faced Mimi Augello in the corridor.
“What’s wrong, Mimi?”
“Where are you coming from? What are you doing?” Augello fired back edgily, following him into his office.
“I come from Vigata, and I’m doing my job as inspector,”Montalbano crooned to the tune of “Pale Little Lady.”
“Yeah, go ahead and play the wise guy. This is really not the time for that, Salvo.”
Montalbano got worried.
“Salvuccio’s not feeling well?”
“Salvuccio’s feeling great. It’s me that’s the problem, after receiving a heavy dose of Liguori, who practically went nuts.”
“Why?”
“See, I was right to ask you where you’ve been! Don’t you know what happened yesterday in Fanara?” “No.”
“You didn’t turn on your TV?” “No. Come on, what happened?” “MP Di Cristoforo died.”