“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 cafe 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, nee Cacciatore, was a thirty-eight-year-old woman who looked like a good mother, and it was immediately clear that this look was not facade 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 nineP.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.
13
He arrived a bit early for his appointment with Marshal Lagana.
“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 Lagana 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 Nicold 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 Lagana 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 Lagana’s desk.
“You can’t say this gentleman was very fond of transparency,” the marshal commented after examining these ma-terials.
“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.”
Lagana 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.”