“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.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘something similar’? Either it was alcohol or it wasn’t.”
“Chief, the person who did the autopsy was unable to specify. He simply wrote that he found something similar to alcohol.”
“Bah. Go on.”
“The only problem is that the Anzalone family, when they found this out, said that Roberto didn’t drink, and they demanded a new autopsy. Most importantly, the waiter at the trattoria also stated that he hadn’t served wine or any other kind of alcohol at that table.”
“Did they get the second autopsy?”
“They did, but they had to wait three months to get it. And, actually, given all the authorizations that were needed for it, that was pretty fast. The fact is that this time the alcohol, or whatever it was, wasn’t there anymore. And so the case was closed.”
“Tell me something. Do you know who this friend was who ate with him?”
Fazio’s eyes started to sparkle. This happened whenever he knew that his words would have a dramatic effect. He was foretasting his pleasure.
“It was …” he began.
But Montalbano, who could be a real bastard when he wanted to, decided to spoil the effect for him.
“That’s enough, I already know,” he said.
“How did you find out?” asked Fazio, between disappointment and wonder.
“Your eyes told me,” said the inspector. “It was his future brother-in-law, Angelo Pardo. Was he interrogated?”
“Of course. And he confirmed the waiter’s statement— that is, that they hadn’t drunk any wine or other alcoholic beverage at the table. In any case, for some reason or other, Angelo Pardo had his lawyer present every time he made his three depositions. And his lawyer was none other than Senator Nicotra.”
“Nicotra?!” marveled the inspector. “That’s way too big a fish for a testimony of so little importance.”
Fazio never found out whether, in uttering Nicotra’s name, he’d actually managed to get even for the disappointment of a moment before. But if anyone had asked Montalbano why he reacted so strongly to the news that Nicotra and Angelo had known one another for quite some time, the inspector would not have known what to answer.
“But where would Angelo have ever found the money to inconvenience a lawyer of Senator Nicotra’s stature?”
“It didn’t cost him a cent, Chief. Angelo’s father had been a campaigner for the senator, and they’d become friends. Their families spent time together. In fact, the senator also represented Angelo when he was accused of the abortion.”
“Anything else?”
“Yessir.”
“You going to tell me free of charge, or do I have to pay for it?” asked Montalbano when he saw that Fazio couldn’t make up his mind to go on.
“No, Chief, it’s all included in my salary.”
“Then out with it.”
“It’s something that was told me by only one person. I haven’t been able to confirm it.”
“Just tell me, for what it’s worth.”
“Apparently a year ago Angelo got into the bad habit of gambling and often lost.” “A lot?” “Lots and lots.” “Could you be more precise?” “Tens of millions of lire.” “Was he in debt?” “Apparently not.” “Where did he gamble?” “At some den in Fanara.” “You know anyone around there?” “In Fanara? No, Chief.” “Too bad.” “Why?”
“Because I would bet my family jewels that Angelo had another bank account than the one we already know about. Since it seems he didn’t have any debts, where was he getting the money he lost? Or to pay for the gifts to his girlfriend? After what you’ve just told me, I think this mysterious bank may very well be in Fanara. See what you can come up with there.”
“I’ll try.”
Fazio stood up. When he was at the door, Montalbano said in a soft voice: “Thanks.”
Fazio stopped, turned, and looked at him.
“For what? It’s all included in my salary, Chief.”
The inspector hurried back to Marinella. The salmon that Ingrid had sent to him was anxiously awaiting him.
14
It was pouring. With him getting drenched, cursing, blaspheming, the water running down his hair, into his collar, and then sliding down his back, triggering cold shudders, his sodden socks now filtering the water flowing into his shoes, but, nothing doing, the door to his house in Marinella wouldn’t open because the keys wouldn’t fit in the lock, and when they did, they wouldn’t turn. He tried four different keys, one after the other, but it was hopeless. How could he go on like this, getting soaked to the bone, unable to set foot in his own house?
He finally decided to have a look at the set of keys in his hand. To his shock, he realized they weren’t his keys. He must have mistakenly grabbed someone else’s. But where?
Then he remembered that the mistake might have happened in Boccadasse, at a bar where they made good coffee. But he was in
Boccadasse two weeks ago! How could he have been back in Vigata for two weeks without ever going into his house?
“Where are my keys?” he shouted.
It seemed as though no one could hear him, so loud was the rain drumming on the roof, on his head, on the ground, on the leaves in the trees. Then he thought he heard a woman’s voice far, far away, coming and going with the intensity of the downpour.
“Turn the corner! Turn the corner!” said the voice.
What did it mean? Whatever the case, lost as he was, he took four steps and turned the corner. He found himself in Michela’s bathroom. The woman was naked and dipped her hand in the bathwater to feel the temperature. In so doing she offered him a remarkably hilly panorama on which the eye willingly lingered.
“Come on, get in.”
He realized he was also naked, but this did not surprise him. He got in the tub and lay down. It was a good thing he was immediately covered by soap suds. He felt embarrassed that Michela might see the semi-erection he got upon contact with the warm water.
“I’ll go get your keys and the present,” said Michela.
She went out. What present was she talking about? Was it maybe his birthday? But when was he born? He couldn’t remember. He stopped asking himself questions, closed his eyes, and abandoned himself to the relief he was feeling. Later, when he heard her return, he opened his eyes to little slits. But they popped open at once, for in the bathroom doorway stood not Michela but Angelo, his face ravaged by the gunshot, blood still running down his shirt, the zipper of his jeans open and his thingy hanging out, a revolver in his hand, pointed at him.