“Exactly. At this point in the investigation, however, it’s my duty to report all my findings to the prosecutor.”
“And so you’ll have to mention me.”
“Of course. And Prosecutor Tommaseo will immediately call you in for questioning. The death threats you made to Angelo in your letters will be seen as evidence against you.”
“What should I do?”
Montalbano’s admiration for the girl increased a few notches. She hadn’t become afraid or agitated. She asked for information, nothing more.
“Find a good lawyer.”
“Can I tell him that it was Angelo who made me write those letters?”
“Certainly. And when you do, tell him he should ask Paola Torrisi a few questions.” Elena wrinkled her brow.
“Angelo’s ex? Why?”
Montalbano threw his hands up. He couldn’t tell her. That would be saying too much. But the mechanism in Elena’s head worked better than a Swiss watch.
“Did he also have her write letters like mine?”
Montalbano threw his hands up again.
“The problem is that you, Elena, haven’t got an alibi for the night of the crime. You told me you drove around for a few hours and therefore didn’t meet with anyone. However… “
“However?”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Do you think I killed Angelo?”
“I don’t believe that you didn’t meet with anyone that evening. I’m convinced you could produce an alibi if you wanted, but you don’t want to.”
She looked at him, eyes popping.
“How…how do you… “
Now she was indeed agitated. The inspector felt pleased for having hit the mark.
“The last time I asked you if you’d met with anyone during the time you were wandering about in your car, and you said no. But before speaking, you sort of hesitated. That was the first and only time you hesitated. And I realized you didn’t want to tell me the truth. But be carefuclass="underline" Not having an alibi might get you arrested.”
She suddenly turned pale.One must strike while the iron is hot,Montalbano told himself, hating himself for the cliche and for playing the tormentor.
“You’re going to have to be escorted down to the station …”
It wasn’t true. That wasn’t the procedure, but those were the magic words. And indeed Elena began to tremble slightly, a veil of sweat appearing on her brow.
“I haven’t told Emilio… I didn’t want him to know.”
What did her husband have to do with this? Was the schoolteacher fated to pop up everywhere like Pierino’s famous puppet in the story his mother used to tell Montalbano as a child?
“What didn’t you want him to know?”
“That I was with a man that evening.”
“Who was it?”
“A filling-station attendant… It’s the only station on the road to Giardina. His name is Luigi. I don’t know his last name. I stopped to get gas. He was closing, but he reopened for me. He started flirting, and I didn’t say no. I wanted … I wanted to forget Angelo, forever.”
“How long were you together?”
“A couple of hours.”
“Could he testify to that?”
“I don’t think it would be a problem. He’s very young, about twenty, unmarried.”
“Tell that to the lawyer. Maybe he can find a way to keep your husband from getting wind of it.”
“I would be very unhappy if he found out. I betrayed his trust.”
But how did this husband and wife reason? He felt at sea. Then Elena suddenly started laughing hard again, her head thrown backward.
“Let me in on the joke.”
“A woman supposedly stuck her panties in Angelo’s mouth so he couldn’t scream?” “So it seems.”
“I’m only telling you because it couldn’t have been me.” She had another laughing fit that almost brought tears to her eyes.
“Come on, out with it.”
“Because whenever I knew I was going to see Angelo, I wouldn’t wear panties. Anyway, look. Do these look like they could be used to gag anyone?”
She stood up and hiked up her bathrobe, spun around in a circle, then sat back down. She’d performed the movement perfectly naturally, without modesty or immodesty. Her panties were smaller than a G-string. With that in his mouth, a man could still have recited all of Cicero’sCatilinarian Orationsor sung “Celeste Aida.”
“I have to go,” said the inspector, standing up.
He absolutely had to get away from that woman. Alarm bells and warning lights were going off wildly in his head. Elena also stood up and approached him. Unable to keep her away with his extended arms, he stopped her with words.
“One last thing.”
“What?”
“We’ve learned that Angelo had recently been gambling and losing a lot of money.” “Really?!”
She seemed truly puzzled.
“So you know nothing about it.”
“I never even suspected it. Did he gamble here, in Vigata?”
“No. In Fanara, apparently. At a clandestine gambling den. Did you ever go with him to Fanara?”
“Yes, once. But we came back to Vigata the same evening.”
“Can you remember if Angelo went into any banks that day in Fanara?”
“Out of the question. He had me wait in the car outside of three doctors’ offices and two pharmacies. And I nearly died of boredom. Oh, but I do remember—because I heard about him on TV after he died—that we also stopped outside the villa of Di Cristoforo, the Parliament deputy.”
“Did he know him?!”
“Apparently.”
“How long did he stay inside the villa?”
“Just a few minutes.”
“Did he say why he went there?”
“No, and I didn’t ask. I’m sorry.”
“Another question, but this really will be the last.”
“Ask me as many as you like.”
“Did Angelo do coke, as far as you know?”
“No. No drugs.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Don’t forget that I was once quite an expert on the subject.”
She stepped forward.
“Bye, see you soon,” said Montalbano, running for the door, opening it, and dashing out onto the landing before the cheetah could spring, grab him in her claws, and eat him alive.
Dimora Jewelers of Montelusa—founded in 1901, as the religiously restored old sign in front said—were the best-known jewelers in the province. They made their hundred-plus years a point of pride, and in fact the furnishings inside were the same as they’d been a hundred years earlier. Except for the fact that now, to get inside, it was worse than entering a bank. Armored doors, tinted, Kalashnikov-proof windows, uniformed security guards with revolvers at their sides so big it was scary just to look at them.
There were three salespersons, all of them quite distinguished: a seventyish man, another around forty, and a girl of about twenty. Apparently they’d each been expressly selected to serve the clients of their corresponding age group. Then why was it the seventy-year-old who turned to speak to him, instead of the forty-year-old, as should have been his right?
“Would you like to see something in particular, sir?”
“Yes, the owner.”
“You mean Signor Arturo?”
“If he’s the owner, then Signor Arturo will do.” “And who are you, if I may ask?” “Inspector Montalbano.”
“Please follow me.”
He followed the salesman into the back room, which was a very elegant sort of little sitting room. Art nouveau furniture. A broad staircase of black wood, covered by a dark red runner, led to a landing where there was a massive, closed door.
“Please make yourself comfortable.”
The elderly man climbed the stair slowly, then rang a bell beside the door, which came open with a click. He went inside and closed the door behind him. Two minutes later there was another click, the door reopened, and the old man reappeared.
“You may go upstairs.”
The inspector found himself in a spacious, light-filled room. There was a large glass desk, very modern in style, with a computer on top. Two armchairs and a sofa of the kind one sees only in architectural magazines. A huge safe, the latest model, that not even a surface-to-air missile could open. Another safe, this one pathetic and certainly dating back to 1901, which a wet nurse’s hairpin could open. Arturo Dimora, a thirty-year-old who looked straight out of a fashion advertisement, stood up and extended his hand.