“When he opened the account, he came accompanied by MP Di Cristoforo. But now that’s enough, let’s talk a little about old times.”
Cumella did all the talking, reminiscing about episodes and people the inspector had no recollection of. But to make it look like he remembered everything, Montalbano had only to say, every now and then, “Right!” and, “How could I forget?”
At the end of their conversation, they said good-bye, embracing and promising to stay in touch by telephone.
On the way back, not only was the inspector unable to en-joy the discovery he’d made, but his mood turned darker and darker. The moment he got in the car and drove off, a question started buzzing about in his head like an annoying fly: How come Giogid Cumella could remember their grammar-school days and he couldn’t? From a few of the names Giogid had mentioned and a few of the events he’d recounted, elusive flashes of memory had come back to him in fits and starts, but like pieces of an unsolvable puzzle with no precise outline, and these inklings had led him to situate the time of his friendship with Cumella in their grammar-school days. Unfortunately, there could be only one answer to his question: He was beginning to lose his memory. An indisputable sign of old age. But didn’t they say that old age made you forget what you did the day before and remember things from when you were a little kid? Well, apparently that wasn’t always the case. Obviously there was old age and old age. What was the name of that disease where you forget that you’re even alive? The one President Reagan had? What was it called? There, see? He was even starting to forget things of the present.
To distract himself, he formulated a proposition. A philosophical proposition? Maybe, but tending towards “weak thought”—exhausted thought, in fact. He even gave this proposition a title: “The Civilization of Today and the Ceremony of Access.” What did it mean? It meant that, today, to enter any place whatsoever—an airport, a bank, a jeweler’s or watchmaker’s shop—you had to submit to a specific ceremony of control. Why ceremony? Because it served no concrete purpose. A thief, a hijacker, a terrorist—if they really want to enter—will find a way. The ceremony doesn’t even serve to protect the people on the other side of the entrance. So whom does it serve? It serves the very person about to enter, to make him think that, once inside, he can feel safe.
“Aahhh, Chief, Chief! I wannata tell you that Dacter Latte wit’ anscalled! He said as how the c’mishner couldn’t make it today.”
“Couldn’t make what?”
“He din’t tell me, Chief. But he said that he can make it tomorrow, at the same time of day.”
“Fine. Getting anywhere with the file?”
“I’m almost somewhere. Right at the tip o’ the tip! Ah, I almost forgot! Judge Gommaseo also called sayin’ you’s asposta call ‘im when you get in so you can call ‘im.”
He’d just sat down when Fazio came in.
“The phone company says that it’s not technically possible to retrace the phone calls you received when you were at Angelo Pardo’s place. They even told me why, but I didn’t understand a word of it.”
“The people who called didn’t know yet that Angelo’d been shot. One of them even hung up. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t have something to hide. We’ll deal with it.”
“Chief, I also wanted to mention that I don’t know anybody in Fanara.”
“It doesn’t matter. I figured it out myself.” “How did you do that?”
“I knew for certain that Angelo had an account at the Banca Popolare in Fanara. So I went there. The bank manager is an old schoolmate of mine, a dear friend, and so we reminisced about the good old days.”
Another lie. But its purpose was to make Fazio believe that he still possessed an ironclad memory.
“How much did he have in the account?”
“A billion and a half old lire. And he really gambled big time, as you told me yourself. Betting money he certainly didn’t earn as a pharmaceutical representative.”
“The funeral’s tomorrow morning. I’ve seen the announcements.”
“I want you to go.”
“Chief, it’s only in movies the killer goes to the funeral of the person he killed.”
“Don’t be a wise guy. You’re going anyway. And take a good look at the names on the ribbons on the wreaths and pillows.”
Fazio left, and the inspector phoned Tommaseo. “Montalbano! What are you doing? Did you disappear?” “I had things to do, Judge, I’m sorry.” “Listen, I want to fill you in on something I think is really serious.”
“I’m listening.”
“A few days ago, you sent Angelo Pardo’s sister, Michela, to see me, do you remember?” “Of course.”
“Well, I’ve interrogated her three times. The last time just this morning. A disturbing woman, don’t you think?” “Oh, yes.”
“Something troubled about her, I’d say, don’t you think?” “Oh, yes.”
And you had a ball in those troubled waters, like a little pig under your august magistrate’s robes. “And what unfathomable eyes she has.” “Oh, yes.”
“This morning she exploded.” “In what sense?”
“In the sense that at a certain point she stood up, summoned a very strange voice, and her hair came undone. Chilling.”
So Tommaseo, too, had witnessed a bit of Greek tragedy. “What did she say?”
“She started inveighing against another woman, Elena Sclafani, her brother’s girlfriend. She claims she’s the killer. Have you interrogated her?”
“Sclafani? Of course.”
“Why didn’t you inform me?”
“Well, it’s just that …”
“What’s she like?”
“Beautiful.”
“I’m going to summon her immediately.” How could you go wrong? Tommaseo was going to dive into Elena like a fish. “Look, Judge, I—”
“No, no, my dear Montalbano, no excuses. Among other things, I must tell you that Michela accused you of protecting Mrs. Sclafani.”
“Did she tell you why Mrs. Sclafani would—”
“Yes, jealousy. She also told me that you, Montalbano, have in your possession some letters Sclafani wrote in which she threatens to kill her lover. Is that true?” “Yes.”
“I want to see them at once.” “Okay, but—”
“I repeat, no excuses. Don’t you realize how you’re acting? You hid from me—”
“Don’t piss outside the urinal, Tommaseo.” “I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain. I said don’t piss outside the urinal. I’m not hiding anything from you. It’s just that Elena Sclafani has an alibi for the evening Pardo was killed, and it’s one you’re really going to like.”
“What does that mean, that I’ll really like Sclafani’s alibi?”
“You’ll see. Make sure she goes into great detail. Have a good evening.”
“Inspector Montalbano? It’s Lagana.”
“Good evening, Marshal. What can you tell me?” “That I’ve had a stroke of luck.” “In what sense?”
“Last night, entirely by chance, I got wind of a huge operation that’s going to be revealed to the press tomorrow. We’re going to make a big sweep of over four thousand people, including doctors, pharmacists, and representatives, all accused of corruption and graft. So today I called a friend of mine in Rome. Well, it turns out the pharmaceutical firms represented by Angelo Pardo haven’t been implicated.”
“That means Pardo couldn’t have been killed by some rival, or for not making payoffs.” “Exactly.”
“And what do you make of those four pages covered with numbers I gave you?”
“I turned them over to Melluso.” “Who’s he?”
“A colleague of mine who knows all about that sort of thing. I’m hoping I’ll have something to tell you tomorrow.”
“Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!”
A high-pitched, piercing, prolonged yell terrorized everyone who was still at the station. It came from the entrance. With a chill running down his spine, Montalbano rushed into the corridor, crashing into Fazio, Mimi, Gallo, and a couple of uniformed policemen.