“I told you, Melluso, the inspector was going to get it straightaway!”
Melluso nodded slightly toward Montalbano in homage.
“So,” the inspector concluded, “the first list contains the names of the clients and the sum paid by each; the second list indicates the amount provided each time. There was a third list in the computer, but unfortunately it self-destructed.”
“Do you now have an idea of what it contained?” asked Lagana.
“Now I do. I’m sure it had the dates and the amount of merchandise the provider—let’s call him the wholesaler— delivered to him.”
“Shall I keep trying to decode the names?” asked Melluso.
“Of course. I really appreciate it.”
He didn’t say, however, that of those fourteen names he already knew two.
When he got back to the station, it was already growing dark. He picked up the receiver and dialed Michela’s number.
“Hello? Montalbano here. How are you doing?” “How am I supposed to be doing?”
The woman’s voice sounded different, as though far away, and weary, as after a long walk. “I need to talk to you.” “Could we put it off till tomorrow?” “No.”
“All right, then, come over.”
“Tell you what, Michela: Let’s meet in an hour at your brother’s apartment, since you have the keys. All right?”
At Michela’s place there were likely other people—the mother, the aunt from Vigata, the aunt from Fanara, as well as friends come to pay their condolences—and this might make it difficult or even prevent them from talking.
“Why there of all places?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
He raced home, undressed, slipped into the shower, put on a fresh set of clothes: underwear, shirt, socks, suit. He phoned Livia, told her he loved her, and hung up, probably leaving her befuddled. Then he poured himself a glass of whisky and went out on the veranda to drink it while smoking a cigarette. Now he had to lance the pustule, the foulest part.
Pulling up in front of Angelo’s apartment house, he parked the car, got out, and looked up at the balcony and windows on the top floor. It was pitch dark now, and he saw light in two of the windows. Michela must have already arrived. Thus instead of using his keys, he rang the intercom, but no voice replied. Only the click of the front door, as it opened. He climbed the lifeless stairs of the dead building, and when he reached the landing on the top floor, he saw Michela waiting for him outside the door.
He got scared. For an ever so brief moment, it seemed as if the woman he was looking at was not Michela but her mother. What had happened to her?
Naturally her brother’s death had been a terrible blow, but until the day before, she had seemed to Montalbano to take it well, carrying herself intelligently and accusing forcefully. Perhaps the lugubrious funeral ceremony had finally made her aware of the definitive, irrevocable loss of Angelo. She was wearing one of her usual broad, shapeless dresses, which looked like something she’d bought at a used-clothing stand where they only had sizes too large for her. The dress was black, for mourning. Likewise black were the stockings and the canvas shoes, which were without heels and had a button in the middle, like nuns’ shoes. She’d gathered her hair inside a big scarf—also black, of course. She stood with her shoulders hunched, leaning against the door. She kept her eyes lowered.
“Please come in.”
Montalbano entered, stopping inside the doorway. “Where should we go?” he asked.
“Wherever you like,” replied Michela, closing the door. The inspector chose the living room. They sat down in two armchairs facing one another. Neither spoke for a spell. It was as though the inspector had come to pay his respects and stay the proper amount of time, sitting in awkward silence.
“So it’s all over,” Michela said suddenly, leaning against the back of her chair and closing her eyes.
“It’s not all over. The investigation is still open.”
“Yes, but it’ll never be properly closed. Either it’ll be shelved or you’ll arrest someone who had nothing to do with it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I found out Prosecutor Tommaseo didn’t file any charges against Elena after interrogating her. He’s taken her side. As you, too, seem to have done, Inspector.”
“It was you who first brought her up, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, because I was waiting for you to do so!”
“Did you tell Tommaseo I had Elena’s letters to your brother in my possession?”
“Shouldn’t I have?”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Why not? So you could continue to keep Elena out of this?”
“No, so I could continue to keep you out of this, Michela. By telling the judge what you told him, you made a mistake. You kicked the ball into your own goal.”
“Explain what you mean.”
“Certainly. I never told you I found those letters. And if I didn’t tell you, how did you find out?”
“But I’m sure you did tell me! In fact, I remember that even Paola was here …”
Montalbano shook his head.
“No, Michela, your friend Paola, if you call on her to testify, will only confirm that on that evening, when asked explicitly by you, I denied having found those letters.”
Michela said nothing, but only sank further into the armchair, her eyes still closed.
“It was you, Michela,” the inspector went on, “who took the letters that Angelo kept in his desk, put them in a large envelope, went down to the garage, and hid them under the carpeting in the trunk of the Mercedes. But you made sure that a corner of the envelope remained visible. You wanted those letters to be found. So that I, after reading them, would wonder who might have a reason to hide them. And there could only be one answer: Elena. When you went to check and saw that the envelope was gone, you were sure that I had taken the letters.”
“And when would I have done all this?” she asked in a tense voice, newly attentive and alert.
Should he tell her his hypothesis? Perhaps it was premature. He decided instead to blame himself for something he now knew to be of no importance.
“The night we found Angelo. When I let you sleep alone in this apartment, which was a big mistake.”
She relaxed.
“That’s pure fantasy. You have no proof.”
“We’ll discuss proof in a few minutes. As you know, I looked in vain for the strongbox Angelo used to keep in his apartment. I imagine you took that away, too, Michela, the same night you took the letters.”
“Then explain to me,” the woman said ironically, “why
I would want you to find the letters and not the strongbox?”
“Because the letters might incriminate Elena, whereas the contents of the strongbox would certainly have incriminated your brother.”
“And what could there have been in the strongbox that would have been so compromising, in your opinion? Money?”
“No, not money. That he kept in Fanara, at the Banca Popolare.”
He was expecting a different reaction from Michela. At the very least, Angelo had not revealed to her that he had another account, and, given their relationship, the omission would have been very close to a betrayal.
“Oh, really?” she said, only slightly surprised.
Her indifference stank of falsehood a mile away. So Michela knew damn well that Angelo had another account. And therefore she must have known all about her brother’s little side business.
“You knew nothing about this other account, correct?”
“Nothing at all. I was sure he only had the joint account. I think I even showed it to you.”
“Where, in your opinion, did the money deposited in Fanara come from?”
“Oh, it must have been productivity bonuses, incentives, extra commissions, that sort of thing. I thought he kept that money at home, but apparently he put it in the bank.”
“Did you know he gambled heavily?”
“No. Absolutely not.”