“Fucking asshole!” Montalbano let fly, giving the door a kick.
Thrown off balance by the woman’s weight, he very nearly fell to the floor with Michela. He picked her up again like a bride and started carefully descending the stairs. He knocked at the first door he came to.
“Who is it?”
A little boy’s voice, aged ten at most.
“I’m a friend of your dad’s. Could you open?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Mama and Papa told me not to open the door for anyone when they’re not home.”
Only then did Montalbano remember that before lifting Michela off the ground he’d slipped her handbag over his arm. That was the solution. He carried Michela back up the stairs, leaned her against the wall, holding her upright by pressing his own body against hers (in no way an unpleasant thing), opened the purse, took out the keys, unlocked the door of Angelo’s apartment, dragged Michela into the master bedroom, laid her down on the bed, went into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, soaked it with water from the bathroom faucet, went back into the bedroom, placed the towel over Michela’s forehead, and collapsed onto the bed himself, dead tired from the exertion. He was breathing heavily and drenched in sweat.
Now what? He certainly couldn’t leave the woman alone and go back up to the terrace to see how things stood. The problem was immediately resolved.
“There he is!” shouted His Majesty, appearing in the doorway. “See? He’s getting ready to rape her!”
Behind him, Fazio, pistol in hand, started cursing. “Please go back home, sir.” “You mean you’re not going to arrest him?” “Go back home, now!”
Victor Emmanuel III had another brilliant idea. “You’re an accomplice! An accomplice! I’m going to go call the Carabinieri!” he said, racing out of the room. Fazio ran after him. He returned five minutes later. “I managed to convince him. What on earth happened?”
Montalbano told him. Meanwhile he noticed that Michela was starting to regain consciousness.
“Did you come alone?” asked the inspector. “No, Gallo’s waiting in the car.” “Have him come up.”
Fazio called him on his cell phone, and Gallo arrived in a jiffy.
“Keep an eye on this woman. When she comes to, do not, under any circumstances, let her go up to the terrace. Got that?”
Followed by Fazio, he climbed back up the spiral staircase. It was pitch black on the terrace. Night had fallen.
He entered the little room and turned on the light. A table covered with newspapers and magazines. A refrigerator. A sofa bed for one person. Four long planks affixed to the wall served as a bookcase. There was a small liquor cabinet with bottles and glasses. A sink in a corner. A large leather armchair of the sort one used to see in offices. He’d set himself up nicely, this Angelo. Who lay collapsed in the armchair, half of his face blasted off by the shot that had killed him. He was dressed in a shirt and jeans. The jeans’ zipper was open, dick dangling between his legs.
“What should I do, call?” asked Fazio. “Call,” said Montalbano. “I’m going downstairs.” What was he doing there anyway? Soon the whole circus would be there: prosecutor, coroner, crime lab, and Giacovazzo, the new Flying Squad chief, who would lead the investigation …If they needed him, they knew where to find him.
When he went back in the master bedroom, Michela was sitting on the bed, frighteningly pale. Gallo was standing a couple of steps away from the bed.
“Go up to the terrace and give Fazio a hand. I’ll stay down here.”
Relieved, Gallo left.
“Is he dead?”
‘Yes’
‘How?’
‘Gunshot’
“Oh my God oh my God oh my God,” she cried, covering her face with her hands.
But she was a strong woman. She took a sip of water from a glass that apparently Gallo had given her.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why was he killed? Why?”
Montalbano threw his hands up. But Michela was already beset with another concern.
“Mama! Oh my God! How am I ever going to tell her?” “Don’t.”
“But I have to tell her!”
“Listen to me. Call her up. Tell her we’ve discovered that Angelo was in a terrible car accident. That he’s been hospitalized and is in grave condition. And you’re going to spend the night at the hospital. Don’t tell her which one. Does your mother have any relatives around here?”
“Yes, a sister.”
“Does she live in Vigata?”
“Yes.”
“Call up this sister and tell her the same thing. And ask her to go and stay with your mother. I think it’s better if you spend the night here. You’ll see, tomorrow morning you’ll be strong enough to find the right words to tell your mother the truth.”
“Thank you,” said Michela.
She stood up, and Montalbano heard her walk into the study, where there was a phone.
He, too, walked out of the bedroom, went into the living room, sat down in an armchair, and lit himself a cigarette.
“Chief? Where are you?” It was Fazio.
“I’m in here. What is it?”
“I gave the word, Chief. They’ll be here in half an hour, max. But Captain Giacovazzo’s not coming.” “And why not?”
“He spoke to the commissioner, and the commissioner relieved him. Apparently Giacovazzo’s got some delicate matter on his hands. To make a long story short, the case is yours, like it or not.”
“Fine. Call me when they get here.”
He heard Michela come out of the study and lock herself in the bathroom between the two bedrooms. Ten minutes later he heard her come out. She’d washed herself and put on a woman’s dressing gown. Michela noticed that the inspector was looking at her.
“It’s mine,” she explained. “I used to spend the night here sometimes.”
“Did you talk to your mother?”
“Yes. She took it pretty well, all things considered. And Aunt Iole is already on her way to be with her. You see, Mama’s not really all there in the head. At times she’s perfectly lucid, but at other times it’s as though she were absent. When I told her about Angelo, it was as if I were talking about some acquaintance. I guess it’s better this way. Would you like some coffee?”
“No thanks. But if you’ve got a little whisky …”
“Of course. I think I’ll have some myself.” She went out, then returned carrying a tray with two glasses and an unopened bottle. “I’ll go see if there’s any ice.” “I drink it straight.” “Me, too.”
If there hadn’t happened to be a man shot to death on the terrace, it might have been the opening scene of an amorous encounter. All that was missing was the background music. Michela heaved a deep sigh, leaned her head against the back of the armchair, and closed her eyes. Montalbano decided to lower the boom.
“Your brother was killed either during or after sexual relations. Or while masturbating.”
She leapt out of her chair like a Fury.
“Imbecile! What are you saying?”
Montalbano acted as though he hadn’t heard the insult.
“What’s so surprising? Your brother was a forty-two-year-old man. You yourself, who used to see him every day, told me Angelo didn’t have any girlfriends. So let me put the question differently: Did he have any boyfriends?”
It got worse. She began to tremble all over and held out her arm, index finger pointed like a pistol at the inspector.
“You are a…a… “
“Who are you trying to cover for, Michela?” She fell back into the armchair, weeping, hands over her face.
“Angelo …my poor brother…my poor Angelo …”
Through the front door, which had been left open, they heard the sounds of people coming up the stairs.
“I have to go now,” said Montalbano. “But don’t go to bed yet. I’ll be back in a little bit, so we can continue our discussion.”