“But not the killer’s,” Elena said, almost angrily.
“That’s another matter,” said Montalbano. “And you can help me in this.”
“How?”
“How long had you been with Angelo?” “Six months.”
“During that time, did you have a chance to meet any of his friends, male or female?”
“Inspector, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough. When we got together, it was always to … well, it was always for a very specific purpose. I would go to his place, we’d have a whisky, get undressed, and go to bed. We never once went to the movies together, or to a restaurant. More recently he wanted to do those kinds of things, but I didn’t. And that also led to quarrels.”
“Why didn’t you want to go out with him?”
“Because I didn’t want to give people a reason to laugh at Emilio.”
“But surely Angelo must have spoken to you about some of his friends or girlfriends!”
“He did. He told me, shortly after we met, that he had just broken up with a certain Paola, ‘the red,’ as he called her. He also told me about a certain Martino, with whom he often went out to lunch and dinner. But the person he spoke most often about was his sister, Michela. They were very close, and had been so since childhood.”
“What do you know about this Paola?” “I’ve already told you everything I know: Paola, red hair.”
“Did he talk about his job?”
“No. One time he mentioned that it paid well but was boring.”
“Did you know that he’d had a medical practice for a while and then gave it up?”
“Yes. But he didn’t give it up. The only time he ever spoke to me about it, he made vague mention of some episode that had forced him to stop practicing. It was totally unclear to me, but I didn’t probe any further because I didn’t care.”
This was absolutely new. He had to find out more about it.
Montalbano stood up.
“Thank you for your openness. A rare thing, I assure you. I think, however, I’ll need to meet with you again.”
“Whatever you say, Inspector. But please do me a favor.” “At your service.”
“Next time don’t come so early in the morning. You can even come in the afternoon. As I said, my husband knows everything. Sorry, but it’s just that I’m a late riser.”
He pulled up in front of Angelo Pardo’s building over half an hour late. But he could take his time, since the meeting with the commissioner had been postponed. He rang the intercom bell, and Michela buzzed open the door. As he was climbing the stairs, the building still seemed dead. No voices, no sounds. Who knew whether Elena, when coming to see Angelo, had ever run into any of the other tenants?
Michela was waiting for him at the door.
“You’re late.”
Montalbano noticed she was wearing a different dress, but one still made to hide what could not be hidden. She’d also changed her shoes.
Did she therefore keep a whole wardrobe in her brother’s apartment?
Michela realized what was going through the inspector’s head.
“I went home early this morning. I wanted to see how Mama had spent the night. And so I took the opportunity to change clothes.”
“Listen, this morning you have to go see the Public Prosecutor Tommaseo. I’d meant to go with you, but I think there’s no point in my being there.”
“What does this man want from me?”
“He needs to ask you some questions about your brother. Could I use the telephone? I’ll tell Tommaseo you’re on your way.”
“But where am I supposed to go?” “To the courthouse, in Montelusa.”
He went into the study and immediately sensed something strange. Something had changed, but he didn’t know what. He called up Tommaseo and told him he couldn’t attend the meeting with Pardo’s sister. The prosecutor, though he didn’t show it, was naturally pleased.
Back in the hallway, Michela was ready to leave. “Could you please give me the keys to this apartment?” She hesitated a moment, unsure, then opened her purse and handed him the set.
“What if I need to come back here?”
“Come to the station and I’ll give them back to you. Where can I find you this afternoon?” “At home.”
He closed the door behind Michela and ran into the study.
From time immemorial the inspector had a kind of photographic eye built into his head. When, for example, he entered a room that was new to him, he could capture in a single glance not only the arrangement of the furniture but also the objects sitting on top of the different pieces. And he would remember all this even after some time had passed.
He stopped in the doorway, leaned his right shoulder against the jamb and, looking very carefully, discovered at once what didn’t tally.
The overnight bag.
The previous evening the bag was resting upright on the floor beside the desk, whereas now it was entirely under the desk. There was no reason to move it; it was not in the way, even if one had to use the phone. Michela must therefore have picked it up to see what was inside and not put it back where it was before.
He cursed. Shit, what a big mistake he’d made! He should not have left the woman alone in the murdered man’s home. He had made it as easy as possible for her to get rid of anything that might prove in some way compromising for her brother.
He grabbed the overnight bag and set it down on the desk. The little suitcase opened up at once; it was not locked. Inside, a great mass of papers with letterheads of a variety of pharmaceutical companies, instruction inserts for medicines, order forms, receipts.
There were also two datebooks, one big and one small. He looked first at the big one. The index of addresses was densely packed with the names and telephone numbers of doctors all over the province, hospitals, and pharmacies. In addition, Angelo Pardo diligently wrote down every work-related appointment he had.
Montalbano set this aside and thumbed through the smaller one. It was Pardo’s private datebook. It contained the names and phone numbers of Elena Sclafani, his sister, Michela, and many others the inspector didn’t know. He looked at the page for the previous Monday. Pardo had written,9 pm E.Thus what Elena had told him about her rendezvous with Angelo was true. He set the little datebook aside as well and picked up the phone.
“Montalbano here, Cat. Lemme talk to Fazio.”
“Straightaway, Chief.”
“Fazio, could you come meet me right now at Angelo Pardo’s place?”
“On the terrace?”
“No, downstairs, in the apartment.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Oh, and bring Catarella along with you.”
“Catarella?!”
“Why, can’t he be moved?”
The desk had three drawers. He opened the one on the right. Here, too, papers and documents relating to the man’s career as—what was that again?—ah, yes, as a “pharmaceutical industry informer.” The one in the middle wouldn’t open. It was locked, and the key was nowhere to be seen. Probably Michela had taken it. What a goddamn idiot he’d been! He was about to open the drawer on the left when the telephone on the desk rang so suddenly and loudly that it scared him. He picked up the receiver.
“Yes?” he said, squeezing his nostrils with the index fin-ger and thumb of his right hand to alter his voice.
“You got a cold?”
“Yes.”
“Izzat why you din’t come lass night, scumbag? I’ll be waitin f’r ya t’night. And ya better come, even if you got pneumonia.”
End of phone call. A man of few but dangerous words. A commanding voice. Surely some doctor upset at a pharmaceutical informer’s failure to show would not call him a scumbag. Montalbano picked up the big datebook and looked at the page for the previous day, Thursday. The part for the evening was blank. There was no writing. Whereas the morning part featured an appointment in Fanara with a certain Dr. Caruana.
He was about to open the left-hand drawer when the phone rang again. Montalbano began to suspect that there was some sort of connection between the drawer and the telephone.