“But the fact remains,” Montalbano insisted.
“And this first impression was abundantly confirmed for me by the engineer’s widow.”
“So you’ve met her? Quite a mind, that lady.”
“It was she who sought me out, after you had spoken well of me. In our conversation yesterday she told me her husband had a pied-à-terre at Capo Massaria and gave me the keys. So what reason would he have to go risk exposure at a place like the Pasture?”
“I have asked myself the same question.”
“Let us assume for a moment, for the sake of argument, that he did go there, that he let himself be talked into it by a woman with tremendous powers of persuasion. A woman not from the place, who took an absolutely impassable route to get him there. Bear in mind that it’s the woman who’s driving.”
“The road was impassable, you say?”
“Yes. And not only do I have exact testimony to back this up, but I also had my sergeant take that route, and I took it myself. So the car is actually driven down the dry bed of the Canneto, ruining the suspension.
When it comes to a stop, almost inside a big shrub in the Pasture, the woman immediately mounts the man beside her, and they begin making love. And it is during this act that Luparello suffers the misfortune that kills him. The woman, however, does not scream, does not call for help. Cool as a cucumber, she walks slowly down the path that leads to the provincial road, gets into a car that has pulled up, and disappears.”
“It’s all very strange, you’re right. Did the woman ask for a ride?”
“Apparently not, and you’ve hit the nail on the head. And I have yet another testimony to this effect.
The car that pulled up did so in a hurry, with its door actually open. In other words, the driver knew whom he was supposed to encounter and pick up without wasting any time.”
“Excuse me, Inspector, but did you get sworn statements for all these testimonies?”
“No, there wasn’t any reason. See, one thing is certain: Luparello died of natural causes. Officially speaking, I have no reason to be investigating.”
“Well, if things are as you say, there is, for example, the failure to assist a person in danger.”
“Do you agree with me that that’s nonsense?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s as far as I’d gone when Signora Luparello pointed out something very essential to me, that is, that her husband, when he died, had his underwear on backwards.”
“Wait a minute,” said the commissioner, “let’s slow down. How did the signora know that her husband’s underwear was on backwards, if indeed it was?
As far as I know, she wasn’t there at the scene, and she wasn’t present at the crime lab’s examinations.”
Montalbano became worried. He had spoken impulsively, not realizing he had to avoid implicating Jacomuzzi, who he was sure had given the widow the photos. But there was no turning back.
“The signora got hold of the crime-lab photos. I don’t know how.”
“I think I do,” said the commissioner, frowning.
“She examined them carefully with a magnifying glass and showed them to me. She was right.”
“And based on this detail she formed an opinion?”
“Of course. It’s based on the assumption that although her husband, when getting dressed in the morning, might by chance have put them on backwards, inevitably over the course of the day he would have noticed, since he took diuretics and had to urinate frequently. Therefore, on the basis of this hypothesis, the signora believes that Luparello must have been caught in some sort of embarrassing situation, to say the least, at which point he was forced to put his clothes back on in a hurry and go to the Pasture, where—in the signora’s opinion, of course—he was to be compromised in some irreparable way, so that he would have to retire from political life. But there’s more.”
“Don’t spare me any details.”
“The two street cleaners who found the body, before calling the police, felt duty-bound to inform Counselor Rizzo, who they knew was Luparello’s alter ego. Well, Rizzo not only showed no surprise, dismay, shock, alarm, or worry, he actually told the two to report the incident at once.”
“How do you know this? Had you tapped the phone line?” the commissioner asked, aghast.
“No, no phone taps. One of the street cleaners faithfully transcribed the brief exchange. He did it for reasons too complicated to go into here.”
“Was he contemplating blackmail?”
“No, he was contemplating the way a play is written. Believe me, he had no intention whatsoever of committing a crime. And this is where we come to the heart of the matter: Rizzo.”
“Wait a minute. I was determined to find a way this evening to scold you again. For wanting always to complicate simple matters. Surely you’ve read Sciascia’s Candido. Do you remember that at a certain point the protagonist asserts that it is possible that things are almost always simple? I merely wanted to remind you of this.”
“Yes, but, you see, Candido says ‘almost always,’ he doesn’t say ‘always.’ He allows for exceptions. And Luparello’s case is one of those where things were set up to appear simple.”
“When in fact they are complicated?”
“Very complicated. And speaking of Candido, do you remember the subtitle?”
“Of course: A Dream Dreamed in Sicily. ”
“Exactly, whereas we are dealing with a nightmare of sorts. Let me venture a hypothesis that will be very difficult to confirm now that Rizzo has been murdered. On Sunday evening, around seven, Luparello phones his wife to tell her he’ll be home very late—he has an important political meeting. In fact, he goes to his little house on Capo Massaria for a lovers’ tryst.
And I’ll tell you right away that any eventual investigation as to the person who was with Luparello would prove rather difficult, because the engineer was ambidextrous.”
“What do you mean? Where I come from, ambidextrous means someone can use both hands, right or left, without distinction.”
“In a less correct sense, it’s also used to describe someone who goes with men as well as women, without distinction.”
Both very serious, they seemed like two professors compiling a new dictionary.
“What are you saying?” wondered the commissioner.
“It was Signora Luparello herself who intimated this to me, and all too clearly. And she certainly had no interest in making things up, especially in this regard.”
“Did you go to the little house?”
“Yes. Cleaned up to perfection. Inside were a few of Luparello’s belongings, nothing else.”
“Continue with your hypothesis.”
“During the sex act, or most probably right after, given the traces of semen that were recovered, Luparello dies. The woman who is with him—”
“Stop,” the commissioner ordered. “How can you say with such assurance that it was a woman? You’ve just finished describing the engineer’s rather broad sexual horizons.”
“I can say it because I’m certain of it. So, as soon as the woman realizes her lover is dead, she loses her head, she doesn’t know what to do, she gets all upset, and she even loses the necklace she was wearing, but doesn’t realize it. When she finally calms down, she sees that the only thing she can do is to phone Rizzo, Luparello’s shadow man, and ask for help. Rizzo tells her to get out of the house at once and suggests that she leave the key somewhere so he can enter. He reassures her, saying he’ll take care of everything; nobody will ever know about the tryst that led to such a tragic end. Relieved, the woman steps out of the picture.”
“What do you mean, ‘steps out of the picture’?
Wasn’t it a woman who took Luparello to the Pasture?”
“Yes and no. Let me continue. Rizzo races to Capo Massaria and dresses the corpse in a big hurry.