A Nest of Vipers Read online

  The only new thing was the interview with Barletta’s son at the end of the feature. Arturo repeated what he’d already said, but at a certain point, when the interviewer asked him if he had any idea who might have killed his father, he said:

  ‘There were officially four sets of keys to the house: one was in my possession; the second was in my sister’s; the third was found in my father’s pocket; and the fourth, the extra set, is at my father’s place in town. I checked myself. Since the killer entered without forcing the door, there are two possibilities: Either the killer used one of those four sets, or my father let him in.’

  At this point the interviewer made a strange face and said: ‘I’m sorry, but going by what you say, if we put aside the hypothesis that it was your father who opened the door, do you realize that you and your sister then become prime suspects?’

  Arturo looked at him and smiled.

  ‘I’m well aware of that, but that’s the simple reality. We mustn’t rule out, however, that there may be other sets of keys that my father had made and gave to persons outside the family.’

  The interviewer: ‘And why would he have had such copies made?’

  Arturo, throwing up his hands: ‘I really wouldn’t know.’

  *

  Montalbano lolled about the house for half an hour, awaiting Livia’s phone call, which came a few minutes before midnight.

  Her voice sounded cheerful.

  ‘Listen, Salvo. By a totally unexpected stroke of luck, I’ve been freed up to come and spend some time with you in Vigàta. I could get there the day after tomorrow. What do you think?’

  ‘I await you with open arms. Though at the moment I can’t promise you I’ll have the time to come and get you at Palermo Airport.’

  ‘Are you really busy?’

  ‘A murder was discovered this morning.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘No, a man. What made you think the victim might be a woman?’

  ‘Because it’s become fashionable in Italy to kill women. Did you know this man?’

  ‘No. But, anyway, I think I’m going to be rather busy in the coming days.’

  ‘That’s OK. It’s enough for me if you come home in the evening.’

  ‘That you can count on. But, listen, something strange happened to me this morning. I was having this dream, and you were in it with me . . .’

  And he told her, in great detail, about the tramp on the veranda and the strong impression the man had made on him.

  ‘So he refused the money you wanted to give him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘Was he tall, short, fat, thin . . .?’

  ‘Basically similar in build to me.’

  ‘Listen, you have at least two shirts that you’ve never worn because they were presents from Adelina and not to your taste. And you also have a suit, the brown one, which you’ve stopped wanting to wear because there’s a stain on the left sleeve of the jacket. And there’s even a pair of shoes, the English ones, that you say hurt your feet . . . Pack all that stuff up and take it to the man in his cave.’

  There was one problem, however. ‘OK. But not the shirts from Adelina.’

  ‘Why not? Do you like them now? Have your tastes changed?’

  ‘No, my tastes haven’t changed, but if Adelina realizes I’ve given them away, there’ll be a catunio here.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘Adelina will get upset.’

  ‘Well, let her get upset! You let that woman do whatever the hell she wants!’

  The two women didn’t get along. In fact, they couldn’t stand the sight of each other. So whenever Livia came, Adelina would disappear until Livia had left.

  ‘Listen, Livia . . .’

  ‘No! As soon as anyone touches your Adelina, you—’

  ‘Come on, Livia, don’t be silly!’

  ‘You’re the silly one! You don’t even realize you’ve let her run our household!’

  ‘That’s just rubbish!’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Having come to this point, there was no way the conversation couldn’t end up in the gutter. Which is exactly what happened.

  After hanging up, he went and opened the wardrobe. He took out his brown suit and a shirt he’d already decided not to wear any more, and laid them down on the bed. Then he went into the bathroom and took the English shoes from the shoe rack and put them in a plastic bag. Then he put everything in a large tailor’s bag, one of those that Adelina collected and stored in the cupboard.

  Finally he closed the French windows, had a shower, and went to bed.

  *

  The morning promised a day so clear and bright that it seemed to be apologizing for the gloom of the day before.

  When he came out of the house with the bag in his hand, he stopped and looked at the hill of white marl that stood across the road to Vigàta. He immediately noticed the mouth of the cave halfway up the slope. It was reached by a narrow path that was luckily not too steep.

  Montalbano had a little trouble crossing the road, due to the already considerable traffic, then climbed the path up the hill.

  He stopped at the entrance to the cave.

  ‘Anyone here?’

  No answer. He bent down and went in.

  There was enough light inside to see that the man was not there. Either he hadn’t returned or he had already gone out.

  The cave had been furnished. There was a straw mattress for sleeping, a small broken table, a wicker chair with the seat half caved in, and an oil lamp. In one corner were a number of cardboard boxes taped together. The inspector put his bag on the table, went back down the path, crossed the street, got in his car, and drove off.

  *

  He’d just sat down in his office and was looking disconsolately at the stack of papers, which had mysteriously grown taller than he remembered, when the telephone rang.

  ‘Ahh, Chief! ’Ere’d happen a be a goil ’at’d like to talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson, an’ she sez it evolves a rilly oigently oigent matter.’

  ‘Did she tell you her name?’

  ‘Yessir, she did, bu’ I din’t get it. She tol’ me, the goil did, ’at she’s called a sister.’

  ‘What? And she has no name?’

  ‘Nah, Chief. She’s jess called “sister”. Mebbe she’s a nun.’

  ‘OK, send her in.’

  The girl who entered was about twenty, of medium height with long blonde hair, an angelic face, and a body that inspired less than angelic thoughts. She was clearly frightened.

  ‘Please sit down, signorina . . .’

  ‘Stella Lasorella.’

  Stella! The girl about whom Fazio was trying to dig up information at that very moment!

  ‘The medical student?’ he asked.

  Face already flushed with emotion, she turned fiery red all over.

  ‘I guess you already know,’ she said, eyes downcast. She suddenly started crying.

  Montalbano got up, went and locked the door, took the bottle of water on the filing cabinet, filled a glass, handed it to her, and went and sat down again. She avidly drank half of it.

  ‘Can I put this on the desk?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry about my . . .’

  ‘No problem. We can wait till you feel ready to talk.’

  The girl took a handkerchief from her jeans pocket, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. Then she began. ‘I heard on television last night . . . that some blonde hair was found in the bed . . . Is that true?’ She hadn’t mentioned any names.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve come here to tell you that it’s not mine. I decided on my own to come here so that . . . to avoid . . . it’s not my hair. You can conduct all the tests you want.’

  ‘So it wasn’t you who slept with Barletta his last night.’

  ‘No.’ Decisive, assured, looking him straight in the eyes.

&n
bsp; ‘When was the last time you were at that house?’

  ‘I went there only once. He wanted our first encounter to take place there. I never went back after that, also because it was already summer and he didn’t want to risk any surprise visits from his son or daughter, both of whom had keys.’

  ‘Speaking of keys, did Barletta give you a set?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So where did your meetings take place?’

  ‘At his place in town. It was easier that way.’

  ‘Explain that to me.’

  ‘I live with my parents in the same building as Barletta. Which he owns. We rent a place on the third floor, he’s on the second. When he wanted me, he arranged the doormat a certain way outside his door. When I saw it, I did what I had to do at home, then went downstairs to his place as soon as my parents fell asleep.’

  ‘They never suspected anything?’

  ‘No, never! And I’m terrified at the thought that they might . . . Can you do anything to make sure my name doesn’t . . .’

  ‘I’ll do what I can. But can you prove to me that you weren’t at Barletta’s beach house the other night?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Tell me how.’

  ‘I had a date with Giulio, my boyfriend, at nine o’clock that evening. We went first to eat pizza with a couple of friends, Antonio Burgio and Paola Nicotra, who can testify to this – I’ll give you their addresses and phone numbers. Then the four of us went to the movies and came out after midnight. Since none of us was tired, we went to a disco. When I got home it was three o’clock. Is that enough?’

  ‘Do you have a car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I think that’s enough.’

  The girl heaved a sigh of relief.

  ‘There’s one last question I’d like to ask you,’ said Montalbano, not taking his eyes off her. ‘Do you love your boyfriend?’

  The question took the girl by surprise. Her face turned a hot red.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then, why?’

  It was as if he’d clubbed her over the head.

  The girl was transformed. She started trembling all over, tried to speak but couldn’t, pressed her clenched fists hard against her cheeks.

  Large beads of sweat started to appear on her forehead. Montalbano was worried that she might get hysterical.

  Then the girl began to talk, keeping her teeth clenched and her voice low and muffled.

  ‘Will you believe me if I tell you that when I heard he’d been killed I started jumping for joy? In my mind I thanked the killer for giving me back my freedom.’

  She was now trembling even worse than before. Montalbano got up, went over to the girl, made her drink the rest of the water in the glass, practically forcing her clenched jaw open, then sat down in the chair beside her and began very lightly stroking her forehead, brushing the hair away from it.

  She began to relax her goggled eyes, letting the eyelids slowly droop and finally close.

  Then, heaving another deep sigh, she took Montalbano’s wrists, turned them over, and pressed the palms of his hands over her cheeks, as if he were caressing them. Then she released them.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  The inspector realized the crisis was over. And Stella started talking again in a normal voice:

  ‘Four months ago my father was sacked by the company he worked for. The unemployment payments he received were not enough to allow me to stay at the University of Palermo. So, without saying anything to my mother or me, he went to talk to Barletta, to ask him if he could defer the rent payments for a while. He was hoping to find another job in the meantime. But Barletta, as you might expect, refused. In fact he told him he would throw us out if he didn’t pay on time. Papa was desperate and told us the whole story. Then one evening I ran into Barletta on the stairs and he stopped me. And made me a proposal, which you can imagine. In effect he would pay me the equivalent of the rent, which I would give to my father, and then Papa, without knowing anything, would give it back to Barletta.’

  ‘And how did you explain to your father where you got the money?’

  ‘I said I’d won a scholarship. After losing his job my dad wasn’t really all there and so he didn’t ask many questions. And my mother’s just a poor woman who . . . Then, luckily, my father found a new job. But Barletta wanted to continue.’

  ‘How could he make you?’

  ‘He blackmailed me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He’d secretly taken photos with his phone as I . . . And he showed them to me and threatened to send them to my parents and boyfriend if I didn’t . . . He said I had to be at his beck and call until he no longer wanted me. Over the past month I managed not to run into him. But I couldn’t sleep at night, for fear he would carry out his threat.’ She looked up at the inspector and said by way of conclusion: ‘I would spit on his corpse if I could.’

  Montalbano laid his hand over her mouth, preventing her from saying any more. He stood up and held out his hand, which she shook, confused.

  ‘You can go now,’ he said.

  Stella quickly leaned over and kissed the hand she was still holding in her own.

  *

  As soon as the girl was gone, he rang Catarella. ‘Get me Fazio on his mobile phone and—’

  ‘Beckin’ yer partin’, Chief, but why do ya wan’ me t’call ’im on ’is mobble?’

  How dare he question an order?

  ‘Cat, don’t give me any nonsense, just put him on when you get him.’

  ‘Whate’er ya say, Chief.’

  A minute later the phone rang. ‘Fazio here, Chief. What is it?’

  ‘What are you doing right now?’

  ‘I’m checking my notes in my—’

  ‘Drop everything and come to my office.’

  He barely had time to put the phone down when Fazio appeared in the doorway. Montalbano looked at him in astonishment. What, had he flown there? Or was his matter beamed there through space?

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘In my office, Chief. I got back about five minutes ago, but since Catarella told me you were busy . . . Why’d you call me on my mobile, anyway?’

  ‘No reason . . . I just felt suddenly like talking to you on your mobile phone, OK? Have you got a problem with that?’ said the inspector, incensed.

  Fazio looked at him as if he’d gone completely insane. ‘Hey, you’re the boss.’

  Montalbano decided to change the subject. ‘You know who was here with me just now?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Stella.’

  Fazio’s eyes opened wide. ‘The same girl who—’

  ‘The same girl.’

  And he told Fazio everything. When he was finished, he asked:

  ‘What were you able to find out about her?’

  ‘Her last name, in the meantime.’

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘There’s an organization in Vigàta that brings together local university students. There’s only one female medical student, Stella Lasorella.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Everyone says she’s a good girl and a serious person. And she has a boyfriend, whose name is Giulio Marchica.’

  ‘She seemed like a serious person to me too. Listen, has Tommaseo had seals put up at Barletta’s place in town as well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who has the keys?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Let’s go and have a look.’

  *

  The apartment was spacious and fairly neat. A main entrance, living room, two large bedrooms with double beds, a study, kitchen, two bathrooms. In the study was a large black nineteenth-century desk.

  The inspector went straight for it.

  In the top drawer on the right he found twenty-odd yellow so-called business envelopes. On each was written a woman’s name: Rita, Giulia, Rosalba.

  He took one at random and pulled out the ten or so photos that were inside. They all showe
d the same girl, naked, in obscene poses or in the act of having sex with Barletta.

  ‘Do me a favour, Fazio, would you? Go into the kitchen and see if you can find a shopping bag of some sort.’

  Fazio returned with a plastic bag and Montalbano put all the yellow envelopes in it.

  ‘Let’s go. You take this stuff to the station. Keep trying to dig up information on the Barlettas, father and son. I’m going to eat. We’ll meet later.’

  FOUR

  He took his walk to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty more slowly than usual, one small step at a time – stopping to watch first an angler with a rod and line and, then a fishing boat returning to shore – because at Enzo’s he’d feasted on octopus a strascinasale, and it’s well known that octopus, even when so very tender as this was, puts up a fierce struggle in the stomach before surrendering to digestion.

  He sat down on the flat rock and let the sun warm him for some ten minutes or so. Then he lit a cigarette. He wanted to clear his head of thoughts for a few minutes. But he didn’t succeed. The brain is a machine that not only never stops, but forces you to think whatever it wants. In vain you try to recall the happy moments of your life: after less than five minutes your brain will force you to think about things you’d rather not remember.

  He started tossing pebbles into a puddle between two rocks and then watching the concentric circles ripple.

  After a few minutes of this, he decided his pause was over and went back to thinking about the murder of the ragioniere.

  Certainly neither of Barletta’s two children had painted a nice portrait of their father. They said he had a nasty disposition and that in business matters he wasn’t the most sensitive man in the world.

  But the brushstrokes young Stella had added had further darkened the picture. Not only was Barletta unscrupulous in business, but he was a man capable of taking advantage of a young woman in trouble and even blackmailing her so he could keep sleeping with her.

  In plain words, the number of people motivated by hatred for him probably reached three figures.

  In even plainer words, the case was shaping up to be a tremendous pain. There would be hundreds of leads to follow, and they would all prove wrong in the end.

  And it wasn’t as if he was itching to dive headlong into the investigation.