“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
