“Never.”
“Thank you, signora. That’ll be all,” said Montalbano, standing up.
She looked surprised and relieved. She held out her hand, to say good-bye. But instead of shaking it, the inspector kissed it.
13
He arrived a bit early for his appointment with Marshal Lagana.
“You’re looking good,” said the marshal, eyeing him.
Montalbano got worried. Often of late that statement didn’t sound right to him. If someone tells you you’re looking good, it means they were expecting you not to look so good. And why were they thinking this? Because you’ve reached an age where the worst could happen overnight. To take one example: Up to a certain point in life, if you slip and fall, you get right up, because nothing’s happened to you. Then the moment comes when you slip and fall and you can’t get up anymore, because you’ve broken your femur. What’s happened? What’s happened is you’ve crossed the invisible boundary between one age of life and the next.
“You’re looking good yourself,” the inspector lied, with a certain satisfaction.
To his eyes Lagana looked in fact like he’d aged quite a bit since the last time he’d seen him.
“I’m at your service,” said the marshal.
Montalbano filled him in on the murder of Angelo Pardo. And told him how Nicold Zito, the newsman, when speaking to him in private, had led him to suspect that the motive for the homicide could perhaps be found in the work that Pardo was doing. He was beating around the bush, but Lagana understood at once and interrupted him: “Kickbacks?”
“It’s a possible hypothesis,” the inspector said cautiously.
And he told him about the gifts beyond his means that Pardo had given to his girlfriend, the missing strongbox, the secret bank account he hadn’t been able to locate. In the end he pulled from his jacket pocket the four computer printouts and coded songbook and laid them down on Lagana’s desk.
“You can’t say this gentleman was very fond of transparency,” the marshal commented after examining these ma-terials.
“Can you help me?” asked Montalbano.
“Certainly,” said the marshal, “but don’t expect anything overnight. And before I begin, I’ll need some basic but essential information. What firms was he working for? And what doctors and pharmacies was he in contact with?”
“I’ve got a big datebook of Pardo’s in the car that should have most of the things you’re looking for.”
Lagana gave him a confused look.
“Why did you leave it in the car?”
“I wanted first to make sure you were interested in the case. I’ll go get it.”
“Yes, and in the meantime I’ll photocopy these pages and the songbook.”
Therefore—the inspector recapitulated while driving back to Vigata—Signora (pardon,Signorina)Michela Pardo had only told him half the story concerning the abortion performed on Teresa Cacciatore, completely leaving out her own major role. For Teresa it must have been like a scene from a horror film: first the deception and the trap, then, in crescendo, her boyfriend turning into her torturer and poking around inside her while she lay there naked on the examination table unable even to open her mouth; then her future sister-in-law in a white smock, preparing the instruments …
What sort of complicity had there been between Angelo and Michela? Out of what twisted instinct of sibling attachment had it arisen and solidified? How far had they taken their bond? And, given all this, what else were they capable of?
Then again, on second thought, what had any of this to do with the investigation? From Teresa’s words—and there was no doubt she was telling the truth—it became clear that Angelo was a rascal, which Montalbano had been thinking for some time, and that his dear sister wouldn’t have hesitated to commit murder just to please her dear brother, which Montalbano had also been thinking for some time. What Teresa had told him confirmed what the brother and sister were like, but it didn’t move the investigation a single inch forward.
“Ahh, Chief, Chief!” Catarella yelled from his closet. “I got some importance to tell ya!”
“Did you beat the last last word?”
“Not yet, Chief. Iss complex. What I wannet a say is ‘at Dacter Arquaraqua called.”
What was going on? The chief of Forensics called for him?The tombs shall open, the dead shall rise…
“Arqua, Cat, his name’s Arqua.”
“His name’s whatever ‘is name is, Chief, you got the pitcher anyways.”
“What did he want?”
“He didn’t say, Chief. But he axed me to ax you to call him when you got back.” “Fazio here?” “I tink so.”
“Go find him and tell him to come to my office.” While waiting, he called the lab in Montelusa. “Arqua, were you looking for me?”
The two men didn’t like each other, and so, by mutual, tacit agreement, they dispensed with greetings whenever they spoke.
“I suppose you already know that Dr. Pasquano found two threads of fabric stuck between Angelo Pardo’s teeth.”
