“Poisoned, my friend.”
“With what?”
“Common rat poison.”
Montalbano was so obviously bewildered that Pasquano noticed.
“Do you find that disturbing?”
“Yes. Nowadays, poison is-”
“No longer in fashion?”
“Well…”
“Listen, I would strongly advise all aspiring murderers to use it. A gunshot makes such a racket that the neighbors are sure to hear it; stabbing spatters blood all over the place: on the floor, the walls, your clothes… Whereas poison… Don’t you agree?”
“And what about his face?”
“They worked on that postmortem.”
“Apparently to make it harder to identify him.”
“I’m glad to see that, despite your considerably advanced age, you, Inspector, still possess a certain degree of lucidity.”
Montalbano decided to ignore the provocation.
“What state are the fingertips in?”
“Intact, in keeping with the rest of the body except the face.”
“Which means his fingerprints are not on file.”
“Impeccable conclusion, deduced by extreme logical rigor. Congratulations. And now, if you’re done turning my balls to dust…”
“One last question. Was he married?”
“You’re asking me? All I know is that there was no trace of a ring on any of his fingers. But that means nothing.”
“Another thing. Can you tell me-”
“Oh, no you don’t, my friend! You said your question about his marital status was the last. Keep your word for once in your life!”
Since he was already in Montelusa, he went to central police headquarters, to see if he could talk to someone in Forensics. He knew that the chief of Forensics, Vanni Arqua, whom he couldn’t stand, was on vacation, with his deputy Cusumano taking his place.
“What can you tell me?” Montalbano asked him.
“Where should I start?”
“The dinghy.”
“A small dinghy-”
“Actually, were there oars? I didn’t see any.”
“No. They were either lost at sea or the boat was towed. To continue: a small dinghy made in England. There are quite a lot of them around. No fingerprints; whoever handled it used gloves at all times. And the body was put in it only a short time before the boat was found.”
“Thanks.”
“One more thing about the dinghy. It showed no sign of having been used before.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that, in our opinion, it was unpacked and inflated for the occasion. It still had little pieces of cellophane stuck to it here and there, traces of the material it came wrapped in.”
“Anything concerning the body?”
“No. He was completely naked. On the other hand…”
“Tell me.”
“It’s just a personal impression.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Before taking the body aboard, the captain had some pictures taken which he turned over to us. You want to see them?”
“No, just tell me what your impression was.”
“Inside the dinghy the body’s pallor was even more striking. The guy was definitely not a man of the sea.”
“Ahh Chief! Fazio tol’ me to tell yiz ’at the minute you got here I’s asposta tell ’im!”
“Then tell him.”
Fazio arrived two minutes later, acting as if he had something important to say. He remained standing in front of the inspector.
“Chief, first we have to make an agreement.”
“About what?”
“That you won’t get mad and start yelling at me if every so often I have to look at my notes.”
“As long as you leave out the Records Office stuff about the names of the father and mother…”
“All right.”
Fazio sat down in the chair in front of the desk.
“Where should I begin?”
“With the owner.”
“She’s a lady with a nasty disposition-”
“I already know that. Go on.”
“Her name is Livia…”
Montalbano, for no reason, gave a start. Fazio looked at him in astonishment.
“Chief, your girlfriend doesn’t have exclusive rights to the name. Livia Acciai Giovannini, from Livorno, just turned fifty-two though she doesn’t show it one bit. According to her, she worked as a model when she was young; but according to Maurilio Alvarez, she was a prostitute.”
“And who’s this Alvarez?”
“The ship’s engineer. I’ll get back to him in a second. So at age thirty-five this Livia meets Arturo Giovannini, a rich man and an engineer, on the beach at Forte dei Marmi. Giovannini falls in love with her and marries her. The marriage lasts only ten years, because the engineer dies.”
“Of old age?”
“No, Chief, they were the same age. During a storm at sea, the poor guy fell out of the boat and-”
“Don’t call it a boat.”
“What am I supposed to call it, then?”
“A yacht.”
“Anyway, the guy falls into the sea and they were never able to recover the body.”
“Who told you this story?”
“The widow.”
“Did Maurilio back it up?”
“We didn’t talk about the accident. At any rate, she inherits the boat and continues sailing all over the place, which is exactly what her late husband used to do.”
“What’d he live on?”
“Giovannini? An inheritance.”
“What about the widow?”
“She inherited the inheritance.”
“Seem legit to you?”
“Not really. That’s all I’ve got on the lady. The captain’s from Genoa and his name is Nicola Sperli. When the husband was alive, Sperli was second-in-command to the captain, whose name was…” He pulled a little piece of paper out of his pocket and looked at it. “… Filippo Giannitrapani, whom he later replaced.”
“Did Giannitrapani quit?”
