investigations he discovers that he himself is the root of it all. And so he punishes himself.’
‘Oedipus’ Montalbano said, as if to himself.
‘Now isn’t that a good detective story? But, to return to our discussion: why would a killer make off with the victim’s clothes? The first answer is: so she couldn’t be identified’
‘That’s not the case here,’
the inspector said. ‘Right. And I get the feeling that, by reasoning this way, we’re following the path the killer wants us to take.’ ‘I don’t understand.’
‘What I mean is, whoever made off with all those things wants us to believe that every one of them is of equal importance to him. He wants us to tliink of that stuff as a single whole.
Whereas that is not the case.’
‘Yes,’ Montalbano said again, ever more impressed, and ever more reluctant to break the thread of her argument with some untimely observation.
Tor one thing, the handbag alone is worth half a billion because of the jewellery inside it. To a common thief, robbing the bag would itself constitute a good day’s earnings. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘But what reason would a common thief have for taking her clothes? None whatsoever. Therefore, if he made off with her clothes, underwear and shoes, we should conclude that we’re not dealing with a common thief. But, in fact, he is a common thief who has done this only to make us think he’s uncommon, different. Why? He might have done it to shuffle the cards. He wanted to steal the handbag with all its valuables, but since he committed murder, he wanted to mask his real purpose.’
‘Right,’ said Montalbano, unsolicited.
‘To continue. Maybe the thief made off with other things of value that we’re unaware of.’
‘May I make a phone call?’
asked the inspector, who had suddenly had an idea.
He called up the Hotel Jolly in Montelusa and asked to speak with Claudio Pizzotta, the manager.
‘Oh, Inspector, how atrocious! How terrible! We found out just now from the Free Channel that poor Mrs Licalzi…’
Nicolo Zito had reported the news and Montalbano had forgotten to tune in and see how the newsman presented the story.
‘Tele Vigata also did a report,’ added the hotel manager, torn between genuine satisfaction and feigned grief.
Galluzzo had done his job with his brother-in- law.
‘What should I do, Inspector?’ the manager asked, distressed.
‘What do you mean?’
‘About these journalists.
They’re besieging me. They want to interview me. They found out the poor woman was staying with us…’
From whom could they have learned this if not from the manager himself? The inspector imagined Pizzotta on the phone, summoning reporters with the promise of shocking revelations on the young, attractive, and, most importantly, naked murder victim …
‘Do whatever the hell you want. Listen, did Mrs Licalzi normally wear any of the jewellery she had? Did she own a watch?’
‘Of course she wore it.
Discreetly, though. Otherwise, why would she bring it all here from Bologna? As for the watch, she always wore a splendid, paper-thin Piaget on her wrist.’
Montalbano thanked him, hung up, and told Signora Clementina what he’d just learned. She thought about it a minute.
‘We must now establish whether we are dealing with a thief who became a murderer out of necessity, or with a murderer who is pretending to be a thief
‘For no real reason — by instinct, I guess — I don’t believe in this thief.’
‘You’re wrong to trust your instinct,’
‘But, Signora Clementina, Michela Licalzi was naked, she’d just finished taking a shower. A thief would have heard the noise and waited before coming
‘And what makes you think the thief wasn’t already inside when the lady came home? She comes in, and the burglar hides. When she goes into the shower, he decides the time is right. He comes out of his hiding place, steals whatever he’s supposed to steal, but then she catches him in the act, and he reacts in the manner he does. He may not even have intended to kill her.’
‘But how would this burglar have entered?’
‘The same way you did, Inspector.’ A direct hit, and down he went. Montalbano said nothing.’
‘Now for the clothes,’
Signora Clementina continued. If they were stolen just for show, that’s one thing. But if the murderer needed to get rid of them, that’s another kettle of fish. What could have been so important about them?’
‘They might have represented a danger to him, a way of identifying him,’ said Montalbano.
‘Yes, you’re right, Inspector. But they clearly weren’t a danger when the woman put them on. They must have become so afterwards. How?’
‘Maybe they got stained,’
Montalbano said, unconvinced. ‘Maybe even with the killer’s blood. Even though …’
‘Even though?’
‘Even though there was no blood around the bedroom. There was a little on the sheet, which had come out of Mrs Licalzi’s mouth. But maybe it was another kind of stain. Like vomit, for example.’
‘Or semen,’ said Mrs Vasile Cozzo, blushing.
It was too early to go home to Marinella, so Montalbano decided to put in an appearance at the station to see if there were any new developments.
‘Oh, Chief, Chief!’ said Catarella as soon as he saw him. ‘You’re here? At least ten people called, and they all wanted a talk to you in poisson! I didn’t know you was comin’ so I says to all of ‘em to call back tomorrow morning. Did I do right, Chief?’
‘You did right, Cat, don’t worry about it. Do you know what they wanted?’
‘They all said as how they all knew the lady who was murdered.’
On the desk in his office, Fazio had left the plastic bag with the papers they’d seized from room 118. Next to it were the notices of incoming calls that the manager Pizzotta had turned over to Gallo. The inspector sat down, took the diary out;ofxthe bag, and glanced through it. Michela Licalzi’s diary was as orderly as her hotel room: appointments, telephone calls to make, places to go. Everything was carefully and clearly written down.
Dr Pasquano had said the woman was killed sometime between late Wednesday night and early Thursday morning, and Montalbano agreed with this. He looked up the page for Wednesday, the last day of Michela Licalzi’s life — 4 pm., Rotondo’s Furniture; 4.30 p.m., phone Emanuele; 5 p.m., appt with Todaro gardeners; 6 p.m., Anna; 8 p.m., dinner with the Vassallos.
The woman, however, had made other engagements for Thursday, Friday and Saturday, unaware that someone would prevent her from attending them. On Thursday, again in the afternoon, she was to have met with Anna, with whom she was to go to Loconte’s (in parentheses: ‘curtains’) before ending her evening by dining with a certain Maurizio. On Friday she was supposed to see Riguccio the electrician, meet Anna again, then go out to dinner at the Cangelosi home. On the page for Saturday, all that was written down was: ‘4.30 pm, flight from Punta Raisi to Bologna.’
It was a large-format diary. The telephone index allowed three pages for each letter of the alphabet, but she’d copied down so many phone numbers that in certain cases she’d had to write the numbers of two different people on the same line.
Montalbano set the diary aside and took the other papers out of the bag. Nothing of interest. Just invoices and receipts. Every penny spent on the construction and furnishing of the house was fastidiously accounted for. In a square-lined notebook Michela had copied down every expense in neat columns, as if preparing herself for a visit from the revenue officers. There was a cheque book from the Banca Popolare di Bologna with only the stubs remaining. Montalbano also found a boarding pass for Bologna—Rome— Palermo from six days earlier, and a return ticket, Palermo—Rome—Bologna, for Saturday at 4.30 pm.
No sign whatsoever of any personal letter or note. He
FIVE
The only things left to examine were the notices of incoming calls. The Inspector began with the ones Michela had collected in the little desk in her hotel room. There were about forty of them, and Montalbano arranged them according to the name of the person calling. In the end he was left with three small piles somewhat taller than the rest. A woman. Anna, would call during the day and usually leave word that Michela should call her back as soon as she woke up or when she got back in. A man, Maurizio, had rung two or three times in the morning, but normally preferred the late-night
