Maybe she has more than one niece, the inspector thought.
“Vanna.”
The woman looked at him as if he were speaking in tongues.
“Vanna?!”
“Yes, looks about thirty, with glasses and black hair, lives in Palermo, and her surname is… wait… ah, Digiulio.”
“Ah, yes. She’s already left,” the woman replied abruptly.
Montalbano noticed that, before replying, she had exchanged a quick glance with the captain. But he realized that this wasn’t the time to press the matter.
“Perhaps you could rent a car, with or without a driver,” Dr. Raccuglia suggested.
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “And now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She withdrew into her cabin.
“Nice little disposition,” said the lieutenant.
Captain Sperlì rolled his eyes heavenward, as if to evoke all the things he had to put up with, then threw his hands up.
“I think you wanted to ask me something,” the doctor said to the inspector.
“It’s no longer important,” Montalbano replied.
He had other things to think about.
When they went back out on deck, the inspector noticed that there was now a huge motorboat moored alongside the yacht, so big he’d only seen its equal in some 007 movies. And, lo and behold, it was flying a Panamanian flag.
“Did that just come in?” he asked the lieutenant.
“No, that cruiser’s been in the harbor for the past five days. It’s here for an engine check. They realized it wasn’t running properly and summoned a technician from Amsterdam.”
Back on the wharf, Montalbano read the cruiser’s name: Ace of Hearts. Dr. Raccuglia said goodbye to the two men and headed for his car.
“There’s something I want to ask you,” the lieutenant said to Montalbano.
“Go ahead.”
“Why were you so interested in the Vanna even before they told us they’d found the dinghy with the corpse in it?”
Smart question, worthy of a cop, and it put the inspector in a bit of a quandary. He decided to sing only half the Mass to the lieutenant.
“That niece I mentioned, the one the lady said had just left, had turned to the police-”
“I see,” said Garrufo.
“I think you’ll be hearing from me again very soon,” Montalbano said to him.
“I’m at your service.”
They shook hands.
He followed the lieutenant’s car for a short distance, waited for him to park, get out, and go into the Harbor Office, then waited five more minutes and did the same himself.
“Can I help you?” the guard asked him.
“I need some information on recruitment.”
“First door on the right.”
Behind a counter sat an old officer with the Settimana Enigmistica <strong>[5]</strong> in his hand.
“Good afternoon. I’m Inspector Montalbano,” said the inspector, showing the man his badge.
“What can I do for you?”
“Were you on duty here this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember whether a young woman of about thirty with glasses came in here asking if you had any news of a yacht, the Vanna, which was-”
“Just a second,” the officer interrupted him. “I remember the girl perfectly well, but she didn’t ask me anything about a yacht.”
“Are you sure?”
“Look, Inspector, you’re the fourth person to come into this office all day. Three men, counting you, and one girl. How could I be mistaken?”
“And what did she ask you?”
“She asked me if there was a sailor who worked here at the Harbor Office named… Give me a minute to check, because I also asked the Coast Guard… Here it is, Angelo Spitaleri, a cousin of hers.”
“And does he work here?”
“No.”
That girl, whose real name might be anything at this point, had taken him for a nice little ride, no doubt about it.
A little wet dog, she had seemed to him! He’d even felt sorry for her!
Whereas in fact she must be a very great actress. He could only imagine how hard she must have laughed inside at this inspector whom she was able to manipulate like a puppet.
But what could be her reason for telling him such a pile of lies? She must have had a purpose. But what?
Despite the late hour, he returned to the station. Gallo was still there.
“Listen, do you remember the license-plate number of the car belonging to the girl who spent the day here?”
“I didn’t look, Chief. All I remember is that it was a blue Fiat Panda.”
“So there’s no way to identify her?”
“I’m afraid not, Chief.”
The inspector called Catarella in.
“That girl from this morning…,” he began.
“The one ’at was waitin’ inna waitin’ room?”
“That’s the one. Did she come and talk to you at any point or ask you anything?”
“She come once, Chief.”
“What did she want?”
“She wannit a know where there’s a batroom.”
“And did she go?”
“Yessir, Chief. I’s ’er escort.”
“Did she do anything strange?”
Catarella blushed.
“I dunno.”
“What do you mean, ‘You don’t know’? Did she or didn’t she?”
“How’s am I asposta know what the young lady did inna batroom? I ’eard ’er pull the chain, but-”
“I wasn’t referring to what she did in the bathroom! I meant did she do anything strange when you were escorting her?”
“I don’ remimber, Chief.”
“All right, then, you can go.”
“Unless you’s referrin’ to the noise.”
“What noise?”
“Seein’ as how the foresaid young lady was carryin’ a kinda cloth handbag in ’er hand, as the foresaid young lady was goin’ in, the foresaid handbag crashed aginst the door frame, producin’ the foresaid noise.”
Montalbano could barely refrain from getting up and pummelling him.
“And what kind of noise was it?”
“Like a kinda heavy, metal-like ting. An’ so I axed m’self wha’ coulda made the noise. An iron bar? A horseshoe? A li’l branze statue? A-”
“Could it have been a weapon?” the inspector cut in, interrupting the litany.
“A dagger?”
“Or a gun, a pistol.”
Catarella thought this over for a minute.
“Possible.”
“All right, go get me the Palermo phone book.”
It was something he had to do simply to set his mind at rest. He looked for Vanna Digiulio, thinking it would be useless, but then he actually found the name in the directory.
He dialed the number and a woman’s voice answered, though it was quite different from the girl’s voice.
“Hello, this is Dr. Panzica, I was looking for Vanna.”
“Vanna? Vanna Digiulio?”
What was so strange about that?
“That’s right.”
“But she died years ago!”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“And who are you, may I ask?”
“Fabio Panzica, a probate lawyer. It was over a question of inheritance.”
At the mere mention of the word inheritance, people almost always rush forward faster than a school of starved fish. And this case was no exception.
“Perhaps it would be better if you gave me a few more details,” the woman said.
“Gladly. But who are you, if I may ask?”
“I am Matilde Mauro. I was Vanna’s best friend, and she left me her apartment in her will.”
And, sure as death, Signora Matilde now was hoping for a supplement to that inheritance.
“May I ask, Signora Mauro, how Vanna died?”
“On a mission. The helicopter she was in crashed. She was unharmed but immediately captured. Since they thought she was a spy, she was tortured and then killed.”
Montalbano balked.
“But when was this? And where?”
“In Iraq. Two months before Nasiriyah.” [6]
“Why was this never reported?”
“Well, it was a covert mission, as they say. I can’t tell you any more than that.”
And he didn’t want to know any more, either. It was an interesting case but, as far as he was concerned, he was merely wasting his time.
“I thank you for your courtesy, signora, but… Do you, by any chance, know any other Vanna Digiulios?”
“No, I don’t, I’m sorry.”
Dining on the veranda was out of the question. True, half a day had gone by without more rain, but it was still too damp. He set the table in the kitchen, but didn’t feel much like eating. He was still smarting from being made a fool of by the girl.
He sat down, picked up a pen and a sheet of paper, and started writing a letter to himself.
Dear Montalbano,
Glossing over the distinction of Dipshit Emeritus that you earned by letting the so-called Vanna Digiulio (clearly an assumed name) lead you around by the nose, I feel I have no choice but to bring the following to your attention:
1) Your meeting with Vanna was pure chance. But as soon as she learned that the person taking her to safety was you, a well-known police inspector, she was able to exploit the situation with great skill and lucidity. What does this mean? That Vanna is a person endowed with quick reflexes and a keen ability to adapt to unforeseen situations in order to gain a maximum advantage from them. As for her humble, wet-dog manner, which touched you so deeply, that was just a put-on, not an amateur but a professional performance, staged to fool a sitting duck (rhymes with stupid fuck) like you.
2) There is no doubt that Vanna was aware of the imminent arrival of the Vanna.
3) There is no doubt that Vanna is not the niece of the yacht’s owner.
4) There is no doubt, however, that she is, in some way, and for reasons unknown, known to the owner and to Captain Sperlì (the glance they exchanged was rather telling).
5) There is no doubt that Vanna has never been aboard the Vanna.
6) There is no doubt that by saying Vanna had left, and thereby ending all discussion of the subject, the yacht’s owner wanted to avoid arousing suspicion in you, my dear inspector.
7) There is no doubt that, in having no doubts, you find yourself, without a doubt, neck-deep in shit.
So perhaps you’d better start thinking of some doubts you may have.
Come to think of it, when Vanna was drinking her caffelatte, she told you some things about her supposed aunt that she had no reason whatsoever to tell you. But she said them anyway.
A few examples:
1) That the aunt’s husband, Arturo, was very rich.
2) That he had bought the Vanna and then left it to his wife in his will.
3) That he was always at sea (like his widow, after him).
4) That nobody knew how he had earned all the money he had. In other words, with this last statement, Vanna left the field open to every supposition, even the worst.
Why did she want to instill such doubt in you? She could have avoided it. But she didn’t.
Think about it.
Affectionately yours,
Since it was still too early to go to bed, he sat down in the armchair and turned on the TV. On the Free Channel, his friend, the newsman Nicolò Zito, was interviewing a man of about fifty with a beard, who turned out to be Captain Zurlo, chief navigation officer of the port.
Naturally, they were talking about the topic of the day, the Vanna’s discovery of the stray dinghy. Zito’s questions were, as always, quite intelligent.
“Captain Zurlo, how far from the mouth of the port did the people on the Vanna say they were when they spotted the dinghy?”
“A little more than an Italian mile.”
“Why do you say ‘Italian’ mile? Aren’t all nautical miles the same?”
“Theoretically speaking, a nautical mile, being one sixty-sixth of one degree of a meridian, should correspond to 1.852 meters. But in fact, in Italy it is equal to 1.851 meters and 85 centimeters; in England it’s 1.853 meters and 18 centimeters; in the U.S. it’s-”
“Why these differences?”
“To make life complicated for us.”
“I know exactly what you mean. Therefore we can say that the dinghy with the corpse inside was very close to the port.”
“Quite so.”
“Could you explain for us why the Vanna, after taking the dinghy and corpse on board, took so many hours to enter the port? Was it because of the storm?”
The captain smiled.
“It wasn’t actually a sea storm, far from it.”
“No? Then what was it?”
“Technically speaking, it’s called a strong gale, corresponding to winds of force 9 on the Beaufort scale.”
“In plain language?”
“It means that the wind is approaching forty-five knots and waves can reach a height of twenty feet. The Vanna was in danger of crashing against the eastern cape. Since the auxiliary engine wasn’t working very well, they had to go back out to the open sea and find a more favorable tack.”
“How come the dinghy hadn’t capsized?”
“Chance, or maybe it was caught between two conflicting currents.”
“Here comes the most important question. In your opinion, with your many years of experience, was the dinghy being carried away from the port by the currents, or was it heading towards the port, also on the currents?”
Montalbano pricked up his ears.
“It’s sort of hard to say with any certainty. You see, there’s always a current flowing out of the port, but it’s also true that, given the weather conditions, this permanent current was nullified, so to speak, by the stronger currents coming in from the southeast.”
“But what’s your personal opinion?”
“I wouldn’t want to be held to this in an official report, but I’d say the dinghy was probably being carried by the outward current.”
“So it had come from inside the harbor?”
“What do you mean by ‘inside’?”
“The central wharf, for example.”
“No, if the dinghy had started there, it would have ended up against the eastern cape.”
“So where did it come from, in your opinion?”
“Probably from a point much closer to the mouth of the harbor.”
“Thank you very much, Captain.”
As the inspector lay down in bed, something was troubling him. But this did not prevent him from getting a good night’s sleep.
When he got to Vigàta just before nine o’clock the next morning, he didn’t go straight to the station but pulled up in front of the Harbor Office.
“Can I help you?” asked the usual guard.
“I’d like to speak with Lieutenant Garrufo.”
“Please ask at the information desk.”
The officer at the counter looked as if he hadn’t moved since the day before. He was in the exact same position, holding the same issue of the Settimana Enigmistica in his hand. Maybe he never went home to sleep. Maybe in the evening a sailor came in and covered him with an oilcloth, turned off the light, and closed the door behind him. The following morning, the cleaning crew would wash the oilcloth, dust the man off, and the officer would go back to work.
“I’m looking for Lieutenant Garrufo.”
“He’s not in.”
“Is there anyone here in his place?”
“Of course. Lieutenant Belladonna.”
“I’d like to-”
“Just a minute. You, if I remember correctly, are Inspector Montalbano.”
The man picked up the telephone, dialed a number, said a few words, and hung up.
“The lieutenant is waiting for you. Second floor, second door on the right.”
The door was open and the inspector instinctively poked his head inside. He was sure it was the wrong room, and so he knocked on the next door down.
“Come in.”
He opened the door and went in. The officer sitting behind the desk stood up. Montalbano realized he’d got the wrong room again. The man had the rank of captain.
“I was looking for Lieutenant Belladonna.”
“It’s the door right before this one.”
So he hadn’t been mistaken after all. Lieutenant Belladonna was a woman.
“May I come in? I’m Inspector-”
“Please come in and sit down,” she said, getting up to greet him.
The lieutenant not only lived up to her surname, she exceeded it [7]. She wasn’t only beautiful; she was a knockout. For a brief moment, Montalbano was speechless. She was a good six inches taller than him, dark, with bright, sparkling eyes, red lips in no need of lipstick, and, above all, a very pleasant manner.
“I’m entirely at your disposal,” she said.
I wish! thought the inspector.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware of the corpse that was found by the people on a yacht sailing-”
“I know the whole story.”
“There’s one thing I’d like to know. When a craft wants to call at our port, does it have to give you advance notice of its arrival?”
“Of course.”
“And its time of arrival?”
“Especially.”
“Why?”
“For any number of reasons: ships maneuvering inside the harbor, lack of berths, availability of navigation officers…”
“I see. If it’s not too much trouble for you, could you tell me how far in advance the Vanna notified you that she would be calling at port here?”
“Yes, I can. Come with me.”
Following behind her, Montalbano was spellbound by the undulating motion her skirt made as she walked. They came to a vending machine.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“I’d love some.”
Montalbano let her work the machine. He was utterly inept at such things. He always pushed the wrong buttons, and instead of coffee he got plastic-wrapped sandwiches, ice- cream cones, or candies. The coffee was good.
“Please wait for me here,” she said.
The lieutenant opened a door over which there was a sign saying AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and went inside. She returned five minutes later.
“Actually, the Vanna wasn’t expected,” she said. “They contacted us at six o’clock yesterday morning, saying they were forced to head for our harbor because of the terrible weather conditions.”
This was the confirmation he had wanted of the concern that had come into his mind before falling asleep. How did the girl who called herself Vanna know that the yacht was supposed to arrive that morning? She must have been informed very early that same morning. Had she received this information from someone at the Harbor Office, or from the yacht itself?
Montalbano thanked the woman and took his leave.
“I’ll come downstairs with you,” she said. “I’d like to have a cigarette outside.”
They smoked their cigarettes together. She said her name was Laura. And since they hit it off well, they each smoked a second cigarette while telling each other a few things about themselves. When they said goodbye, it was clear that they would have liked to smoke another ten cigarettes together.
<a l:href="#_ftnref5">[5]</a> An immensely popular Italian weekly periodical of puzzles, such as rebuses, acrostics, crossword puzzles, riddles, etc. Created in 1932, it is also published in a number of other European countries.
<a l:href="#_ftnref6">[6]</a> As part of George W. Bush’s war on Iraq, launched in March 2003, Italy, under right-wing prime minister Silvio Berlusconi, committed three thousand soldiers to the effort, helping to form part of what was called the “Coalition of the Willing.” The modern town of Nasiriyah, an important petroleum center with a population of over 250,000, was severely damaged by American bombs and fighting during the war and became a center for the small Italian contingent, who built a hospital there, among other things. On November 12, 2003, a suicide bombing by the Iraqi resistance killed twenty-three, including nineteen Italians, resulting in a fierce outcry among Italians at home, who had been overwhelmingly against the American declaration of war and Berlusconi’s agreement to participate in an effort they believed unjust. By having the character of Vanna Digiulio be killed in a secret operation before the Nasiriyah bombing, Camilleri appears to be highlighting what he views as the murky nature of the Italian participation in an unjustifiable war.
<a l:href="#_ftnref7">[7]</a> in Italian, bella donna means “beautiful woman.”