Getting out of the car, he saw two workmen on the roof of the police station. As he watched them, he felt suddenly worried.
“Get me Fazio,” he said to Catarella, going in.
His office had been cleaned, but the ceiling was covered with damp spots. Once they dried, they would have to be painted over. He also noticed with some satisfaction that there wasn’t a single document to be signed on his desk.
“Good morning, Chief.”
“Listen, Fazio, what sort of protection do these roofers have? I wouldn’t want our police station to contribute to the increase in work-related murders.”
For years that’s what he’d been calling them, murders, not work-related deaths, because he was more than convinced that ninety percent of the fatal accidents were the fault of the work providers.
“Not to worry, Chief. They’re wearing safety harnesses. You may not have noticed.”
“So much the better. Fazio, I need you to do one of those things you’re so good at.”
“What?”
“I want you to go aboard the Vanna-with the excuse, say, that you need to draw up a complete list of the people to be summoned by the prosecutor-and get me all the vital information you can, official and unofficial, on the owner of the boat, the captain, and the four crew members.”
Fazio gave him a questioning look.
“I’m sorry, Chief, but what would any of that information have to do with the corpse they found?”
Smart question, but dictated by the fact that Fazio knew nothing of what the inspector had discovered concerning the so-called niece, Vanna.
“I’m just curious.”
Fazio looked even more doubtfully at him.
“And what do you plan to do with all this official and unofficial information on them?” he asked after a pause.
“I want to know what the mood is on that boat, what sort of relationships they have among themselves… You know, people who spend so much time together, in such a small space, morning, noon, and night, often end up hating each other or can’t stand one another… Sometimes a word slips out and the whole house of cards collapses.”
This explanation clearly failed to convince Fazio, but he didn’t venture to ask anything else.
Towards late morning, the inspector decided to phone the medical examiner.
It was probably too early to do so, but there was no harm in trying.
“Montalbano here. I’m looking for Dr. Pasquano.”
“The doctor’s busy,” the operator said.
“Could you do me a favor?”
“If possible.”
“Could you find out from his assistant when the doctor plans to perform the autopsy on the body that was found at sea yesterday?”
“Just a minute.”
By the time the other person came back, Montalbano had already reviewed the multiplication tables for seven and eight. It was a good way to make the time pass when he had to wait.
“He’s working on it right now.”
“I’m so sorry, Inspector,” Enzo said, throwing his hands up the moment Montalbano walked into the trattoria.
“What are you sorry about?”
“I haven’t got any fresh fish. With the bad weather yesterday…”
“What have you got?”
“An antipasto of caponata made by my wife, a first course of pasta alla norma or with broccoli, and then, as a second course, an eggplant parmesan that’ll have you licking your fingers.”
He was right. But instead of licking his fingers or his mustache, the inspector decided to order a second helping of eggplant.
Once outside, he realized he needed to take a long meditative-digestive walk all the way out to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty. He’d really stuffed himself this time. He even decided to go a bit out of his way, so he could walk past the Vanna and the Ace of Hearts docked beside it.
There wasn’t anybody on the deck of either boat, which probably meant that they, too, were eating.
When he got to the end of the jetty, he sat down on the usual flat rock. The spot afforded him a good view of the yacht and cruiser.
Halfway through his cigarette, he noticed a wooden crate, of the sort used for fish, floating on the water near the Ace of Hearts. He remembered what the harbor captain, Zurlo, had said on TV, and decided to wait and see where the currents would take the crate.
Sticking a hand in his pocket, he counted the cigarettes he had left. There were about ten; that would suffice.
A good hour later, the crate got wedged against the breakwater protecting the arm of the jetty. Captain Zurlo had been right. The outward currents, starting from the quay, necessarily carried all floating objects as far as the eastern arm, exactly where he was sitting.
He had an idea.
Making his way over the rocks, slipping and cursing, he was able to recover the crate. Grabbing it, he brought it back to the flat rock, and then chucked it back into the sea.
This time, it took barely half an hour for him to see that the crate was heading straight out of the harbor.
He got back in his car and headed off to Montelusa to talk with Dr. Pasquano.
“The doctor’s in his office,” said the operator/doorman.
Arriving at the door, Montalbano knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Nothing. So he turned the doorknob and went in.
Pasquano was sitting behind the desk, engrossed in writing, and didn’t even look up to see who had come in.
“I’ll bet my balls,” he said, “that it was the woefully impolite Inspector Montalbano who just entered the room.”
“Your balls are safe, Doctor. You’re right on the money.”
“Only momentarily safe, because you certainly will now try to break them.”
“Right again.”
“If only I could be so right when I play poker!”
“How’d it go at the club last night?”
“Don’t remind me! I had three-of-a-kind in my hand and asked for two cards and… Never mind. What do you want?”
“You know damn well what I want.”
“Just over forty, athletic build, in perfect physical condition, white skin, no sign of surgery, teeth that had never seen a dentist, perfect heart and lungs, and he wore neither glasses nor contact lenses. Is that enough for you?”
“Yes, for when he was alive. And after his death?”
“Let’s say that when he was found, he’d been dead for at least three days.”
“Was he killed when they smashed up his face that way?”
“Nuh-unh,” said the doctor, shaking his head.
“Shot or stabbed?”
“Nuh-unh.”
“Strangled?”
“Nuh-unh.”
“You could at least say if I’m getting warmer or colder! Eh? A little help, the way they do on quiz shows?”
“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 Arquà, 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 Sperlì. When the husband was alive, Sperlì 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?”
“No, the lady fired him as soon as she inherited the boat.”
“Why’d she do that?”
“According to Captain Sperlì, the two could never get along because Captain Giannitrapani had an even nastier disposition than the lady.”
“And what’s Maurilio say about this?”
“Maurilio says Sperlì and the lady were lovers before the husband died.”
“I guess the husband’s little fall into the sea was-”
“Not really, Chief. If they chucked him into the sea, it was for another reason.”
“Explain.”
“Apparently, after a couple of years of marriage the lady started making the rounds of the crew and-”
“What do you mean, ‘making the rounds’?”
“Maurilio said she would take one sailor, enjoy him for a week, then move on to another. When she’d finished the round, she would start over. Except that eventually she settled on Captain Sperlì. The husband was aware of all this commotion but never said anything. He didn’t give a damn. To the point that on certain nights he would go and sleep in a vacant cabin.”
“Maurilio told you all this?”
“Yessir.”
“Did the lady make it with him too?”
“Yessir.”
“Isn’t it possible Maurilio is bad-mouthing the owner because he wants exclusive rights to her?”
“I really don’t know, Chief. On the other hand, I’m convinced Maurilio’s got it in for her because she’s always on his case, going down to the engine room and making fun of him, telling him she knows the engines better than he does, and chewing him out for the slightest things.”
“What about the rest of the crew?”
“Like Sperlì, Maurilio, who’s Spanish, has always been on the Vanna, ever since Giovannini first bought it. The three current sailors were hired after Sperlì dissolved the previous crew, because they were a constant reminder of the lady’s earlier adventures.”
“Let me get this straight. He dismissed everyone but not Maurilio?”
“That’s right. Because Maurilio is protected.”
“By whom?”
“By Giovannini’s will, which stipulates that Maurilio can stay on the Vanna for as long as he feels like it.”
“And how does Maurilio explain this clause?”
“He doesn’t. He says he was very close to Giovannini.”
“But not so close that he didn’t let the lady take him to bed.”
Fazio threw his hands up.
“Wait. And who are the other three?” Montalbano continued.
Fazio had to look again at his piece of paper.
“Ahmed Shaikiri, a North African, twenty-eight years old; Stefano Ricca, from Viareggio, thirty-two years old; and Mario Digiulio, from Palermo…”
Digiulio! That was the same name Vanna had claimed was her own! Was it a coincidence? Better check.
“Stop!” said the inspector. “It’s too late now, but tomorrow morning I want you to go get this Digiulio and bring him here.”
Fazio gave him a confused look.
“Why, wha’d he do?”
“Nothing. I just want to get to know him better. Find whatever excuse you can think of, but I want him here at the station at nine o’clock tomorrow.”
He was about to get up and go home to Marinella when the telephone rang.
“Chief, ’at’d be a lady e’en tho’ she gotta man’s name, says she’s called Giovannino an’ she wantsa talk t’ yiz poissonally in poisson.”
“Let her in.”
It was Livia Giovannini, the owner of the yacht. She came in with a big smile on her face. She was in an evening dress and looked quite elegant.
“Inspector, forgive me for disturbing you.”
“Not at all, signora. Please sit down.”
“I was a little disoriented the other morning when we met, and there was something I forgot to ask you. May I do so now?”
She was being more polite than the Chinese. It was obviously an act.
“Of course.”
“How did you know I had a niece?”
She must have racked her brains trying to figure it out. She must have asked Sperlì for his advice and decided in the end to ask the inspector directly. Which meant that the whole business of the pseudoniece was important. But why?
“The other morning, as I left for work, it was raining cats and dogs and the seaside road into Vigàta collapsed,” Montalbano began.
And he told her the whole story.
“Did she say anything about me?”
“All she told me was your husband’s name, but not his last name. Oh, and, come to think of it, she also added that you’re very rich and like to travel the seas. And that’s about it.”
The lady seemed reassured.
“Well, that’s a relief!”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes the poor thing isn’t really all there, and so she talks and talks and makes up the most incredible stories… So I was a little worried she might have…”
“I understand. Don’t worry, she didn’t tell me anything out of the ordinary.”
“Thank you,” said the lady, standing up and flashing a radiant smile.
“You’re welcome,” said Montalbano, also standing up and smiling broadly.