The Age of Doubt (5 page)

“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.

5

As he was opening the door to his house he heard the phone ringing, but when he went to pick up it was too late. The person at the other end had hung up. He glanced at his watch: eight thirty-five.

He let off some steam by cursing the owner of the yacht a few times for having wasted his time.

He’d given Laura his home phone number and they had agreed that she would call at eight-thirty. Which was why she hadn’t bothered to give him her number. So what would he do now? Call the Harbor Office? Or wait a little while yet, hoping she would try to call again? He decided to wait.

He changed his clothes and then went into the kitchen and opened the oven. Adelina, his housekeeper, had made a casserole of
pasta ’ncasciata
that could have fed four. And in the refrigerator, in case he was still hungry, which was unlikely, there was a ready platter of
nervetti
with vinegar.

The telephone rang again. It was Laura.

“I called a few minutes ago but—”

“Sorry, I was held up at the office and—”

“Where shall we meet?”

“Listen, there’s a bar in Marinella—”

“No, I don’t feel like it.”

“Like what?”

“Like meeting you there. I don’t like bars.”

“Then I guess we could—”

“Why don’t you tell me how to get to your house?” she cut him off.

In fact it was the easiest thing to do, and she seemed to be a practical girl. He explained to her how to get there.

“Then let’s do this. I’ll come to your place, and while we’re having an aperitif we can decide where to go out to dinner.

“Yes, sir.”

Laura showed up half an hour later. She’d changed out of her uniform and was wearing a skirt down to her knees, a white blouse, and a sort of heavy vest. She had let her hair down, and it fell onto her shoulders. She was beautiful, vivacious, and very likeable.

“It’s so nice here!”

Montalbano opened the French door onto the veranda, and she went outside, enchanted.

“What’ll you have?” he asked her.

“A little white wine, if you’ve got any.”

The inspector always kept a bottle in the fridge. He grabbed it and replaced it with another.

“Can we sit out here?”

“Absolutely.”

They drank their wine sitting beside each other on the bench. But it was chilly, and when they had finished their glasses they went back inside.

“Where are you going to take me?”

“There are two possibilities. We could go to a restaurant outside of Montereale, which means we’d need to take the car, or we could stay here.”

She looked hesitant, and Montalbano misread her.

“You don’t know me very well,” he said, “but I can assure you I—”

Laura burst into laughter that sounded like so many pearls falling to the ground.

“Oh, I certainly wasn’t thinking you wanted to . . .”

He felt a twinge of melancholy. Did she think him so old that he no longer had any desire? Luckily, however, she continued:

“. . . but I must confess I’m really hungry, because I skipped lunch today.”

“Come with me.”

He led her into the kitchen, opened the oven, and took out the casserole. She smelled it and sighed, closing her eyes for a second.

“What do you say?” asked Montalbano. “Don’t you think it’s a good idea?”

“Let’s stay here.”

They got to know each other a little better. She told him she’d chosen a military career because her father was an admiral, now on the verge of retirement. She’d studied at the Accademia di Livorno, had sailed on the
Vespucci
, and had a boyfriend named Gianni who was also a naval officer and was serving on a battle cruiser. She was thirty-three years old, had been in Vigàta for barely three months, and hadn’t had time yet to make any friends. This was the first time since moving to Vigàta that she was eating with a man.

Montalbano, for his part, talked at length about Livia. Laura even managed to eat the nervetti. She had a discerning palate.

“Would you like some coffee, or a whisky?” he asked when they were done.

“Actually, do you have any more of this wine?”

“Have you managed to identify the dead body?” Laura asked at a certain point.

“No, not yet. I think it’s going to take a while, and it won’t be easy.”

“I heard he died from getting his face smashed in.”

“No, they did that to him afterwards. He was poisoned.”

“So . . .” she began.

Then she stopped.

“No, never mind,” she continued. “I had this idea, but it’s too silly to mention it to you . . . I’ve heard about you, you know. They say you’re not only good, but exceptional in your field.”

Montalbano blushed. And she dropped another string of pearls.

“That’s fantastic! A man still capable of blushing!”

“Come on, stop it. Tell me your idea.”

“I thought it might have been something like a robbery gone wrong. The man could have been mugged while strolling along the jetty. And when he tried to defend himself, the attacker picked up a stone and beat him to death. So he put him in a dinghy . . . There are so many docked around there . . . Have you checked to see who the dinghy belongs to?”

By some miracle Montalbano managed not to blush again. He hadn’t thought of this. When, in fact, it should have been his first concern. His brain was misfiring, no question.

“No, because Forensics believes the dinghy had never been used before they put the body in it.”

Laura screwed up her face.

“Well, I would do a little check just the same.”

Better change the subject or risk looking bad.

“Maybe you can answer a question for me. As far as you know, are there a lot of rich people who stay out at sea all year long, going from port to port and doing nothing else?”

“Are you referring to Livia Giovannini?”

“Do you know her?”

“The
Vanna
called at port here three days after I started working in Vigàta. There was a bureaucratic matter that had to be settled, and so I went aboard. That’s how we met. They were coming from Tangiers, but they had left some months before that from Alexanderbaai.”

Montalbano balked.

“Where’s that?”

“It’s a small port in South Africa.”

“And where were they coming from this time?”

“From Rethymno.”

“And where’s that?”

“In Crete. They were supposed to be going to Oran, but bad weather forced them to change course.”

The inspector seemed astonished.

“Are you surprised?”

“Well, yes. It’s not that the
Vanna
is a small craft, but still . . .”

“Actually, it’s one of the finest yachts in all the world, you know. On top of that, Livia’s husband had all the equipment and motors customized.”

“Sperlì said they have an auxiliary motor that doesn’t work very well.”

“Come on! I think they only use the sails for decoration. That boat is an eighty-five-foot sea serpent that originally had twenty-four sleeping berths. The cabins were later expanded and modified, so that now there are barely half a dozen beds, but in exchange they gained a great deal of space and another sitting room.”

“That big motorboat looks pretty serious too.”

“You mean the
Ace of Hearts
? It measures a good sixty feet and change and has two powerful GM engines and nine sleeping berths. It can go wherever it wants.”

“I see you know about these things.”

“It’s just a personal interest, for fun.”

“Listen, to get back to what we were saying, I asked you if there are a lot of rich people who—”

“—spend their lives at sea? I don’t think so.”

“So how else do you explain it?”

“I have no explanation for it. It may just be some mania of hers. Her husband had the same mania, and I guess she caught it from him.”

Montalbano remained pensive for a moment. Then he asked:

“How could one find out how many ports the
Vanna
has called at in the past year?”

“It’s probably all recorded in the captain’s log.”

“And how does one go about having a look at it?”

“Only the public prosecutor can do that. But he would have to come up with a brilliant excuse. Can you tell me why you’re so interested in the
Vanna
? After all, it only came across that dinghy by chance.”

“I can’t really say why . . . I’m just curious . . . I don’t know . . . There’s something about it that doesn’t add up.”

He could hardly tell her that his suspicions had been aroused by a young woman he had met, who said her name was Vanna, the same as the yacht.

Laura didn’t leave until after midnight, with the promise that they would talk by phone the following day.

The inspector stayed up to think about the dead man.

If, as Dr. Pasquano maintained, they’d rendered him unrecognizable on purpose, this meant he was someone who might be recognized. At first glance, this line of reasoning might seem worthy of Catarella or Monsieur de Lapalisse.

But it was a start.

Some poor bastard killed in this fashion did not normally, nowadays, grab the headlines, as they say in the business. The national press might give him five lines, max, and the local papers half a column. The national TV stations wouldn’t even mention it, though the local ones would.

So whoever would have been in a position to identify the corpse, had they left his face intact, had to be somewhere in the vicinity of Vigàta. And the eventual identification would, therefore, have led directly to the killer. Why?

For one simple reason: because the man had been poisoned. To poison someone, you have to put the poison in something to eat or drink, there was no getting around it.

The victim must therefore have known his killer.

Maybe he was invited for an aperitif, or for dinner, as the inspector had just done with Laura, and then, when the poor guy was looking the other way . . .

Laura! Man, was she ever beautiful! But what the hell was coming over him? What was he thinking? It was hardly imaginable, at his age . . . Still, what eyes she had! And the way she looked at him!

As he was unable to think straight anymore, he decided that the only thing to do was to go to bed.

“Fazio here?” was the first thing he asked, walking into the station the following morning.

“Yessir, Chief. An’ there’s summon ellis ’e’s got together wit’ ’im.”

“Tell Fazio to come to my office alone.”

He had just sat down when Fazio came in.

“What’s Digiulio like?”

“What do you expect? He’s from Palermo and—”

“I want to know if he got nervous or upset when you told him he had to come to the station.”

“No. He was cool and calm. Actually, he said he was expecting it.”

“He was expecting it?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Bring him in.”

“Can I hang around?”

“No.”

Fazio went out, seeming offended.

Mario Digiulio was about forty and had one of those faces that you forget one second after you’ve seen it.

He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and a pair of dirty jeans. He was completely different from how Montalbano had imagined him. As Fazio had mentioned, he wasn’t the least bit scared. Then, unexpectedly, as soon as Montalbano told him to sit down, the man began to speak.