‘We already know that Do you know her well?’ ‘Sure. Since she came here the first time with her husband.’
‘Can you tell me anything about what she’s like?’
‘Look, she never made any trouble. She was just a maniac for order. Whenever we did her room, she would stand there making sure that everything was put back in its place. The girls on the morning shift always ask for the good Lord’s help before working on one-eighteen.’
‘A final question: did your colleagues on the morning shift ever mention if the lady’d had men in her room at night?’
‘Never. And we’ve got an eye for that kind of thing.’
The whole way back to Vigata one question tormented Montalbano: if the lady was a maniac for order, why was the bathroom at the house in Tre Fontane such a mess, with the pink bathrobe thrown haphazardly on the floor to boot?
During the dinner (super-fresh cod poached with a couple of bay leaves and dressed directly on the plate with salt, pepper and Pantelleria olive oil, with a side dish of gentle tinnirume to cheer the stomach and intestines), the inspector told Mrs Vasile Cozzo of the day’s developments.
‘As far as I can tell’ said Clementina, ‘the real question is: why did the murderer make off with the poor woman’s clothes, underwear, shoes and handbag?’
‘Yes’ Montalbano commented, saying nothing more. She’d hit the nail on the head as soon as she opened her mouth, and he didn’t want to interrupt her thought processes.
‘But I can only talk about these things’ the elderly woman continued, ‘based on what I see on television.’
‘Don’t you read mystery novels?’
‘Not very often. Anyway, what does that mean, “mystery novel”? What is a “detective novel”?’
‘Well, it’s a whole body of literature that—’
‘Of course, but I don’t like labels. Want me to tell you a good mystery story? All right, there’s a man who, after many adventures, becomes the leader of a city. Little by little, however, his subjects begin to fall ill with ah unknown sickness, a kind of plague. And so this man sets about to discover the cause of the illness, and in the course of his 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 inside.’
‘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.’