‘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 decided to continue working at home.
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 hours and always insisted that she call him back. The third caller was also male, Guido by name, and he phoned from Bologna, also late at night; but, unlike Maurizio, he never left a message.
The slips of paper the hotel manager had given to Gallo were twenty in number, all from the time Michela left the hotel on Wednesday afternoon to the moment the police showed up at the hotel. On Wednesday morning, however, during the hours Mrs Licalzi devoted to sleep, the same Maurizio had asked for her at about ten thirty, and Anna had done likewise shortly thereafter. Around nine o’clock that evening, Mrs Vassallo had called looking for Michela, and had rung back an hour later. Anna had phoned back shortly before midnight.
At three o’clock on Thursday morning, Guido had called from Bologna. At ten thirty, Anna, apparently unaware that Michela hadn’t returned to the hotel that night, called again; at eleven, a certain Mr Loconte called to confirm the afternoon appointment. At midday, still on Thursday, a Mr Aurelio Di Blasi phoned and continued to phone back almost every three hours until early Friday evening.
Guido from Bologna had called at two o’clock on Friday morning. As of Thursday morning, Anna had started calling frantically and also didn’t stop until Friday evening.
Something didn’t add up. Montalbano couldn’t put his finger on it, and this made him uncomfortable. He stood up, went out on the veranda, which gave directly onto the beach, took off his shoes, and started walking in the sand until he reached the water’s edge. He rolled up his trouser legs and began wading in the water, which from time to time washed over his feet. The soothing sound of the waves helped him put his thoughts in order. Suddenly he understood what was tormenting him. He went back in the house, grabbed the diary, and opened it up to Wednesday. Michela had written down that she was supposed to go to dinner at the Vassallos’ house at eight. So why had Mrs Vassallo called her at the hotel at nine and again at ten? Hadn’t Michela shown up for dinner? Or did the Mrs Vassallo who phoned have nothing to do with the Vassallos who’d invited her to dinner?
He glanced at his watch: past midnight. He decided the matter was too important to be worrying about etiquette. There turned out to be three listings under Vassallo in the phone book.
He tried the first and guessed right.
‘I’m very sorry. This is Inspector Montalbano.’
Inspector! I’m Ernesto Vassallo. I was going to come to your office myself tomorrow morning. My wife is just devastated; I had to call a doctor. Is there any news?’
‘None. I need to ask you something.’
‘Go right ahead, Inspector.
For poor Michela—’
Montalbano cut him off.
‘I read in Mrs Licalzi’s diary that she was supposed to have dinner—’
This time it was Ernesto Vassallo who interrupted.
‘She never showed up, Inspector!
We waited a long time for her. But nothing, not even a phone call. And she was always so punctual’ We got worried, we thought she might be sick, so we rang the hotel a couple of times, then we tried her friend Anna Tropeano, but she said she didn’t know anything. She said she’d seen Michela at about six and they’d been together for roughly half an hour, and that Michela had left saying she was going back to the hotel to change before coming to dinner at our place.’
‘Listen, I really appreciate your help. But don’t come to the station tomorrow morning, I’m full up with appointments. Drop by in the afternoon whenever you want. Goodnight.’
One good turn deserved another. He looked up the number for Aurelio Di Blasi in the phone book and dialled it. The first ring wasn’t even over when someone picked up.
‘Hello? Hello? Is that you?’
The voice of a middle-aged man, breathless, troubled.
‘Inspector Montalbano here.’
‘Oh.’
Montalbano could tell that the man felt profound disappointment. From whom was he so anxiously awaiting a phone call?