Andrea Camilleri - The Age Of Doubt

“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 [5] 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.