8
Meanwhile, however, he had to kill some time while
waiting for Ingrid’s phone call.
He played the only three versions of solitaire he
knew, without cheating as he often did. He played over and over,
without winning a single hand.
He went to his bookcase to fetch a book Livia had
bought, titled Solitaire for the Solitary. The first version
belonged to the category the author defined as the easiest. The
inspector couldn’t even understand how the cards were supposed to
be set up. Then he played a game of chess against himself, changing
places with each move, so that he would seem like a real opponent.
Fortunately, it was a long match. But the opponent won with a
brilliant move. And Montalbano felt upset with himself for having
lost.
“Care for a rematch?” his adversary asked.
“No, thanks,” Montalbano replied to himself.
His opponent would probably have won the rematch,
too.
Careful inspection, in front of the bathroom
mirror, of a tiny little pimple beside his nose. Bitter
acknowledgment of a certain amount of hair loss. Failed attempt at
counting same (approximately, that is).
Second game of chess, also lost, resulting in
hurling of various objects against the walls.
The phone call never came. Instead, around six
o’clock in the morning—by which time, at the end of his rope, he
had collapsed on his bed—he heard the sound of a car pulling up in
the parking space in front of the house. He raced to open the door.
It was Ingrid, half-frozen to death.
“Give me some steaming hot tea. I’m
freezing.”
“But weren’t you used to much colder—”
“I guess I’m not anymore.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I parked on a side street from where I could keep
an eye on Mimì’s front door. He came out at ten, got into his car,
which was parked right in front, and drove off. He was very
agitated.”
“How could you tell?”
“From the way he drove.”
“Here’s your tea. Shall we go into the living
room?”
“No. Let’s stay in the kitchen. Would you believe
that for a moment I thought he was coming to see you?”
“Why?”
“Because he was headed for Marinella. But then . .
. You know where, just when you reach the seafront, there’s a
filling station on the right that’s no longer in use?”
“Sure.”
“Well, a short way past the station, there’s an
unpaved road that goes up the hill. That’s where he turned. I know
that road because it leads up to some houses, including one that
I’ve been to a few times. I had to keep fairly close behind his car
because the road intersects with quite a few others that lead to
the different houses. If he’d turned off the main road, it would
have been hard to keep following him. But in fact he stopped in
front of the fourth house on the right, got out, opened the gate,
and went in.”
“And what did you do?”
“I continued on.”
“You passed behind him?”
“Yes, but he turned around.”
“Damn!”
“Calm down. There’s no way he could have recognized
me. I’ve only had my Micra for a week.”
“Yes, but you yourself are very—”
“Recognizable? Even with sunglasses and a great big
hat à la Greta Garbo?”
“Let’s hope you’re right. Go on.”
“A little bit later I came back, but with the
engine turned off. Mimì’s car was in the yard. He’d gone
inside.”
“Did you wait for the woman to arrive?”
“Of course. Until half an hour ago. I never saw her
arrive.”
“So what does it mean?”
“Look, Salvo, when I drove past the house the first
time, I swear I saw the light on inside. There was already someone
there waiting for him.”
“You mean the woman lives there?”
“Not necessarily. Mimì left his car in the yard. He
didn’t put it in the little garage next to the house, maybe because
the woman had already put her own car in it when she got there
earlier.”
“But, Ingrid, the garage might have the woman’s car
in it not because she got there shortly before Mimì, but because
she lives there.”
“That’s also possible. At any rate, Mimì didn’t
knock or ring a bell when he arrived. He opened the gate with a key
he already had.”
“Why didn’t you wait a little longer?”
“Because too many people were starting to pass
by.”
“Thanks,” said Montalbano.
“Thanks? That’s all?” asked Ingrid.
“Thanks, and that’s all,” said Montalbano.
Before leaving the house just before nine o’clock,
the inspector phoned the Antimafia Commission’s Montelusa
office.
“Hello, Musante? Montalbano here.”
“Carissimo! What a pleasure to hear from
you! What can I do for you?”
“Could I drop by this morning? There’s something I
wanted to talk to you about, it shouldn’t take long.”
“Could you come in about an hour? I’ve got a
meeting afterwards that—”
“Thanks, see you in a bit.”
He got in his car, and when he was at the abandoned
filling station, he did an extremely slow U-turn that unleashed the
worst homicidal instincts in the drivers behind him.
“Asshole!”
“Faggot!”
“Blow you away, muthafucka!”
He turned onto the unpaved road, and after a short
stretch passed by the fourth house. Windows shuttered, garage door
down. The gate, however, was open because an old man was working in
the garden, which was well tended. The inspector stopped, parked
the car, got out, and started looking at the house.
“Looking for someone?” asked the old man.
“Yes. A Mr. Casanova, who’s supposed to live
here.”
“Afraid not, sir. You’re mistaken. Nobody lives
here.”
“But who owns the house?”
“Mr. Pecorini. But he only comes here in
summertime.”
“Where can I find this Mr. Pecorini?”
“He’s in Catania. Works at the port, at
customs.”
He got back in the car and headed for the station.
If he got to Montelusa five minutes late, too bad. He parked in the
station’s lot but remained in the car, pressed his hand on the horn
and did not let up until Catarella appeared in the doorway.
Seeing the inspector in his car, he came running
up.
“Whattizzit, Chief? Whass wrong?”
“Fazio around?”
“Yessir.”
“Call’im.”
Fazio arrived like a bat out of hell.
“Fazio, get moving, fast. I want to know everything
there is to know about a certain Pecorini who works at customs in
the port of Catania.”
“Should I proceed with caution, Chief?”
“Yeah, it’s probably better if you do.”
The local headquarters of the national Antimafia
Commission consisted of four offices on the fifth floor of the
Montelusa Central Police building. As the elevator was, as usual,
out of order, Montalbano started climbing the stairs. Looking up
when he’d reached the third floor, he saw Dr. Lattes descending. To
avoid the usual hassle of answering his idiotic questions about the
family, he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and buried his
face in it, heaving his shoulders as if he were weeping
uncontrollably. Dr. Lattes recoiled against the wall and let him
pass, not daring to say a word.
“Want some coffee?” asked Musante.
“No, thanks,” said Montalbano.
He didn’t trust what passed for coffee in law
enforcement offices.
“So, tell me everything.”
“Well, Musante, I believe I have a homicide on my
hands that looks like the work of the Mafia.”
“Stop right there. Answer me a question. In what
form are you going to say what you are about to say to me?”
“In trochaic pentameter.”
“C’mon, Montalbano, be serious.”
“Sorry, but I didn’t understand your
question.”
“I meant, are you telling me this officially or
unofficially?”
“What difference does it make?”
“If it’s official, then I have to write up a
transcript; if it’s unofficial, I have to have a witness
present.”
“I see.”
Apparently they didn’t take any chances at the
Antimafia Commission. Given the ties between the Mafia and the
upper echelons of business, industry, and government, it was best
to cover one’s ass and proceed with caution.
“Since you’re a friend, I’ll give you a choice of
witnesses. Gullotta or Campana?”
“Gullotta.”
The inspector knew him well and liked him.
Musante went out and returned a few minutes later
with Gullotta, who smiled as he shook Montalbano’s hand. It was
clear he was happy to see him.
“You can go on now,” said Musante.
“I’m referring to the unknown man we found
dismembered in a garbage bag. Have you heard about it?”
“Yes,” said Musante and Gulotta in chorus.
“Do you know how he was killed?”
“No,” said the chorus.
“With a bullet to the base of the skull.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the chorus.
At that moment there was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” said the chorus in chorus.
A mustachioed man of about fifty came in, looked at
Montalbano, then looked at Musante and signaled to him that he
wanted to tell him something. Musante stood up, the man whispered
something in his ear and then left. Musante then gestured to
Gullotta, who got up and went over to him. Musante whispered into
Gullotta’s ear, and they both turned and looked at Montalbano. Then
they looked at each other and sat back down.
“If that was a mime scene, I didn’t get it,” said
Montalbano.
“Go on,” Musante said in a serious tone.
“The fact of the shot to the base of the skull
would already be one indication,” the inspector resumed. “But
there’s more. Are you familiar with the Gospel according to St.
Matthew?”
“What?!” said Gullotta, thrown for a loop.
Musante, for his part, bent down towards
Montalbano, lay a hand on his knee, and asked him lovingly:
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Of course I’m all right.”
“You’re not upset?”
“Not at all!”
“Well, then why, just a few minutes ago, were you
crying uncontrollably in the stairwell?”
So that’s what the man with the mustache had come
in to tell him! Montalbano felt lost. How was he ever going to
explain the whole complicated affair to these two, who were looking
at him with a combination of concern and suspicion? He’d hoisted
himself with his own petard. He gave a sort of forced smile, took
on (he knew not from where) a nonchalant air, and said:
“Oh, that? It’s Dr. Lattes’s fault. He—”
“Did he scold you or something? Raise his voice at
you?” asked Musante, bemused.
“Chew you out?” Gullotta laid it on.
Was it possible neither of them could speak for
himself? No, it wasn’t possible.
Oliver and Hardy. A comical duo.
“No, no, the whole thing is because, after I told
him my wife had run away with an illegal immigrant, I—”
“But you’re not married!” Musante reminded him,
alarmed.
“Or maybe you got married and never told us?”
Gullotta hypothesized.
“No, no, of course I’m not married. But, you see,
since, afterwards, I told him my wife had returned for the
children—”
“You have children?” Gullotta asked him,
amazed.
“How old are they?” Musante followed.
“No, no...”
He lost heart. He couldn’t go on. Words failed him.
He buried his face in his hands.
“You’re not going to start crying again in here,
are you?!” Musante asked him, alarmed.
“Come on, have faith. There’s a solution to
everything,” said Gullotta.
How to explain? Start yelling? Break both their
noses? Pull out his pistol and force them to listen? They would
think him stark raving mad. He tried to remain calm, and in the
effort, he started sweating.
“Could you both do me a favor and just listen to me
for five minutes?”
“Of course, of course,” the chorus resumed.
“The story that I was crying is true, though I
wasn’t really crying.”
“Of course, of course.”
It was hopeless. By now they were convinced he was
raving and were treating him gingerly, humoring him and pretending
they agreed with him, the way one does with the insane so they
won’t go berserk.
“I swear I’m fine,” said the inspector. “I just
want you to bear with me and pay attention.”
“Of course, of course.”
He told them the whole story, from the reading of
the Camilleri book to his call to Dr. Pasquano. When he had
finished, a thoughtful silence descended. But he had the impression
that Musante and Gullotta had changed their minds and no longer
considered him quite so crazy.
“Do you find there’s method in my madness?” asked
Montalbano.
“Well . . .” said Gullotta, not catching his
Shakespearean allusion.
“In short, why did you come here and tell us all
this?” asked Musante.
Montalbano looked at him, stunned.
“Because that dead body most assuredly belongs to a
mafioso who was murdered by his colleagues. Or are you only
interested in living mafiosi?”
Musante and Gullotta exchanged a glance.
“No,” said Gullotta. “We’re always interested, dead
or alive. From what I can gather, you seem to want to unload the
case on us.”
“Since you’re a bit overwrought, you want to wash
your hands of it,” Musante said in an understanding tone.
Geez, what a pain!
“Look, I’m not trying to unload anything, and I’m
not overwrought.”
“No? Then what are you trying to do?”
“Yes, what, exactly?” Gullotta chimed in,
introducing a notable variant into the repertoire.
“Unless I am mistaken, all Mafia investigations in
this jurisdiction belong to you, do they not?”
“Yes, of course they do,” said Musante. “But only
when we are certain that the Mafia are indeed implicated.”
“One hundred percent certain,” said Gullotta.
“So I didn’t convince you?”
“Yes, you did, in part, and verbally. But we can’t
very well go to our superiors saying that you became firmly
convinced reading some silly novel like Camilleri’s...”
“. . . and the Gospel according to Matthew,”
Gullotta concluded.
“How old are you?” Montalbano asked them.
“I’m forty-two,” said Musante.
“And I’m forty-four,” said Gullotta.
“You’re too young,” Montalbano observed.
“What do you mean?”
They were talking in chorus again.
“I mean you’ve become accustomed to today’s Mafia
and no longer understand a thing about semiology.”
“Semiology? I’ve never even—” Gullotta began
doubtfully.
“You see, Montalbano,” Musante interrupted him, “if
you had actually identified the body, and we were certain that it
belonged to a mafioso, then—”
“I get it,” said the inspector. “You want your
lunch served to you on fine china.”
In perfect sync, the chorus threw their hands up in
the air to express their regret.
Montalbano stood up; the chorus stood up.
“Can I ask you something?”
“If we can be of help...”
“As far as you know, was there any notable Mafia
activity in the Vigàta area about two months ago?”
Montalbano realized that these words had got the
attention of the two-man chorus. They had sort of straightened
themselves up from the relaxed posture of goodbye they had
assumed.
“Why?” the chorus asked warily.
Damned if he was going to tell them now that the
dismembered stranger’s death dated from about two months ago.
“Oh, I dunno, just wondering...”
“No, there hasn’t been anything,” said
Musante.
“Nothing at all,” Gullotta confirmed.
Apparently, when they had to lie, they become
soloists. It was clear they had no intention whatsoever of letting
a borderline madman like him in on a secret investigation.
They said goodbye.
“Take care of yourself,” Gullotta suggested.
“Take a few days off,” Musante advised.
So something had definitely happened two months
earlier. Something the Antimafia Commission was keeping hidden
because the investigation was still ongoing.
When he got to the station he called Fazio and told
him of his talk with Musante and Gullotta. He did not tell him, of
course, that they thought he was crazy.
“Have you got any friends at Antimafia?”
“Sure, Chief. Morici.”
“Is he about fifty, with a mustache?” asked
Montalbano, alarmed.
“No.”
“Could you talk to him?”
“What do you want me to say to him?”
“Ask him if he knows what happened two months ago,
which Musante and Gullotta didn’t want to tell me.”
“I can try, Chief, but...”
“But what?”
“Morici and I may be friends, but he’s a man of few
words. The guy’s like a statue. He doesn’t even sweat.”
“Well, try to make him sweat a little. Have you
started working on Pecorini?”
“Yessir. I’ve started and I’ve even finished. The
response was negative.”
“Meaning?”
“He doesn’t work at customs in Catania and never
has. Nobody with that name has.”
“Ah, I see. Maybe the person who gave me this
information didn’t mean ‘customs’ as in ‘customs office,’ but was
simply referring to that part of town. People do talk that way,
sometimes.”
“So where am I supposed to find him now, this
Pecorini?”
Wasn’t it possible that Mimì went through some
agency to rent that house?
“Listen, how many real estate agencies are there in
Vigàta?”
Fazio did a quick mental tally.
“Five and a half, Chief.”
“What do you mean by ‘a half’?”
“There’s one that also sells cars.”
“See if Pecorini used one of them to rent a
house.”
“To rent it himself or to rent it out to
others?”
“To rent it out. He owns the house. And if you have
any luck, have them tell you where he works, or at least where he
lives. He must have an address and phone number with the
agency.”
“Do you know the address of the house?”
“No.”
It was best not to give Fazio too much information.
He was liable to discover that Mimì was renting it.
That afternoon, as he was coming back in to the
station, he nearly collided with Mimì Augello, who was coming out
in a hurry.
“Greetings, Mimì.”
“Greetings,” Mimì replied brusquely.
Montalbano turned around to look at him as he
headed through the parking lot towards his car. Mimì seemed to be
walking with his back slightly hunched.
At that very moment another car parked right beside
Mimì’s, and from it emerged a woman of more than considerable
beauty.
But Augello didn’t consider her at all. He didn’t
even look at her, in fact, but only started up his car and
left.
How he had changed! Once upon a time, Mimì would
most certainly have tried to strike up a conversation and make
friends with a woman like that.