18
When the inspector got back to the station around
five, Mimì was beside himself.
“It certainly helps the Mafia around here when
you’ve got people like Musante fighting them! Incompetent fucking
idiot!”
“Would you please calm down and tell me what
happened?”
“I had an appointment with him at nine o’clock. He
made me wait till eleven-thirty. We’d barely started talking when
he’s called away. He comes back five minutes later, saying he’s
very sorry but has to postpone our meeting until one o’clock. So I
go out for a stroll in Montelusa and come back at one. He’s waiting
for me in his office. I bring him up to date on the investigation
and tell him that all the evidence points to Balduccio Sinagra . .
. So what does he do? He laughs. And he tells me that this is old
news. He says that some time ago they’d received an anonymous
letter accusing Balduccio of having had one of his couriers
murdered for selling drugs on his own, and they’d investigated this
and come to the conclusion that Balduccio had nothing to do with
it. He says it was a trick to throw them off the trail. Fucking
idiots! On top of everything else, he says the courier’s body was
never found. But now it has been found, I tell him, and it
even has a name: Giovanni Alfano. And you know what he said to
me?”
“Mimì, if you don’t tell me, how can I—”
“He said that it couldn’t have been Balduccio
because it was entirely in Balduccio’s interest to keep the man
alive. And he mentioned some business about a letter that Alfano
was supposed to deliver to someone in Villa San Giovanni...”
“Did he tell you how they found out about this
letter?”
“Yes, it was actually a trap set by Narcotics. They
had set things up so that Balduccio would have to get in touch with
this person. They were waiting for the letter to be delivered so
they could screw Balduccio. But since it never arrived, they
decided that Balduccio had nothing to do with Alfano’s murder. I
don’t really get it, to be honest with you.”
“I don’t either. What do you intend to do?”
“I’m not giving up, Salvo. I am certain, you
realize, absolutely one hundred percent certain, that Balduccio did
it!” Mimì replied wildly.
Poor guy! What a state Dolores had reduced him to!
She was contributing to the delinquency of a minor police inspector
. . . She must have been stirring his pot without respite, not
giving him a moment’s peace.
“When you questioned Signora Alfano, did you ask
her if her husband had ever told her how his father, Filippo, was
killed?”
“Yes. She told me that Balduccio had him offed with
a pistol shot at the base of the skull.”
“And that’s all?”
Mimì looked a bit puzzled.
“Yes. One pistol shot, and that’s all. Why do you
ask?”
Montalbano chose not to answer the question
straight off.
“But why didn’t Giovanni ever try to get back at
Balduccio, if he knew he was behind his father’s murder?”
“Dol—Signora Alfano said that Balduccio wanted so
badly to be forgiven by Giovanni, and did so much for him, that in
the end he succeeded.”
“Want some advice?”
“Sure.”
“Ask the lady if she remembers the name of a
Colombian newspaper of the time. Then look up this newspaper’s
archive on the Internet and ask for any articles dealing with the
killing. Something useful might turn up.”
“You know, that’s a good idea! First I’ll talk to
Dol—Signora Alfano, and then I’ll put Catarella to work.”
“Better not bring Catarella into this,” Montalbano
said quickly. “Everyone who comes into headquarters passes by his
workstation. We should be more careful. Why don’t you do the
research at home, on your own computer?”
“You’re right, Salvo.”
And he was off like a rocket. Dolores was sure to
waste some of his time before pretending to remember the name of a
newspaper from twenty or thirty years before. And then Mimì would
be completely taken up with his research. It was essential that he
didn’t get any brilliant ideas about moving in on Balduccio in the
three or four days ahead.
Adelina had prepared him a special dish. Four
slices of freshgrilled tuna, not overly done, with a side dish of
tiny shelled shrimp, all of it topped with a salmoriglio sauce.
With his belly satisfied, and his spirit, too, he sat down at the
table and began to write:
Dear Macannuco,
As I feel that the situation is about to tip in
our favor, I am writing to explain to you what I think actually
happened in the critaru case. I’ve already told you, over
the phone, about Giovanni Alfano and his father Filippo, who is
said to have been bumped off by orders of the Vigatese boss
Balduccio Sinagra. After Giovanni and his wife, a Colombian by the
name of Dolores, had been living for a while in Vigàta, a local
butcher, Arturo Pecorini—a violent man previously suspected of
homicide—got sweet on the Latina girl and began to woo her. To make
a long story short, the two became lovers when the husband was away
at sea. At this point Don Balduccio intervened to defend the absent
Giovanni’s honor. Balduccio was very fond of Giovanni. Word around
town has it that he had his father killed because he thought he had
betrayed him, only to realize afterward that he had made a terrible
mistake. But these are all rumors, of course. There is no proof
that Balduccio ordered Filippo Alfano’s murder. At any rate,
Balduccio orders Dolores to return to Colombia for a while and
forces Pecorini, by means of threats, to move to Catania. Pecorini
opens another butcher shop there, while keeping the one in Vigàta,
which he put in his brother’s care. Some time later, Dolores
returns to Vigàta, and Pecorini too is allowed to come back on
Saturdays and Sundays. The love affair between the two appears, to
all observers, to be over. In reality, however, this is not the
case. The two lovers continue to meet, in spite of the danger. Bear
in mind that Pecorini’s house in Vigàta is less than fifty yards
away from the Alfanos’. When Giovanni comes home for long stays,
Dolores becomes exasperated. Giovanni is very much in love with
her, and when he is with her he makes up for his compulsory
absences, sexually above all. The woman can no longer stand it. And
so Dolores and her lover decide to do away with Giovanni, and to
have the blame fall on Balduccio Sinagra. It must have been the
butcher’s idea, a way to have his revenge. Bear in mind that
Giovanni knows nothing of the affair between Pecorini and his wife,
since Balduccio, at the time, not wanting him to suffer, warned
Giovanni’s friends not to mention it to him. And so on the morning
of Friday, September 3 of this year, Giovanni and his wife leave
for Gioia Tauro in her car. Dolores tells her husband that the day
before, a friend from Catania, having found out they were on their
way to Gioia Tauro, has invited them to lunch. This last point,
incidentally, is all conjecture on my part—it’s possible Dolores
found a different excuse. The important thing is that she convinced
her husband to stop in Catania and go to the butcher’s place. Don’t
forget that Giovanni doesn’t know that Pecorini was and still is
his wife’s lover. And so, Pecorini takes them to his house and,
after lunch, kills Giovanni with a pistol shot to the base of the
skull. What you need to do now is ascertain whether Pecorini has a
garage. I think that’s where the murder took place. And have
Forensics check it very carefully. I am convinced they will find
traces of Giovanni’s blood there. Because that is where Pecorini
chopped the victim into thirty pieces, with Dolores’s help. Why?
Because Dolores has told him the story of Giovanni’s father, who
was killed with a shot to the base of the skull and then cut up
into thirty pieces—which in Mafia ritual correspond to the thirty
silver pieces of Judas, the betrayer. And so they do the same, so
that everyone will see this as the signature, the cipher, of Don
Balduccio, who has had his disloyal courier, Giovanni, executed in
exactly the same fashion as his father. After dismembering the
corpse, Pecorini stuffs the body parts into a large garbage bag and
heads to Vigàta. He then buries the remains at ’u critaru—in
other words, the potter’s field, the place where Judas hanged
himself. Which is another stroke of genius in the effort to make it
look like a Mafia ritual. Dolores, feeling rather exhausted by the
whole ordeal, rests for a few hours at her lover’s house and then
continues on to Gioia Tauro, where she arrives that night. For
proof of this, ask Signora Esterina to tell you about the bouquet
of roses. Then, on Saturday morning, Dolores pretends to leave for
Vigàta. I say “pretends” because she decides that it’s better to do
what she needs to do in the afternoon, when the concierge’s desk is
closed and there’s no risk of any bothersome visits by the
concierge. At the bypass for Lido di Palmi she runs her car off the
road and, while waiting for it to be repaired, checks into a motel
(I’ll give you all the details later). In the afternoon she tells
the hotel’s owner she’s going down to the sea, when in fact she
returns to Gioia Tauro on one of the many buses that run during the
summer months. When she gets to the Via Gerace apartment, she soils
the toilet bowl, opens a bottle of wine and a can of beer, empties
these into the sink, then leaves them in full view on the counter.
From Catania she’s brought along her husband’s trousers, a syringe
full of his blood, and a little cocaine. She leaves the trousers in
full view on the bed, sprinkles a few drops of blood around the
bathroom sink and then covers them (as you yourself told me) with
the movable soap dish. Lastly, she opens the trapdoor to the crawl
space over the bathroom, where she knows there is an empty shoebox;
she takes this and dusts it with cocaine inside, puts it back
overhead, shuts the trap, and then heads back to Lido di Palmi,
taking the bouquet of flowers, which she gets rid of as soon as she
can. In her haste, however, she makes three mistakes.
1) She throws the syringe, which still contains
a great deal of blood, into the garbage bin;
2) She forgets to clean the dust off the little
table in the entranceway (she said she had left the place clean and
in perfect order before leaving);
3) She fails to pick up an electric bill, and
actually pushes it under the little table.
When she gets back to the motel, she goes to
sleep, then leaves for Vigàta the following morning. A few days
later, the butcher sends an anonymous letter to the Antimafia
office accusing Balduccio Sinagra of the murder of a courier who
supposedly betrayed him. In this way he hopes to prompt an
investigation. But Antimafia and Narcotics know this can’t be true,
because of the business of the letter Balduccio himself gave to
Giovanni, which the two killers know nothing about and destroy
along with Giovanni’s other things. I realize you may have trouble
understanding all this; I promise to explain it all to you when
it’s over. Two months after the murder, heavy rains (aided also, in
my opinion, by Pecorini) bring the remains of an unknown murder
victim to the surface. Dolores then comes into Vigàta police
headquarters to cast the first doubt on whether her husband ever
actually boarded his ship. And, indeed, the representative of the
shipping company informs us that he never did take ship. I succeed
in identifying the corpse by means of a dental bridge that Giovanni
swallowed as he was being killed. Incidentally, in my opinion they
disfigured him so that he could only be identified through DNA
testing, thus giving temporal plausibility to Dolores’s phony
concerns over her husband’s likely disappearance. In short, as of
that moment, it is Dolores herself directing our investigation,
adroitly steering it (especially after I turned it over to my
deputy) towards Balduccio Sinagra.
It was the Antimafia’s Musante (whom you know)
who convinced me that this was the wrong track. And so I went to
Gioia Tauro to inspect the scene myself (I didn’t have much time,
and didn’t come to see you, sorry), which gave rise to some doubts
and suspicions.
I think what I’ve told you so far should be
enough for now. If Dolores reacts the way we hope, the game is
over. You’ll have everything you need to interrogate her. And let
me repeat again, my friend, that you must never mention my name,
for any reason whatsoever, even if you are subjected to
torture.
This is what I ask of you in exchange for having
given you the solution to a complex case. You can take all the
credit yourself, but you must repay me with your silence. I shall
fax you this letter to the private number you gave me.
Please call me at home, not at headquarters. The
best time would be after ten p.m.
Affectionately,
Salvo
Is it an honest letter? he wondered, rereading
it.
Is it a dishonest letter? he wondered, rereading it
a second time.
It is useful to the purpose for which it is
intended, and no more, he concluded as he started getting undressed
to go to bed.
The following evening, around ten o’clock, came
Macannuco’s first phone call.
“Montalbano? This morning I got a phone call from
Forensics.”
“Yes, and?”
“You hit the nail on the head. The blood at the
bottom of the garbage bin was the same as what was found in the
sink.”
“You mean you hit the nail on the head,
Macannù. Congratulations.”
The next evening, Macannuco called again.
“I got your anonymous letter and forwarded it to
youknow-who,” he said.
The third night after the inspector had made the
decisive move, he was so nervous he didn’t sleep a wink. He was
getting too old to put up with this level of tension. When the sun
finally appeared, Montalbano found himself looking out on a
beautiful December morning, cold and bright, without a cloud in the
sky. He realized he had no desire either to go to the office or to
stay at home. Cosimo Lauricella, the local fisherman, was busying
himself with his boat on the beach.
“Cosimo!” the inspector called from the window.
“Could I come out with you in the boat?”
“But I’ll be out till the afternoon!”
“That’s not a problem.”
He himself didn’t catch a single fish, but the
effect on his nerves was better than a month in a specialized
clinic.
The long-awaited phone call from Macannuco came
two days later, by which time the inspector was seriously unshaven,
hadn’t changed his shirt, its collar ringed with grease, and his
eyes were so bloodshot he looked like a monster out of a
science-fiction movie. Mimì, too, was no joke: also unshaven and
red-eyed, hair standing straight up so that he looked like the
advertisement for Presbítero pencils. A terrified Catarella was
afraid to say anything to either one of them when they passed in
front of his closet, and would only slink down in his chair to the
floor.
“Half an hour ago we intercepted a very brief phone
call from Dolores Alfano to Signora Trippodo,” said
Macannuco.
“What did she say?”
“She merely asked if she could come by tomorrow
around three in the afternoon. Trippodo answered, ‘I’ll be waiting
for you.’ And we’ll be there waiting for her, too.”
“Give me a call at the station as soon as you
arrest her. Oh, and listen, I had an idea about the
syringe...”
Macannuco liked the idea. Montalbano, however,
didn’t care what happened to Dolores; his main concern was to keep
Mimì completely out of the loop. He had to pull him out and keep
him busy for the next twenty-four hours. He called Fazio.
“Fazio? Sorry to bother you at home, but I need you
to come to my place right now, in Marinella.”
“I’m on my way, Chief.”
When Fazio got there, he was worried and full of
questions. He found Montalbano clean shaven, wearing a crisp new
shirt, spic and span. The inspector sat him down and asked
him:
“Would you like a whisky?”
“To be honest, I’m not in the habit...”
“Take my advice, I think it’s better if you have
one.”
Fazio obediently poured himself two fingers’
worth.
“Now I’m going to tell you a story,” Montalbano
began, “but you’d better keep the whisky bottle within
reach.”
By the time he’d finished his story, Fazio had
drunk a quarter of a brand-new bottle. During the half hour in
which Montalbano was talking, Fazio’s only comment, which he said
five times, was:
“Holy shit!”
The color of his face, on the other hand, changed
often: initially red, it turned yellow, then purple, and then a
blend of all three colors.
“So, tomorrow morning, what I want you to do,” the
inspector concluded, “is this: The minute Mimì gets to the office,
you tell him that an idea came to you during the night, and then
you hand him a copy of the article.”
“What do you think Inspector Augello will
do?”
“He’ll race to Montelusa to talk to Tommaseo,
claiming it’s proof, then he’ll do the same with the commissioner
and even with Musante. He’ll waste the whole morning running from
one office to another. You, then, will throw down your ace, and
make things more difficult for him.”
“And then what?”
“Tomorrow evening, as soon as Dolores gives herself
away, Macannuco will phone me at the station. I’ll call Mimì and
tell him she’s been arrested. You should be there, too. I can’t
imagine what his reaction will be.”
At six P.M. the following evening, Mimì Augello
returned to the office dead tired and in a rage over all the time
he’d wasted in Montelusa. But he also seemed worried about
something else.
“Has Signora Alfano called you?” the inspector
asked.
“Called me? Why would she do that? Has she called
Fazio, by any chance?”
“No, she hasn’t.”
He was agitated. It looked like Dolores had left
without saying anything. And was keeping her cell phone turned off.
Apparently she urgently needed to go to Catania to talk to Arturo
Pecorini.
“And how did it go in Montelusa?”
“Don’t get me started, Salvo! What a bunch of
imbeciles ! All they do is shilly-shally, take their time, and find
excuses. What better proof do you want than that newspaper article!
But I’ll be there again tomorrow, talking to Tommaseo!”
He left, furious, and went into his office.
At seven that evening, Macannuco rang.
“Bingo! Montalbano, you are a genius! When, as you
suggested, Signora Trippodo let Dolores have a glimpse of a bloody
syringe, Dolores dug her own grave. And you want some good news?
She gave up immediately. She realized the jig was up and confessed,
blaming it all on her lover, the butcher. Who, incidentally, was
arrested about fifteen minutes ago at his butcher shop in Catania .
. . So there you go. Anyway, bye now, I’ll keep you
informed.”
“Informed of what? No need to bother anymore,
Macannù. I’ll learn the rest from the newspapers.”
The inspector took three, four, five deep breaths,
to get his wind back.
“Fazio!”
“Your orders, Chief.”
A quick glance sufficed to communicate their
thoughts. There was no need for words.
“Go tell Mimì I want to see him, and you come back,
too.”
When the two returned, Montalbano was swaying back
and forth in his chair, hands in his hair. He was putting on a
performance of surprise, shock, and dismay.
“Matre santa! Matre santa!” he said.
“What is it, Salvo?” Mimì asked, frightened.
“I just got a call from Macannuco! Matre
santa! Who would’ve thought it?”
“Why, what happened?” Mimì nearly yelled.
“He’s just arrested Dolores Alfano in Gioia
Tauro!”
“Dolores?! In Gioia Tauro?!” Mimì repeated,
flabbergasted.
“Yes.”
“What for?”
“For the murder of her husband!”
“But that’s impossible!”
“No, it’s true. She confessed.”
Mimì closed his eyes and fell to the floor too fast
for Fazio to catch him. And at that moment Montalbano realized that
Mimì had suspected all along, but had never been able to admit, not
even to himself, that Dolores was involved up to her neck in her
husband’s murder.
The day after his arrival in Boccadasse, the
inspector had just entered Livia’s apartment when the phone rang.
It was Fazio.
“How are you doing, Chief?”
“Not great, not bad, just getting along.”
His dress rehearsal for retirement was going well.
Indeed that was a typical reply for a retiree.
“I wanted to let you know that Inspector Augello
left today with his wife and son for a couple of weeks’ rest in the
town where Beba’s parents live. I also wanted to tell you how
pleased I am at the way you were able to set everything right. When
will you be back, Chief?”
“Tomorrow evening.”
The inspector went and sat by the big picture
window. Livia would be pleased to hear about Beba and Mimì.
Balduccio Sinagra had had his lawyer Guttadauro call Montalbano to
tell him how pleased the boss was to see Dolores arrested. Fazio,
too, was pleased. And so was Macannuco, whom the inspector had seen
on television, being congratulated by journalists for his brilliant
investigation. And surely Mimì, who’d been in a pretty nasty
pickle, had to be pleased, even if he couldn’t admit it to anyone.
So, when all was said and done, the inspector had managed to lead
them all out of the treacherous terrain of ’u critaru. But
what about him? How did he, Montalbano, feel?
“I’m just tired” was his bleak reply.
Some time ago he had read the title, and only the
title, of an essay called: “God Is Tired.” Livia had once asked him
provocatively if he thought he was God. A fourth-rate, minor god,
he had thought at the time. But, as the years passed, he’d become
convinced he wasn’t even a back-row god, but only the poor
puppeteer of a wretched puppet theater. A puppeteer who struggled
to bring off the performances as best he knew how. And for each new
performance he managed to bring to a close, the struggle became
greater, more wearisome. How much longer could he keep it up?
Better, for now, not to think of such things.
Better to sit and gaze at the sea, which, whether in Vigàta or
Boccadasse, is still the sea.