“I’ll talk to her here.”
After exchanging introductions, they sat down in the vestibule.
Signora Daniela was a nice-looking, well-dressed brunette somewhere in her mid-thirties.
She made no effort to hide her agitation and was worrying a little handkerchief to death with her hands. Since nobody seemed ready to open the conversation, she spoke first.
“Forgive me for barging in on you like this, but I went to the police station and they told me you were here, and so I . . .”
“You did the right thing,” said the inspector.
“Have you by any chance had any news of Marcello in the meantime?” she asked anxiously.
“Not yet.”
Daniela’s face darkened further.
“I would like to explain . . . I don’t know where to begin . . . When Signor Fazio called me I didn’t realize at first how serious this all was . . . Then, after I started thinking about it . . .”
“What made you change your mind?”
“Well, sometime in late June Marcello came to our house for dinner. He was different from his usual cheerful self, and I asked him why. He didn’t want to tell me, but by the end of the meal he decided to. He was worried because there had been a serious drop in sales at his store and, as if this wasn’t enough, he’d been told his protection fee had doubled. And he told us he wasn’t going to pay it. He came back to our place for dinner just before going away on vacation. On that occasion he told us he’d met a fantastic new woman, but he also told us he hadn’t paid the protection money and, as a result, he’d been getting some very threatening phone calls.”
“What did they threaten him with?”
“Burning up his car, burning down his store . . .”
“Did they also threaten to kidnap him?”
“He didn’t say so to me.”
“And when he returned from his vacation, you only spoke to him by phone?”
“Yes. We didn’t get together.”
“How did he seem to you?”
“He was, well . . . euphoric, that’s the word. He’d just spent a month of bliss, he told me. And he added that things were serious with this girl, very serious. He even led me to think they might get married. I was honestly quite happy he seemed to be settling down. I told him I wanted to meet her, and he replied that he had no problem with that, and that one of these evenings he would bring her over for dinner.”
“Did he tell you the girl’s name?”
“No.”
“Did he say where she lived?”
“Yes, he said she lived here in Vigàta, but I didn’t ask him for anything more specific.”
“Did he say whether she had a job?”
“No.”
“Did he mention again the protection payment and the problems with the store?”
“Not at all . . . It was as if he was still in Lanzarote with his girlfriend. As if he was still on vacation. He hadn’t had time yet to readjust to the real world.”
“Do you know any of your brother’s friends?”
“He’s got quite a few . . . The first one who comes to mind is Giorgio Bonfiglio. He’s his closest friend.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No, but you’ll find him in the phone book. I talked to him just before coming here.”
“You talked to Bonfiglio?”
“Yes. I told him everything I knew. He hadn’t heard from Marcello either for days. And that really troubles me. It makes me very anxious. I’m worried they may have hurt him. Inspector, I beg you, please do everything you can because—”
“There’s a slight problem, signora. Your brother is a legal adult. It’s quite possible he decided to disappear of his own free will . . .”
“I don’t think so.”
“I don’t, either, but for the moment I’m stuck. I can only act if a family files a special report.”
“I see,” said Daniela.
It was clear that she didn’t know whether or not to file the report. The inspector helped her out a little.
“Talk it over with your husband. If you decide to do it, call police headquarters and ask for Signor Fazio.”
Daniela stood up, thanked them both, said good-bye, and went out.
“I’m starting to have my doubts,” said Fazio.
“About what?”
“What if it was Marcello himself who set fire to his store, hoping the blame would fall on the Mafia? We know from his sister that business was bad and the protection fee had been doubled. This way he gets the insurance money, and a good night to all. Also, just to complicate matters, he sets up the little drama of his front door being left open and him completely vanished.”
“That could be a viable hypothesis,” said the inspector. “But in the meantime let’s try to find out as much as we can about Marcello Di Carlo. We’ll go back to the office now, and I want you to ring Bonfiglio right away and summon him to the station for four o’clock.”
* * *
“Any news, Cat?”
“Nah, Chief.”
“Has Inspector Augello returned?”
“’E’s jess back now, Chief.”
“Tell him to come to my office.”
He’d barely sat down when Mimì walked in.
“Wha’d your kid do to his leg?”
“Nothing, chickenshit.”
“So why did it take you so long?”
“Actually I got back a good two hours ago, but I immediately had to go out again.”
“Why, what happened?”
“A car was torched last night. And since I’d taken a report for a stolen car, I wanted to go and check it out. I believe I mentioned that theft to you.”
“Yeah, I vaguely remember.”
“The guy reporting the theft was the car’s owner, an engineer by the name of Cosimato. It was a special model of Mitsubishi, with an extralarge trunk.”
Montalbano twisted in his armchair and huffed.
“Listen, Mimì, you’re just boring me. I don’t give a shit about any stolen cars.”
“Well, in the present case you’re making a big mistake.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” said Mimì, glaring at him defiantly.
“All right, then, go on.”
“Well, the car turns out to be none other than Engineer Cosimato’s Mitsubishi. So I’d guessed right. But whoever set it on fire did a poor job of it, since the rear of the vehicle remained almost intact. So I opened the trunk and immediately saw something strange.”
“Namely?”
“A metal ring covered with fabric, of the kind that women use to gather their hair. This got me thinking: Maybe the guy going around kidnapping young women had used this car . . .”
“So what did you do?”
“I did what I was supposed to do. I called up the forensics lab, waited for them to arrive on the scene, and then I came back here.”
“And how did you leave it with them?”
“They’re gonna call me this afternoon.”
“Mimì, you have no idea how much effort it costs me to say this to you, but I’ll say it anyway: Very well done. You’ve really—”
“Wait, stop right there! Otherwise the effort might be so tremendous you’ll end up with a hernia.”
* * *
As soon as the inspector sat down, Enzo came over to take his order.
It was early, and aside from the inspector, there were no other customers, so they could talk openly.
“Shall I bring you a few antipasti as usual?”
“Yes, but you have to do me a favor while I’m eating them.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Call your niece and ask her if she lost anything during her kidnapping.”
“What do you mean?�
��
“The kidnapper stuffed her into his trunk, didn’t he? And even if he did it carefully, trying not to harm her, it’s still an act of physical force, so it’s possible your niece lost something in the process—I dunno, an earring, bracelet, something like that.”
Enzo returned as Montalbano was finishing his starters.
“My niece lost a little ring of no value but which she was very attached to. It was too big for her. But in all honesty she doesn’t know exactly when she lost it. Have there been any new developments?”
“Nothing yet.”
After coming out of the restaurant he took his customary stroll along the jetty, out to the flat rock just under the lighthouse.
He sat down on the rock, fired up a cigarette, and started thinking.
Even if Mimì Augello was right, this didn’t mean with any certainty that there would be no more overnight kidnappings.
It was possible the kidnapper had stolen another car in the fear that the one he’d been using might be identified.
But it was also possible that the kidnapper had no further intention or need to conduct any more kidnappings.
In both cases, however, the main question still remained unanswered. And this was: What was the purpose of the kidnappings?
None of it seemed to make any sense.
And yet there had to be an explanation for it all.
“Think you could help me find it?” he asked a crab who was staring at him from the lower end of the rock.
The crab did not reply.
“Thanks just the same,” said Montalbano.
Then he sighed, stood up, started walking slowly, one lazy step at a time, back to his car.
* * *
Just a few minutes before four, Fazio knocked and came into the inspector’s office.
“Do you want me here when you talk to Bonfiglio?”
“Yes, have a seat. In the meantime I can tell you what Augello has discovered.”
He told him about the car that had been torched and the little hooplet. Before Fazio could venture a comment, the phone rang.
“Ahh, Chief, ’ere’s a Signor Bongiglio ’ere poissonally in poisson, an’ ’e says you summonsed ’im ’ere yisself.”
“Yes, that’s right, send him in.”
As soon as Giorgio Bonfiglio appeared, Montalbano and Fazio exchanged a questioning glance.
Since Daniela had described him as Marcello’s closest friend, they were expecting someone of about the same age, around forty. Whereas the man before them looked about sixty, but was well-groomed in his person and attire.
Montalbano had him sit down. Bonfiglio sat down on the edge of the chair, clearly ill at ease.
The inspector went straight to the matter at hand, asking him a question that took them both by surprise:
“Are you married?”
“Why do you want to know?” the man asked, a bit flabbergasted.
“Please answer my question.”
“Marriage has never even crossed my mind. I’m the sort of man who’s usually called an unapologetic bachelor.”
“How did you become friends with Marcello Di Carlo?”
“We met about ten years ago at a dinner party at the house of some friends we had in common. We immediately took a liking to each other, and so, despite the difference in age, we became friends.”
“Does Di Carlo confide in you?”
Bonfiglio smiled and puffed himself up in pride.
5
The inspector became irritated.
“Please express yourself verbally, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course he confides in me. Since I’m older than him, I sort of became his confessor and adviser.”
“Do you think he tells you everything?”
“Well, I don’t know . . . Let’s say almost everything.”
“Did he tell you that the Mafia doubled his protection fee?”
“Of course.”
“Could you tell me what kind of advice you gave him about that?”
Bonfiglio didn’t hesitate.
“I told him to pay. Without any fuss. But as far as I can tell, Marcello seems to have held firm in his refusal to pay.”
“Why did you tell him to pay?”
“Forgive me for speaking frankly, and please understand that I do not mean to offend anyone. I told him to pay because, in the first place, you guys—meaning you the police and the carabinieri—are powerless to do anything about the protection racket.”
He stopped, expecting some kind of reaction from Montalbano, which never came. The inspector merely asked:
“And in the second place?”
“In the second place, I pointed out to him that it wasn’t really a doubling of the amount, but just a mild increase. He retorted that, taking into consideration his drop in revenues, the increase, in terms of percentage, came to twice what it was before. And from his perspective, he was right.”
“So what I think you’re saying is that you’re of the opinion that both the fire at the electronics store and your friend’s disappearance are the work of the Mafia, because he refused to make his payment.”
Bonfiglio threw up his hands.
“That seems like the most logical conclusion, don’t you think? Marcello told me that all the shop owners in the area had been presented with an increase in protection fees, and that many had said they wouldn’t pay. I’m convinced that after the fire and Marcello’s disappearance, all the others will pay up, just to be safe.”
“So do you think that Marcello will be released sooner or later?”
Bonfiglio’s face darkened.
“I honestly don’t know the answer to that question.”
“Just try.”
“My heart tells me yes, but my brain tells me no.”
“Let’s move on. Do you remember when the last time you saw Di Carlo was?”
“Yes, that I can tell you precisely. It was two days before he left for his vacation, and therefore July the twenty-ninth, at which time he told me he would be back on August the thirty-first, in the afternoon.”
“So you didn’t meet with him after he got back?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I wasn’t in Vigàta, I was in Palermo. I got back just the day before yesterday.”
“For business?”
“I went to help out my sister, who is gravely ill. My brother-in-law was abroad on a military mission, and she was by herself.”
“Did you and Di Carlo speak by phone during this time?”
“Yes, we did. We spoke three times.”
“Did he tell you he’d fallen in love?”
Bonfiglio smiled.
“Actually, he’d called me from Lanzarote to tell me. And he repeated it to me the last time we spoke, though adding the bit about it being a serious thing, this time.”
Bonfiglio’s smile broadened.
“Do you find that amusing?”
“Well, frankly, yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s the fourth time in ten years that I’ve heard him say that ‘this time it’s really serious.’ The best part is that he actually believes it. He starts imagining his future life with the girl—marriage, raising a family . . . It’s like some kind of disease that puts him into a fever for a few months, then, suddenly, from one day to the next, he’s cured . . .”
“Did he tell you the girl’s name?”
“No. The other times he not only told me their first names, but also their last names, age, address, physical features, good points, bad points, tastes, everything. But, this time, nothing.”
“Didn’t that seem strange to you?”
“Of course. So strange that I asked several times why he was so reluctant to talk about her.”
“And what did he
say?”
“He just said he would tell me when he got back, and that it would be a big surprise for me.”
“And how did you interpret that statement?”
“There’s only one way to interpret it, which is that it’s someone I know.”
“Any idea who it might be?”
“No, not really.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve been with too many women these past ten years to remember them all. As I said, I’m an unapologetic bachelor.”
“I’m sorry, but what do you do for a living?”
“I’m the exclusive representative of a number of world-famous jewelers.”
“Pays well?”
“I can’t complain.”
“Speaking of which, I got the impression that Di Carlo lives a life somewhat beyond his means. Am I mistaken?”
“No, you’re not mistaken.”
“Does he have debts, as far as you know?”
Bonfiglio hesitated for a moment before answering.
“A few.”
“With banks?”
“Yes.”
“Only with banks?”
“Not only.”
“Do you mean to say that he has turned to loan sharks for money?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Has he ever asked you to lend him money?”
“Yes.”
“And did you agree?”
“Yes.”
“Considerable sums?”
Bonfiglio seemed embarrassed, then spoke.
“I’d rather not answer that.”
“And did he pay you back?”
“In part.”
He was clearly lying.
“I’ve no further questions,” said the inspector, standing up. “Naturally, if your friend Marcello gets in touch with you, you must let us know at once.”
They shook hands, and Bonfiglio went out.
“This confirms my suspicion,” said Fazio.
“Explain.”
“Bonfiglio told us the guy was riddled with debts. He burned down his store for the insurance money. And in my opinion he has not been kidnapped. He’s gone and hidden somewhere and will reappear in a few days, all fresh and smiling, claiming he was kidnapped because he stood up to the mafiosi.”
The Overnight Kidnapper Page 5
