The Overnight Kidnapper

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Don’t you think the conclusion you’ve reached is a bit far-fetched? If you ask me, the third abduction was carried out by the same person who did the first two.”

  “But, Livia—”

  “Look, Salvo, it was you yourself who told me that the third abduction was carried out using the exact same method as the first two.”

  “So what?”

  “So if you never made this method public, how could Di Carlo and Bonfiglio have known about it? And there can only be one answer to this question.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “They can’t have known unless they were the authors of the two prior kidnappings. But what would be their purpose for doing that?”

  Montalbano remained silent for a moment, mulling over what Livia had just said. Then he replied.

  “There must be a reason.”

  “Yes, but what?”

  “To muddy the waters and put us on the wrong track.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Instead of immediately abducting Luigia, they grabbed two other girls first to create this mysterious figure of a serial kidnapper who doesn’t really exist, just to distract any suspicion away from themselves. An elaborate plan like that, moreover, would be perfectly in keeping with a mentality like Bonfiglio’s.”

  Livia seemed convinced. They spoke for a little while longer, then wished each other a good night. Montalbano stayed out on the veranda for another hour or so, thinking about how to proceed with Bonfiglio.

  It was just past midnight when he went to bed.

  * * *

  It was a good thing he hadn’t wasted any time watching a late-night movie on TV, as he often did, because he was woken up just before six by the ringing of the phone.

  A phone call at that hour could mean only one thing.

  So true was this, that some years earlier, he had coined a little adage, or whatever you might want to call it, for his own personal use and enjoyment:

  A phone call at daybreak means murder or housebreak.

  “Wha’ was ya doin’, Chief, sleepin’?”

  There was fear in Catarella’s voice as he asked the question.

  “No, Cat, I was playing Ping-Pong.”

  Montalbano’s retort had come out in a harsh, rude tone of voice, but he hadn’t taken into account that for Catarella it might seem perfectly normal for someone to be playing Ping-Pong at six o’clock in the morning.

  “Oh, sorry f’innaruptin’ yer game.”

  “Not to worry, I was playing by myself.”

  “Man, Chief, y’er rilly sum’in’! How do ya do it?”

  “I run from one end of the table to the other while the ball is in the air. So, what did you have to tell me?”

  “’At Gallo’s on ’is way ta get yiz.”

  Montalbano hung up without asking for an explanation.

  Gallo wouldn’t take more than ten minutes to drive from Vigàta to Marinella, so there wasn’t much time to get ready.

  He showered, shaved, dressed, and drank coffee at an accelerated pace, moving about like a character in a silent movie. Gallo only had to wait five minutes.

  The inspector barely had time to get in the car before Gallo shot off like a rocket, siren blaring.

  “Turn that shit off.”

  Gallo obeyed reluctantly.

  “Do you know what’s going on?” Montalbano asked him.

  “Yessir, they found a dead body, apparently. Fazio’s at the scene.”

  Gallo turned onto a road that led into the countryside, inland, behind the town.

  It was an area where not a square inch of terrain wasn’t cultivated for farming, and in addition to the farmsteads the landscape was dotted with houses and cottages of people who drove into town to work.

  All these houses and cottages had, of course, been illegally constructed, since it was an area unauthorized for building.

  And this was why one saw, here and there, constructions abandoned halfway, because every so often city hall would put a freeze on a project because the owner hadn’t been sly or clever enough to come first to an arrangement with the local government.

  It was right next to one of these small houses, fully constructed but left unplastered on the outside, with only holes for doors and windows, that the inspector spotted Fazio’s car.

  There was another car parked beside it.

  Gallo pulled up, and Montalbano got out.

  The air was pure, cool, and clean, and it promised to be a cooperative, peaceful morning.

  Fazio popped out from the opening that would one day become the front door, followed by a man of about fifty, well-dressed, short, pudgy, bespectacled, and with a pink, practically hairless face.

  If he’d been wearing a frock, he would have made a perfect priest.

  Fazio introduced him.

  The man turned out to be Angelo Rizzo, a lawyer. It was he who had discovered the corpse and called the police.

  11

  “Do you live around here?”

  It was a logical question, and yet it seemed to trigger a nervous reaction in the lawyer, who all at once started hopping in the air on his little feet.

  He looked a windup doll.

  “Well, no . . . however . . . I live on Corso Matteotti.”

  Corso Matteotti was a central street in Vigàta. It had no connection whatsoever to the place where they all were at that moment.

  “I’m sorry, but what were you doing in this area at the crack of dawn?”

  The hopping became almost frantic.

  “Actually . . . well . . . it’s like this . . . of course . . . So, on my way back from Palermo . . .”

  Montalbano wouldn’t let up.

  “But, coming back from Palermo one doesn’t pass—”

  “Yes, of course, this road isn’t . . . but, you see, yesterday evening, on my way back from Palermo, I rang up a woman I know—on the spur of the moment, just to talk—a woman I know who lives around here, and so . . . She told me her husband had left her and she was in need of some comfort . . . and so . . . I informed my wife that I wouldn’t be back till the morning, and so . . .”

  Montalbano decided to be an asshole.

  “And so what?”

  Rizzo the lawyer started sweating.

  “And so . . . one thing led to another . . .”

  The inspector decided to drop it.

  “I see,” he said.

  The lawyer then brought his face so close to Montalbano’s that the inspector thought the man wanted to kiss him.

  “I’m rather well-known, actually. I hold an important . . . If you could manage to keep my name out of this . . .”

  “I’ll do what I can. So why did you go into this house?”

  At this point the lawyer suddenly got a tic, which consisted of him stretching his neck out and then jerking his head quickly to the left.

  “I realized I’d forgotten to . . . to put . . . to put my . . . underpants back on. There. I couldn’t very well go home and undress . . . If my wife happened to . . . how would I ever explain . . . And so I took a pair from my suitcase, got out of the car, and . . .”

  “Why not just put them on in your car?”

  “I tried, but it was so cramped . . . I got out, went into the first room, but then, just to be safe, went farther inside and that’s when I saw . . . the mummy.”

  The mummy?

  Montalbano, speechless, looked over at Fazio.

  “Yeah, because the body’s all wrapped up . . . as you’ll see for yourself,” said Fazio. Then he added: “I’ve already alerted everyone.”

  “So . . . if I could perhaps go . . . before . . .” the lawyer said.

  “I’ve got his address and telephone number,” Fazio cut in.

  “All right, then, you can go.”


  “Thank you, thank you so much,” said the lawyer, bowing repeatedly to the inspector.

  After which he practically ran away, got into his car, turned on the ignition, and drove off at high speed.

  “Shall we go inside?” asked Fazio.

  They went inside.

  The room was still lacking floor tiles, but to make up for it they walked on a layer of old newspapers, rags, used condoms, hypodermic needles, empty cans, leftover pizza, empty water and beer bottles, and puddles of urine . . .

  The second room was no different from the first but for the fact that, towards the back, there was a sort of long, narrow package wrapped in cellophane.

  “Who knows how long this body’s been here without anyone deigning to let us know?” said Fazio.

  “Are you surprised?” the inspector replied. “Just last summer I happened to see on TV some footage of a corpse on a beach with people all around it swimming and playing in the water as though it was nothing. There’s no longer any respect for life, and you expect people to respect death?”

  Since there wasn’t anything for them to do in there, they went back outside. The inspector fired up a cigarette and sat down to wait patiently for the circus to arrive.

  * * *

  The first to arrive was the coroner, Dr. Pasquano, whose car led the way for the corpse wagon and its two undertakers.

  The doctor got out of his car, cursing, slammed the door, and didn’t bother to greet anyone.

  “Did you by any chance lose at poker last night, Doctor?” Montalbano inquired.

  “Don’t bust my chops first thing in the morning. It’s way too dangerous. Where’s this body?”

  “Follow me,” said Fazio.

  They came back out some ten minutes later. Pasquano opened the door to his car, got in, and closed it again. Which meant that he didn’t want to be disturbed by anyone.

  “Did he say anything?” the inspector asked Fazio.

  “Nothing. He didn’t once open his mouth.”

  Montalbano walked over to Pasquano’s car and tapped on the window. The doctor lowered it.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  “Doctor, every time I see you, your exquisite politeness moves me to tears.”

  “Ah, so we’re feeling poetic this morning? It often happens in one’s later years. All right, then. What would you like to know, my old friend?”

  Montalbano didn’t return the jab about aging.

  “What did you make of it?”

  “Very well wrapped.”

  “Aside from the wrapping.”

  “Based on the little I was able to see, the man died a few days ago; this is not a fresh corpse.”

  “Any idea whether it was a natural or a violent death?”

  “If you had just made up your mind to buy a good pair of glasses, as I’ve been advising you to do for some time, you would have noticed that the corpse has a nice round hole under the throat.”

  “Caused by what?”

  “In my opinion—and it’s only an impression, mind you—that hole is an exit wound.”

  Montalbano’s face darkened.

  “So if that’s an exit wound, it means he was killed with a gunshot to the nape?”

  “I’m pleased to see that at least part of your brain is still functioning. Now get out of here. You’ve already bothered me well beyond the limit.”

  And he raised the window. Montalbano went over to Fazio to tell him what he’d just learned from Pasquano.

  Fazio turned pensive.

  “That kind of murder bears the Mafia’s signature,” he remarked. “But this is the first time I’ve seen the Mafia wrap up a body after they liquidated the victim. What need was there to pack him up like that?”

  “The whole thing makes no sense to me either,” said the inspector. “But tell me something. Did you notice that there’s a hole at the bottom of the corpse’s throat?”

  “No, I didn’t,” replied Fazio.

  Montalbano heaved a sigh of relief. So he didn’t need glasses yet after all. Pasquano had spotted the wound because he had an expert eye.

  There was a moment of silence, then Fazio spoke:

  “If it really is a Mafia murder, then this body could be . . .”

  “. . . Di Carlo’s?” said Montalbano, finishing his thought.

  “It’s a reasonable assumption.”

  “Yeah, I agree. Except that, like you, I don’t understand the need to wrap it up.”

  He glanced at his watch. Between one thing and another it was already a few minutes past eight. He could go now and leave Fazio behind, but there was something specific he wanted to know from Forensics.

  “Call up Bonfiglio and tell him our appointment with him has been pushed back to eleven o’clock.”

  Fazio did as he was told, but then, still holding his cell phone against his ear, said: “Bonfiglio is sorry, but wants to know if we can postpone the appointment till tomorrow at the same hour.”

  “Okay.”

  Forensics finally arrived in two cars full of men and equipment. The chief of the squad was somebody Montalbano didn’t recognize.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Briguglio,” replied Fazio. “He’s an assistant inspector.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s manageable.”

  Briguglio came up and introduced himself, and Fazio led the group into the house.

  The inspector had to wait half an hour before Fazio reappeared.

  “In Briguglio’s opinion, the body was brought here four days ago,” Fazio reported.

  “How did he determine that?”

  “Because on the floor under the body was a page from a newspaper from five days ago.”

  This was exactly what he had wanted to know.

  “Any news of Prosecutor Tommaseo?”

  “No. As usual, he probably ended up crashing into a pole or driving into a ditch.”

  Tommaseo was famous for driving worse than a sleepwalking drug addict.

  “You know what I say? I’m sick of hanging around. I’m gonna get Gallo to drive me to the office.”

  * * *

  Try as Gallo might to get the squad car to achieve liftoff, it was already past nine by the time they got to the station.

  “Is Inspector Augello in?”

  “’E was—in, I mean—but then ’e got a phone call an’ so ’e went out.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “No, sir, Chief.”

  “Well, when he gets back, tell him to come to my office.”

  Not knowing what else to do, the inspector reluctantly started signing a few of the hated documents piled up on his desk.

  Just when his arm was beginning to ache from too many signatures, Mimì Augello knocked at the door.

  “So where were you?”

  “I went out to get a coffee and have a chat with Anna Bonifacio, the girl who works with Luigia Jacono.”

  “Given how long you were out, you must have ordered more than just a coffee.”

  “What can I say? I had to thank her for the favor she’d done me.”

  “What favor was that?”

  “Well, since she told me that Di Carlo’s debt to La Jacono was paid off by a wire transfer from the Credito Marittimo, I asked her whether she knew anyone at that bank and—”

  “You know what, Mimì? I’d had the same idea and asked Fazio to look into it, but—”

  “But this time I got there first.”

  “Did you get the name of the person?”

  “Yes, Anna found out who it was and told me.”

  “And who is it?”

  “How come you can’t just guess this time?”

  “Want me to try?”

  “Go ahead and try.”

 
“The girl from Lanzarote.”

  “Unfortunately you’re wrong. If it had been her, we would now know her name, address, and phone number!”

  “So tell me, then.”

  “Giorgio Bonfiglio.”

  Montalbano didn’t seem too shocked by this revelation.

  “Aren’t you surprised?” asked Mimì.

  “Not really. They’re such close friends . . . In fact, I also think that, sometime in late June or early July, Bonfiglio gave him even more money.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “If Di Carlo didn’t have a cent to his name, where’d he get the money to go and live it up in Lanzarote?”

  “Want me to try and find out whether Bonfiglio sent any other wires to Di Carlo around that time?”

  “If you can.”

  “I can try.”

  The telephone rang.

  “Ahh, Chief, ’ere’d a happen a be a soitan Signor Quallalera onna line oigently wantin’ a talk t’yiz.”

  He didn’t know anyone by the name of Quallalera. But he had nothing else to do, so . . .

  “Okay.”

  “Inspector Montalbano? This is Giulio Caldarera. I wanted to tell you about something strange that happened.”

  He had a fresh voice, that of a young man.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I live in Vigàta. This morning I went out to pay a visit to my brother, who has been sick for days with the flu. He lives in a small house in the Ficarra district. Do you know it?”

  “Yes. Isn’t that where Signor Jacono lives?”

  “Exactly. It’s in the same district, but my brother lives at the opposite end.”

  “Where Riccobono lives?”

  “Yes, I can see you know the area well. So, on my way there, just before the intersection, at the side of the road I saw the car of someone I know, and a man pulling a folding bicycle out of the trunk. And just now, as I was passing the same spot, I saw the same car in flames and no further sign of the man.”