He chose the second, closing his eyes and forcing himself to sleep.
The amazing thing was that he succeeded.
His last thought was a question: How long had it been since he’d spoken with Livia that way?
He woke up feeling satisfied. It was a beautiful day. He drank a mug of coffee, took a shower, shaved, and, before going out, wrote a note to Adelina informing her he’d be eating at home that evening.
He got in his car at eight-thirty and by nine-twenty was parking in Via Palermo, right in front of number 28.
It took him that long because Via Palermo was in the elevated part of Vigàta, the outermost suburb on the edge of the countryside, and consisted of many small, freestanding houses fairly distant from one another, each surrounded by a yard. The house at number 28 looked well tended. The little iron gate in front was open.
He went through the gate, walked up the little path, and rang the buzzer.
“Who is it?” a woman asked a few seconds later.
“Inspector Montalbano, police.”
A pause.
“Who are you looking for?”
“Signora Valeria Bonifacio.”
More silence. Then the voice said:
“I’m here alone.”
What, was he a rapist or something?
“Signora, I repeat, I’m—”
“Okay, but I haven’t got dressed yet.”
“I can wait.”
“Couldn’t you come back this afternoon?”
“No, signora, I’m sorry.”
“Then I’ll let you in in about ten minutes.”
His method of never letting the person know in advance that he was coming always worked.
Surely at that very moment Valeria was picking up the phone to talk to her friend Loredana and find out how she should act.
He smoked a cigarette. Via Palermo had little traffic, especially since there were no shops. During the ten minutes that he waited, only one car passed.
He went back and rang the buzzer again.
“Inspector Montalbano?”
“Yes.”
The lock clicked, and the inspector pushed the door in and entered.
Signora Valeria came forward to greet him, hand extended, then led him into the living room and sat him down in an armchair.
For whatever reason, Montalbano had expected a middle-aged woman, whereas Valeria was quite young, probably the same age as Loredana, blond and pretty, with a shapely figure put duly on display by a form-fitting blouse and tight pants.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Thanks, but no.”
She sat down in another armchair opposite his and crossed her legs. She looked at him and smiled. But Montalbano could tell that the smile was a bit tense. She was clearly on tenterhooks but controlled herself well.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“I’m truly sorry for disturbing you. Didn’t someone call you from the station to inform you of my visit?”
“No, nobody told me anything.”
“Well, they’ll hear from me when I get back to the office. I need some information from you concerning the armed robbery of your friend Loredana di Marta. You must know that—”
“Yes, I know the whole story. Loredana told me over the phone. She was in shock. I went immediately to see her and she told me everything, even . . . the disgusting details.”
“Are you referring to the kiss?”
“Not only.”
Montalbano got worried.
Want to bet that Signor di Marta had only sung half the mass? And the whole incident was more serious?
“Were there other things?”
“Yes.”
“Could you be clearer?”
“It disgusts me to talk about it. To make a long story short, he grabbed her by the hand and put it . . . understand?”
“Yes. Did he go any further?”
“Luckily, no. But Loredana says the whole experience was disgusting, horrible.”
“She’s absolutely right. Well, at least it ended there. Do you remember at what time your friend left here that evening?”
“I couldn’t really say exactly.”
“Roughly, then.”
“Well, it must have been a little before midnight, because the clock chimed after Loredana left.”
She gestured towards a huge pendulum clock, of the kind that functions as furniture, in a corner of the large living room.
“Nice,” said the inspector.
Even if it wasn’t precise, since it was a few minutes fast.
“Yes. It was my father’s. He had a mania for pendulum clocks. Our house was full of them. I managed to break free and kept only that one.”
“So shall we say that it was around ten minutes to twelve?”
“Maybe a quarter to.”
“Not more?”
“I really don’t think so.”
“Signora, it’s essential for us to know as precisely as possible the time at which the robbery took place.”
“Then I can confirm: quarter to twelve.”
“Thank you. Does Loredana always leave so late?”
“No. Normally she leaves before dinnertime.”
“So that evening was an exception.”
“Yes.”
“May I ask why?”
“I wasn’t feeling well and Loredana didn’t want to leave me. She was very worried, but it turned out to be just a passing malaise.”
“Do you live alone? Aren’t you married?”
“Yes, I am. But my husband’s a captain of a container ship and stays away for long periods of time.”
“I see. But, tell me something. Was Loredana still here when she realized she had forgotten to make the deposit for her husband? Or, as far as you know, did it only dawn on her after she left?”
“No, she remembered as soon as she got here. In fact, she wanted to go right back out and take care of it. It was I who told her she could do it later. I had to insist a little.”
“Ah, so it was you?”
“Yes. And I felt terribly guilty afterwards for what happened. If I’d just let her go when she wanted to . . .”
“Come now, signora! What are you thinking? It was just an unexpected coincidence!”
He stood up.
“You’ve been very helpful, signora. Thank you.”
“I’ll show you out,” said Valeria.
Just as she was opening the door, Montalbano asked:
“Do you know Carmelo Savastano?”
He hadn’t foreseen the effect of his words. Valeria turned pale and took a step backwards.
“Why . . . do . . . you . . . ask?”
“Well, since I found out that your friend Loredana had been in a long relationship with this Savastano . . .”
“But what’s that got to do with the robbery?”
She’d raised her voice without realizing it.
“Nothing at all, signora. I’m just curious.”
By now Valeria had recovered.
“Of course I know him. Loredana and I have always been friends. But I haven’t seen Carmelo for a long time.”
While getting in the car, he glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty-one. He drove off.
But instead of heading for the office, he went in the direction of Vicolo Crispi, trying to drive fast. The traffic was normal.
When he got to Vicolo Crispi, between the fabric shop and Burgio Jewelers, he looked at his watch again. Eleven past eleven. It had taken him forty minutes.
Based on what Valeria and Loredana had said, it had taken the girl only nineteen minutes to cover the same distance. Not counting the fact that Valeria’s clock was fast. At that time, however, it was almost midnight, and therefore you had to take i
nto account that there was a lot less traffic.
As soon as he sat down at his desk, he wanted confirmation and phoned Loredana.
“Montalbano here.”
“Again?”
“Sorry, but I have only one question.”
“Oh, all right.”
“Do you remember precisely what time it was when you left your friend Valeria Bonifacio’s house on the evening of—”
“It was quarter to twelve.”
Lightning fast, without the slightest hesitation.
Apparently just after he left, Valeria had filled Loredana in on their conversation.
He called Fazio.
“Got any news for me?”
“A couple of things.”
“Me too.”
“Then you go first, Chief.”
Montalbano told him what he’d learned from Pasquale; Fazio, in any case, knew how things stood with Adelina’s son. Then the inspector told him about his meeting with Valeria Bonifacio, ending with the call he’d just made to Loredana.
“Sorry, Chief,” said Fazio, “but if we know with some certainty that Signora di Marta’s car did not drive down Vicolo Crispi that night, why are you so interested in knowing how much time it took the girl to get there from Via Palermo?”
“Think about it for a minute. Can I possibly write in the report that I know that her car never drove down Vicolo Crispi because I spoke with a thief who spoke with the lookout for a band of burglars? Can I have Pasquale and the lookout called as witnesses? No.”
“You’re right.”
“And, even if I could pull off the miracle of calling them as witnesses, no one would believe a word they say. The defense lawyer would rip them to shreds. Because they’re thieves known to law enforcement and therefore branded as liars by nature. Whereas a great many thieves not known to law enforcement can tell all the lies they want and everyone will believe them, because they’re lawyers, politicians, economists, bankers, and so on. And so we have to prove, playing by the rules, that Loredana is not telling the truth.”
“And how will we do that?”
“In the meantime I want you to do me a favor.”
“Anytime.”
“Tonight, starting at quarter to midnight, I want you to drive your car from Via Palermo to Vicolo Crispi. Then tomorrow morning you can tell me how long it took you.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to send Gallo instead?”
“No, because it would only take him seven-and-a-half minutes, if that. And now you talk.”
“I went and talked with Intelisano, and he gave me the names and address of the two Tunisians, who live in Montelusa. They’re both about fifty years old and good workers, and all their papers are in order because they were granted political asylum after arriving illegally four years ago.”
Montalbano pricked up his ears.
“Political asylum?”
“Yessirree.”
“We need to find out how they were able to prove—”
“Already taken care of.”
Whenever Fazio said that, it irritated Montalbano.
“Then if you’ve already taken care of it, please be so kind as to fill me in.”
Fazio took notice.
“Sorry, Chief, but I thought—”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” said the inspector, immediately regretting his pique. “Go on.”
“They both have sons in jail. Antigovernment activities. There were arrest warrants out for the fathers, too, but they were able to escape in time.”
Montalbano twisted up his mouth.
“These two Tunisians smell a little fishy to me.”
7
“Good morning, everyone,” Mimì Augello said upon entering.
“Congratulations,” replied the inspector, smiling. “You were right.”
Mimì acted astonished.
“Congratulations? And you actually admit I’m right? What on earth is happening? What is this, world kindness day? And what is it you think I’m right about?”
“The two Tunisians.”
“Meaning?”
“They’re political refugees. Enemies of the Tunisian government. They’ve both got sons in jail back home. So it’s likely that—”
“Stop!” Augello cried. “Nobody move!”
“What is going on?” asked Montalbano.
“I hereby inform you all that we have been officially taken off the case by the commissioner. He said to me, and I quote: ‘Tell Montalbano that as of this moment the investigation is in the hands of the counterterrorism unit. And that he mustn’t interfere, or there’ll be trouble.’ There, you’ve been informed. And now, with all best wishes to the commissioner, how shall we proceed with the Tunisians?”
“As things stand now, I haven’t the slightest idea,” the inspector admitted. “But something might come to me after I eat. Fazio, tell Inspector Augello the business about the mugging of Signora di Marta.”
When Fazio had finished telling him the whole story, Mimì looked questioningly at Montalbano.
“And what do you think about all this?”
“Mimì, I put myself in the mugger’s shoes. Assuming Loredana’s story is true, which we know is not the case. So there I am, waiting in a doorway in Vicolo Crispi for a car to pass, so I can throw myself down on the ground. Now, as the thief, I have no idea what’s inside that coming car. Imagine there’s two or three men inside. Already, even if I’m armed, the whole business becomes more complicated. Because one of the guys is gonna get out of the car and check out the situation, while the other or others wait inside the car, ready to react however they want. And what if meanwhile another car passes? No, it’s just too risky. Unless you know from the start what car is going to come down the street, and especially who’s going to be in it.”
“In conclusion?”
“In conclusion, the mugging, if there was indeed a mugging, must have happened somewhere else and in other circumstances, and the mugger must have had at least one accomplice.”
“I agree,” said Mimì. “But the question now is where do we go from here? We’re certain the lady’s telling us lies, but how do we get her to admit it?”
“We’ll get her to give us some clues without her knowing. We’ll call her into the station this afternoon, let’s say at four-thirty. Fazio, take care of it and get back to me with a confirmation. If she wants to bring her husband along, there’s no problem. I’ll ask her a few questions, and afterwards we’ll decide how to proceed. But you, Mimì, mustn’t show your face anywhere around here for any reason whatsoever when Signora di Marta is here.”
Mimì made a resentful face.
“And why can’t I be present for this meeting?”
“I’ll explain later, after she’s gone. It’s better for you, believe me. You have everything to gain from it.”
As he was heading out to the end of the jetty, it occurred to him that if he had a clear idea of how to act with Loredana di Marta, he had no idea how to approach the two Tunisians.
He had to go about it carefully, because if it became known that they were under investigation, the immigration authorities might send them straight back to Tunisia without a second thought, without considering that they might be sending them to be tortured or killed. How many other times had they done the same with other poor bastards who’d met a nasty end after they’d been repatriated? He didn’t want to have this on his conscience.
When he sat down on the flat rock, he noticed at once that the crab was waiting there for him.
“Greetings,” he said.
He reached down, picked up a handful of pebbles, got rid of the bigger stones, and the game began. It consisted of tossing tiny pebbles at the crab. If he missed, the crab would remain motionless. If he hit it, the crab would move a few centimeters sideways. Until, finally, it arri
ved at the water’s edge and vanished.
As he was watching it move laterally, Montalbano realized that the way to approach the two Tunisians was to move exactly the way the crab did: sideways.
In the twinkling of an eye he came up with a precise plan that would bring no harm to the two Arabs.
To reward himself, he decided to smoke one more cigarette, after which he returned to the office.
Where he called Fazio straight away and told him to come and listen to the telephone call he was about to make to Intelisano.
“Hello, Montalbano here. Sorry to bother you, but I urgently need to talk to you.”
“When?”
“By this evening, if possible.”
Intelisano thought about this for a moment.
“Would seven o’clock be too late?”
“No, that’s perfect.”
He hung up.
“What do you want from him?”
“Didn’t I tell you that after lunch a good idea would come to me?”
“So what is it?”
“To go with Intelisano tomorrow morning to the Spiritu Santo district and have him introduce me to the two Tunisians under a false name with no mention of course that I’m with the police. I’ll have him say I’m interested in buying the land. Do you like it so far?”
“Yeah. Then what?”
“Then in the afternoon I’ll go back there, alone this time, and tell the two Tunisians that Intelisano mustn’t find out about this visit because I want to hear the truth about that land from them. How productive it is, how much it earns, and so on. And I’ll also ask about the barren part, where the little house is, since Intelisano is selling the whole property as a unit. Naturally, I’ll pay them well. And since one thing leads to another, I’m hoping to extract some useful information.”
“Sounds to me like a good idea,” said Fazio.
Mimì Augello came in.
“How much time do I have before I disappear?”
Montalbano looked at his watch.
“About five minutes.”
“I wanted to tell you that I just remembered something. This Loredana, was she a checkout girl at the supermarket in Via Libertà before marrying di Marta?”
A Beam of Light Page 7
