Montalbano's First Case

by Andrea Camilleri

  He looked through the slot and was surprised to see that huge tears were coming out of Rosanna’s eyes. She cried silently, without hiccups, making her seem all the more desperate.

  He sat on his patio for about an hour, smoking one cigarette after another, with his thoughts fixed on Rosanna. He was about to go to bed when the telephone rang. It was Mery.

  “How’s about I come visit you on Friday?”

  “Damn, I have to go to Palermo for work!”

  The lie had come out spontaneously, before his brain could prevent it. The fact was that he wanted to focus entirely, without any distractions, on Rosanna. Mery sounded disappointed. Montalbano made it up to her by saying that maybe he could go to Catania for a short visit the following week. He slept badly, tossing and turning.

  The next morning he had just turned off the shower when, for the first time in his life, something strange happened to him. He had the impression that somebody hiding behind a corner had just taken a picture using a flash. Lightning. And it happened as he was thinking about what the girl had said: “Colors make me remember things.” He felt as if he had caught some sort of fever. Naked as he was, he went to the phone. It was seven in the morning.

  “It’s Montalbano.”

  “What happened, Inspector?”

  Fazio’s voice sounded alarmed.

  “Do you know anyone at the courthouse in Montelusa?”

  “Yes.”

  “Make sure you’re there as soon as it opens. I want a complete list of judges and of those who work for the district attorney. Immediately. Just their names. For both the civil and criminal courts. We’ll start with that.”

  “And then what comes next?”

  “If I’m wrong, you’ll go back tomorrow and ask for a list of all the people who work at the courthouse, including those who clean the toilets.”

  And then he started wasting time around the house. On purpose. There was no way he was going to wait for Fazio at the station. Around nine thirty he decided to call.

  “Yes, Inspector. Fazio just arrived.”

  He was there in no time.

  He found it—the name. Emanuele Rosato, a civil court judge. He opened the drawer, took out three items that had been in Rosanna’s purse, and put them in his pocket. Then he called Fazio.

  “Get the keys to the holding room and come with me.”

  The girl was sitting in her usual position. She looked calm and rested. Being in prison clearly did her good. First she looked at them without any interest, but she must have soon realized, looking at the inspector’s face, that something was up. She became tense. From his pocket, Montalbano took out the bottle of pink nail polish and threw it on the mattress. Then he did the same with the pink elastic band. And finally he threw down the dried rose. Fazio didn’t understand what was going on and kept looking back and forth between the inspector and the girl.

  “Colors make you remember things,” Montalbano said.

  Rosanna was wound more tightly than a spring.

  “Wasn’t the first part of your name enough to remind you that you were supposed to kill Judge Rosato?”

  Taking the two men by surprise, the girl snapped. Montalbano had foreseen her intentions and covered his face with his hands. Yet he still fell on his back with Rosanna on top of him. And as Fazio was struggling to get her off of him, grabbing her shoulders, the inspector was enjoying her violent fury, like the dry earth enjoys a violent storm, because it meant that he had hit the nail on the head.

  Since it would have been a waste of time asking Rosanna why she had it out for Judge Rosato, Montalbano decided right then and there to go pay the judge a visit in Montelusa. He got to the courthouse, waited in the usual line, and when he was finally in front of the information desk, he asked the man, “Excuse me, can you tell me where I can find Judge Rosato?”

  “Why are you asking me?” was the surprising answer.

  Montalbano felt his temper mounting.

  “Do you think you’re funny? I am—”

  “I don’t think I’m funny, and I don’t care who you are. From what I know, Judge Rosato works for the civil court, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you should go to the civil court.”

  “Isn’t it here?”

  “It is not here.”

  “Then where is it?”

  “In the old barracks.”

  Chances were that if he asked him where the old barracks were the man was going to answer in the same arrogant tone, and then things would take a turn for the worse, ending in a fistfight.

  As he was leaving the building he saw a street cop. The old barracks were by the station. He decided to walk. Hundreds of people came and went through the huge front door; it looked like one of those English subways in a movie. How was it possible that half of those people had sued the other half? The inspector found his explanation by reading the sparkling plaques hanging on the two sides of the front door: CIVIL COURT, BUREAU OF PARKS AND NATURAL RESOURCES, DANTE ALIGHIERI SOCIETY, CITY REVENUE SERVICES, REGIONAL DRAFT OFFICE, GIOSUÈ CARDUCCI HIGH SCHOOL, FRANCESCO RONDOLINO BENEVOLENT ASSOCIATION, SUPERINTENDENT OF ARCHEOLOGICAL SITES, OFFICE OF COMPLAINTS, and the very mysterious REIMBURSEMENTS OFFICE. Who was reimbursing whom? And why? He entered convinced he’d never see Judge Rosato. Instead, he immediately saw a sign stating that the courthouse was located off staircase A, second floor. He asked the first person he met on the stairs where he could find the judge.

  “Second door on the right.”

  He made his way through the crowd, pushing and elbowing, and he finally reached the second door on the right, which was open. He thought he was lost. At one point this must have been the mess hall of the barracks, or a hall used for who knew what other purpose. It was gigantic. Every four or five steps there was a table covered with papers and surrounded by howling people; it wasn’t clear if they were lawyers, defendants, or damned souls from Dante’s “Inferno.” The judges couldn’t be seen, barricaded behind all those papers, just the tops of their heads peering over the folders. There were tens of tables like that. What was he going to do? Montalbano marched toward the closest one and commanded, in a voice loud enough to be heard over that noise resembling a fish market, “Freeze! Police!”

  It was the only thing to do. Everyone stopped in their tracks and looked at him; they had suddenly been transformed into a work of realistic statues that could have been called At the Civil Court.

  “I want to know where Judge Rosato is!”

  “That’s me,” a voice said, right in front of him.

  He had been lucky.

  “What can I do for you?” the judge asked, still invisible behind the papers.

  “My name’s Inspector Montalbano. I need to talk to you.”

  “Now?”

  “If that’s possible.”

  “The hearing has been postponed to a later date,” said the judge.

  The people around the table erupted in a chorus of insults, blasphemies, curses, and prayers.

  “This has been going on for eight years now!”

  “This isn’t justice!”

  But the judge was adamant; the lawyers and their clients left, beside themselves with anger.

  The judge, who had risen to his feet, sat back down, disappearing entirely from Montalbano’s view.

  “Please, go ahead.”

  “Listen, Your Honor, I don’t like talking to a stack of files. Can we go somewhere else?”

  “Where?”

  “Maybe a café nearby?”

  “They’re all full of lawyers. Hold on a second. I have an idea.”

  Montalbano saw the judge’s hands grabbing files, folders, boxes, and stacks of paper held together with strings, shuffling things around on the table so as to erect some sort of barricade or trench.

  “Grab a chair and come back here.”

  The inspector obeyed. Strangely enough, nobody could have seen the two men hiding in there. Their knees were touching. Judge Rosato disappointed Mo
ntalbano. On his way there he had built up a story in his head in which three years earlier, Judge Rosato (tall, skinny, elegant, a little gray around the temples, smoking with a cigarette holder, a seducer from the pages of a photo-romance) had taken advantage of the housemaid Rosanna, getting her pregnant, and she had finally decided to exact revenge. Right, but why wait three years? The real Judge Rosato, unlike the one invented by the inspector’s imagination, was a man over sixty, unkempt, short, completely bald, wearing a pair of glasses two inches thick. Montalbano thought that, in order to save time, the best strategy was going to be that of the battering ram, to take the door down.

  “We just arrested a girl who was looking to kill you.”

  “Holy Mother! Me?”

  The judge jumped out of his seat, causing a small but loud landslide of files on the west side of their trench. In a matter of seconds he was completely covered in sweat. Shaking, he took off his fogged glasses. He wanted to ask questions but couldn’t manage to speak. His mouth was shaking. He wasn’t a hero fit for that trench, good old Rosato.

  “Do you have any sons?” the inspector asked.

  That could have been the answer.

  “No. Two daughters. Mi-Milena lives in So-Sondrio; she’s a lawyer. Giu-Giuliana on the other hand is a pe-pe-pediatrician in Torino.”

  “How long have you been working here at the civil courthouse in Montelusa?”

  “Practically forever.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “In Vigata. I get around by car.”

  “Has a certain Rosanna Monaco ever worked for you as housemaid?”

  “Never,” the judge answered readily.

  “How can you be so sure without having—”

  “We’ve never had a housemaid. My wife detests them for no good reason.”

  The judge looked a little better, so much so that he managed to ask a question.

  “This … Rosanna Monaco, is she the girl who wants to kill me?”

  “Yes.”

  “But did she say why, good God?”

  “No.”

  “But … does she know me?”

  “I don’t think she’s ever seen you.”

  “Then someone must have put her up to it!”

  “I agree.”

  “But who?”

  And Judge Rosato began to recite a litany, a sort of summary of his entire existence.

  “I’ve never gotten into a fight, a discussion; in my private life, I always try to get along with everyone; my wife is a saint, with the exception of a few idiosyncrasies; my daughters love me, my sons in law respect me. In my professional life, I’ve always dealt with small civil suits and I always strive to be fair and reasonable; I’ve never sent anyone to jail; I’m about to retire after a long life of work … and now someone, God knows why, wants me dead …”

  When Montalbano left him he was crying desperately.

  “Sir,” Fazio said after the inspector told him about his chat with the judge, “there’s news. The first thing is that the girl, since she got it out of her system, calmed down. And when I asked her why she had it in for Judge Rosato, she told me that the judge was an evil man who had sent a certain someone to prison.”

  “Rosato didn’t send anyone to prison.”

  “I know, sir, you just told me. But someone led Rosanna to believe the opposite.”

  “That same someone who gave her the revolver.”

  Fazio shook his head.

  “This is the busillis, sir.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “While you were in Montelusa, we got a call from headquarters. The ballistics expert says there’s no way that the weapon we sent him—that is, Rosanna’s revolver—can fire a shot. It looks deadly, but it’s actually just scrap metal.”

  “Rosanna didn’t know that, though.”

  “Well, in my opinion, whoever gave her the weapon must have known it. Remember, the serial number had been filed off.”

  “Fazio, let me get this straight. I pick up a girl, I convince her to kill someone who has nothing to do with anything, just a random person, and then I give her a gun that doesn’t shoot?”

  “How do you know that it was the same person who commissioned the murder and gave her the weapon?”

  “Let’s assume that’s true for a moment. Why would someone do that? To make fun of Rosanna behind her back? Unlikely—it’s too dangerous to be funny. Just to cause a commotion? Much ado about nothing? And who benefits from it? In any case, one thing’s for sure: In order to figure out what’s going on we need to know who’s hiding behind the girl. There’s no other way. If she told you something this morning, try to learn more. I won’t show my face, but you should visit her, become her friend, get her to talk.”

  “Sir, do you know what Rosanna is? She’s a cat. One of those that purr while you pet them on the head and then suddenly, for no apparent reason, turn to scratch your hand.”

  “Well, you have all my sympathy. And you need to do it quickly, too. Time is running short and we can’t keep her here any longer than the law allows. Either we let her go or we inform the DA.”

  Around five in the afternoon he received an unexpected phone call.

  “Inspector Montalbano? It’s Judge Emanuele Rosato.”

  “Judge, how are you?”

  “How do you think I am? I was caught completely off guard by this. I wanted to tell you that I keep a journal in which I record all the trials I oversee, as well as the verdicts. I went through it, and it took me a little while, but I think I discovered something interesting. That girl’s last name is Monaco, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her father’s name is Gerlando, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they live in Vigata, Via Fornace 37?”

  “Yes.”

  The judge let out a long sigh.

  “I don’t understand shit,” he murmured.

  He realized he had just said a bad word and started to apologize. Then he finally said what he had discovered.

  “A certain Filippo Tamburello, who owned a piece of land bordering that of Gerlando Monaco, while rebuilding the wall surrounding his property, moved it a few centimeters into his neighbor’s field, nothing much, but you know how these farmers are. After arguing for a long time, Monaco decided to sue him. Want to know how it ended? I ruled in favor of Gerlando Monaco. So now you tell me why his daughter has shown the intention to kill me?”

  “Listen, Judge, this ruling in favor of Gerlando Monaco, when was it?”

  “More than four years ago.”

  That evening, while he was watching TV, he happened to see the face of that journalist he had met at the courthouse, Zito. He was saying smart and reasonable things. The TV station was called Retelibera. It occurred to him to ask for his help. He didn’t waste any time. He looked up the phone number and as soon as the news was over, he called.

  “This is Inspector Montalbano. I’d like to speak to Nicolò Zito.”

  They put him through immediately.

  “Didn’t we met at the courthouse, Inspector?” Zito asked. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yes,” Montalbano said.

  7

  The next morning, which looked like something out of a magazine, he woke up early, took a long walk on the shore, showered, got dressed, and was at the station by eight.

  “How did Rosanna do last night?” he asked Galluzzo.

  “She was busy, sir.”

  “What do you mean busy? Did she sleep with someone?”

  “She chatted, sir. With Fazio. Now she’s asleep in the holding room and Fazio is in the service room on a cot. He said to wake him up as soon as you got in.”

  “Let him sleep. I’ll tell you when to wake him.”

  The journalist Nicolò Zito showed up right on time at eight thirty. Montalbano told him Rosanna’s story and Zito, who was a regular bloodhound, immediately picked up the scent.

  “What I can do for you, Inspector?”

>   Montalbano handed him the girl’s ID.

  “You should … Can I call you Nicolò?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Nicolò, you should enlarge this picture and today, during one of your newscasts, put it on the air.”

  “And what should I say?”

  “You should ask the families Rosanna Monaco worked for over the past four years to contact us here at the station. Add that we would be extremely grateful and extremely discreet.”

  “Very well. I think I can run it during our noon edition.”

  After Zito left, Montalbano asked one of his officers to wake Fazio, who rushed into the room without even combing his hair.

  “Sir, things are complicated.”

  Fazio looked nervous; he didn’t know where to start.

  “Look, Fazio, just tell me right away what is that you don’t know how to tell me: that’s the best way to do it.”

  “Sir, this morning at the crack of dawn, after we spent the whole night chatting, Rosanna started to cry and said that she couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “Excuse me, just out of curiosity: Why were you keeping her company?”

  “I felt sorry for her.”

  “Okay, continue.”

  “She had a sort of nervous breakdown. She even passed out. She even told me who ordered her to kill Judge Rosato and gave her the gun.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “Her lover, sir. Giuseppe Cusumano.”

  “And who’s that?” Montalbano repeated, bewildered.

  “What do you mean who’s that? Sir, you just testified at his trial!”

  He suddenly remembered. The youngster who had punched the old gentleman in the face! The beloved nephew of Don Sisìno Cuffaro.

  Now they really had to watch their step!

  “What should we do, sir?”

  “What would you have done if Rosanna had told you any other name and not that of the nephew of a big mafia boss like Don Sisìno Cuffaro?”

  “I would have gone to pick him up discreetly, I would have brought him here, and I would have asked him a few questions.”

  “So what are you waiting for? Go find him. Wait. Do you think I should go talk to the girl first?”