Montalbano's First Case

by Andrea Camilleri

  Mrs. Concita Filippazzo gave a dissenting monologue.

  “I immediately noticed that Rosanna was a whore. I’m a good judge of character. No sir, the household stuff, cleaning, mopping, cooking, ironing, no complaints there. But she was a whore. First, she never went to church on Sundays and she never took communion. Second, it was enough to see how she let my husband and son look at her. Once, my dear Inspector, I went into the kitchen, where my husband had asked her to make coffee. And guess what? My husband was holding a cup in one hand and patting the girl on the ass with the other. No, sir, I didn’t make a scene, my husband’s like that, he would pat a mullet on the ass. But the thing became serious a few months later. I have a son, Gasparino, who was eighteen at the time. Once, when Rosanna was changing the sheets in his room, I saw the girl leaning forward and my son behind her, patting her on the ass. I wondered: Was this girl’s ass made out of honey, that all hands stuck to it? After this episode, I kicked her out of the house, the whore. No, sir, while she was with us nobody called her. Guns? You’re kidding!”

  “Why did you ask if they kept guns in the house?” asked Fazio, who had arrived a few moments before Mr. Nicolosi had started his deposition.

  “Rosanna told me the weapon was given to her by Cusumano through a man whose name she doesn’t know. What if things went differently? What if she stole the gun from one of the houses where she worked? To show Pino she was willing and able? It doesn’t make that much of a difference, but her involvement would become more serious.”

  “Did everyone show up?”

  “We’re missing one family.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve just compiled a list of dates. Over the last four years, Rosanna has worked in the following order: for Trupiano, Filippazzo, Nicolosi, Corso, and then Pimpigallo. Between them, there are short intervals, the longest being between Trupiano and Filippazzo. It’s probably due to the abortion and its consequences. The last eleven months are unaccounted for. But Mrs. Pimpigallo stated that Rosanna had told her that she was going to work for Mrs. Siracusa, since she offered her more money. However, none of the Siracusas showed up. Do you know them?”

  “No, sir. But I can ask around.”

  “Do that. Where have you been the whole afternoon?”

  “This thing about Pino Cusumano being out of town doesn’t smell right; it stinks to high heaven. I asked around. I was able to confirm that he really left town. I don’t know anything more than that. Ah, sir, I almost forgot. They called me from the Montelusa jail and confirmed that Rosanna went to visit Cusumano before they let him out.”

  “Don’t you need to file a request in writing?”

  “Of course, and she did so a month before.”

  “But she doesn’t know how to write! How did she sign it?”

  “Someone signed on her behalf.”

  “And what was his name?”

  “Illegible signature, sir.”

  A few minutes after Fazio left, Gallo came in.

  “Sir, I have Pino Dibetta here to see you. Should I stick around?”

  “If you want.”

  “I’d rather not. He’s a good friend, and I don’t want him to feel embarrassed.”

  Pino Dibetta was a little over twenty. A young man, rather tall, elegant, and a bit worried about being summoned to the station.

  “At your service,” he said, answering Montalbano’s invitation to sit down.

  “Listen,” Montalbano began, “do you know anything about …”

  “No, nothing,” the other said immediately.

  And then he started biting his lips. He had realized he had just made a fool of himself. He continued, as if to justify himself, “I have nothing to do with that story about the boss’s tires being slashed.”

  “But I don’t give a shit about the boss’s tires.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Then why did you call me in?”

  “For an old story that happened a few years back, about you and a girl named Rosanna Monaco.”

  “What happened?”

  “No, I’m the one asking you what happened.”

  “I met her at the market. At the time, I was helping my uncle, who owned a fruit and vegetable stand. I liked her. And she liked me back. She told me she worked for a family … I can’t remember …”

  “Trupiano.”

  “Yes, that’s it. She gave me their phone number, which she knew by heart—she couldn’t read or write. And so I started to call her.”

  “And you would meet up after work.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “We’d take a walk in the countryside, but we couldn’t stay long—she always wanted to go back home early.”

  “What happened between you two?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  “Kid stuff, kisses, touching … nothing more than that.”

  “She didn’t want to?”

  Pino Dibetta turned red.

  “Inspector, Rosanna was barely fifteen, but she was already a woman—a beautiful woman—but …”

  “But?”

  “Her head … she was like a five-year-old child. I was afraid of the consequences—she might have gone around telling everyone we did it …”

  “So you broke it off.”

  “No, Inspector, I didn’t want to break up with her.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “One night as I was walking home, I was ambushed by two men I didn’t recognize. Their faces were completely disguised. They put a bag over my head and then they beat the crap out of me. They broke three ribs and two teeth. Look here, at the scar on my forehead: seven stitches. Before they left me for dead, one of them told me: ‘And stay away from Rosanna Monaco.’ ”

  “And what did you do?”

  “As soon as I was able to walk, I called the Trupiano house. But someone told me that Rosanna didn’t work there anymore and that they didn’t know where she was. I saw Rosanna again, by chance, seven months later. But she had completely changed, skin and bones …”

  “Who do you think ambushed you?”

  “At first, I thought they were Rosanna’s brothers. But then I asked myself why they would do something like that … plus there was no need to disguise themselves … and I also thought that the two brothers weren’t the kind of people who would do something like that … they would have talked to me if they had something against me.”

  “So, if it wasn’t the brothers, then who?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Could it be that Rosanna, while she was going out with you, was also seeing someone else? Maybe a lover, a married man who …”

  “Rosanna was still a virgin. I lost sleep over who it was that beat me up. But I couldn’t figure it out.”

  There was nothing else to say. The inspector got up and so did the boy. Montalbano gave him his hand and he did the same. But as the two hands were shaking, the inspector tightened his grip.

  “You were the one who slashed the boss’s tires, right?”

  The other looked at him. They both smiled.

  “Sir,” Fazio said with a worried look on his face, “regarding the girl—maybe we need to make a decision.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why? This is looking more and more like a kidnapping! Nobody, the judge, the chief, nobody knows we’re holding her here at the station.”

  “Nobody will miss her.”

  “With all due respect, sir, that’s not a good reason.”

  “And what do you suggest we do?”

  “Sir, she had a revolver in her purse, didn’t she? She said she wanted to kill a judge, didn’t she? She did. And so? We’ll follow procedure and …”

  “… And we’ll never catch Cusumano. On the contrary, we’ll be doing him a favor because we’ll be keeping Rosanna out of his hair. There is no connection between the two of them. Cusumano has bee
n very careful.”

  “And what about the visit she paid him in jail?”

  “Do you know what they talked about?”

  “No.”

  “Cusumano will deny anything Rosanna says about that visit. And there’s no way we can prove otherwise. So Fazio: I need to keep the girl close for a few more days.”

  “Sir, be careful; your career’s on the line.”

  “I know. But I’ve got an idea. You’re married, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t you need a maid around the house? My treat.”

  Fazio stared at him, dumbstruck.

  “But don’t let her out of the house. Nobody needs to know about this. Take her there now.”

  Someone had told him that there was a restaurant tucked away in a secluded area near Racalmuto where you could eat according to our Lord’s commandments, and had also explained how to get there. However, Montalbano couldn’t remember the name of the particular person who had told that Good Samaritan. He made a decision. He got in the car and left. Racalmuto was about forty-five minutes away from Vigata, if you took the road that passed through the temples, toward Caltanissetta. But it took the inspector an hour and a half because he missed the turn to the restaurant twice. It was called Da Peppino and it was completely hidden in an almond orchard. It consisted of a huge room with more than ten tables, all of them occupied. The inspector chose a small table near the entrance.

  As he was inhaling the first course, cavatuna pasta with pork sauce topped with pecorino cheese, two men, who were sitting right in front of him, paid, got up, and left. As they walked in front of him, Montalbano thought he recognized one of them, the fatter of the two. That’s how a cop’s eye works: it photographs and stores information in the brain. But at the time the inspector didn’t think much of it—just a man he had seen somewhere else before. For the second course, he had grilled sausage. But what made him almost faint were the homemade biscotti, simple, light, and dusted with sugar. They called them taralli. He ate so many of them he was ashamed of himself. Then he left and drove back to Vigata. The night was very dark. Before exiting the country road to turn onto the highway, he stopped for the oncoming traffic. At a certain point he saw a narrow opening between the cars and he went for it. In that very moment he heard some kind of explosion and immediately after, his car swerved and started to spin around.

  Montalbano thought he was done for, blinded by the headlights coming from the opposite direction and then again from those in his own lane. Around and around. Completely drenched in sweat, he threw his arm up and let the car do what it wanted, as a cacophony of screeching breaks, car horns, screams, shouts, and curses surrounded him. The car felt like turning left and ended up stuck in a ditch not too far from the road. End of the line. Montalbano felt the taralli coming back up. Two or three people ran to his car and opened the door.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “God, you scared the crap out of me!”

  “What happened, huh?”

  “Thank you, thanks,” the inspector said. “I must have blown a tire.”

  He got a ride with a gentleman who was traveling to Vigata with his wife and five noisy children. At the station, he had Fazio and Gallo called in right away. With Gallo at the wheel of a squad car they went back to the scene of the accident. Fazio climbed into the ditch, and looked at the tire with a flashlight.

  “I think someone took a shot at you,” he said with a grim look on his face.

  “I think so, too,” Montalbano said.

  “Who else knew you were eating in Racalmuto?”

  “Nobody.”

  They changed the tire, towed the car out of the ditch, and went back to Vigata where they examined the blown tire. It didn’t take too long. They immediately found a 7.65 bullet. As Fazio was working on retrieving it, the inspector thought back to the restaurant. His head became a sort of movie theater, the projection of a film. The scene depicted the big room. It was a tracking shot. The customers eating. The owner carrying a bottle of wine. He had just ordered the first course and as the waiter walked back to the kitchen, from a table where two people were sitting, the fatter one got up, went to the phone hanging from the wall, inserted a coin, dialed a number, talked a bit in a low voice, laughed, hung up, and went back to his table. Crossfade, the same scene but without the owner, the waiter carries four plates, the young couple sitting at the table next to the kitchen is missing. He is about to finish his cavatuna, when the two men get up and walk to the door, passing right in front of him. And this is when he notices the fat man; he had seen him before. The camera zooms onto his face, showing a bluish birthmark from his nose to his ear. Now the scene changes suddenly. The main square in Vigata, in front of city hall. A street cop talking to two dogs. A car pulls up very slowly and is quickly overtaken by a powerful sports car. The two cars touch and they both stop. An old man gets out of the slow car, from the other a youngster gets out and punches the old man in the face. A fat man gets out the sports car, grabs the youngster, and takes him back to his car. Once again the camera zooms in on his face: a bluish birthmark that starts on his nose and goes all the way to his ear. The lights turn on in the theater and a light goes off in the inspector’s head.

  “Listen, Fazio, do you know a fat man with a birthmark on his face who runs with Pino Cusumano’s men?”

  “Of course I know him! Ninì Brucculeri, he has a rap sheet as long as my arm, he’s their right-hand man.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Here in Vigata.”

  “Good. Take as many men as you need and bring him to me. He should have a gun on him. It’s crucial you get it.”

  “Sir, I must point out that we don’t have a warrant.”

  “I don’t give a shit. If we act quickly, we’ll catch him off guard and we’ll get him to talk.”

  “But why would Brucculeri want to kill you?”

  “You’re wrong—he didn’t want to kill me. He wanted to send a message. It all happened by chance. I walked into the restaurant where he was having dinner, so he called Cusumano to inform him. And Cusumano must have told him to give me a good scare.”

  “Okay, but why would Cusumano do that?”

  “Sorry, Fazio, but haven’t you been looking for him? He must have heard of our interest in him and decided to take action.”

  “Are you sure, sir? Because I have been very cautious, I did ask around, but only those people I thought …”

  “Trust me, this is the only explanation. Think about it. By now, Cusumano certainly knows we’re holding Rosanna. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you went around asking about Cusumano. What does that mean? It can only mean that Rosanna talked, that she told us Cusumano wanted her to kill Judge Rosato. And so he’s taking his precautions. It’s as if he’d sent me a letter: ‘Be careful what you do next.’ And you know what?”

  “No.”

  “Cusumano may be the grandchild and son of mafia men, and a mafioso himself, but most of all, he’s a shithead.”

  The birthmark on Ninì Brucculeri’s face had taken on a greenish hue. The fat man was shaking with ill-concealed rage.

  “Why the hell did you wake me up at four in the morning and drag me down here like a criminal? You scared the hell out of my wife.”

  “That’s because you are a criminal,” Fazio said, standing next to him.

  Montalbano, sitting behind his desk, held up his hand in a sign of peace.

  He decided to have some fun with him, as he often did when dealing with arrogant people.

  “Mr. Brucculeri, I just wanted to ask you two simple questions. Here’s the first one: Did you dine at the Da Peppino restaurant in Racalmuto tonight?”

  “Yessir. Why, is that a crime?”

  “No. In fact, I ate there myself.”

  “Ah, you were there too?”

  His tone sounded fake. He was a terrible actor, this Ninì Brucculeri.

  “Yes. So, I wanted to ask you what you
ate for your first course.”

  Brucculeri was expecting everything but that. He lost his train of thought for a moment. Had they really picked him and brought him down to the station at four in the morning just to ask him a stupid question like that?

  “Ca … Cavatuna with pork sauce.”

  “Me too. The question is: Was it too salty, yes or no?”

  Brucculeri started to sweat profusely. What was the point of this farce? Was it really a farce, or a trick? Better to keep things vague.

  “It seemed just right to me.”

  “Fine. Thank you. And here’s the second question: Which team do you root for, Milan or Inter?”

  Brucculeri felt lost at sea. “Run,” he thought, “Run, this is definitely a trick, no matter which one I choose, I’ll be screwed.”

  “I don’t care much for soccer.”

  “Fine. Have you fired your gun recently?”

  “No. Yes. No, no. Yes, yes.”

  “Did he have the gun on him?” Montalbano asked Fazio.

  “Yes, sir. A 7.65 Beretta. And one shot’s missing from the clip.”

  “Ah,” Montalbano said in a neutral tone.

  He looked at Brucculeri and asked, “Naturally you have a permit for it, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  By now, the fat man’s sweat was running into his shoes.

  “Ah,” Montalbano said again in such a neutral tone he sounded Swiss.

  “You still have the bullet we recovered from the tire, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Fazio answered.

  “First thing in the morning, send the gun and the bullet to Montelusa, to the lab.”

  “I’m not feeling too well,” Brucculeri said.

  “Should I show this one to the holding cell?” Fazio asked.

  “Yeah,” Montalbano said, in an obvious tone.

  9

  Fazio came back after he had locked up Brucculeri. He had a long face and Montalbano noticed it immediately.

  “What’s up?”

  “Sir, what are you planning on doing with Brucculeri? According to the law, he should be brought in front of the DA this very morning, booked for attempted murder, allowed to choose his council, and so on. But from what I know about you, I’d say you have something else in mind.”