The Sicilian Method

by Andrea Camilleri

  “For three days.”

  “Why so short a time?”

  The girl smiled bitterly.

  “I had a nasty quarrel with my dad. He practically threw me out of the house.”

  “Mind telling me the reason for the quarrel?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Do you have a job?”

  “I have a math degree. I tutor kids to get by. I’m hoping to find some steadier work soon. Nico and I are doing everything we can to try to make our lives better . . .”

  “Do you plan on getting married?” asked Montalbano.

  “I’m not terribly optimistic, Inspector. The way it’s been going for us, with me and my tutorials and Nico unloading crates at the port, how could we possibly support a family . . . ?”

  “I’m sorry, but isn’t living together practically the same as being married?”

  “Inspector, I was forced to go and live with Nico. If it had been up to me, I would have waited until we got married.”

  Montalbano found this girl from another age very much to his liking.

  “Tell me about the shooting.”

  “I was going out to the balcony to wave good-bye, but just as I was opening the window, the intercom buzzed. It was Nico calling for help. I screamed, waking Filippo up, and then I went downstairs.”

  She stopped for a moment and looked at the inspector.

  “Do you know who Filippo is?”

  “Yes.”

  “When Filippo came down to the entrance, I told him to go and get his car, and then we drove Nico here to the hospital.”

  “So you didn’t hear any shot, either?”

  “No.”

  “And you didn’t see anyone?”

  “No, nobody.”

  “Do you have any idea who it might have been?”

  Margherita hesitated ever so slightly, but they both noticed.

  “No. No idea at all.”

  “Okay, you can go now. Thanks,” said Montalbano.

  * * *

  —

  As they were walking down the hospital corridor, Montalbano said to Fazio: “Are you in agreement that Margherita only sang us half the Mass?”

  “Yeah,” said Fazio.

  “Then I want to know everything there is to know about this Lo Bello family. Try also to find out what the spat between the father and his daughter was about. I’m going home now.”

  Not that he was really so hungry, since he still had that strange hospital smell on him. The first thing he wanted to do was to take a shower.

  When he was done, his appetite returned with a vengeance. It was past nine o’clock.

  He had a thought. Maybe they were organizing some kind of commemoration for the late Catalanotti at Trinacriarte that evening. Why not pay them a visit?

  As soon as he got into his car, his entire backlog of fatigue came crashing down on him, burying him under its weight. He immediately felt like going back inside and getting into bed, but his sense of duty won out.

  He turned on the ignition and drove off.

  Only after ten minutes behind the wheel did he realize he hadn’t the slightest idea where Via Lombardo was located. He felt completely muddled from lack of sleep.

  Then he saw a sign announcing the forthcoming opening of a shopping center right on Via Lombardo. Under the sign was an arrow pointing straight ahead. He followed it. A hundred yards later, there was another arrow telling him to turn right. He did. In this way, going from arrow to arrow, he found himself outside of town, on the road to Montereale. And there, on the left, was a sign for Via Lombardo. All that was visible of the much-announced shopping center was a sort of skeleton of concrete. At that rate, the forthcoming opening wouldn’t be for at least another two or three years.

  At number 15 was a warehouse with a steel-reinforced door. He pulled up and got out of the car.

  By the glow of the headlights—since it was pitch-dark all around—he noticed that beside the door were a doorbell and a plate that said TRINACRIARTE.

  He rang. There was no answer.

  He waited a moment before ringing again. The warehouse was big, and it might take them awhile to come to the door.

  Two or three minutes later, he tried again. And, once again, there was no answer.

  He became convinced there was no one inside the warehouse, and that they’d probably canceled the rehearsal as a gesture of mourning.

  He got back into his car, and as soon as he’d closed the door, he saw the door of the warehouse open. Getting out of the car, he was immediately accosted by the man who’d opened the door.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano, police.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Please come in,” said the man, stepping aside.

  They went in. Montalbano found himself in a sort of reception area created from old, and probably fake, Chinese screens.

  The man, about sixty, was completely bald and looked polished from head to toe. He held out his hand to the inspector.

  “Hello, my name is Antonio Scimè. I’m a lawyer and also on the board of directors of Trinacriarte. What can I do for you?”

  “I don’t want to interrupt your rehearsal . . .” said Montalbano, feeling a bit awkward.

  “Don’t worry, that’s not a problem. We’re not working today, we’re organizing a celebration for our friend, Carmelo.”

  “You mean the funeral?” asked Montalbano.

  “No, there’s not going to be one. Carmelo always made it clear that he never wanted a religious funeral. If you’d like to come inside . . .”

  “With pleasure,” said the inspector, and as he was following the man, he remembered that he should phone Pasquano for the results of the autopsy.

  Inside the warehouse, a parquet had been set up with some fifty or so chairs, with about ten people presently sitting in them. On a raised floor that served as a stage, there were two women and three men sitting behind a long table. Among the men, the inspector spotted Lo Savio, the engineer. Upon recognizing Montalbano, Lo Savio came rushing up to shake his hand, then invited him to come up on the stage with them and sit wherever he liked. The two women were introduced to him as Elena Saponaro, also on the board of directors, and Giovanna Zicari, lead actress. The other two men turned out to be Filiberto Vullo, lead actor, and Calogero Granturco, the troupe’s administrator.

  Naturally, as soon as Montalbano sat down in the last chair of the row with the others, silence descended on the gathering. Nobody knew where to start.

  After a brief spell, Lo Savio stood up and began speaking.

  “We are gathered here today to determine how we might best pay homage, with dignity, to our dear friend, who passed away so tragically.”

  The lead actress then interrupted him, also rising to her feet.

  “I don’t think there are any words, or any songs, or any hymns in the world that could measure up to the lofty merits of our friend, who was a truly great stage director, and a giant of a man, whose accomplishments I would like—”

  “Enough of this farce!” a female voice yelled from the seats in the audience.

  It was a young woman who’d been sitting in the parquet but was now standing. Montalbano recognized her at once. She was the Maria from the photo in Catalanotti’s folder.

  “Why do you call it a farce?” Scimè asked, challenging her.

  “Because,” the girl replied, getting more and more upset, “you never appreciated Carmelo’s true worth when he was alive, you always considered him too strange . . .”

  “Because he was!” a tall beanpole of a man called out, also from the floor.

  “That’s enough of that!” Scimè cut them off. “We always gave him everything we could, but he was never satisfied!”

  The girl resumed talking.

 
“The best way for you to commemorate him would be to remain silent,” she said, then she turned around and left the room.

  In the dead silence that followed, only Montalbano’s voice could be heard, asking: “Excuse me, but who is she?”

  Scimè once again provided the answer.

  “Maria del Castello. She was hoping to work with Carmelo. And he probably would have picked her for the next play he was preparing.”

  “I’m sorry I interrupted your meeting,” Montalbano resumed. “I really don’t want to waste any of your time. I only came to get the names, addresses, and, if possible, the telephone numbers of everyone in your company.”

  The lead actress, clearly put out by all the interruptions, turned her chair three-quarters away from the audience. Lo Savio did the same. Scimè came to the rescue.

  “If that’s all you want, it’s no problem. I can bring everyone’s name to you personally tomorrow morning. I’ll come to your office at police headquarters.”

  “All right, then,” said Montalbano. “Thank you so much. Sorry again to disturb you. I’ll let you get back to work now.”

  He shook everyone’s hand and went out of the warehouse with Lo Savio leading the way.

  He got in his car and began to drive off. In the beam of the headlights he recognized Maria at the side of the road.

  She was walking fast, all hunched and enclosed within herself. Montalbano pulled up beside her.

  7

  “Need a lift?”

  “No,” she said without turning her head.

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

  The girl then turned and looked.

  “Then all right,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Montalbano opened the door and she got in.

  “Tell me where you want me to take you.”

  She gave him an address. The inspector knew the street.

  “So, you worked with Catalanotti?”

  “I was hoping to, but . . .”

  “Go on. I’m interested.”

  “Carmelo put me through the hardest tests, like he always did. I put up with it because I really liked the role and I wanted it for myself, but in the end he decided I wasn’t up to the task, and so that was the end of that. But that doesn’t prevent me from appreciating the guy’s genius. Nobody in our company was on the same level as him. They’re all just amateurs.”

  “So how did you react when you found out he didn’t pick you?”

  “I certainly can’t say I was happy about it, but I decided I understood the reasons for it. Well, here we are,” said Maria, cutting the conversation short and getting out of the car. “Thanks for the ride. Good night.”

  “Listen, could I ask you for your cell phone number, in case I need to talk to you?”

  The girl told him the number, the inspector wrote it down, and they said good-bye.

  Catalanotti had been right in what he’d written about Maria. She had an unpredictable personality. And at that moment Montalbano suddenly felt so sleepy he had to pull over. Seconds later he was asleep, head resting on his arms folded over the steering wheel.

  * * *

  —

  It was at that hour of the morning, in the first faint, violet light, when the sky greets the earth, that street cleaner Totò Panzeca, sweeping here and sweeping there, ended up near a car stopped right at the bottom of the stone staircase of the Chiesa Madre, where it was strictly forbidden to park.

  Totò took a look inside and saw that in the front seat lay a man curled up in the fetal position between the two doors. He couldn’t see his face, because the man’s left arm was folded over his head.

  Totò tapped on the window, to wake the sleeping man.

  He got no answer. The man did not move. Totò tried again, with no result. And so, feeling a little spooked, he shouted to his coworker Ninì Panaro, who was sweeping the street about ten yards away.

  “Have a look in there,” Totò said as soon as Ninì came up to him.

  “So? What’s the big deal? There’s some guy sleeping.”

  “Then you try to wake him up!” Totò challenged him.

  “All right,” said Ninì. And, with the broom he’d carried along with him, he knocked loudly on the roof of the car.

  The sleeping man did not move.

  “Want to bet he’s dead?” said Ninì, trying to force the car door open with both hands.

  At this point, Totò, running quickly away, shouted: “Careful!”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “The guy might be a terrorist with a time bomb!”

  These words worked like a magic spell. In a flash both men turned as pale as corpses and embraced each other, trembling.

  “What should we do?” asked Totò.

  “Let’s call the carabinieri.”

  * * *

  —

  Ten minutes later, Marshal Bonnici of the Royal Corps of Carabinieri came running, followed by a corporal-at-arms. Totò and Ninì immediately informed the officer of the situation.

  Bonnici walked ever so slowly and carefully towards the car, keeping his head tucked down between his shoulders, as though expecting at any moment to be shot at. When he was two steps away from the car, he stopped and bent all the way forward to look inside. He, too, became convinced that the man in the car was dead.

  He turned around and started walking back. When he reached the other three, he said: “It’s clearly a trap. That corpse was put there to attract attention, and the moment anyone opens the car door, the car will explode. You stay here and keep people away. I’m going to call Montelusa at once and tell them to send the bomb squad.”

  As the marshal was speedily walking away, Father Stanzillà opened the great front door of the church for the six o’clock morning Mass, then came down the stairs to get a little fresh air.

  “Get away from there!” shouted the carabinieri corporal. “Stand back! Stand back!”

  The street cleaners added in tandem: “Run away! Run away! Run away!”

  Father Stanzillà looked at them in shock.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause there’s a bomb in that car.”

  In spite of their warnings, Father Stanzillà descended two more steps and, reaching the car, said: “But there’s even a Christian soul inside!”

  “He’s dead! He’s dead!” shouted everyone in chorus.

  At this point Father Stanzillà got scared, turned around, ran back up the staircase, went into the church, and slammed the great door shut with a boom.

  Then, as if on cue, a small truck full of fish stopped a short distance away from the car and a man inside the truck began to wake up the whole town with his amplified voice: “Come and see my fish dance! They’re so fresh and alive they’ll dance before your very eyes! Come and see the dancing fish!”

  The corporal rushed over to the truck.

  “Get away from here at once!”

  “I’m completely legit,” said the fishmonger, holding up a sheet of paper.

  “Get away now! There’s a bomb in that car!” the corporal shouted.

  The little truck bounded forward as though onto the track at Indianapolis, and at the same time a powerful curse boomed over the loudspeaker, which the fishmonger had forgotten to turn off.

  At that moment the car door opened and out came the man who everyone had thought was dead.

  As the two street sweepers were running away in terror, the carabinieri corporal didn’t hesitate for a second. He cocked his revolver and said: “Hands in the air!”

  * * *

  —

  Montalbano, still half asleep, was under the impression he was still dreaming and instinctively held up his hands, thinking: I’ll wake up soon enough, I guess . . .

  The corporal, gun still trained on him, slowly approached, then, to his great surprise, r
ecognized him.

  “But . . . aren’t you Inspector Montalbano?”

  The inspector didn’t even have time to say yes, when suddenly a man came running up behind him, shouting at the top of his lungs.

  “Matre santa! Matre santissima! Wha’ happen? Wha’ happen? Why’s the carabbineris pointin’ ’eir gun a’ my chief?”

  It was Catarella, and he’d positioned himself in front of Montalbano, offering his body as a shield. Weighing his options, the corporal kept his gun pointed at them. Nobody moved. It looked like a freeze frame from a Tarantino movie.

  At this point Marshal Bonnici came racing back.

  “The bomb squad’s on its w—” he started saying, then stopped, slack-jawed, at the sight of Montalbano.

  * * *

  —

  When Montalbano finally got home, as he stepped out of the car he realized that having spent the night in so uncomfortable a position had made his legs as stiff as boards. He started cursing while unlocking the front door. Goddamn old age!

  One way or another, he made his way into the dining room. Leaning with both hands against the table, he began doing a sort of gymnastic exercise, stretching first the right leg, then the left, a bit like a mule kicking out at someone.

  After some ten minutes of this exercise, his legs began to feel a little less like boards. He took all his clothes off and got into the shower.

  Then, beginning to enjoy himself, he got out, dripping wet, went into the kitchen, made himself a mug of coffee, and got back into the shower.

  In short, it took more than an hour for his body to recover all its functions. But at this point another phenomenon occurred, owing certainly to his age: He felt sleepy again.

  He grabbed the phone and rang Catarella.

  “I’ve got stuff to do at home, Cat. Tell everybody I’ll be coming in around eleven.”

  And then he went to bed.

  * * *

  —

  As he was parking, he saw Scimè, the lawyer, come out of the station house. Montalbano got out of the car and called to him.