The Sicilian Method

by Andrea Camilleri

“Good morning, sir, I apologize for being late, but—”

  “Yes, yes, I heard all about it,” said the lawyer.

  “I’m sorry, you heard all about what?” asked Montalbano, confused.

  “About what happened to you this morning. Apparently you were mistaken for a terrorist! The whole town’s been laughing about it.”

  Montalbano got pissed off and changed the subject.

  “Did you bring the documents for me?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, I have to run to the courthouse in Montelusa now. I left them with the guard. You’ll see the company’s name on the folder: ‘Trinacriarte.’ At any rate, if you need any clarifications, you know where to find me.”

  They shook hands, and Montalbano went inside. Where he was instantly stopped by Catarella.

  “Ahh, Chief, Chief! Ya feelin’ better now? All recovered? Man, whatta scare I gat this mornin’! Man, whatta scare!”

  Montalbano really didn’t feel like hearing Catarella’s blather, so he cut things short: “Gimme the documents that Scimè the lawyer left with you.”

  Catarella bent down and handed him a folder.

  Montalbano took it and started walking towards his office. Halfway there, he crossed paths with Cumella, a beat cop, who looked at him and giggled. The withering glance the inspector shot at him quickly wiped the smile off his face.

  As soon as he entered his office, Montalbano locked the door, tossed the folder onto his desk, and started pacing to and fro, cursing the saints. He needed to get the agitation out of his system. How was it possible that not a single hair could fall from a man’s head in that goddamn town without everyone knowing about it immediately?

  He opened the window, fired up a cigarette, smoked it, closed the window, sat down, and grabbed the folder.

  Scimè had done a good job.

  At first glance, the elements making up Trinacriarte seemed to break down into three categories: partners, subscribers, and staff. The first name on the list of partners belonged to the late Catalanotti, beside which Scimè had taken the trouble to inscribe a small cross. Next came the names of Scimè himself and the bank manager, Elena Saponaro, both of whom, together with Catalanotti, made up the directorate, and these were followed by those of the lead actress, the lead actor, and the administrator. The next list was longer and featured the names of the subscribers: six male actors, including Engineer Lo Savio, and six actresses.

  The next and final group was the staff: a seamstress, prompters, lighting crew, electrician, set designer, costume designer, chief stagehand . . . All technical personnel, totaling seven people.

  On another sheet of paper, Scimè explained the differences between the three categories. The partners were producers of a sort; they sought out financial support, covered the expenses of every production, and collected any proceeds there were to be had. The subscribers worked for free but had the right to a per diem if they went on tour. The technicians, on the other hand, were paid the union-approved minimum wage.

  Scimè made a point of specifying that it was the directorate that decided which plays would be produced, which actors would take part in them, and whom to assign, on a case-by-case basis, the tasks of set and costume design.

  For each of the names on the three lists, the lawyer had diligently written the address and telephone number.

  Montalbano had just started rereading the pages for the addresses when there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” he said.

  The door was pushed, but did not open.

  Then he remembered he’d locked it.

  He got up, opened the door, and found Fazio before him.

  The inspector immediately felt grateful to him for not having a smirk on his face.

  They sat down, as usual. Fazio got straight to the point.

  “I’ve found out a few things about the Lo Bello family, Chief.”

  “Let’s hear ’em.”

  “Apparently the quarrel that led to the girl leaving home was pretty serious. A neighbor woman told me that the girl’s father literally threw her out of the house, right onto the street, then slammed the door on her. Then, as the girl was lying there, crying her eyes out, he started throwing her stuff out the window at her: dresses, panties, bras, shoes, and so on, followed by a big, empty suitcase, and then he said: ‘Don’t you ever show your face around here again!’

  “At this point, Signora Nunziata—the neighbor—told me she went outside to console the poor girl. She gathered up all the stuff the father had thrown out the window, brought her inside, and calmed her down a little. The girl then called up her boyfriend, who rushed over there in about ten minutes, grabbed the suitcase, and drove away with her.”

  “A fine scene from the way things used to be,” Montalbano commented.

  “It gets worse,” said Fazio. “Apparently this Tano Lo Bello is often violent with his family. Signora Nunziata also told me that two months ago, she even had to intervene because Lo Bello had beaten up his wife. Apparently—though I haven’t confirmed it yet—he was called in by the carabinieri for his behavior.”

  “And what exactly is his gripe against his daughter? Did you find out?”

  “His gripe is that she’s been too long with a boyfriend who he says is a good-for-nothing.”

  “But the poor kid even goes down to the docks to unload fish . . .” Montalbano objected.

  “Yeah, sure, but Signor Lo Bello doesn’t see it the same way.”

  “What’s the man do for a living, anyway?”

  “In theory, he’s a clerk at city hall.”

  “Why ‘in theory’?”

  “’Cause he seems to belong to that category of government employees who take turns going to work and punching each other in.”

  “And what’s he do the rest of the time?”

  “He goes to game rooms and plays video poker.”

  “Is Margherita an only child?”

  “No. She’s got an older brother, Gaspare, who’s married with a one-year-old boy, and they all live with the parents.”

  “Does he have a job?”

  “He did, but he just got laid off.”

  “All right,” the inspector said by way of conclusion. “Do me a big favor and keep an eye on this Lo Bello.”

  “I will.”

  “And what can you tell me about the other two people?”

  “Nothing, Chief. I haven’t had time yet to start asking questions.”

  “Could you do me another favor?”

  “At your service, Chief.”

  “Get up now, go out of the room, close the door behind you, wait a few seconds, then reopen the door, come in, and close it behind you again.”

  “And why all the rigamarole?”

  “I’ll explain afterwards.”

  Fazio got up and did exactly what Montalbano had asked him to do.

  “Stop right there!” the inspector ordered him the moment he was back in the room. “Tell me precisely in what part of his leg Nico was injured.”

  “In his left calf.”

  “Have Forensics determined what direction the shot came from?”

  “Yes, Chief: from the front.”

  “Excellent. You can sit back down. Now think carefully before answering: Tell me what your eyes saw as you opened the door.”

  Fazio thought about this for a moment.

  “They saw you behind your desk, under the picture of the president.”

  “Now make another effort. Did you look immediately at me the moment you entered?”

  “No, Chief.”

  “Feel like taking a little spin with me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good, then we’ll take your car,” said the inspector.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Nico and his girlfriend’s place.”

 
; * * *

  —

  Via Pignatelli was long and narrow, and there was almost nowhere to park, so Fazio practically had to go down the whole street before he could stop. They got out and retraced their path.

  At number 57 was a small locked door.

  “This is where Nico lives. Second floor,” said Fazio.

  It was a small, three-story apartment block.

  “Do you know who’s on the third floor?”

  “It’s vacant, Chief.”

  Only then did the inspector notice a sign saying FOR SALE. Just opposite the front door, across the street, was a haberdasher’s shop with a metal shutter over its façade and a sign saying FOR RENT. To the right of it was another block of apartments, locked up.

  The building opposite also featured two tall windows with iron grilles to the left of the door and two identical windows to the right.

  “Okay,” said Montalbano, “come with me.”

  He took a few steps and then stopped, with his back to the front door at number 57. Fazio came up beside him and did the same.

  “Okay, imagine you’re coming out the front door. What do you see?”

  “I see the metal shutter of the haberdashery,” said Fazio.

  “And out of the corner of your eye?”

  “I can see as far as the windows.”

  “Now turn your gaze a little to the left. What do you see?”

  “The start of the building connected to it.”

  “Now turn to the right.”

  “Same thing. The other building.”

  “Conclusion?”

  “Conclusion,” said Fazio, “Nico had to have seen whoever it was that shot him. And when he recognized him, he turned around, not to close the front door, but to try to run back inside. Is that right?”

  “That’s right,” replied the inspector. “And that’s the part of the Mass that Nico neglected to sing to us.”

  “So what’s our next move?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Now drive me to Enzo’s.”

  * * *

  —

  There were few people in the trattoria, so Enzo came up to them almost immediately.

  “Would you like a little seafood antipasto? It’s very fresh today.”

  “I think we can make the sacrifice,” replied the inspector.

  Enzo was about to turn and go when he stopped and bent down towards Montalbano, leaning his hands on the table.

  “Could you tell me if you’re making any progress on the Catalanotti murder?” he asked softly.

  Montalbano did a double take.

  “Why, did you know him?”

  “Yeah, he was a customer.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, he’d been coming out this way for the last three months. Always in the evening.”

  “Want to bet I can guess what evenings he came here?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday.”

  “You guessed right,” said Enzo. “But did you already know?”

  “No, but tell me something else. Did he come alone?”

  “No, Inspector, he was always in the company of the same woman: blond, about forty, all dolled up and stuck up in the worst kind of way. A total, ball-busting pain in the ass. None of our dishes was ever good enough for her: sometimes it was overdone, other times it was underdone . . .”

  “And how did Catalanotti act on those occasions?”

  “I remember that one evening somebody called the restaurant to talk with Signor Catalanotti. When he came back to the table, the woman lit into him and made a big scene. ‘How the hell do they know you’re here? Who’d you tell we were coming to eat at this restaurant?’”

  “And wha’d he do?”

  “The poor guy got all confused and tried to tell her it wasn’t an important phone call. But she was having none of it. At a certain point the woman, still yelling, got up and just left, leaving the guy in the lurch. Before sitting back down, poor Catalanotti felt obliged to apologize to the other customers in the restaurant for all the commotion she’d created.”

  “And they came back to eat here again after that?”

  “You bet they did! They were back at their usual table two days later, all nice and well behaved.”

  “Do you know what this blonde’s name is?”

  “No, Inspector, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there. And I never saw anyone in here greet her, so I wouldn’t know who to ask.”

  “Did you ever manage to notice whether they would come in the same car or two different cars?”

  “I think they always came in one car.”

  “Why? How do you know?”

  “Because on the evening of the big dustup, Catalanotti asked me to call him a taxi to take him home.”

  As Enzo walked away, it occurred to Montalbano that the trattoria was actually rather far from Catalanotti’s place, which was on the opposite side of town. And it was also far from the warehouse where they held their rehearsals.

  So it must have been a secret relationship, especially since neither the doorman of his building nor his housekeeper knew where he went on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights.

  * * *

  —

  He had a substantial, satisfying meal. The walk out to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty was therefore slow and meditative.

  As he sat down on the usual flat rock, the usual crab, seeing him arrive, hid under the surface of the water. Apparently the animal wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

  Enzo’s story added a further complication to the overall picture: now there was a mysterious woman in the middle of it all.

  And so, as tradition would dictate, he should probably begin with the categorical imperative: cherchez la femme.

  8

  He’d just sat down at the desk when Mimì, his face one big frown, sat down without a word in the chair opposite him.

  “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” said the inspector.

  Mimì snapped angrily to attention.

  “I’ve been busy on the case since yesterday.”

  “Which case?” Montalbano asked sarcastically.

  “The case of our cadaver.”

  “Your cadaver, Mimì. That cadaver is all yours.”

  “Okay, okay . . . Look, I can’t get any sleep anymore. I have no idea where they could have hidden him. How is it possible the body hasn’t been found yet?”

  “Tell me what you did.”

  “I went all the way to the port to ask the fishermen if they’d seen a body out at sea dressed up in trousers, jacket, and shoes. They told me that any bodies they find at sea they bring back to shore, no matter how they’re dressed. Then I got wind that a dead body had been found in Fela. So I got in my car. It wasn’t him.”

  “Stop right there,” said Montalbano. “How could you know it wasn’t him if you’d only barely touched him?”

  “That was quite enough for me. And our cadaver—I mean, my cadaver—was wearing very fancy shoes. The dead guy in Fela was wearing shabby old peasant boots and his trousers were some kind of rough corduroy, whereas my guy’s were fine fabric . . . Don’t you think that’s enough?”

  “Listen, Mimì, stop tormenting yourself like this. Stop losing sleep over it. You can rest assured that, sooner or later, this cadaver of yours will resurface. In fact, I’ve been wanting to ask you to give me a hand on the other case.”

  “Sure, whatever you say.”

  “Let’s start by saying that this Catalanotti was a moderate moneylender.”

  “What do you mean by ‘moderate’?” asked Mimì, interrupting.

  “I mean that he lent money at not terribly high rates of interest. He also owned some warehouses and apartments, worked as a stage actor and director for a company on wh
ose board of directors he sat, and he was also an amateur psychologist.”

  “And what do you want from me?”

  “On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays he was in the custom of dining at Enzo’s in the evening, in the company of a blond woman of about forty, all gussied up and very unpleasant in manner.”

  “So?” Mimì insisted.

  “I was thinking you would be the most suitable person for trying to find out who this woman is.”

  Mimì’s face brightened at once. He grinned.

  “Well, I can try, at least,” he said.

  Then a moment later: “If he was an actor and a director, then the first thing to do would be to seek out the actresses in the troupe.”

  “I’ve got the list right here,” said Montalbano, grabbing Scimè’s folder and handing it to him.

  Mimì took it, opened it, and then asked for a sheet of paper, on which he copied the names and addresses of the eight actresses.

  When he’d finished, he stood up.

  “I’ll have some news for you soon,” he said.

  As if they’d planned in advance to take turns, as Mimì was pushing the door open on his way out, Fazio held it open and came in.

  “Any news?”

  “First I need to ask you something: How much did Sciacchitano owe Catalanotti?”

  And who is this Sciacchitano? wondered Montalbano. Then, making a little effort, he recalled the register of Catalanotti’s loans, where he’d seen the name, along with that of a woman, as two people who hadn’t yet repaid their debts.

  “I can’t really remember,” said the inspector, “but I think it was a small amount, maybe between two and three thousand euros.”

  Fazio raised an intelligent objection.

  “A small amount depending on your point of view, Chief.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This Sciacchitano is fifty years old, with a dirty record for brawling, assault with a weapon, and other sundry offenses. He gets by robbing old folks and lives in a shack on the edge of town. For him, two or three thousand euros is a ton of money.”

  “You’re right. And so? Do we call him in for questioning?”

  “There’s no need, Chief.”