The Sicilian Method
Page 15
—
It was well past dinnertime, as his dully growling stomach was reminding him. To calm it down he put a hand on his belly, almost as if to caress it. He felt proud of his body: It might be well on in years and the worse for wear, but all things considered, it had performed well. Indeed it had acquitted itself beyond all expectation.
He turned onto the drive leading to his house but had to brake suddenly, because he found the road blocked by three cars. For whatever reason, he thought it might be an ambush. In the darkness he saw three male figures and instinctively put the car in reverse to back up to the main road as his right hand quickly opened the glove compartment and grabbed his gun. At that moment he heard a voice.
“Salvo, it’s Mimì.”
Heaving a sigh of relief, he closed the glove compartment and resumed his forward progress. In the beam of the headlights he recognized not only Mimì but Gallo and Fazio.
He got out of the car.
“What the hell are you guys doing here?”
“And where the hell have you been yourself?” Mimì retorted. “This morning you came to the station for barely a few minutes, you got all dolled up, and then you disappeared for the rest of the day! With your cell phone off! And no answer on your home phone, either! Jesus Christ! Doesn’t it occur to you that we might need you? At a certain point we even started to get worried.”
“Worried about what?”
“Well, seeing you were in disguise and all.”
“In disguise? Me?”
“Isn’t that what you said to me, Fazio? You said he looked like something out of a fashion magazine. So we thought you were on some kind of secret mission.”
“What the fuck are you guys thinking! Listen, if you want to chew me out, go right ahead. Otherwise, go back home or to the station.”
“Good night,” said Gallo, getting into his car and then executing a complicated maneuver to avoid the other cars blocking the way.
And since neither Fazio nor Augello showed the slightest intention of leaving, Montalbano made a decision.
“Park your cars properly, and then let’s all go inside.”
It was a pleasant enough evening, and so they sat out on the veranda. Montalbano went into the kitchen and in the oven found more than enough beef involtini with sauce and roast potatoes.
“Have you guys eaten?” he called loudly from the kitchen.
“No,” the other two replied in chorus.
“Then set the table.”
Augello and Fazio obeyed the order. As everything was warming up, Montalbano opened a bottle of wine and filled three glasses.
“So what good things have you got to tell me?”
“Salvo,” Mimì said in an exasperated tone, “let’s cut the charade. Now talk.”
“I did something neither of you thought of doing. In Catalanotti’s bedroom is a kind of closet containing over a hundred folders. I went through these, read them one after another, spent the whole day doing it. They’re transcriptions of the auditions Catalanotti made his actors perform.”
Mimì looked at him in admiration.
Montalbano continued: “There’s about ten or so interesting documents that I’ve set aside. Tomorrow I’m gonna look at them more closely.”
“Want me to come, too?” Fazio asked with great interest.
“Not on your life!” Montalbano blurted out, reacting instinctively.
Fazio looked at him, completely bewildered.
“Wha’d I do, Chief? Say something wrong?”
“No, no, I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . I don’t know how to put it . . . I’ve come up with my own method, and I’d rather continue alone. What you should do tomorrow is instead inform Nico that we’ll be at his place at ten-thirty.”
“Okay, okay.”
And, just to change the subject, he stood up and said: “I think the involtini are probably hot enough now.”
He went into the kitchen and returned with the steaming casserole. He meted out the servings and then repeated: “So, what good things have you got to tell me?”
Fazio and Augello looked at each other, and Mimì spoke first.
“I still haven’t been able to figure out who Catalanotti’s blonde might be, but I think I may be on the right track.”
“I, on the other hand,” said Fazio, “have the keys!”
“The keys to what?” the inspector asked confusedly, stopping a forkful of potato in midair.
“The head of the agency is back, and I talked him into giving me the keys,” said Fazio, sticking his hand in his pocket and taking them out.
“But what agency?” asked Montalbano, rotating the fork in his hand.
“Come on, Inspector! The keys to the apartment on Via Biancamano!!!” said Fazio, raising his voice and talking the way one does to children.
“My cadaver!” Augello jumped in.
This statement allowed Montalbano to do the math. And to save face, he said: “Well, it was about time!”
Then he fell silent again.
“I’ll go myself,” said Mimì. “That way I can also drop in and say hello to Geneviève.”
“Nobody’s going anywhere,” said Montalbano, cutting things short. “Gimme those keys.”
Fazio handed them to him, and at that exact moment the phone rang. It was Livia.
Mimì gestured to ask whether he wanted them to leave so he could talk undisturbed, but Montalbano shook his head.
“You’ll have to forgive me, Livia, but I’m here with Fazio and Augello and we’re discussing a very complicated case.”
“No problem. Well, I wish you a good night.”
“You sleep well, too,” said Montalbano, and he went back out on the veranda.
“Now we have all the time we want to take stock of the situation.”
He’d barely finished his sentence when the phone rang again. He got up reluctantly, thinking it was Livia who’d forgotten to tell him something.
“Hello,” he said gruffly.
“It’s me.”
It was Antonia. Montalbano staggered and then said: “Could you wait just two seconds?”
“Of course.”
He shot back out onto the veranda.
“Okay, guys, now you can do me the favor of leaving, pronto.”
“But didn’t you want to take stock . . . ?” said Mimì, not understanding.
“No! Now go.”
After the two stood up, he practically pushed them into the house and then followed them, still pushing, all the way to the front door. Whispering for fear that Antonia might hear him over the phone, he said softly: “We’ll talk tomorrow morning at the office.”
He closed the door behind them and ran back to the phone.
“Are you still there?”
“Of course.”
“I was afraid,” said the inspector, feeling his body relax.
“Of what?”
“Afraid you’d hung up. But how did you get this number, anyway?”
“Inspector, I am the chief of the forensics lab. Don’t forget that.”
“In any case, it’s wonderful to hear your voice,” said Montalbano, his eyes closed, completely lost.
“Well, I certainly didn’t call you so you could hear my voice.”
“So why did you call, then?”
“To tell you I can’t see you tomorrow.”
Plop, went Montalbano’s heart, falling to the floor.
But he didn’t lose faith, and even managed to speak in a steady voice.
“Then let’s see each other now.”
“Come on, be serious. Tomorrow I have to go to Palermo and I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”
“Then I’ll call you in the evening . . .”
“No. I’ll call you,” she said, and hung up.
/> Montalbano stood there for a moment holding the receiver. Then he set it down, went out to the veranda, and started sadly clearing the table.
Then, feeling his eyelids drooping, he decided to go to bed and recover some of the sleep he’d lost the night before. As he took off his jacket, he noticed there was a set of keys in the pocket. He remembered that Fazio had given them to him, and they were to the apartment with Mimì’s cadaver. Despite his fatigue he thought it might be a good idea to get in the car and go there straightaway, then he immediately had another idea that seemed much better to him: Why not ask Antonia tomorrow to go there with him? Into the bargain she might even be able to find some evidence on the deathbed that he hadn’t noticed with the naked eye.
As soon as he hit the bed and closed his eyes, Antonia appeared before him. He sent a great big smile her way and fell asleep.
* * *
—
At ten-thirty the next morning, dressed in his new clothes, and with Fazio at his side, he rang the doorbell to Nico’s apartment.
Margherita opened the door and welcomed them both.
“I was waiting for you,” she said. “But you’ll have to excuse me, I have to go out now.”
“No problem at all,” said Montalbano, holding his hand out to her.
They found Nico lying on the sofa.
“Come in, please, and make yourselves comfortable,” he said.
Montalbano took two chairs, and they sat down beside him.
“Can I offer you anything?”
“No, no, thanks,” they said in unison.
“These past few days,” the inspector began, “I’m sure you’ve had a lot of time to think about what happened.”
“Yes, I couldn’t think of anything else.”
“Good. Do you have anything new to tell us?”
“No, Inspector. And not only do I not know who it was that shot at me, but I can’t even imagine why. I’m more and more convinced it was some kind of mistake.”
“Mind if I have a look outside from your balcony?” asked Montalbano, standing up.
“Go right ahead,” replied the young man.
The inspector went over to the French door, opened it, and went outside. The door to the street was directly below, and directly in front was the six-story building with the haberdashery on the ground floor. Since it was a nice sunny day, almost all the balconies in the building had laundry drying outside. Montalbano went back inside and sat down.
“So, in essence,” he said, “you’re confirming that, when you went out the door, you didn’t see anyone, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“But that’s very strange.”
“Why?”
“Because, when going out of your building, you couldn’t help but catch at least a glimpse of whoever it was who shot you. The ballistics speak clearly. Your attacker was directly in front of you. So now, please, tell me who it was.”
“I can’t tell you, because I didn’t see anybody.”
“We have a witness,” said Montalbano.
Though he was lying down, Nico visibly gave a start.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why? Haven’t you ever noticed how many people live in the building right in front of you?”
“Could you tell me this person’s name?”
“No. I can only tell you that she’s coming in to the station this afternoon, because she got a good look at your attacker and is going to help us make an artist’s reconstruction of him.”
Nico wiped his sweaty forehead with his arm.
“Are you sure you have nothing to tell us?” Montalbano insisted.
Nico’s attitude changed suddenly.
“Inspector,” he began, sitting up, “are you conducting an interrogation?”
“No. As you can see, nobody is writing down what’s being said.”
“So much the better.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because from this moment on I won’t answer any more of your questions unless my lawyer is present, in accordance with the law.”
It was a definitive statement, and so Montalbano stood up, signaled to Fazio to follow him, and giving a wave of the hand by way of good-bye, they went out, without deigning even to glance at Nico.
* * *
—
“And now,” the inspector said once they were in the car, “I need for you to find me, before the morning is over, a photo of Tano Lo Bello.”
“Do you think he did it?”
“It’s possible, and I’m going to give it a try. But the trap has to be perfect.”
“Meaning?”
“First I have to talk to Nico’s girlfriend.”
“When should I have her come in?”
“This evening around five.”
He would cancel the meeting if Antonia called.
* * *
—
He’d started signing the first papers at the top of the stack on his left when he suddenly got the urge to use a green felt-tip pen, just to see how the higher-ups would react. Opening his upper drawer to look for the pen, he came across a sheaf of paper held together with a black plastic ring binding, and on its cover page were the words Dangerous Corner. What was this? He opened it and started reading. Nothing. All dialogues between people with English names. Then he remembered. This was a copy of the play Catalanotti had wanted to produce. He put the latest document back on top of the stack, and with a sigh of satisfaction at having found an excuse not to sign papers, he started reading.
Nearly two hours passed before he raised his eyes from the text. It was a beautiful play. And very possibly the key to everything lay in figuring out exactly how Catalanotti had been planning to stage it. He would surely have to talk this over with Mimì and Fazio, and so he decided to take a sheet of paper and write down a sort of summary.
Curtain down. Voices of a man and a woman talking about illusion and reality.
Still in darkness, a gunshot rings out, followed by a woman’s scream.
The curtain rises. A middle-class interior with four women (Freda, Betty, Miss Mockridge, and Olwen), who’ve just finished listening to a play on the radio. They make a variety of comments.
The men arrive. The couples pair off: Freda is married to Robert Caplan, Betty with Gordon Whitehouse (Freda’s brother), and there is a third man, Stanton, who works at Robert’s publishing house. Miss Mockridge is a writer, and Olwen also works with the publisher.
One learns that a year earlier, Martin, Robert’s brother, after being accused of stealing 5,000 pounds sterling, committed suicide by shooting himself.
At a certain point Freda pulls out a cigar box that is also a music box. Olwen recognizes it, saying it used to belong to Martin. But in fact Olwen had no way of knowing it was Martin’s. They ask her for an explanation; Olwen tries to make nothing of it.
Gordon looks for a danceable tune on the radio as a way of changing the subject. The radio stops working.
Robert, however, stubbornly wants to know more about the music box: How could Olwen possibly have known it belonged to Martin?
Robert wants to know the Truth.
Olwen is forced to admit that she went to see Martin in his cottage on the night of his suicide. Freda will also admit to having been there that same afternoon.
The unveiling of the Truth brings inadmissible loves and hatreds out into the open:
Olwen was in love with Robert (his own wife Freda will say so);
Freda had been having a relationship with her brother-in-law Martin for many years;
And Gordon, Betty’s husband, was also in love with Martin.
Freda and Gordon, who are brother and sister, argue over which one was more loved by Martin, becoming a pair of hysterics quarreling over a dead man’s body.
Finally, at one point Olwen confesses that it was she who killed Martin, by accident, defending herself against a drug-fueled sexual aggression on his part. Stanton is not surprised by her confession, and communicates the three elements that had made him suspect Olwen all along.
Olwen reveals that after the incident with Martin, she went to Stanton’s cottage and caught him in the act of making love with Betty.
Betty, who seems like the naïve airhead of the clique, is nothing of the sort, and is having an exclusively sexual relationship with Stanton. And in fact her husband, Gordon, doesn’t deign pay her any attention.
They discover that in reality it was Stanton himself who stole the money, among other reasons to satisfy Betty’s desires.
At this point Robert reveals his love for Betty, which Freda already knew about, and he is upset to discover that Betty is not the way he imagined.
The Truth is too much for everyone. They decide never to say anything to anyone about it.
Olwen, the one who pulled the trigger, seems to be the only person who comes out of this clean.
Robert is the most desperate, having realized that the reality in which he’d been living until then was only a world of illusion. The Truth is completely different. Freda reminds him that he was the one who started it all.
Darkness.
Light: Everyone’s back in the same position as in the first act. The play begins anew, as the questions about the musical cigar box begin. Gordon succeeds in finding a good danceable tune on the radio, and everyone starts dancing.
The curtain falls.
Montalbano put the copy of the play back in his drawer and looked at his watch. It was time to go eat.
13
He came out of Enzo’s feeling heavier. He took his customary stroll as far as the flat rock, sat down, and began thinking about the play he’d read. It was so well written that the inspector had no problem imagining the characters and their actions onstage.