“Listen, Fazio, do you know any fat man who has a birthmark on his face and is probably part of Pino Cusumano’s circle?”
“Absolutely! He’s Ninì Brucculeri, an ex-con and a kind of right-hand man.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Here in Vigàta.”
“Good. Round up as many men as you need and bring him to me. He’s probably got a gun on him. Confiscate it. It’s very important.”
“But we haven’t got a warrant, Chief.”
“I don’t give a damn. If we move fast enough, he’ll be so surprised at having been identified that he’ll flip out.”
“But why would Brucculeri want to kill you?”
“You’re wrong, he didn’t want to kill me. He wanted to give me a warning. It was pure chance. I came into a restaurant where he happened to be eating. So he phoned Cusumano to tell him. And Cusumano told him to give me a little scare.”
“Okay, but what’s Cusumano’s reason?”
“Come on, Fazio, aren’t you looking for the guy? He probably found out we were interested in him and decided to take a little preventive action.”
“Are you really so sure, Inspector? Because I’ve been proceeding very carefully. I’ve been asking around, it’s true, but I’ve only talked to people who—”
“Trust me, there’s no other explanation. Think about it. Cusumano surely knows by now that we’ve arrested Rosanna. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Then you start going around asking about Cusumano. And what does this mean? It means that Rosanna has talked; she’s told us that Cusumano wanted her to kill Judge Rosato. So he takes measures. It’s as though he sent me a letter saying: ‘Be very careful about your next move.’ And you know what?”
“What?”
“Cusumano might be the grandson and son of mafiosi, and himself a mafioso, but he’s mostly a great big dickhead.”
The birthmark on Ninì Brucculeri’s face was starting to turn green. The fat man trembled with repressed rage.
“What is this? Why’d you wake me up at four in the morning and drag me in here like a common criminal? My wife nearly had a heart attack!”
“Because you are a common criminal,” said Fazio, who was standing beside him.
Montalbano, sitting behind his desk, raised a hand, as if to make peace. He’d decided to fuck with the guy’s head a little. He sometimes got the urge when dealing with obnoxious people.
“Signor Brucculeri, I have two simple questions for you. The first is: Did you dine this evening at the restaurant Da Peppino in Racalmuto?
“Yes I did. What, is that a crime?”
“No. In fact, I ate there myself.”
“Oh, really?”
His intonation was false. Terrible actor, this Ninì Brucculeri.
“Yes. And I wanted to ask you what you had for your first course.”
It was the last thing Brucculeri expected him to ask. For a moment he lost his memory. How could he be arrested at four in the morning and dragged into the police station to answer such a stupid question?
“Cavatuna in pork sauce.”
“Me too. So here’s the question: Was it oversalted or not?”
Brucculeri started sweating. What was the meaning of this farce? And was it really a farce or only a trap? Better stick to generalities.
“To me it tasted just right.”
“Good. Thank you. The second question is: Do you root for Inter, or for Milan?”
Brucculeri felt lost. C’mon, c’mon, he thought. This is a trap, I gotta be real careful how I answer.
“I don’t care about soccer,” he said.
“Very well. Have you recently shot your gun?”
“No. Yes. No, no. Yes, yes.”
“Did he have his gun on him?” Montalbano asked Fazio.
“Yessir. A Beretta 7.65. With one bullet missing from the cartridge.”
“Oh,” Montalbano said neutrally.
He looked at Brucculeri and asked:
“Of course you have a license to carry a gun?”
“No.”
By now the fat man’s sweat was dripping onto his shoes.
“Oh,” Montalbano said, so neutrally he sounded Swiss.
“You’ve got that bullet we recovered from the tire, don’t you?” he asked Fazio.
“Yessir.”
“This morning send the pistol and bullet to Forensics in Montelusa.”
“I don’ feel so good,” said Brucculeri.
“Should I put this guy in a holding cell?” Fazio asked.
“Yeah,” said Montalbano.
9
Fazio came back after locking up Brucculeri. He was wearing a dark expression and Montalbano noticed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Chief, what exactly do you intend to do with Brucculeri? According to the law, he should be facing a judge this very morning and being charged with attempted murder and all the rest so he can hire a lawyer. But, from the little I know you so far, I have a feeling of what your intentions are.”
“And what’s that?”
“You intend to keep him in the holding cell without telling anyone.”
“What do you mean, without telling anyone? By now Brucculeri’s wife has informed the people she needed to inform. All we can do is wait.”
“For what?”
“Their next move.”
“Look, Chief, I should inform you that we don’t also need a butler at our house.”
Montalbano smiled and Fazio decided to let it drop. He changed the subject.
“Oh, Chief, while you went out to eat last night, I got some information on the Siracusa family.”
He made as if to leave the office.
“Where are you going?”
“To get the piece of paper where I wrote it all down.”
“You’ve got to get rid of this records office complex of yours. Just tell me what you remember.”
Fazio sighed in disappointment, resigned.
“So. His name is Antonio Siracusa, son of, I think . . .”
“I told you to forget about mother, father, and that kind of crap.”
“Sorry, it just comes out that way. Anyway, this Siracusa is forty years old, originally from Palermo, and has been living in Vigàta for two years, working for Montedison as a chemist. His wife, thirty-five years old, is called Enza and is apparently very attractive. No children. He declared his collection with us some time ago.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s he collect?”
“Handguns. He’s got about forty, between pistols and revolvers.”
“Jesus! Did you call them in for questioning?”
“No, Chief. They both left.”
“When? Do you know?”
“Yes. I talked to the neighbor lady. The Siracusas live in a small double house, two apartments with doors on the same landing. The lady, a Signora Bufano, who’s about sixty and a gossip, told me they left in a hurry—or at least that was her impression—yesterday afternoon. Took the car.”
“Interesting. Mr. Siracusa—or more likely Mrs. Siracusa—hears on TV that we’re interested in their maid, and instead of coming to talk to us they run away. Tell me exactly where they live. Then we can both go home and get a few hours’ sleep.”
At eight-thirty in the morning, as fresh as if he’d had a full night’s sleep, and dressed like a fashion plate, the inspector searched the phone book for the number of the Montedison factory, dialed it, identified himself, and said he wanted to speak to the director.
“I’m Franzinetti, Inspector, what can I do for you?”
“You’re the director?”
“No, he’s not in yet, but if I can be of help, I’m happy to—”
“Who are you, exactly?”
“Chie
f of personnel.”
“Then I can ask you. I need to talk to Dr. Antonio Siracusa about a formality, but I’m told he’s away. Has he gone on vacation?”
“No, absolutely not. Yesterday he went home for lunch, and a short while later he called in to tell us that he’d just learned that an uncle of his, whom he’d been very close to, had just died. So he’s gone away for a few days.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“I’m afraid not, sorry.”
In short, it was clear the Siracusas had something to hide. In fact they had so much to hide that they were forced to stay away from Vigàta for a few days, waiting for calmer seas. The only thing left to do was to talk to the woman next door.
The double house was made in such a way that there were two garages and two patios on the ground floor, with two apartments with terraces above. Theoretically, those terraces were supposed to have a view of the sea, but one would have had to demolish the ten-story high-rise that had been built in front of them, on the other side of the street, for this to happen. The little garden that could be seen from the cast-iron entrance gate was well tended. There were two names on the intercom: Siracusa and Bufano. Montalbano pressed the buzzer for the latter.
“Who’s there?” an old woman asked in a croaky voice.
“This is Dr. Pecorilla.”
“What do you want?”
“Actually, signora, it’s not you I wanted to talk to, but Signora Enza Siracusa. But I keep ringing their bell and nobody answers.”
“They went away.”
“Oh, damn!”
Montalbano sensed the battle that was taking place in Signora Bufano’s mind between curiosity and the desire to gossip on the one hand, and the fear of opening the door to a stranger on the other.
“Wait just a minute,” the croaky voice said.
He heard some bustling, and the French door on the right-hand side above opened and an elderly woman appeared, holding a pair of binoculars, which she trained on the inspector. He let her look at him. His appearance was more than reassuring: His tie was even muted in color. The woman went back inside, and a minute later Montalbano heard the gate click open. He walked down the little path, pushed open the entrance door, and found himself in front of a staircase leading to a rather large landing. On the left was the locked door of the Siracusas’ apartment, and on the right, that of Signora Bufano. It was open. Montalbano stuck his head inside.
“May I?” he asked.
“Come in, come in. Over here.”
Guided by her voice, he came to a sitting room in which Signora Bufano was opening the window.
“Can I get you something?”
“Please don’t bother, thank you.”
“Why were you looking for Signora Siracusa, Doctor . . . ?”
“Pecorilla. I’m a medical doctor, and I work for Trinacria Insurance. I need to talk with Signora Siracusa about a policy, and we’d made an appointment for this morning. I came all the way from Palermo.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Signora Bufano said cheerfully.
“It’s certainly no way to do business,” said Montalbano, feigning irritation. “And it doesn’t reflect too well on Signora Siracusa’s character. Do you know her?”
“Do I ever!” Signora Bufano said.
“Are you friends?”
“Hardly. Good morning, good afternoon, that’s about it. But I do have eyes and ears, if you know what I mean.”
“Ah, yes. You said they’ve gone away. Do you know when they left?”
“Yesterday afternoon, around two o’clock. I saw them putting two big suitcases in their car.”
“So you’re not in a position to tell me . . .”
“I can’t tell you much, but . . . it was just an impression . . . but it seemed to me like they were running away.”
“My compliments,” Montalbano said, buttering her up. “You seem to have keen powers of observation.”
“Oh, yes!” Signora Bufano explained, rotating her right hand as if to mean that she could see not only what went on in this world but a few things from the next world as well.
“You said you have eyes and ears, so to speak. Have you ever seen or heard anything unusual next door? Insurance companies, you know, have an interest—”
“My good man, let me give you an example. Last month, the husband had to go to Rome for a week. He talks to me a little more than she does, and he told me himself. Well, every single night that week, his wife had guests. Two different men, one one night, and the other the next night.”
“But how did you know . . .”
“I could hear the gate opening! So I would get up out of bed and . . . come with me.”
She led him into the entranceway. Beside the door was a window that let light into the vestibule. Signora Bufano half-closed it.
“I can come here and see who goes in and out of the Siracusas’ place.”
At that moment Montalbano thought that the honest thing to do would be to ring Signora Concetta Pimpigallo and tell her she was right about Signora Enza Siracusa being a tart.
They returned to the sitting room.
“And what’s the husband like?” the inspector asked.
“Worse than her, when it comes to women.”
Montalbano was suddenly anxious to leave. He’d had a crazy idea. He said good-bye to Signora Bufano, then went out on the landing and had a look at what he was interested in. Next to the Siracusas’ door was a window identical to Signora Bufano’s. And it appeared not to be locked shut, but only pulled to. He absolutely had to test it. He descended the stairs, opened the front door, and then let it slam so that Signora Bufano would hear it. Then he reopened it and left it ajar. He retraced his steps down the path, opened the gate and left it ajar as well. At a glance it looked closed. As he was walking towards his car, he saw Signora Bufano out of the corner of his eye going back inside from the terrace and closing the French door. He started up the car, drove to the next street, braked, parked, got out, and walked back to the house. The cast iron gate did not squeak. The front door made no noise. He started to climb the stairs on tiptoe when there was a sort of explosion, a cross between a bomb blast and a thunderclap. Montalbano froze in terror. Then it slowly dawned on him that the loud noise was music. Signora Bufano was listening, at full volume, to a song that went: Andiamo a mietere il grano, il grano, il grano . . . How long did a song normally last? Three minutes? Three and a half? He dashed up the remaining stairs, pushed open the window to Siracusa’s flat, got a firm grip of the lower rim with both hands, bounded up in what was supposed to have been an athletic leap, but his arms didn’t hold up and he fell back down on the landing, cursing the saints. On the third try, however, he managed to get his ass up on the lower rim and his upper body and head, bent backwards, through the window and into the vestibule, while his legs remained outside, on the landing. Rotating on his ass, he managed to turn his whole body around, and as he was doing this his balls got caught in his underpants, though he withstood the pain and managed to straddle the windowsill. The worst was over. Pulling the other leg inside, he dropped onto the floor and closed the window just as the last notes of the song finished rumbling. But immediately another one started up, more softly, singing: Amore amor portami tante rose.
The moment his feet touched the floor of the Siracusas’ apartment, Montalbano felt a sort of electrical current running up his legs, up his backbone, all the way to his brain. And he understood what diviners must experience when they feel a vein of water hundreds of yards under the ground. Here, his body was telling him, was the gold mine, the aquifer, the treasure to be found. And he proceeded as though sleepwalking, barely glancing into the two bedrooms—the master bedroom and guest room—the two bathrooms, the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, and a sort o
f boudoir equipped for developing and printing photographs. At last he reached the place where his legs were leading him: the study, or whatever it was, of Antonio Siracusa, doctor of chemistry. On his way he had noticed that the apartment looked as if it had been cleaned out by burglars: open armoires, clothes thrown about, drawers half-open, disorder everywhere. But he knew these were the signs of a sudden flight. In Dr. Siracusa’s study, on the other hand, everything was in its proper place. A large desk, four chairs, a wall of shelves filled with bottles, jugs, and jars full of differently colored powders. Against one wall was a sort of tall, narrow armoire, shiny, clean, and locked. In one corner was a metal filing cabinet, half-open and full of folders.
Montalbano sat down at the desk. On it was a table lamp, a typewriter in its case, and, to the left, a great many papers with chemical formulas on them. On the right were three more sheets of paper: a request for a new telephone line, a clinical report of a blood test, a letter from Commendator Papuccio, the building’s owner, in which he declared himself under no obligation to fix the leaking roof, and, lastly, a form to be filled out. A form that made Montalbano literally jump out of the chair. It was the draft of a request to visit a prisoner, the prisoner being none other than Giuseppe Cusumano, and the petitioner, Rosanna Monaco. Thus the person making the request for the illiterate Rosanna, and acting as her guarantor, was Dr. Siracusa.
But this still wasn’t enough to justify their sudden getaway. There had to be something else. The inspector opened the right-hand drawer on the desk: formulas, correspondence with Montedison, a license granted by the Palermo Police Commissioner’s Office to keep firearms at home for collection, another similar document with “Montelusa Commissioner of Police” on the letterhead, and a list of the weapons owned, which the inspector set aside on the desktop. The left-hand drawer, on the other hand, was locked. The inspector forced it open with a letter opener. The first thing he saw was a key. He grabbed it, stood up, and went over to the armoire: The key turned in the hole. It was the right one. Montalbano didn’t open the doors, however, but sat back down at the desk. In the drawer were also two large linen envelopes, one full to bursting, the other with so little inside that it looked empty. He opened the first one, turned it upside down, and at once the desk was covered with photographs. All in color. All the same format. And all with the same subject: naked women. From fifteen to fifty years old, variously reclining on the same unmade bed. So Dr. Siracusa didn’t just collect guns. Apparently he was in the habit of immortalizing every one of his exploits post coitum, and then would develop and print the shots in his private darkroom. On the sly, far from prying eyes. Grabbing one of the photos, Montalbano stood up and went into the master bedroom: The bed was the same as in the photographs. A rather open marriage, the Siracusas’. Maybe while the doctor was using the master bed, his wife kept the one in the guest room busy.
Montalbano's First Case and Other Stories Page 11
