Montalbano's First Case and Other Stories

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Beddra Matre, wha’ a scare!”

  “You got any news of Inspector Augello?”

  “From ’im poissonally in poisson? Nossir.”

  The inspector dialed Mimì’s home phone number. After a few rings Beba, his girlfriend, answered and immediately recognized Montalbano’s voice.

  “Is that you, Salvo? Thanks for calling, he’s feeling a little better. The doctor’s been here to see him.”

  “Why, what’s wrong with him?”

  “He had a renal colic. I told Catarella this morning.”

  He hung up and glared at Catarella.

  “Why didn’t you inform me that Signorina Beba had called you to tell me that Mimì was sick?”

  Catarella looked genuinely distressed and surprised.

  “So ’e’s sick? All’s the lady said to me was somethin’ ’bout a renaholic an’ I din’t unnastan’ nothin.”

  “Renal colic, Cat, not ‘renaholic.’ At any rate, why didn’t you tell me when I asked you just now?”

  “’Cause you axed me if Isspecter Augello talked t’ me poissonally in poisson. An’ in fack i’ was ’is goilfriend ’at called.”

  Montalbano buried his face in his hands. Catarella looked on the point of tears.

  “I swear, Chief! She din’t say nothin’ bout bein’ sick, but only ’bout a renaholic!”

  “For heaven’s sake!” the inspector shouted. “Go back to your post.”

  “So, how should we proceed?” asked Fazio.

  “Have you written down those names from Piccolo’s office like I asked you?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “How many of them are there?”

  “Five. I’ve got them in my office. Should I go get them?”

  “There’s no need. See if you can talk to any of them. Try to find out what rate Piccolo charged, what kind of person he was, how he behaved when somebody didn’t pay up. Then report back to me tomorrow morning.”

  “What about me?” asked Galluzzo.

  “Listen, there’s no point, for now, in continuing Gribaudo’s interrogation of Grazia. I’ll let you know when I think I need further clarifications from her. Meanwhile try to win as much of the girl’s trust as you can. It’s possible that, just chatting in a casual manner with someone she considers a friend, she’ll remember some important details. We’ll meet up again tomorrow. I’m going to go and see how Augello is doing.”

  Left to himself, the inspector realized he didn’t really feel like seeing Augello. Mimì was the type to start wailing like a man at death’s door over an ingrown toenail, so imagine for colic! And when Mimì acted that way, Montalbano couldn’t stand it. He redialed the number. Beba picked up.

  “Mimì’s resting.”

  “No need to disturb him. I’m just calling to let you know I won’t be able to come by to see him. Tell him to get well soon. I need him. We’ve been assigned a murder case.”

  “The loan shark?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “A local TV station mentioned it.”

  As he was leaving the station he was overcome by a sudden and overwhelming desire for pasta in Trapanese pesto sauce, a dish that Adelina, for inscrutable reasons, refused ever to make. When he got to the supermarket, the rolling metal shutters were lowered halfway. He squatted, went in, and found the manager, Signor Aguglia, standing right in front of him.

  “Inspector! What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like a jar of pesto alla trapanese.”

  “Wait right here and I’ll go and get it for you.”

  The lights in the supermarket were turned down three-quarters, and there was nobody left at the cash registers. The manager returned with a jar in hand.

  “Here you go. You can pay for it next time. Today’s been a bad day. I was on the phone the whole time, dealing with complaining customers.”

  “What were they complaining about?”

  “Dindò didn’t come in to work today, and so none of the deliveries were made.”

  Dindò was a lanky youth of about twenty with the brain of a ten-year-old, who was always running about town making home deliveries of groceries in Vigàta and environs.

  “But he’s gonna hear from me tomorrow!”

  3

  Back home, he boiled the pasta, drained it, put it in a dish, poured the entire jar of sauce onto it (“Serves four,” it said on the label), sat down at the kitchen table, and had a feast. In the refrigerator he found mullet in tomato sauce prepared by Adelina, warmed it up, and scarfed it down. After eating he washed the dishes very carefully so as not to leave any signs of the pesto alla trapanese. If Adelina happened to notice the following day, she was liable to make a stink. He even made sure to stuff the empty jar deep towards the bottom of the garbage. Then he sat down in front of the television as pleased as a murderer who is certain he has gotten rid of every trace of the crime. The opening story on the TeleVigàta evening news was naturally the murder of Gerlando Piccolo. After showing various shots of the house from the outside, the reporter, who was Galluzzo’s brother-in-law, said he’d managed to get his hands on a brief amateur video of Grazia, the brave niece of the victim. He added proudly that it was a scoop, since no other images of the girl were known to exist. Montalbano gave a start. Where did he get that video? There was no sound. You could only see the girl working in a kitchen that was not the kitchen of Piccolo’s house. Grazia was wearing a rather elegant dress and was tastefully made up. She moved the way she always did, however, like a cat made nervous by the presence of an extraneous element that might prove dangerous. The camera then zoomed in on her face, and the inspector realized how beautiful she was—secretly, dangerously beautiful. For a brief instant, the video camera seemed to have the power to reveal mysterious things not visible to the naked eye. She had the same qualities as the heroines of American westerns: a woman who knew how to defend herself with a rifle. Someone off-camera told her to smile, and she tried, but only managed to stretch her lips over her bright white teeth, which were small and sharp. Like a tigress hissing menacingly.

  Another news item followed, and the inspector changed the channel. But if anyone had asked him what his eyes were watching, he certainly would not have been able to answer. A question at the back of his mind was nagging him too insistently: How did the TeleVigàta crew get their hands on that material? He could have answered the question at once by ringing Galluzzo’s brother-in-law directly. But he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Then, all at once, the answer occurred to him, simple, clear, and linear, the only one possible. And it got him all worked up.

  Before going to bed, he got on the phone and told Livia about his day. The snag came as he was describing his surprise at seeing how different Grazia looked on television, compared to when he’d seen her that morning.

  “Well,” said Livia, “if the video was shot before the murder, it’s perfectly natural that the girl looked serene and tranquil in it.”

  “No, that’s not it,” Montalbano retorted. “It was . . . I don’t know . . . a strange, unexpected sort of beauty . . .”

  “So you’re saying she’s very photogenic,” Livia cut in.

  “No, I’m not talking about being photogenic.”

  “So what are you talking about?”

  “It was as though the camera had X-ray vision . . . I can’t really explain it because I don’t have a clear sense of it myself. It was as though . . .”

  “Are we going to have to talk about this at length?”

  “Well, by talking about it I can get a clearer sense—”

  “Can I ask a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you notice a woman’s beauty only in photographs?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “It’s got everything to do with it. Because if it’s true, I’m going to have a
video taken of me and then send you the cassette.”

  “Do you always have to bring everything back to yourself?”

  And so began the squabble.

  For no apparent reason, as soon as he opened his eyes onto a day that, based on what he could see out the open window, promised to be dark and windy, two lines of verse that his father used to recite when he first got out of bed in the morning came back to him: Accominzamo, con nova promissa, / sta gran sullenni pigliata pi fissa. “Let us begin, with promises boding, / another day’s royal railroading.” Though he didn’t realize it till much later, the “railroading,” the pigliata pi fissa his father was referring to, was life itself—everyday life. Well, his father was a serious man, and the “promises” meant the commitments he renewed and maintained each day. But he himself, that morning, as he got up to take a shower and ran a hand over his conscience, did not feel up to maintaining any renewed commitments either to himself or most of the world. All he wanted to do was get back under the covers, curl up, close his eyes, sink into the warmth of the still-warm sheets, and submit his formal resignation from everything, because he’d reached every sustainable limit of fatigue, boredom, and tolerance.

  In the bathroom he looked at himself in the mirror and didn’t like what he saw. How on earth could certain people stand him and even manage to love him? He certainly didn’t love himself. One day he’d considered himself with ruthless lucidity.

  “I’m like a photograph,” he’d said to Livia.

  Livia gave him a confused look.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I exist insofar as there’s a negative.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “I’ll explain what I mean. I exist because there’s a negative made up of crimes, murders, and acts of violence. If that negative didn’t exist, I, the positive image, wouldn’t exist either.”

  Livia, curiously, started laughing.

  “I don’t buy it, Salvo. The negative of a murderer, when developed, doesn’t show a policeman, but the murderer himself.”

  “It was just a metaphor.”

  “It doesn’t work.”

  The metaphor might not work, but there was a grain of truth in it just the same.

  As soon as he got to the office, he called in Galluzzo.

  “Congratulations.”

  “For what?”

  “For your stinking charity. I’ve had enough of your compassion for Grazia and saying you brought her to your house because she had nowhere to go. You did it just so your brother-in-law would have a scoop.”

  “Chief, that’s not true.”

  “Do you deny that she was filmed in your kitchen?”

  “No.”

  “And that the clothes she was wearing were your wife’s?”

  “No.”

  “Well? At the very least you’re a hypocrite, somebody who abuses people’s trust.”

  “No, Chief. The truth of the matter is that I couldn’t say no to my wife. She told her brother I’d brought the girl home, and he couldn’t believe it, and he did everything within his power . . . At a certain point my wife threatened that if I didn’t do her brother this favor, Grazia couldn’t stay with us anymore and I—”

  “Get out of here and find me Fazio.”

  “Yessir. I’m sorry.”

  But instead of Fazio, it was Catarella who appeared.

  “Chief, Fazio ain’t onna premisses insomuch as he ain’t onna premisses yet. But there’s a Signor Cuglia ’at wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”

  “All right, put ’im on.”

  “I can’t put ’im on, Chief, insomuch as Signor Cuglia’s ’ere in poisson.”

  “Then send him in.”

  Signor Cuglia was of course Signor Aguglia, the manager of the supermarket.

  “Inspector, do you remember how I said just last night that Dindò hadn’t come into work? Well, he didn’t come in this morning, either.”

  “I don’t see how we could be of any—”

  “Wait. Seeing that he wasn’t coming in, I went to his home. He lives alone in a squalid room under a stairway because he doesn’t want to be with his father, who lives on the floor above. I knocked at the door, but nobody answered. So I went up to see the father, who has a key to the place. We opened it up, and it was empty. A real pigsty, I’m telling you. The father hasn’t seen Dindò for three days. I even asked some of the neighbors, but nobody could tell me anything. So you tell me: What should I do now?”

  Montalbano felt irked. Why did Aguglia come to him with a problem that he, as a police inspector, didn’t give a flying fuck about?

  “Just hire another assistant,” he said coldly.

  “Well, the fact is, Dindò disappeared with the store’s motor scooter. I’d been letting him use it to come to work.”

  “Is this the first time Dindò has behaved this way?”

  “Yes. He thinks and sometimes acts like a child, but as far as his work goes, I’ve never had any complaint.”

  “Listen, I suggest you wait another day before filing an official report. You yourself said Dindò is like a child. Maybe he got lost chasing a butterfly.”

  Upon saying this, he had a moment of doubt. Were there still little kids capable of getting lost chasing butterflies?

  “So it turns out,” said Fazio, sitting down in front of Montalbano’s desk, “that Gerlando Piccolo was a poor excuse for a human being—when he was alive, that is.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Chief, the voices I heard in town all sing the same song. Whoever it was that shot Piccolo ought to have a statue erected for him in the town’s central square. If you were unlucky enough to borrow a hundred from him, after six months he’d already taken back a thousand from you. He wasn’t just a bloodsucking leech, but a pig as well.”

  “In what sense?”

  “He took advantage of women in need. Apparently he didn’t miss a single chance. Even before lending the money, he would demand a down payment in services on the interest.”

  “Did you manage to talk to the people on the list?”

  “You think that’s so easy? The poor bastards who fall into the clutches of someone like that feel ashamed on the one hand, and afraid on the other. I was only able to talk to two people on the list. One was a widow by the name of Colajanni, who told me she wouldn’t answer any of my questions because she wouldn’t want to do anything to harm the killer. Get the picture? The other was a lady named Raina, who had a fruit and vegetable shop before Piccolo ate up her fruit, vegetables, the walls, and her panties.”

  “So, if he took advantage of the women, then we have to add not only the ladies he plucked to the list of suspects, but also some husbands and brothers who might have wanted to avenge their family honor.”

  Fazio’s eyelids drooped halfway.

  “If you say that, it means you’re not convinced that it was a burglary that degenerated into a homicide.”

  “Why, do you think it was a burglary that degenerated into a homicide?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. Do you think I’m a bigger idiot than you?”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Did you find out how Piccolo would react when someone rebelled and didn’t want any more of his blood sucked?”

  Fazio grimaced.

  “He would send someone to collect, and they would pay up. They didn’t have any choice.”

  “And who was this someone?”

  “Nobody wanted to tell me, Chief. They’re afraid. It must be someone who doesn’t kid around. But give me another twenty-four hours and, you’ll see, I’ll manage to find out everything there is to know about him.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a second. Has Montelusa sent you the house keys?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got them in my office. But I have to tell
you, there’s no point in going to have a look at Piccolo’s bedroom. First Forensics, then Dr. Pasquano, then the guys who came to pick up the corpse . . . Everything’s been moved around.”

  “Do you yourself remember how it was when you first got there?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Have Forensics send you the photos they took before they turned the place upside down. They might be of help.”

  “I’ll call ’em right away.”

  “While you’re at it, first call Jachino, the locksmith.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to open the safe that’s in Piccolo’s studio.”

  “We don’t need Jachino. Inspector Gribaudo found the keys himself. But he didn’t use them. Said he’d open the safe the following day. He didn’t have the time. He sent those to us too.”

  “But isn’t it a combination safe?”

  “What are you talking about, Chief? That strongbox must be at least two hundred years old! I’ll go and call Forensics for those pictures.”

  He returned after a short spell, deflated.

  “I talked to Scardocchia, Arquà’s second-in-command, who said he had to ask his boss. When he came back he said they were sorry, but they still needed the photos themselves.”

  Montalbano started cursing under his breath. He picked up the phone.

  “Montalbano here. Lemme talk to Arquà.”

  Since he hadn’t spoken to the guy for a long time, he couldn’t remember whether they used the familiar or polite form of address. The problem—if it was indeed a problem—was resolved by Arquà.

  “What can I do for you, Montalbano?”

  “Did you know that I’ve been assigned the Piccolo investigation?”

  “Yes.”

  He admitted it reluctantly, between clenched teeth.

  “I know you’re disappointed, but that’s just the way it is. Now it just so happens that Prosecutor Tommaseo, who’ll be directing the investigation, is here in my office. He’s the one who wants those photos, and he wants them now. If you want to hang on for just a minute, I’ll put him on so you can talk to him as soon as he returns from the bathroom. But I should tell you he’s pretty pissed off at the response you just gave. Ah, here he is now. Let me put him on.”