“I didn’t know that.”
“Sure, Chief. You don’t even like freshwater fish. What should I do about Haber?”
“I’ll tell you what you should do. Go back to the restaurant and ask them to give you the fish. Tell them you need it for the investigation.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Take it home and cook it. I advise that you grill it, but be careful: The coals shouldn’t be too hot. Stuff the belly with rosemary and a little garlic. Then serve it with a salmoriglio sauce. It should still be edible.”
In the days that followed, Vigàta Police headquarters fell back into its usual routine, with the exception of three occurrences requiring a little more attention than the rest.
The first involved a certain ragioniere, Pancrazio Schepis, who upon returning home at an unexpected hour had discovered his wife, Signora Maria Matildina, lying on the bed completely naked while the famous “Magus of Baghdad,” otherwise known as Salvatore Minnulicchia from Trapani, also naked, “was using his sex organ as an aspergillum,” in the words of Galluzzo’s diligent report. After recovering from his initial shock, the ragioniere had grabbed his revolver and fired five shots in the direction of the magus, luckily striking him only in the left thigh.
The second occurred when the home of ninety-year-old Signora Lucia Balduino was totally cleaned out by burglars. A lightning-fast investigation by Fazio established unequivocally that there was only one burglar: Signora Balduino’s grandson, the sixteen-year-old Filippuzzo Dimora, whom Grandma had refused to give the money to buy a motor scooter.
The third involved three warehouses belonging to Deputy Mayor Giangiacomo Bartolotta, which all burned down the same night. The event was seen by all as a clear warning to the deputy mayor to desist in his visibly strenuous efforts to combat the local Mafia.
It took only twelve hours to establish that the gasoline used to set fire to the warehouses had been bought by the deputy mayor himself.
And so, between one thing and another, a week went by.
It was a dark night. Not a single star was visible; they were all covered by clouds heavy with rain. The dirt road was almost impassible. Huge, jagged rocks jutted out here and there from the low stone walls on either side, and holes as big as chasms yawned in front of the car. The vehicle was old and falling apart and moved forward in fits and starts, gasping all the while. The man at the wheel, moreover, used the headlights only sporadically, a few seconds at a time, then shut them off at once. At that hour of the night, along a trail like that, there were unlikely to be any other cars passing by, but it was still better not to arouse anyone’s curiosity. At a glance he seemed almost to have arrived where he wanted to go. He turned the high beam on and saw, about twenty yards up ahead, a handwritten sign nailed to a post. The man stopped the car, turned off the engine, opened the door, and got out. The cool, humid air made the smell of the countryside more pungent. The man took a deep breath, thrust his hands into his pockets, and started walking. Halfway there something occurred to him, and he stopped. How long had it taken him to get there? And what if he was too early? He knew he’d left town just after eleven-thirty, but there hadn’t been any traffic, and he couldn’t figure out how long he’d been in the car. He made up his mind. Pulling a flashlight out of his pocket, he turned it on for a split second. Long enough to see what time it was on his wristwatch. Ten past midnight. The new day was ten minutes old. Everything was on schedule. He resumed walking.
This time the man didn’t need a silencer to get off his shot. The report was heard only by some dog in the distance, which began to bark without conviction, just to show that it was earning its keep.
Around twelve noon on Monday, the twenty-ninth of September, Fazio walked into the police station carrying a plastic bag of the sort you get in supermarkets.
“You been shopping?”
“No, Chief. I brought you a chicken. You should eat it. I had the mullet for dinner last week.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Chief, the chicken I’ve got in here was shot. In the head, just like the fish last week.”
“Where did it happen?”
“At Masino Aiello’s chicken farm, about a half-hour drive from here. It’s a pretty secluded place. Here’s the empty shell.”
Montalbano opened the drawer, picked up the other shell, and compared the two.
They were identical.
“And he left a note this time, too,” Fazio continued, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket and handing it to the inspector.
The words were written in ballpoint pen on graph paper, in block letters.
I’M STILL CONTRACTING
“What could it mean?” Montalbano wondered aloud.
“Can I say something?”
“Sure.”
“Maybe the guy made a spelling mistake,” said Fazio.
“Think so?”
“Yeah. Maybe he’d meant to write: ‘I’m still contacting.’ Maybe he feels isolated for some reason, I dunno—taxes, or his wife’s cheating on him, his son’s taking drugs, that kind of thing. So he’s trying to make contact, to tell the world.”
“By shooting fish and chickens? No, Fazio, there’s no mistake here. He clearly wrote: ‘contracting.’ And from this note we can infer what was in the first one, which we couldn’t read because it was wet. Here he writes that he is ‘still’ contracting.”
“So?”
“So the first note must have said something like, ‘I’m contracting,’ or ‘I’m starting to contract,’ something along those lines.”
“And what could it mean?”
“No idea.”
“What should we do, Chief?” Fazio asked, a bit worried.
“Is this stuff starting to make you feel uneasy?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t make heads or tails of it. And things that make no sense give me the creeps.”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it for now, Fazio. We’ll just have to wait for this gentleman to stop contracting, and then we’ll see. But are you sure you don’t like chicken?”
2
He’d had a good sleep. All night long the light, refreshing breeze dancing in through the window had cleansed his lungs and his dreams. He got up out of bed and went into the kitchen to make coffee. Waiting for it to bubble up, he went out onto the veranda. The sky was clear, the sea smooth and looking as if it had been given a fresh coat of paint. Someone waved to him from a boat, and he replied, raising his arm. Going back inside, he poured the coffee into a big mug, drank it down, lit his first cigarette of the day without a thought, smoked it, then went and got into the shower, carefully lathering himself up. No sooner was he covered with soap than two things happened: The water in the tanks ran out, and the telephone rang. Cursing the saints, and in danger of slipping with every step because of the soap dripping from his body, he ran to pick up.
“Chief, izzatchoo poissonally in poisson?”
“No.”
“Ah, ’scuse me, in’t this the home o’ Chief an’ Isspecter Montalbano I’s a-speakin’ wit’?”
“Yes.”
“So, whooziss in ’is place?”
“I’m Arturo, his twin brother.”
“Reelly?”
“Hold on a second while I call Salvo.”
He was better off bullshitting with Catarella than getting all worked up over the sudden water shortage. Among other things, the soap, as it dried on his skin, was starting to itch.
“Hello, Montalbano here.”
“Y’know sump’n, Chief? Ya gots a zack same voice as yer twin brother Arturo!”
“That’s often the case with twins, Cat. What did you want to tell me?”
“Fazio called sayin’ as how Signor Toggo got shot. ’E’ll be comin’ here no
w.”
“Was he killed?”
“Yessir.”
“And who is he, this Signor Toggo?”
“I coun’t say, Chief.”
“Where’d it happen?”
“Dunno, Chief.”
He kept a reserve supply of water in a jerrycan in the bathroom. He poured half of it into the sink. It was better not to use it all up, since it was anybody’s guess when they would deign to refill the tanks. With some effort, he managed to peel the vitrified soap off his skin. He left the bathroom in a sorry state. Filthy. Adelina, the housekeeper, was sure to send a few heartfelt curses and ill wishes his way.
He arrived at the station at the same time as Fazio.
“Where’d this killing take place?” he asked.
Fazio looked flummoxed.
“What killing?”
“This Toggo guy.”
“Is that what Catarella told you?”
“Yes.”
Fazio started laughing, first softly, then more and more loudly. Montalbano got worried, in part because he also felt a persistent itch in the part of his body he had sat on to drive. And it didn’t seem decent to him to start furiously scratching that area of his body. Apparently he hadn’t managed to rid himself of all the soap stuck to his skin.
“If you’d be so kind as to tell me what’s so—” he continued.
“I’m sorry, Chief, but it’s just too funny! Toggo! I told Catarella to tell you a dog was killed!”
“Same guy as before?”
“Yessirree.”
“One pistol shot and good night?”
“Yessirree.”
“Today’s the sixth of October, isn’t it? This person operates on a weekly basis, and always on the night between Sunday and Monday,” the inspector observed, going into his office.
Fazio sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“Did the dog have an owner?”
“Yes, a retiree named Carlo Iaccari, a former clerk at town hall. He’s got a little house in the country with a vegetable garden and a few animals. About ten chickens and a few rabbits. He was asleep at the time, but the shot woke him up and he grabbed his gun and—”
“What kind of gun?”
“Hunting rifle. He has a license. He immediately saw the dead dog and a second later heard a car driving off.”
“Did he know what time it was?”
“Yes, he looked at his watch. It was twelve-thirty-five. He told me he spent the rest of the night crying. He was very close to his dog. Then, first thing in the morning, he came here. So I went back with him to have a look.”
“Does he have any ideas?”
“None whatsoever. He says he can’t figure out why anyone would want to kill his dog. He claims he has no enemies and has never done anything wrong to anybody.”
“Is this Iaccari guy’s house anywhere near the chicken farm of last time?”
“No, it’s in the exact opposite direction.”
“How about the restaurant?”
“No, it’s really far from that, too.”
“Did you find the empty shell?”
“Yessir, got it right here.”
It was identical to the other two.
“But it took me a little longer this time to find the note. Last night’s breeze blew it pretty far away.”
He handed it to the inspector. Same graph paper, same ballpoint pen.
I’M STILL CONTRACTING
“What a pain in the ass!” Montalbano burst out. “How long is the asshole gonna take to contract?”
At that moment Mimì Augello walked in, fresh, clean shaven, and well dressed. He’d just spent a month in Hamburg as the guest of a girl he’d met on the beach the previous summer.
“Any news?” he asked, sitting down.
“Yes,” Montalbano replied drily. “Three murders.”
Whenever the inspector saw Mimì looking so rested and cheerful, it got on his nerves and he found Mimì obnoxious.
“Shit!” Augello reacted, literally jumping out of his chair.
But then, looking the other two in the eye, he realized something weird was up.
“You guys joking or something?”
Fazio started staring at the ceiling.
“Yes and no,” said the inspector.
And he told him the whole story.
“That’s no joke,” Mimì said when it was over, falling silent and looking pensive.
“I’m only sorry that this time he killed an animal that neither Fazio nor I can eat,” said Montalbano.
Augello glared at him.
“Ah, so that’s how you see it?”
“Why, how am I supposed to see it?”
“Salvo, the guy’s going to get bigger.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mimì.”
“I was referring to the size of the . . .” He paused, tongue-tied. It didn’t seem right to call them victims. “. . . of the animals. A fish, a chicken, and now a dog. You’ll see, next time it’ll be a sheep.”
On Friday, October 10, the inspector was sitting on the veranda, having just finished eating a caponata for the ages, when the telephone rang. It was ten p.m., and Livia, as usual, was dead on time.
“Ciao, amore, here I am, punctual as ever. What time does your flight arrive tomorrow?”
He had promised Livia a month ago that he would come to Boccadasse for a weekend so they could be together. In fact, when they’d spoken the previous evening he’d told her that now that Mimì was back, he could even spend Monday with her. Why, then, did he reply the way he did?
“You’ll have to forgive me, Livia, but I’m really afraid I won’t be able to get away. What’s happened is—”
“Quiet!”
The silence seemed to have been cut with a scythe.
“It’s got nothing to do with work, believe me,” he resumed, bravely, after a pause.
“So what happened to you?” asked Livia, her voice coming from somewhere in northern Greenland.
“You remember that bad toothache I had a while ago? Well, it suddenly came back, and it hurts so badly that—”
“I think I’m your bad tooth,” said Livia.
And she hung up.
Montalbano flew into a rage. Okay, he’d told her a lie, but what if, in fact, he’d really had a toothache? Was that any way for a woman in love to react? To someone writhing in pain? How about a word of compassion, for Chrissake? He went back onto the veranda and sat down, wondering why he had told Livia he wouldn’t be coming to see her. Just one second before she called, he was set on leaving. But then those words came out of his mouth, just like that, beyond his control and without his realizing. Was it a sudden attack of laziness, an irresistible need to do absolutely nothing and loll about the house in his underpants?
No, he really did wish he had Livia beside him, so he could feel her living, hear her breathing in her sleep beside him in bed, bustling about the house, or laughing, so he could hear her voice calling him from the beach or from the other room.
So why, then? A sudden bout of sadism, as often happens between lovers? No, it was something to do with his own character. How could he have done something so senseless and irrational?
In the distance, at the outer reaches of audibility, a dog barked.
And, suddenly, fiat lux! That was the explanation! It was absurd, of course, but that was it, without a doubt. A moment before picking up the phone and talking to Livia, he’d heard the same dog barking. And, deep inside, at an almost unconscious level, he’d realized that it was time to take the matter of the murdered fish, chicken, and dog seriously. The phrases written on those little scraps of graph paper most definitely contained some sort of veiled threat, indecipherable but real. What would happen when the guy was finally done “contracting,” as he p
ut it? And how was one supposed to interpret that verb, contract?
He went and looked up the number for La Sirenetta in the phone book and dialed it.
“Inspector Montalbano here. Is Mr. Haber there?”
“I’ll go and get him.”
The restaurant must have been full. He could hear animated conversations, men’s and women’s laughter, the tinkle of silverware and glasses, the notes of a piano, and a woman singing.
I’d like to see your faces when the bill arrives! thought Montalbano.
“At your service, Inspector!”
Haber sounded cheerful. Business must be good.
“Sorry to disturb you, but I’m calling about that fish from a couple of weeks ago . . .”
“Did you have it here? Was it not fresh enough?”
Eat at La Sirenetta? Not even under torture!
“No, I was referring to the mullet that was shot in your—”
“You’re still thinking about that, Inspector?”
“Why, shouldn’t I?”
“But it was obviously a prank! I got a little worried at first, I guess, but after I thought about it a bit with a cooler head, I became convinced it was all just a silly joke . . .”
“A rather dangerous joke, don’t you think? What if the night watchman had come by on patrol and seen an armed stranger in the restaurant?”
“You’re right, Inspector. But sometimes you have to take some risks to pull off a good prank.”
“I guess.”
“Listen, Inspector, I’ve got a full house here tonight and—”
“One more question and I’ll let you get back to your customers. In your opinion, Mr. Haber, was the kind of fish that was killed chosen randomly or on purpose?”
Haber seemed puzzled.
“I don’t understand, Inspector.”
“Let me phrase the question a little differently. Can you explain to me how the man managed to take a mullet out of the fish tank?”
“He didn’t take just the mullet out of the tank, Inspector Montalbano. He caught three fish with the landing net. He probably picked the mullet because it was the biggest.”
“And how do you know he caught three fish?”
Montalbano's First Case and Other Stories Page 34
