The Smell of the Night

by Andrea Camilleri

  “I first want to know if I’m remembering something correctly,” said Montalbano, turning to Fazio. “Was it you who told me that when Pellegrino rented a car in Montelusa he specified that he wanted one with a spacious trunk?”

  “Yes,” said Fazio.

  “And at the time we thought it was for his suitcases?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which was incorrect, because he left his suitcases at his new house.”

  “Then what did he want to put in the trunk?” Augello cut in.

  “His motorbike. He rented the car in Montelusa, put his motorbike in the trunk, drove out to Punta Raisi to do his little number with the airplane tickets, drove back to Montelusa, turned in the rented car, and came back to Vigata on his motorbike.”

  “That doesn’t seem very important to me,” Mimi commented.

  “It is, in fact, very important. Because I’ve learned, among other things, that he’d once put his motorbike in the trunk of Gargano’s car.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “Let’s forget the motorbike for a moment. Let’s return to the question of why Gargano paid for the construction of Pellegrino’s new house. Bear in mind that I’ve also learned—and I trust my source—that Gargano was a tight-wad, always careful not to waste any money.”

  Augello spoke first.

  “Why couldn’t it have been for love? From what you’ve told me yourself, there was more than just sex between them.”

  “What do you think?” Montalbano asked Fazio.

  “Inspector Augello’s explanation could be right. But, and I can’t really say why, I’m not convinced. I would lean more towards blackmail.”

  “Blackmail over what?”

  “I dunno, maybe Pellegrino threatened to tell everyone they had a relationship—that Gargano was gay ...”

  Augello burst out laughing. Fazio gave him a puzzled look.

  “Come on, Fazio! How old are you? Nowadays, thank God, nobody gives a shit if you’re gay or not!”

  “Gargano made a point of not letting it show,” Montalbano cut in. “But I don’t think it would have been such a big deal even if there had been some danger of the fact becoming known. No, that sort of threat would not have made someone like Gargano succumb to blackmail.”

  Fazio threw his hands up and stopped defending his hypothesis. Then he stared at the inspector. Augello, too, started staring at him.

  “What’s wrong with you two?”

  “What’s wrong with us is that it’s your turn to talk,” said Mimi.

  “All right,” said the inspector. “But let me preface this by saying that what I’m about to describe is a novel. In the sense that there isn’t the slightest trace of proof for any of it. And, as in all novels, as the story gets written, events sometimes go their own way, leading to unforeseen conclusions.”

  “Okay,” said Augello.

  “We begin with something we know for certain: Gargano organizes a scam that, by definition, cannot be pulled off over the course of a week, but requires a long time to develop. Not only: he also needs to set up a genuine business with offices, employees, and so on. Among the employees he hires in Vigata is a kid named Giacomo Pellegrino. After a while, the two begin to have an affair. They sort of fall in love; it’s not just a one-night stand. The person who told me this added that, though they tried to hide it, their relationship became visible in their behavior. Some days they’d smile at each other and seek each other out, while other days they’d pout and snub each other. Exactly the way lovers do. Isn’t that how it is, Mimi? You know about these things, don’t you?”

  “Why, you don’t?”

  “The point is,” Montalbano continued, “you’re both right. Their story begins in ambiguity and is played out in ambiguity. Pellegrino is one of those partial intelligences that—”

  “Stop right there,” said Mimi. “What does that mean?”

  “By partial intelligence I mean the intelligence of someone who works in money. Not in farming, business, industry, construction, or what have you, but in money for its own sake. These people know or sense everything there is to know about money, every hour, every minute of the day. They know it as well as they know themselves. They know how it pissed today, how it shat, ate, and slept, how it woke up this morning. They know its good days and its bad days, they know when it wants to give birth—that is, when it wants to produce more money—or when it’s contemplating suicide, when it wants to remain sterile, and even when it wants to have sex without commitments. They know when it will take off, they know when it will go into free fall, as the specialists on the TV news like to put it. These partial intelligences are called things like financial wizards, big bankers, big brokers, big speculators. Their brains, however, function only on that one wavelength. In every other respect they’re ill equipped, awkward, limited, backward, even downright stupid. But never naïve.”

  “Your portrait seems a little excessive to me,” said Augello.

  “Oh, yeah? And in your opinion that guy who was found hanged under the Blackfriars’ Bridge in London wasn’t a partial intelligence? How about that other guy, the one who faked being kidnapped by the Mafia, shot himself in the leg, and then drank a cup of poisoned coffee in prison? Give me a break!”

  Mimi didn’t dare contradict him.

  “To return to Giacomo Pellegrino,” said Montalbano. “He’s a partial intelligence who meets up with an even more partial intelligence, that is, the ragioniere Emanuele Gargano, who senses their elective affinity right off the bat. So he hires him and begins to assign him various tasks that he’s careful not to give to his other two employees. Then the relationship between Gargano and Pellegrino changes; they discover that their elective affinity is not limited to money, but can be extended as well to the emotional sphere. I said these people are never naive, but there are always different levels of naivete. Let’s just say that Giacomo is a little shrewder than Gargano. But this slight difference is more than enough for the kid.”

  “In what sense?” asked Augello.

  “In the sense that Giacomo must have discovered almost immediately that there was something going on at King Midas that didn’t add up. But he kept it to himself, with the intention, however, of carefully following every move and transaction his employer made. So he starts compiling data, and begins to connect the dots. And maybe, in their more intimate moments, he even asks a few questions that appear to be offhanded but which actually have a precise goal in mind, which is to work his way further and further into Gargano’s schemes.”

  “And Gargano’s so in love with the kid that he never gets suspicious?” Fazio interjected with a tone of skepticism.

  “You hit the nail on the head,” said the inspector. “And this is the most delicate point in the novel we’re writing. Let’s see if we can understand how the Gargano character acts. Remember that at the beginning I said their relationship was marked by ambiguity. I am convinced that at some point Gargano sensed that Giacomo was getting dangerously close to understanding the workings of his scam. But what can he do? Firing him would make things worse. So he plays the fool, as the saying goes, to avoid going to war.”

  “So he hopes Pellegrino will be satisfied with the gift of the house and won’t ask for anything else?” inquired Mimì.

  “Yes, in a way, because he’s not sure whether Giacomo is blackmailing him or not. The kid probably persuaded him by insisting how wonderful it would be to have their own love nest, a place where they could even go and live together after Gargano retires.... He probably set his mind at rest this way. But they both know—though they never let on—how the whole thing will end. Gargano will flee abroad with the money, and Giacomo, not being in any way involved in the scam, can enjoy his new house in peace.”

  “I still can’t understand why he told his uncle he was leaving for Germany,” said Fazio as if to himself.

  “Because he knew the uncle would tell us once we started looking for Gargano; meanwhile we were supposed to sit around waiting for him
to return before investigating any further. Then he would finally turn up, innocent as a baby, and tell us that, yes, he’d been to Germany, but it had all been a trick on Gargano’s part to get him out of the way, since he was the only person who might understand, in time, that Gargano was about to haul in the nets. He would tell us that no money had ever been wired to the banks where Gargano had sent him.”

  “So then why go through the whole song and dance of the plane tickets?” Fazio insisted.

  “To protect himself, just in case. Protect himself from everyone: from Gargano and from us. Believe me, Giacomo planned it all very carefully. But then the unexpected happened.”

  “What?” asked Mimi.

  “Is a bullet in the face unexpected enough for you?” said the inspector.

  14

  “Shall we continue tomorrow with part two? You know, I’m beginning to realize as I go along that, more than a novel, this is a TV script. If I’d written and published this novel, that’s probably what some reviewer would have said about it, adding something like ‘Yes, a TV script, and not a particularly good one.’ So, what now?”

  Montalbano’s suggestion elicited protests from his two listeners. He certainly couldn’t complain about his audience ratings. He was forced to go on, after having asked for, and been granted, a brief coffee break.

  “Lately, however, Gargano’s and Pellegrino’s relationship appears to be deteriorating,” he resumed, “though we can’t know this with any certainty.”

  “We could,” asserted Augello.

  “How?”

  “By asking the same person who gave you all the other information.”

  “I don’t know where she is. She’s gone to Palermo.”

  “Then ask Miss Cosentino.”

  “That I could do. But she never caught on to anything, even when Gargano and Pellegrino were necking right under her nose.”

  “Okay. Let’s assume their relationship deteriorated. Why?”

  “I didn’t say it deteriorated, I said it appeared to be deteriorating.”

  “What’s the difference?” asked Fazio.

  “The difference is a big one. If they’re quarreling in front of everyone, if they’re acting cold and distant to each other, it’s because they’ve agreed in advance to do so. It’s all a put-on.”

  “That seems a little far-fetched, even for a TV movie made from a novel,” Mimi said sarcastically.

  “If you want, we can cut those scenes from the script. But that would be a mistake. You see, I think the kid, when he sees that the scam is drawing to its conclusion, decides to make his blackmail explicit. He wants to get the most out of it before Gargano disappears. So he asks for more money. Gargano, however, won’t fork it over, and this we know for a fact because you, Fazio, said that there were no more deposits made. And what does the ragioniere do then, knowing that a blackmailer’s hunger is never satisfied? He pretends to give in, and he even ups the ante, making the kid an offer while declaring his undying love for him in spite of everything. He says they’ll run away together with the money and live happily ever after in some foreign country. Giacomo, deep down, doesn’t trust him, but he accepts on one condition: Gargano must tell him in which foreign banks the King Midas money was deposited.

  “Gargano gives him the names, along with all the access codes, and at the same time tells him that it would be better if they pretended to have a falling out in front of the others, that way when the police start looking for him after the scam is discovered, they won’t have any reason to think they fled together. And for the same reason, says Gargano, they should arrive at their foreign destination separately. They may have even chosen the city where they would meet.”

  “Now I understand Gargano’s game!” Mimi interjected. “He actually gave Giacomo the real access codes to the accounts. The kid checks them and is able to see that the ragioniere is not setting a trap for him. Whereas in fact Gargano is planning to transfer the money somewhere else just a few hours before making his getaway, since nowadays you can do these things in a matter of minutes. And he’s also planning not to show up for their appointment in that foreign city.”

  “Right on the mark, Mimi. But we’ve established that our little Giacomo is no fool in these matters. He’s wise to Gargano’s plan and keeps him under surveillance with his cellphone, calling him nonstop. Then, when the moment comes—that is, when the thirty-first of August arrives—he calls Gargano at the crack of dawn and, threatening to tell the whole story to the police, he forces him to come straight to Vigàta. Which means that they’ll skip the country together, says Giacomo. He’s willing to risk it. Gargano at this point knows he has no choice. He gets in his car and leaves, not using his highway pass, so as not to leave any tracks. He arrives at the appointed place. It’s already night. Giacomo shows up a little later on his motorbike, which he’s been keeping at his new house. He doesn’t give a damn about the two big suitcases anymore; the important thing is the briefcase, in which he’s carrying the proof of the scam. So the two men meet.”

  “Can I tell the rest?” Fazio butted in. And he continued ued: “They have an argument. Gargano at this point knows he’s done for, since the kid’s got him in the palm of his hand, so he whips out the pistol and shoots him.”

  “In the face,” adds Augello, to be precise.

  “Is that so important?”

  “Yes. When somebody shoots somebody in the face, it’s almost always out of hatred, like they want to blot them out.”

  “I don’t think there was any argument,” said Montalbano. “On his drive down from Bologna, Gargano had all the time he needed to think about the dangerous predicament he was in, and to reach the conclusion that the kid had to go. I realize, of course, that a violent scuffle, preferably at the edge of the cliff, with first one, then the other protagonist in danger of falling off, with Giacomo trying to disarm Gargano and a raging sea in the background, might work well on TV, if you could come up with the right musical soundtrack as commentary. Unfortunately I think Gargano shot Giacomo as soon as he saw him. He didn’t have any time to lose.”

  “So in your opinion he killed him outside the car?”

  “Of course. Then he grabbed him and put him behind the steering wheel. But the body probably slid to one side, so he laid it down over the two seats. That’s why when Tommasino walked by he didn’t see the body and thought the car was empty. Gargano then opens the trunk, pulls out his suitcase—which he probably brought along for good measure, as a prop, in case he needed to show that he was ready to leave—then puts the motorbike in its place, not forgetting, of course, to remove the briefcase with the documents from the bike’s little baggage box. His own suitcase he puts in the backseat of the car. This is when Tommasino shows up. Gargano plays hide-and-seek with the schoolteacher, waits till he’s a safe distance away, closes the car’s doors, and proceeds to push the vehicle off the edge of the cliff. He’s imagining—correctly, I might add—that some idiot will start looking for his body, convinced that the whole crime is a vendetta on the part of the Mafia. Briefcase in hand, he begins walking, and in less than half an hour he’s on a road with cars driving by. He hitches a ride with somebody, whom he probably pays handsomely not to talk.”

  “I’ll finish,” said Mimi. “Final shot. Music. We see a long, straight road—”

  “Are there any in Sicily?” asked Montalbano.

  “It doesn’t matter. We film the scene on the mainland and pretend, with a little montage, that it’s here. The car drives farther and farther away, till it becomes a tiny little dot. The frame freezes. On the screen appear the words: ‘And thus evil triumphs and the forces of justice get fucked.’ Credits.”

  “I don’t like that ending,” Fazio said very seriously.

  “I don’t either,” Montalbano chimed in. “But you’ll have to resign yourself, Fazio. That’s exactly the way it is. Justice, nowadays, can go fuck itself. Bah. Let’s forget about it.”

  Fazio scowled even more grimly.

  �
��But is there really nothing we can do to get Gargano?”

  “Go tell our screenplay to Guarnotta and see what he says.”

  Fazio got up and was about to leave the room when he ran straight into Catarella, who was rushing in, out of breath and palefaced.

  “Ohmygod, Chief! The c’mishner just called just now! Ohmygod, what a scare he gives me whenever he calls!”

  “Did he want me?”

  “No, Chief.”

  “Who’d he want, then?”

  “Me, Chief, me! Ohmygod, I’m feelin’ all weak in the knees-like! Can I sit down?”

  “Sit down, Cat. Why’d he want you?”

  “Well, it happened like so. The tiliphone rings. I pick up and answer h‘lo. And then I hear the c’mishner’s voice. ‘Is that you, Santarella?’ he says. ‘Poissonally in poisson,’ I says. ‘I want you to tell something to the inspector,’ he says. ‘He ain’t here,’ I says, ‘cause I knew you dint feel like talking to him. ‘That doesn’t matter,’ he says. ‘Tell him I acknowledge receipt.’ An’ he hangs up. Inspector, what’s this receipt the c’mishner’s talking about? I don’t know anything about any receipt!”

  “Skip it, don’t worry about it. And relax.”

  Was the c‘mishner trying to offer him peace with honor? If so, the c’mishner would have to ask for it straight out. Offering it wasn’t enough.

  Back home at Marinella, he found the sweater Livia had given him on the table, and beside it a note from Adelina saying that, having come by in the afternoon to clean up the house, she’d found the sweater on top of the armoire. She added that, having found some nice hake at the market, she’d boiled a few of them for him. He needed only add oil, lemon, and salt.

  What to do with the sweater? God, was it ever hard to hide a corpus delicti! He thought he’d got that sweater safely out of the way; it could have remained for all eternity where he’d thrown it. And yet here it was again. The only solution was to bury it in the sand. But he felt tired. So he grabbed the sweater and flung it back where it had been before. It was unlikely that Adelina in the coming days would sniff it out again. The telephone rang. It was Nicolò, telling him to turn on the television. There was going to be a special edition of the news at nine-thirty. He looked at his watch. Nine-fifteen. He went into the bathroom , got undressed, washed himself quickly, then settled into the armchair. He would eat the hake after the news.