A Voice in the Night

by Andrea Camilleri

  *

  Dr Lattes was pacing back and forth in the waiting room when Montalbano came in. He seemed a bit worried.

  ‘I gave him a couple of tranquillizers. He’s a little better now, thank God.’

  ‘But what did I do to him?’

  ‘He’ll tell you himself. You can go in, he’s waiting for you.’

  Bonetti-Alderighi was sitting behind his desk in his armchair, a little bottle of pills and a glass of water on the desktop in front of him.

  He was dishevelled, eyes slightly protruding, tie loosened and jerked to one side, top shirt button unbuttoned. He who was always so impeccably dressed! But aside from this, he looked normal enough. As soon as he saw the inspector walk in, he opened the medicine bottle, shook out a pill, put it in his mouth, took a sip of water, and said:

  ‘You’ve ruined my career!’

  Montalbano felt like laughing.

  Apparently from the effort of screaming all those animal yells, the commissioner had lost his voice and now spoke like a horse-whisperer. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Commissioner, but—’

  ‘Si . . . silence! I . . . I’ll do the talking!’

  But before starting to speak, Bonetti-Alderighi took another pill.

  Then he opened and closed his mouth twice without saying anything. He was having trouble talking. ‘I got a . . . call . . . earlier . . . from Dr Strangio, the pre . . . the president of the province . . . who told me that . . . that . . . you had . . . provoked his son . . . and had . . . him handcuffed . . .’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Ssshhh! And then . . . an hour ago . . . the Honourable Mongibello . . .’

  Montalbano looked at him in fascination. The commissioner’s voice now sounded all slurry, like that of someone dead drunk. It was like listening to Fiorello doing impersonations on the radio.

  ‘. . . he informed me of his . . . decision . . . to . . . present a . . . request . . . in Parliament . . . on the part of his pa . . . party . . . for an investi . . . gation into the sui . . . cide of . . . Borselli . . . no . . .’

  And he leaned back, against the headrest of the armchair, and said no more. Montalbano was worried. Was the commissioner dead? Had he fainted? The inspector circled round the desk, stood beside his boss, and bent down to listen to his breathing.

  Bonetti-Alderighi had fallen asleep with his mouth open.

  What to do? Wake him up? With four tranquillizers in his body, nobody was going to move him, not even with cannon blasts. He would be out until the next day.

  Montalbano tiptoed out of the room, softly closing the door behind him.

  ‘All cleared up,’ he said to Dr Lattes, who looked at him questioningly in the waiting room.

  FIVE

  When he entered his office, he found Fazio there waiting for him.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘Chief, I looked into the night-time surveillance of the Banca Regionale. They have a contract with something called the Sleep Easy Institution.’

  ‘Well, give them a ring and—’

  ‘Already taken care of. I just called them. On the night of the supermarket burglary the watchman on duty in the area was a certain Domenico Tumminello, but today’s his day off.’

  ‘You should ask for his number—’

  ‘Already taken care of.’

  Enough of this damn ‘already taken care of’! What a pain! It set Montalbano’s nerves on edge.

  ‘Have you by any chance called him yet?’

  ‘No, I didn’t want to.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I realized the poor man might still be asleep, since he’s up all night.’

  ‘Have you got his address?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Salita Lauricella 12.’

  ‘You know what? I think I’ll go and see him myself, right now. If he’s asleep, I’ll let him sleep. Otherwise I want to talk to him.’

  *

  Salita Lauricella 12 was a small three-storey building in a rather neglected state. The main door was open, and there was no intercom system.

  He went in, and as there was no doorbell outside the first door he came to, he knocked. Absolute silence. He knocked harder, adding a couple of kicks as well.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked the voice of an elderly woman.

  ‘Inspector Montalbano, police.’

  ‘Whassatt? Talbano fleece? Talk louder, ’cause I’m a little deaf.’

  ‘Inspector Montalbano, police!’

  ‘Who do you want?’

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Tumminello.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A little deaf’ wasn’t quite accurate. The lady wouldn’t even have heard a naval battle in the port of Vigàta.

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Tumminello!’ Montalbano yelled.

  ‘Parrinello?’

  Luckily a woman of about forty stuck her head out over the banister on the landing above.

  ‘Who are you looking for?’

  ‘I’m looking for Domenico Tumminello.’

  ‘I’m his wife. Come upstairs, sir, please come upstairs.’

  Why did she sound so worried?

  Montalbano didn’t have time to climb the first of the three stairs before the woman came rushing down to him. He noticed that she was breathing heavily and looked scared out of her wits.

  ‘What happened to my husband? What happened to him?’

  ‘Don’t be upset, signora. Nothing’s happened to him. Is he not at home?’

  ‘No, sir. But why are you looking for him?’

  ‘I need some information from him. Do you know where I can find him at this hour?’

  The woman didn’t answer; two large tears rolled down her face.

  She turned her back to him and started going upstairs.

  Montalbano followed her. He found himself in a dining room, and the woman sat him down as she drank a glass of water.

  ‘Signora, as you must have heard, I’m a police inspector. Can you tell me why you’re so frightened?’

  The woman sat down in turn, kneading her hands.

  ‘Yesterday morning, Minico, my husband, got off work at six and came back here. He drank a little hot milk and then went to bed. I went out to do the shopping, and when I came back – it must have been around ten – the phone rang. The person said he was from the institution that Minico works for.’

  ‘Did he tell you his name?’

  ‘No, sir. He only said: “I’m from the institution.” ’

  ‘Had you ever spoken to him before?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘OK, go on.’

  ‘He said that Minico had to come to the institution at once because there was a client there who was complaining that Minico hadn’t done his job right. He repeated that Minico should come at once, an’ then he hung up.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘What was I supposed to do? I woke Minico up, tol’ him about the phone call, and he got dressed, dead tired as he was, poor thing, and left.’

  She started crying, heaving with sobs this time. Montalbano filled her glass with water and had her drink it. ‘And what happened next?’

  ‘I haven’t seen ’im since.’

  ‘He never came home? He never called? He didn’t try to get in touch in any way?’

  The woman shook her head. She was unable to speak.

  ‘Does your husband own a car?’

  She shook her head again.

  ‘Listen, have you called the institution?’

  ‘Of course. They deny everything . . . They say nobody called from there . . . an’ no client complained . . .’

  ‘Maybe he had an accident or got ill.’

  The woman shook her head and pointed to a small table with a telephone and a phone book on it. ‘All the hospitals,’ she said. ‘Nothing.’

  Montalbano thought things over for a moment.

  ‘Maybe it’s best if you file a missing-persons report.’

  She shook her head again forcefully.

  ‘Why not?’


  ‘Because if I file a missing-persons report he might go missing for sure.’

  There was no countering this argument.

  ‘Do you have a picture of your husband?’

  The woman stood up with effort and left the room. She returned with an ID-format photo and handed it to the inspector. Then she sat back down, put her arms on the table, and laid her head in her arms.

  Montalbano lightly stroked her hair and left.

  *

  As soon as he got back to the office, he called Fazio and told him what Tumminello’s wife had said to him.

  ‘The whole thing worries me,’ said Fazio.

  ‘Me too. But before we imagine the worst, I think it’s best if you look into Tumminello’s private life. Here, take his photo.’

  Fazio looked at it. The photo showed a man of about forty with an anonymous face: no moles, scars, nothing, one of those faces you forget barely five minutes after you’ve seen it.

  ‘He doesn’t look like a man with any troubles,’ he said.

  ‘Faces are deceptive, we know that from experience.’

  Fazio went out and Augello came in. He was wearing a dark expression.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘I’m still upset over that bastard Ragonese, I can’t help it.’

  ‘Then prepare for the worst.’

  After Montalbano told him in great detail about his meeting with the commissioner, his facial expression turned even darker.

  ‘So the eminent lawyer and honourable Member of Parliament Mongibello wants to bring a thing like that onto the floor?’

  ‘It’s understandable.’

  ‘But what does he get out of it?’

  ‘Are you kidding? It’s the perfect excuse for him, Mimì! He’s certainly not going to pass up an opportunity like this!’

  ‘Explain what you mean.’

  ‘There is no doubt that Mongibello will have the support of his own party, the majority party, in Parliament. There is no doubt that the Minister of the Interior, who is from a different party but is of the same ilk as his allies, will promise immediate action. And such action will mean, at the very least, the transfer of the commissioner and an early retirement for me. And you know what that means?’

  ‘That you’ll finally be out of everyone’s hair.’

  ‘That too, of course. But above all, it will mean a thousand points in the Cuffaro family’s favour, and they’ll come out of this stronger than ever before, with due thanks to the government.’

  ‘But don’t they realize this?’

  ‘Some, maybe not; others, definitely.’

  ‘Well, if anything like that happens, I’m going to resign,’ said Mimì.

  ‘Don’t make me laugh. Let me ask you the same thing you asked me: what will you get out of that? You’ll just add a few more points in the Mafia’s favour. Whereas you need to keep fighting.’

  ‘It’s not easy, on two fronts.’

  ‘Two fronts? Count them carefully. There are four.’

  ‘Four?!’

  ‘Yes indeed. One: common criminality; two: the occasional murder; three: the Mafia; four: the members of Parliament in collusion with the Mafia.’

  ‘You know what I say? I say I resign right now.’

  ‘And what’ll you do?’

  ‘I’ll find something. I could get a job as a municipal police chief in a town somewhere.’

  ‘Listen, between the time you put in a request and the time they accept you, you’ll be probably over the hill. Therefore, in the meantime you’d better cover your back. Draw up a report for the commissioner, straight away, so he can read it when he wakes up.’

  ‘What should I write?’

  ‘The facts. Everything from the moment you got to the supermarket; Borsellino’s reactions to your questions; the inconsistencies in the execution of the burglary; my participation; everything. Without any commentary: just the facts.’

  ‘OK.’

  *

  Not that he was worried about his career like the commissioner – who was practically on the verge of a stroke – since he, for his part, had pretty much reached the end. No, he was enraged; in fact, his blood was boiling.

  In recent years, perhaps because of his increasing age, he was less and less able to control the disdain, and the subsequent feeling of rebellion, aroused in him by the more or less open support that a certain political formation, through the involvement of certain members of Parliament and senators, was always ready to provide the Mafia. And now they were even starting to pass a number of laws that hadn’t the slightest thing to do with the law. What country was it where a minister had once said, while in office, that one had to learn to live with the Mafia? What country was it where a senator, convicted for first-degree collusion with the Mafia, had recycled himself and been re-elected? What country was it where a regional deputy, convicted for aiding and abetting Mafiosi, had risen to the rank of senator? What country was it where a man who’d been a minister and Prime Minister a great many times had been found definitively guilty of the crime of collusion with the Mafia, and yet continued to enjoy the status of senator for life?

  The mere fact that these people never resigned of their own accord showed what sort of stuff they were made of.

  He pushed away the plate in front of him.

  ‘What? Aren’t you going to eat?’ Enzo asked him with concern.

  ‘I’m suddenly not hungry any more.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Too many worries.’

  ‘Inspector, don’t you know that worries are the worst enemies there are of your stomach and your cock, if you’ll pardon my language?’

  ‘But you can’t always control what’s going through your head. I’m sorry, because your pasta was magnificent.’

  Even the customary stroll along the jetty to the lighthouse failed to dispel his bad mood.

  *

  ‘According to what everyone says, Tumminello has always been an honest, upstanding man,’ Fazio began. ‘Fired from his first job at thirty, he found his present stint as a nightwatchman shortly afterwards, when a relative of his wife became one of the founding members of the security firm. He’s not known to have any secret girlfriends or other vices. He’s a family man, all work and no play.’

  ‘Listen, Fazio, I tried to persuade his wife to file a missing-persons report, but didn’t succeed. You should try again yourself.’

  ‘Already taken care of.’

  God, what a pain!

  ‘You went to see her?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How was she?’

  ‘Desperate.’

  ‘And what did she say to you?’

  ‘She said she’s too superstitious to file a missing-persons report. She’s convinced that if she does, her husband really will disappear.’

  ‘She said the same thing to me. So my question is: does she think her husband only pretended to disappear?’

  Fazio threw up his hands.

  ‘How do you see things?’ the inspector asked him.

  ‘I already told you. The whole thing looks really bad to me.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘That as Tumminello was passing in front of the supermarket at that hour of the night, the poor bastard saw someone opening one of the doors . . .’

  ‘But he wasn’t worried because he recognized him,’ Montalbano continued. ‘It was someone belonging to the company that owns the supermarket.’

  ‘Exactly. So he continues his rounds, completes his shift, and goes home to bed. When the burglar calls him at home and his wife wakes him up, the poor guy has no reason not to believe what the man says. He really thinks he’s calling from the institution.’

  ‘Also bear in mind that he still knows nothing about the robbery. Nobody’s had any time to inform him yet.’

  ‘Exactly. The minute he steps out of his house he finds the burglar there waiting for him. And he has no reason not to trust him. He may even have accepted his offer for a ride. And so he’s fucke
d.’

  ‘Poor guy,’ was Montalbano’s only comment.

  After a moment of silence, Fazio spoke up: ‘To conclude, if things are the way we think they are, this burglary has led to a murder and a suicide.’

  ‘Two murders.’

  Fazio stopped and stared at the inspector for a moment, speechless and open-mouthed. Then he got it.

  ‘The manager!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  The inspector then told him everything he’d learned from Pasquano.

  ‘There’s something about this whole thing that doesn’t convince me,’ Fazio said at the end.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think the total amount of money stolen from the supermarket comes to under twenty thousand euros.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Isn’t that a little skimpy to justify two murders?’

  ‘What are you saying? Let me remind you first of all that people nowadays will kill just to snatch five hundred euros from a pensioner’s hands. And secondly, don’t forget that if it had been any other supermarket that had been robbed, I would certainly agree with you. But robbing the Cuffaros is another matter. If they catch you, you’re dead, there’s no getting around it.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  Montalbano had an idea. But he didn’t want to tell Fazio about it right away. He thought it over first, then made up his mind.

  ‘Listen, tell me something: is the supermarket still closed?’

  ‘Yes, until the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Do you know whether anyone’s gone in after the suicide?’

  ‘Who would go in? Tommaseo had the place sealed off at my request.’

  Good man, Fazio!

  ‘And do you know where Borsellino’s copy of the keys ended up?’

  ‘No. Probably in one of his pockets. His clothes are all at Dr Pasquano’s lab at the institute.’

  ‘Call him right now. Oh, and listen: don’t speak directly to him – talk to his assistant. Otherwise Pasquano’s liable to go ballistic and never stop. Call from here.’

  The answer was yes: everything that belonged to Borsellino was still with Pasquano.

  ‘Go there straight away, get everything, and bring it back to me here. I’ll wait for you.’

  ‘The clothes too?’

  ‘The clothes too.’

  *

  At the Institute for Forensic Medicine, Fazio found Borsellino’s shirt, vest, pants, socks, and shoes. In the trouser pockets they’d found a handkerchief, a set of keys, and nine euros in coins of different sizes.