A Voice in the Night

by Andrea Camilleri

  Since tomorrow he was going to put on the same suit he had on now, he left the recorder in the breast pocket of the jacket when he undressed.

  He didn’t feel sleepy, so he turned on the TV. The purse-lipped face of Pippo Ragonese appeared on the screen.

  And so we ask ourselves: whatever happened to the once lightning-quick Inspector Montalbano? The inspector seems to have swung to the opposite extreme. Nowadays he takes things too easy. He hasn’t taken a step forward in the investigation of the supermarket burglary that led to the suicide of the shop’s manager, Guido Borsellino, which he helped provoke. And as for the horrendous murder of Mariangela Carlesimo, the architecture student, a crime that has shaken the public, and not only in Vigàta, there’s no movement whatsoever. We know that the girl’s boyfriend, Giovanni Strangio, was ordered not to leave Vigàta. But, since then, nothing. Poor Mr Strangio is left hanging, prevented from——

  He turned it off.

  Bravo, Ragonese! How many masters did he serve, anyway? The Honourable Mongibello in Parliament and the president of the province both? And they call this journalism? Ragonese only said what he was told to say. They must pay him well.

  He then remembered that just a few days earlier, somebody from a private TV station, who wasn’t afraid to speak out against the Mafia, had been accused of operating as a journalist without being registered with the Union of Journalists.

  So, the inspector thought, nowadays, in order to fight the Mafia you need the authorization of the Mafia itself.

  They’re trawling the net away from the fish!

  He went and sat on the veranda to wait for his agitation to pass. But not five minutes later the telephone rang.

  ELEVEN

  It was Livia.

  ‘How come you’re never home when I call?’

  ‘But I’m home right now!’

  ‘No, I mean when I tried earlier.’

  ‘Livia, can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘How come you always call me when I’m not home?’

  ‘Well, aren’t you good at flipping the pancake! I would never want to fall into your clutches!’

  ‘You’ve fallen into them many times over. There must be something you like about it.’

  ‘I wasn’t referring to that. I meant as someone suspected of a crime.’

  ‘Livia, you know almost everything there is to know about me.’

  ‘Almost? What don’t I know about you?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, the way I conduct an interrogation. To say I flip the pancake and turn things around offends me. I’m extremely fair and above board.’

  It was a lie. How many traps had he laid over his career? An infinity.

  ‘I’ll pretend to believe that,’ said Livia. Then she asked:

  ‘Are you working on the case of that poor girl who was slashed to death with a knife?’

  ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘It was on the TV news, and I also saw it in the newspaper.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m working on it.’

  ‘Well, be careful.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Don’t immediately suspect the boyfriend. It’s the fashion these days. The moment a girl is killed, they immediately lock up the boyfriend.’

  ‘I don’t follow fashion and you know it,’ he said, piqued. Then he realized how to get back at her.

  ‘But tell me something, I’m curious. Did you by any chance get a call from a lawyer named Nero Duello?’

  ‘No. Who’s he?’

  ‘The boyfriend’s lawyer.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I just thought you maybe let him corrupt you into trying to persuade me that the boyfriend is innocent.’

  ‘Idiot,’ Livia said in disgust.

  And she hung up.

  He went to bed. Having got that off his chest, he could fall asleep.

  *

  The first thing he did as soon as he walked into the station was to stop at Catarella’s post, dig out the mini-recorder, and show it to him.

  ‘Cat, what’s this, in your opinion?’

  Catarella didn’t hesitate for a second.

  ‘Chief, ’at’d be a didgytel recorder.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meanin’ iss a mottified impy tree.’

  ‘And what’s a modified impy tree?’

  ‘Iss a mottified impy tree, Chief.’

  Better take another tack. Otherwise they would spend the whole morning with him always asking the same question and getting the same answer.

  ‘And what’s it used for?’

  ‘Fer many tings, Chief. F’r example, iss a recorder you c’n stick in yer kapewter an’—’

  ‘But do you necessarily have to listen to it on the computer or can you also print out what’s on it on your printer?’

  ‘Assolutely, Chief.’

  ‘OK then, I want you to listen to what’s on it and print me a copy.’

  ‘The whole ting?’

  ‘The whole thing. How much time is it gonna take?’

  ‘Chief, I got no ways o’ knowin’.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘’Cause it all dipinns on wha’ the impy tree’s got onnit. One impy tree c’n fit the whole Divine Comity, the whole civil code an’ the whole penile code, the hisstry o’ the univoice, the gaspel, the Bible, an’ alla songs o’ Di Caprio . . .’

  ‘Di Caprio sings?’

  ‘’E sure does, Chief! ’E’s been singin’ an’ singin’ fer years! C’mon, ya mean ya don’ remimber the one about a voice, a guitar, an’—’

  ‘But you mean Peppino di Capri!’

  ‘In’t that what I said? Din’t I say Di Caprio?’

  Better let it slide.

  ‘Is Fazio here?’

  ‘Nah, Chief.’

  *

  Fazio straggled in around eleven.

  ‘The whole morning gone! Tommaseo was in a meeting and couldn’t see me. But I decided to wait outside the door, and when he came out to go to the loo, I said I absolutely needed authorization to go into Strangio’s house.’

  ‘Did he give it to you?’

  ‘He did, but only orally. He didn’t have time to write it down, but he promised me he’d get it to me by this afternoon.’

  *

  Fazio went out and the telephone rang.

  ‘Ah, Chief! ’At’d be a jinnelman onna line ’oo calls hisself Lopollo an’ says ’e wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson immidiately.’

  ‘What’s he want?’

  ‘’E din’t say, Chief. Bu’ when ’e talks ya can’t unnerstand.’

  ‘Is he a foreigner?’

  ‘Nossir.’

  ‘So how come you can’t understand him?’

  ‘’E gots the stubbers.’

  The stubbers? The stutters, maybe?

  With Catarella, it was always best not to venture too many requests for explanation.

  ‘OK, put him on . . . Hello? Montalbano here. What can I do for you, Mr Lopollo?’

  ‘Lee . . . opo-pò . . . ldo-do . . . tha . . . t’s . . . my . . . n-name.’

  A moment’s distraction and he was already repeating the idiocies Catarella had told him!

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Leopoldo. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I . . . I . . . I . . . f-fou . . . nd . . . a . . . d-dead . . . b-b-body.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In th-the . . . c-coun . . . try . . . Bo . . . bo . . . rru . . . so . . . d-dist . . . trict . . .’

  ‘And where, exactly?’

  ‘In . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . g . . . gr . . . een . . . h . . . house . . . on th . . . the . . . l . . . le . . . ft . . .’

  This was getting painful.

  ‘W . . . we . . . we’ll . . . b . . . be . . . r . . . right over,’ Montalbano replied.

  It was hopeless. Whenever he came into contact with a stutterer, he was immediately infected.

  He went into Fazio’s office.

 
‘What’s up?’ asked Fazio.

  ‘Someone by the name of Leopoldo just called. He says there’s a dead body in a green house in the Borruso district. Want to bet it’s Tumminello?’

  ‘No, because I agree with you.’

  ‘Do you know where Borruso is?’

  ‘Did the guy who called stutter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I know who he is. Filippo Leopoldo. And I also know where his country house is.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘At the ends of the earth.’

  ‘Call Gallo and let’s go.’

  ‘Gallo’s out with Inspector Augello.’

  ‘Then you and I will go in my car, but you drive.’

  *

  One got to the Borruso district by way of a track in really bad shape, all holes and mounds.

  For the first half-hour the vegetation had grown sparse and more sparse, and now there was only scorched earth around them, dotted with a few clumps of yellow, wild grass, dead for lack of water.

  Every so often, little mountains of white stone looking like piles of bones formed dwarf pyramids, the domains of vipers and hares.

  The motion of the car had Montalbano crashing into Fazio one minute and the passenger’s side door the next, and at one point the seat belt, which didn’t work well, started trying to strangle him. ‘How long till we get there?’

  ‘It’s just past the next bend.’

  Past the bend they saw not only the green house, but also a man walking in front of it.

  ‘That’s Leopoldo,’ said Fazio.

  ‘Do me a favour,’ said Montalbano. ‘You talk to him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My voice is a little hoarse today.’

  This was a lie, of course, but how could he ever talk to Leopoldo if he himself started stuttering?

  ‘G-good af-ft . . . ternoon,’ Leopoldo greeted them as they got out of the car.

  Montalbano returned the greeting with a vague hand gesture.

  The green house was made up of two cube-shaped rooms, one on top of the other, and a third cube off to the right-hand side.

  The inspector started looking all around the desolate landscape, wondering what mysterious reasons a man might have for building a house in such a godforsaken place. Unless, of course, he was a hermit.

  ‘Over here, Chief,’ said Fazio, heading for the third cube, which was a stable with no animals and no door.

  He and Fazio went in, while Leopoldo went into the house.

  The corpse was curled up on its side, on a bit of straw, as though sleeping. Except for the blood that stained the straw.

  It wouldn’t be easy to identify him. It was hot, and one could smell that the poor bastard had been dead for a few days already. On top of that, the bullet’s exit wound had destroyed his face.

  ‘I think it’s him,’ said Fazio.

  He took the photograph the inspector had given him from his pocket.

  ‘Have a look for yourself,’ he continued.

  Overcoming his nausea, the inspector crouched down and spent a long time studying what remained of the man’s face. Then he stood up.

  ‘I think it’s him too, but I’m not sure. They clearly had him kneel down and then fired a shot into the base of the skull. The Mafia’s signature. Let’s go outside.’

  Despite the fact that there was no door, the air in there was unbreathable.

  ‘Did Leopoldo tell you how he found the body?’

  ‘Yes. He’d been wanting to have a new door installed on the stable after he’d used the old one as firewood, since it was already broken up, and so he came in to take measurements.’

  They went outside and breathed deep the clean country air.

  ‘Let’s do this. You call the three-ring circus: prosecutor, Forensics, and Pasquano. Then ring Gallo, and if he’s already back at the station, tell him to come and pick me up. There’s nothing for me to do here.’

  While Fazio was phoning, Leopoldo came out of his house and walked up to him. He told him something, and Fazio acted as interpreter.

  ‘Leopoldo says that since it’s lunchtime, we’re welcome to join him at the table. He says he’s made rabbit cacciatore and nobody in the world makes it as well as he does. I declined the offer, but if you want . . .’

  How long was it since he’d last eaten rabbit cacciatore?

  The dish wasn’t part of Enzo’s repertoire, and Adelìna never cooked game.

  An irresistible desire came over him.

  Leopoldo spurred him on.

  ‘It . . . it’s . . . v-ve . . . ry . . . c-cl-ean . . . i-in . . . h-h-ere.’

  ‘I-I . . . n-nev . . . ver . . . d-doubt . . . ed . . . it . . . f-fo . . . for a . . . a . . . m-min . . . ute.’

  Leopoldo at first furrowed his brow, thinking the inspector was mocking him, but then, seeing the confused expression on Montalbano’s face, he became convinced he was a stutterer just like him.

  ‘S . . . so, wh-wha . . . d-dya s . . . say?’

  ‘I . . . I . . . I . . . ac-cept . . . , th-tha . . . nk . . . y-you.’

  As Leopoldo went into the house, Montalbano instructed Fazio:

  ‘Iii . . . if . . . an . . . y . . . of th . . . ose guys . . . c-comes w-when . . . I’m . . . in . . . side, don’t te . . . ll . . . an-any . . . one . . . th-that I’m . . . h-here. If th-they ask . . . , t-tell them . . . I . . . I . . . w-went b-back t-to . . . th-the sta . . . tion.’

  Fazio looked perplexed. ‘I didn’t understand a thing, Chief. You feel OK?’

  Montalbano took a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and started writing:

  When the others arrive, don’t tell them I’m here. Don’t call Gallo to come and pick me up.

  He got Fazio to read it, then put it back in his pocket and followed Leopoldo into the house.

  *

  The meal featured not only an outstanding rabbit cacciatore, but also a dish of spaghetti in tomato sauce, an aged pecorino cheese, some homemade salami, and a nice hearty wine, all of which made the inspector blissfully groggy.

  Fazio called Leopoldo to come and give his deposition to Tommaseo.

  Montalbano kept on eating.

  Leopoldo, moreover, was a perfect tablemate. Since he had trouble speaking, he ate in silence. He and Montalbano communicated with their eyes. Some two hours later, Fazio came in.

  ‘They’ve all left. Forensics noticed the victim had his wallet on him and looked in it. His ID card confirmed that he was, in fact, Tumminello.’

  He looked at the inspector’s plate.

  ‘Any of that left for me?’

  And so, to keep Fazio company, Montalbano ate a second helping of rabbit cacciatore.

  *

  The road back was a real via crucis.

  With each jolt, the rabbit jumped up into Montalbano’s throat, as if the animal had returned to life and wanted to race back to the pyramid of rocks from which it had carelessly emerged one day only to get shot by Leopoldo.

  At about the halfway point Fazio received a call from an agitated Catarella, who said that Mr C’mishner needed to talk immoigently and straightawayslike with Inspector Montalbano.

  ‘What should I tell ’im?’

  It wasn’t a good moment to talk to the c’mishner, what with the rabbit about to jump out of his mouth.

  ‘Tell him I’ve gone missing.’

  *

  By the grace of God, they finally got back to town.

  ‘Where do you want me to drop you off?’

  ‘By the harbour.’

  Before getting out of the car, he asked Fazio:

  ‘When are you going to see Mrs Tumminello?’

  ‘Right now.’

  His stomach began to feel a little less heavy after he walked out to the end of the jetty and back twice.

  But before returning to the station, he realized he needed to drink a strong double espresso.

  *

  ‘Ahh, Chief! Ahh, Chief, Chief!’ Catarella wailed, seeing him enter. ‘The c’mish—
’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Fazio told me.’

  Catarella goggled at the inspector.

  ‘So it wadn’t true you was done missin’! Man, I’m so glad! Thank the Loord! I’s rilly scared!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I dunno. Jess the idea of it.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Done missin’.’

  ‘It’s “gone missing”, Cat.’

  ‘An’ wha’d I say? Done missin’, no?’

  Better let it slide again.

  ‘Listen, how did the commissioner seem to you?’

  ‘Chief, I din’t see ’im poissonally in poisson! I only ’oid ’is verse!’

  ‘OK, did it seem hoarse to you?’

  ‘Nah, it juss soun’ed strange.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘’S like ’e was a li’l sleepy.’

  Was it possible he was still under the effect of the four tranquillizers?

  ‘Get him on the line for me right away.’

  ‘Yessir. But I gotta tell yiz sum’m. I prinnit out everytin’ ’at was onna kapewter.’

  ‘Good! Keep it all in your drawer. An’ how’s it going with the impy tree?’

  ‘I’m jess startin’ on it now. Wan’ me t’call the c’mishner?’

  ‘Yeah, call him now.’

  *

  ‘At your command, sir! Montalbano here.’

  ‘Ah, yes, hello. What are you calling about?’

  A li’l sleepy? Mr C’mishner didn’t seem right in the head.

  ‘Mr Commissioner, it was you who called me earlier this afternoon, when I was—’

  ‘Ah, yes. I called you because Dr Lattes told me you urgently needed to talk to me.’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘If you want to come now . . .’

  ‘I’ll be there in half an hour. Thank you.’

  He really didn’t sound like the usual Bonetti-Alderighi. He was completely changed. There was an unprecedented politeness in his tone of voice.

  *

  Waiting for him in the commissioner’s anteroom was Dr Lattes.

  ‘He’s on the telephone. Just be patient for a couple of minutes.’

  ‘How are things?’

  He was referring to the commissioner, but Lattes misunderstood.

  ‘I’m quite well, with thanks to the Lord. And you?’

  ‘Likewise, with thanks to the same. And how is he?’