‘And he recognized the man?’
‘In a certain sense.’
The girl thought this over for a moment.
‘I think you’re setting me up, and I’m not going to fall for it.’
She was smart, and shrewd. Montalbano didn’t comment.
‘Did Mariangela have any other lovers?’
‘No.’
‘Listen, would you also refuse to name this person in front of a judge? Let me explain. You study law, and therefore you should know that your refusal to reveal this person’s identity could cost you, and dearly.’
‘I know.’
‘So you, in full awareness, refuse to give me the killer’s name.’
The girl’s composure and resolve suddenly vanished.
‘But whoever said he was the killer?’
‘Come on, you yourself suspect that Mariangela’s lover, the same one who got her pregnant, might also be her killer. Since it’s only a suspicion, however, you don’t want to name him. But, you see, your attitude leads me to think that if this person were just anybody, you would have no problem naming him. The fact that you won’t is because you fear the consequences.’
The girl could only hang her head and look at the floor.
‘Because we’re talking about a very important person,’ the inspector continued, ‘who could, if he wanted, take revenge on you. I understand you, you know. I’ll tell you what. I won’t ask you to name him.’
The girl remained in the same position.
‘And I won’t name him either,’ Montalbano continued. ‘Though not out of fear. But because I don’t have any proof yet. When I do have proof, will you be willing to confirm the name, even in court?’
This time the girl raised her head and looked at him.
‘In that case, yes.’
‘Thank you for everything. You can go now.’
The inspector stood up and held out his hand to her. The girl shook it. She said goodbye to Fazio and headed for the door but stopped when Montalbano asked:
‘Could I start my investigation with the hypothesis that the whole thing began with the rekindling of an old flame?’
The girl turned around.
‘Yes,’ she said, and then left.
‘Did you get all that, Fazio?’
‘Of course. What do you think I am, an idiot?’
‘Then get moving, even if it’s Sunday. Start making phone calls, gathering information, get all of heaven and earth involved. And don’t forget the cannoli for Mrs Arnone.’
Fazio had barely left when the outside phone rang. It was Mr C’mishner.
‘Ah, good, I was really hoping to find you, Montalbano. I just got a long phone call from Prosecutor Tommaseo, who tells me that you’re not in agreement with his line of investigation. Tommaseo leans towards complete culpability, whereas you supposedly have serious doubts. Is that correct?’
He didn’t once mention Strangio’s name. Was he afraid the phone might be bugged?
‘It’s not that I have serious doubts, it’s just that I took the liberty of suggesting to Tommaseo that we also follow other leads.’
‘But are there any?’
‘Look, just this morning, but purely by chance, I talked to a lady who told me that she saw a man pay the girl a visit several times, always at night and always when her boyfriend was away. She even saw his face.’
He paused and then fired another lie.
‘A tall, good-looking young man of about thirty, driving a two-seater sports car.’
The commissioner remained silent for a moment. He was weighing his options. The arrest of Giovanni Strangio was certain to trigger some enormous political headaches, whereas the arrest of any old killer would cause no trouble at all. On the contrary.
‘Listen, Montalbano. Let’s do this. I’ll assign Rasetti to Tommaseo’s investigation, and you continue to follow the lead of the thirty-year-old. I’m giving you verbal authorization, naturally.’
‘Naturally. Thank you, Mr Commissioner.’
*
He hung up and went to Fazio’s office to search through all the papers he’d signed, which were about to be shipped out, for those pages with the transcriptions of the recordings. At last he found them. He folded them and put them in his jacket pocket.
He went out, got in his car, and went to Enzo’s to eat. He really couldn’t complain about the morning’s catch.
After eating, he took his customary stroll along the jetty and then headed home.
*
He took his clothes off and got into bed.
‘I’ll just rest for a few minutes,’ he said to himself.
Instead he slept till five, when he was woken up by a phone call from Fazio.
‘Chief, can I come over with Inspector Augello?’
‘Come.’
He had just enough time to have a shower and get dressed before he heard the doorbell.
‘I dropped in at the station and ran into Fazio, who told me everything,’ said Mimì. ‘So I thought it was best if I came too.’
They sat down on the veranda. It was a stunning Sunday afternoon. There were many people lying on the beach enjoying the westering sun.
‘Can I get you two anything?’
‘Nothing, thanks,’ the two replied in chorus.
Then Fazio, without asking permission, pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘There’s nothing from the records office,’ he reassured Montalbano. And he continued:
‘On the morning of the murder, the president of the province had a meeting that lasted until one p.m., went to lunch, had another meeting that lasted until five, and then said he was going home to pack, because he had to leave for Naples to attend another political meeting.’
‘We need to check whether—’ the inspector began.
‘Already taken care of. He took the nine o’clock flight out of Palermo.’
‘That would have given him all the time in the world to murder Mariangela,’ said Mimì.
Montalbano seemed not to have heard him.
‘We need to find out what hotel—’
‘Already taken care of.’
Montalbano shot to his feet, leaned against the veranda railing, took three deep breaths, and succeeded in dispelling the agitation that had come over him due to Fazio’s use of that phrase. He sat back down.
‘He stayed at the Hotel Vulcano,’ said Fazio.
If, in response to his next question, Fazio replied again with ‘Already taken care of,’ the inspector might not be able to control himself any longer. So he asked it in another way.
‘And naturally you’ve informed yourself as to which flight Giovanni took from Rome to Naples to meet his father, who had summoned him there.’
Mimì looked puzzled, whereas Fazio smiled.
‘Yes, sir, I have. He didn’t take any flight at all, as it turns out. He rented a fast car from Avis, which he left at Fiumicino airport early the next morning. His Roman girlfriend didn’t tell the truth.’
‘At any rate, he therefore couldn’t have come here to kill the girl,’ Augello concluded.
‘Listen, guys,’ said Montalbano. ‘To recapitulate, here is how things might have gone. The professor feels his old flame for Mariangela rekindling, and the two resume their former relationship. But the girl gets pregnant and tells her lover. She doesn’t want to get rid of the kid; maybe she even insists that the professor marry her. And if he won’t, she threatens to create a scandal. On the evening of his departure for Naples, the president goes to see the girl, perhaps to try again and persuade her to abort. They have a violent altercation. The distinguished president loses his head, thinking that a scandal would ruin his political career, and kills her with a box cutter he finds on the desk. He butchers her hatefully. Then he takes off her bathrobe, puts her in an obscene pose to make it look like a crime of passion, picks up the bathrobe, goes out, locks the door to the house, enters the garage through the back door, puts the bathrobe in the boot of his car, and races desperately to the airport after callin
g Giovanni and making an appointment to meet with him in Naples. When his son arrives at the hotel in Naples, he tells him everything and persuades him to help him. He promises to get him the best defence lawyers. And the kid, who’s in no condition to say no to his father, accepts. And you know the rest.’
‘Nice reconstruction,’ said Augello. ‘Even plausible. But I don’t understand the stuff about the bathrobe.’
‘Let me explain it to you, Mimì. She was wearing it when Strangio started slashing her with the box cutter. Almost certainly, in his frenzy, he cut himself as well. And since he could easily be screwed by an eventual DNA test, he’s forced to take the bathrobe away with him.’
‘But surely Strangio’s suit, shirt, and shoes must also have been covered with blood!’ Mimì objected.
‘Of course they were. But he changed them in the garage and put on some clean clothes that he had in his suitcase. Don’t forget, he’d gone to the girl’s house with a packed suitcase.’
‘But there’s something I don’t understand,’ Fazio cut in. ‘Why did Giovanni mention the bathrobe to us in the first place?’
‘Look, Strangio senior left it in the boot of his car when he arrived at the airport. He didn’t throw it out of the car on his way there, as he did with the box cutter, because a bloodstained bathrobe, if anyone found it, might attract the attention of the police or carabinieri. And he didn’t have time to stop somewhere and bury it. So as soon as he gets to Palermo he asks his son to get rid of it. And the kid takes it out of his father’s car and puts it in his own. But he doesn’t get rid of it.’
‘Why not?’ asked Fazio.
‘Because, perhaps for the first time in his life, it dawns on him that he’s taking too big a risk by obeying his father. That bathrobe, if the worst comes to the worst, could be his salvation. And when he realizes that he’s seen neither hide nor hair of all the lawyers promised him by his father, he begins to take cover. That’s why he told us about the bathrobe.’
He looked at Fazio.
‘Shall we bet I’m right?’
‘I already told you once: I never bet when I’m sure to lose. Have you got the keys to the garage?’
‘Yes, let’s go inside and I’ll give them to you.’
‘Give me also a large plastic bag to put it in.’
*
Montalbano and Augello had a glass of whisky while waiting. It took Fazio about twenty minutes to go to Strangio’s and come back.
‘It’s in my car. What should I do with it?’
‘Take it to headquarters and lock it up. And now, while we’re at it, let’s talk about another story, the supermarket.’
SIXTEEN
‘Speaking of which,’ said Mimì, ‘I wonder who it was that sent that recording to the Free Channel. Maybe . . .’
Fazio stared at his toecaps.
‘Nobody sent it: I took it there myself,’ said Montalbano.
Augello sat upright in his chair.
‘You?! How did you get it?’
‘We found it by chance, Fazio and I did, the other night, when we went into the supermarket.’
‘And what were you doing there?’
‘To tell you the truth, I didn’t really know at the time.’
‘But why didn’t you turn the recorder over to the prosecutor?’
‘Mimì, think for a second. First of all, because we entered the supermarket illegally. Second, because the prosecutor would have told us that before deciding what to do with the recorder, he would have to discuss it with the chief procurator, then with the prefect, then with the bishop, then with the American ambassador, and in conclusion he would have informed us that the recording, having no evidentiary value in court, had to be destroyed.’ Mimì said nothing. Then Montalbano let his two men know what he’d been thinking: that the recorded discussion that preceded Mimì’s arrival might be about the burglary.
‘Let’s hear it,’ said Augello.
‘I left the recorder with Zito, but last night the Free Channel offices were broken into and the only thing that was stolen was in fact the recorder . . . However, I’d told Zito to make a copy of the recordings, and this is still in his possession. To make up for it, however, I’ve got here the transcriptions Catarella made of those recordings for me.’
He went into the house, found the papers, selected the one titled ‘Talk with ya-can’t-till-who’, and went back out on the veranda. Before reading it aloud, the inspector gave it a quick glance. And he immediately understood that it involved not a tête-à-tête conversation, but an exchange over the phone. Borsellino must have held the recorder in such a way that it would also pick up the voice of the man at the other end. Borsellino was the first to speak.
‘Hello? This is Guido.’
‘I told you not to call me at this number.’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s an emergency.’
‘OK, but be quick about it.’
‘Last night somebody stole the day’s proceeds at the supermarket that I—’
‘Yeah, yeah, go on.’
Here there was a momentary confusion on Borsellino’s part.
‘I’m sorry, but—’
‘Just talk, for God’s sake!’
‘But how did you know—’
‘Come on, keep talking!’
‘I want to know what I should do.’
‘You’re asking me?’
‘Who should I ask if not you, who are—’
‘Listen, just do what you think is best.’
‘Can I call the police?’
‘Do what you think is best, I said.’
End of conversation. Montalbano, Augello, and Fazio just sat there, speechless, looking at one another in astonishment.
‘Sorry, Chief, but could you reread that for me?’ asked Fazio, pulling himself together.
The inspector reread it from the start, stressing practically every syllable. Then he put the sheet of paper down on the table and said:
‘Contrary to what he told us, Borsellino did inform someone of the burglary. And the man cut him loose immediately. He didn’t give him a helping hand; he just let him drown. But the more serious implication for us is that Borsellino was not in cahoots with the burglar, which is what we’d always thought. On top of this, the man talking to Borsellino already knew about the burglary before the manager called him. Do you two agree?’
‘Yes,’ said Augello. ‘Even if he doesn’t say explicitly that he already knows.’
‘Borsellino blurts out what he says in surprise, but he’s already perfectly aware that the other man knows. And that’s probably when he starts to smell a rat.’
‘But if he was innocent, why did he start crying in front of us?’ asked Fazio.
‘Precisely because he was innocent. Because he realized that the burglary was a setup by the Cuffaros to back him into a corner. He was desperate, he’d done everything to get himself arrested, which was the only escape route he had left, and we didn’t do it. We left him in his killers’ hands.’
‘But we couldn’t very well have imagined . . .’ Augello began.
‘No, Mimì, there are no justifications. I got the whole thing wrong, all down the line. I should have paid more attention to what you said, Fazio.’
‘What did I say?’
‘Have you forgotten? You maintained that two murders to cover whoever stole less than twenty thousand euros seemed disproportionate to you. There must be something much bigger behind all this.’
‘So what do we do now?’ asked Augello.
‘Now we must try to think this through with cooler heads,’ said Montalbano. ‘One thing is certain. The intention of those who put this whole plot together was to make it look as if Borsellino was complicit in the burglary. And that our suspecting him was what drove him to suicide. So they wanted to kill him, but without it looking like a murder. The Mafia, however, normally just kills without making such a production out of it. But here we’re looking at some very fine stage direction. If it was the Cuffaros, they’ve bee
n guided by a much more subtle mind. Whatever the case, the question is: what did Borsellino do or say to merit a death sentence? Fazio, do you know how long he’d been manager of the supermarket?’
‘Ever since it opened three years ago.’
‘So it must be something that occurred recently. We have to find out what happened.’
‘I’ll try,’ said Fazio.
Mimì got up.
‘I have to pick my wife up and take her to the cinema.’
‘I’m leaving too,’ said Fazio.
‘Oh, listen, Fazio. Do you have Michele Strangio’s telephone numbers?’
‘Not with me here, no. I’ll give them to you as soon as I get to the office.’
Fifteen minutes later he had the numbers.
*
He enjoyed the sunset, still seated out on the veranda. And after the sunset, he also enjoyed the evening’s first darkness. Then he got in his car and drove off, because, it being Sunday, Adelina hadn’t come, and so he had to go out to eat.
He felt like amusing himself, so he went to one of those seaside restaurants in Montereale Marina where they serve an infinity of wonderful antipasti. The whole time he was eating he couldn’t stop thinking about Michele Strangio, the illustrious president of the province. Since Strangio junior would never dare tell the truth, the good president felt safe, and would have no problem letting his son go to jail. But would he, Montalbano, be able to remain silent in the face of such a sordid, rotten affair? No. They had to flush out the beast, make him come out into the open.
When he got back home it was past eleven. He undressed, got comfortable in front of the television, channel-surfed until midnight, and then tuned in to TeleVigàta. The chicken-arse face was on duty.
. . . our editorial offices have just received news that Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi has relieved Inspector Montalbano of the investigation into the murder of Mariangela Carlesimo and turned it over to Inspector Silvio Rasetti. The replacement was made upon the request of Prosecutor Tommaseo, who found himself seriously at odds with Inspector Montalbano over the conduct of the investigation. Apparently the inspector is not entirely convinced of the guilt of Giovanni Strangio, the prime suspect, who was taken to prison this afternoon on the charge of aggravated murder. We can only applaud both the replacement of Inspector Montalbano as well as the arrest of Strangio, a decision promptly made by Prosecutor Tommaseo, who has shown us how justice must never hesitate, not even for political reasons, when faced with a murder of the kind that . . .
A Voice in the Night Page 16
