August Heat

by Andrea Camilleri

  'No, sir. Spitaleri ordered it an' it was brought here early on Sunday morning.'

  It was the best answer the inspector could have hoped for. 'Who supplied it? What company?'

  'Ribaudo's.'

  'Did you sign the receipt?' 'Yessir.'

  Montalbano congratulated himself. He'd not only hit the nail on the head, he had even found out what he'd wanted to know. Now they needed to add some drama to the drama, for the benefit of the boss, Spitaleri. 'Why didn't you get the stuff from Milluso's?'

  'How should I know?'

  'And to think we told Spitaleri a thousand times, "You've got to use Milluso's! You've got to use Milluso's!" But noooo ... He wants to play the smartarse with us. He doesn't want to understand. So now we're going to kill you so he finally gets it.'

  With the strength of desperation, Filiberto leaped to his feet. But he had no time to do anything else. From behind, Fazio clubbed him on the side of the neck.

  The watchman fell and didn't move.

  They raced outside, opened the gate, got into the car and, as Fazio was turning on the ignition, Montalbano said, 'See how, if you're nice, you can have anything you want?' Then he stopped talking.

  As they were driving back to Vigata, Fazio commented, 'That was just like an American movie!' And, since the inspector just sat there in silence, he asked, 'Are you counting up how many crimes we committed?' 'Let's not think about it.'

  'Are you dissatisfied with the answers Filiberto gave you?'

  'No, on the contrary.' 'So what's wrong?' 'I don't like what I did.' ‘Im sure the guy didn't recognize us.' 'Fazio, I didn't say we did anything wrong, I said I didn't like it.'

  'You mean the way we treated Filiberto?' 'Yes.'

  'But, Chief, he's a criminal!' 'And we're not?'

  'If we hadn't done what we did, he wouldn't have talked.'

  'That's not a good reason.'

  'What do you want us to do? Go back and tell him we're sorry?' Fazio snapped.

  Montalbano said nothing. A minute later, Fazio said, 'I apologize, sir.'

  'Oh, come on!'

  'Do you think Spitaleri will swallow the story that we were sent by Milluso's outfit?'

  'It'll take him two or three days to work out that. Milluso's had nothing to do with it. But those two or three days will be enough for me.'

  'There's one thing I still don't understand,' said Fazio.

  'Tell me.'

  'Why, when he needed the material for the railing, did he turn to Ribaudo's instead of having it sent from one of his other sites?'

  'That would have meant involving other people from these sites. Spitaleri must have thought that the fewer people who knew about it, the better. Apparently he could trust Ribaudo's.'

  During the night Montalbano's consciousness, contrary to his fears, chose to rest. Thus he awoke from his five hours of sleep as if he had slept ten. The cloudless morning sky put him in a good mood. Even at that early hour, though, the air was hot.

  The minute he arrived at the office, he phoned Marshal Alberto Lagana, of the Finance Police, who had helped him many times before.

  'Inspector! What a pleasant surprise! What's the good news?'

  'It's bad news, unfortunately.' 'Let's hear it anyway.'

  'Do you know the Ribaudo firm in Vigata, the one that supplies construction materials?'

  Lagana chuckled to himself. 'You bet we know them! Materials sold without invoices, evasion of sales tax, cooking the books ... And we were planning to renew our acquaintance in the next few days.'

  A stroke of excellent luck. 'When, exactly?'

  'Three days from now.'

  'Couldn't you start early, say, tomorrow?'

  'But tomorrow is the fifteenth of August! What's this about?'

  Montalbano explained the situation to him. And told him what he wanted to know.

  'I think I can manage it the day after tomorrow,' Lagana concluded.

  'Chief? There's summon says he's called Falli Fardillo that says you summoned 'im for ten aclack this morning.'

  'Have you got the printout on the girl who was killed?'

  'Yessir.'

  'Bring it to me, then tell Fazio to come to my office and lastly, send that man in.'

  Naturally, Catarella sent in Dalli Cardillo first, then went and got the file, which Montalbano placed upside-down on his desk, and finally called Fazio.

  Dalli Cardillo was thick-set and fiftyish, with short-cropped hair that lacked a trace of white. He was swarthy and sporting a moustache of the sort that Turks used to wear in the nineteenth century. He was nervous, and it showed.

  But who isn't nervous when summoned without explanation to the police station? Wait a second. Without explanation? Was it possible Spitaleri hadn't already told him what to say? 'Signor Dalli Cardillo, did Mr Spitaleri tell you why you were summoned here?'

  'No, sir.'

  He seemed sincere to Montalbano. 'Do you remember working on one of Spitaleri's sites six years ago, when you built a house in the Pizzo district of Marina di Montereale?'

  Hearing the question, the mason looked so relieved that he allowed himself a little smile. 'Did you discover the illegal floor?' he asked.

  'Yes.'

  'I did what the boss told me to do.' 'I'm not accusing you of anything. All I want from you is some information.'

  'As far as that goes, I'm at your service.' 'Was it you, with your colleague Gaspare Micciche, who covered the lower apartment with sandy soil?' 'Yessir.'

  'Did you work together the whole time?' 'No. That day I finished at twelve thirty, and Micciche continued alone.'

  'Why did you stop early?' 'Mr Spitaleri's orders.' 'But hadn't he already left?'

  'Yes, but the day before he went, he told us what to do.'

  'Could you explain to me how you got in and out of the bottom floor?'

  'We made a sort of tunnel out of wooden planks, a kind of covered, sloping gangway, like for a steamship. Half of it was already covered up on top with the soil. It led up to a window next to the smaller bathroom.'

  The window that Bruno had fallen into. 'How high was this tunnel?'

  'It was low. Less than three feet. You had to bend double.'

  'Tell me something. What need was there for a tunnel?'

  'Mr Spitaleri told us to build one. He wanted the foreman to check whether the pressure of the soil might damage the interior, letting in the damp and suchlike.'

  'The foreman was Dipasquale?'

  'Yessir.'

  'And he came and checked?'

  'Yessir. At the end of the first day. But he told us to keep working because everything was okay.'

  'Did he also come on the last day?' It was Fazio, cutting in.

  'Not in the morning when I was there. Maybe he came in the afternoon, but you'll have to ask Micciche that.'

  'You still haven't explained why you left early.'

  'There wasn't much to do. Just closing a window with boards and plastic, taking apart the tunnel and smoothing the soil.'

  'Did you notice if there was a trunk in the living room?'

  'Yessir. The owner told us to put it down there, but I can't remember 'is name now. He asked me and someone called Smecca to carry it down.'

  'Was it empty?'

  'Yes.'

  'Okay, thanks. You can go.'

  Dalli Cardillo couldn't believe it. 'A good day to you all!' And he ran out.

  'You know why Spitaleri didn't forewarn him of the interrogation and didn't tell him what to say?' asked Montalbano.

  'No.'

  'Because the man is shrewd. He knows Dalli Cardillo is unaware of the murder. So he thought it was better if he came here with nothing to hide.'

  Gaspare Micciche was a fortyish redhead who was barely four feet eight inches tall. He had extremely long arms and bowed legs. He looked like a monkey. Surely if Darwin could have seen him, he would have hugged him for joy. Micciche must have been able to enter the wooden tunnel practically standing up. He, too, was a bit nervous. 'You're
making me miss a whole morning's work!'

  'Mr Micciche, do you have any idea why we summoned you here?'

  'I not only have an idea, I know why because Mr Spitaleri talked to me before I came. It's about that fucking illegal apartment.'

  'Didn't he tell you anything else?'

  'Why? What else is there?'

  'Listen, on that twelfth of October, which was your last day of work, at what time did you go home?'

  'It wasn't the last day. I went back the next day too.' 'To do what?'

  'What I didn't do the afternoon of the day before.' 'And what was that?'

  'That afternoon, when I was getting down to work, Dipasquale, the foreman, arrived and told me not to dismantle the tunnel.'

  'Why?'

  'He said we'd better wait another day to see if there was any seepage. An' he also said the owner was coming in the afternoon to check things himself.'

  'So what did you do?'

  'What was I supposed to do? I left.'

  'Go on.'

  'That night, probably after nine o'clock, Dipasquale rang me to say I could take down the tunnel the following morning. So I boarded up the window and covered it with plastic, then dismantled the tunnel. I was just startin' to smoothe the ground when three men from the team arrived.'

  'What team?'

  'The ones that were supposed to remove the fencing from around the site. Then I went round the house twice with the grader and—'

  'What's a grader?' asked Fazio.

  'It's a machine like the one they use to make roads.'

  'A steam-roller?'

  'Yes, but smaller. When I'd finished, I went home.' 'With the grader?'

  'No, the men from the team were supposed to take that away with their truck.'

  'Do you remember whether you entered the apartment for any reason on the morning of the thirteenth?'

  'Spitaleri asked me the same question. Nah, I didn't go in 'cause there wasn't any reason to.'

  Had he gone in, he would have noticed at least the pool of blood in the living room. But he seemed sincere. 'Did you notice a trunk in there?' 'Yessir. It was the owner—'

  'Yes, Mr Speciale asked for it to be brought down. Did you open it?'

  'The trunk? No. I knew it was empty. Why would I open it?'

  Without answering, Montalbano grabbed the printout, turned it over and handed it to him.

  Micciche looked at the photograph of the murdered girl, noticed the date of her disappearance and gave the printout back to the inspector. He looked genuinely stunned. 'What's that got to do with anything?'

  It was Fazio who answered. 'If you had opened the trunk on the morning of the thirteenth, you would have found her inside it. Wrapped in plastic, with her throat slashed.'

  Micciche's reaction was not what they had expected. He shot to his feet, face turning purple, fists clenched, teeth bared. A wild animal. Montalbano was afraid he might jump on to the desk.

  'Bastard!'

  'Who?'

  'Spitaleri.' He knew and didn't tell me nothing! From the way he was talking to me, it's clear he wanted to get me into trouble!'

  'Sit down and calm yourself. Why, in your opinion, would Spitaleri have wanted to get you into trouble?'

  'To make you think it was me who killed that girl! When I went home that day, I left Dipasquale there! I don't know nothing about any of this!'

  'Did you ever see this girl anywhere around the construction site?'

  'Never!'

  'When you stopped working on the afternoon of the twelfth, do you remember what you did?'

  'How could I possibly remember? You're talking about six years ago!'

  'Make an effort, Mr Micciche. It's in your own interest,' said Fazio.

  Micciche was seized by another fit of rage. He leaped to his feet and, before Fazio could stop him, he ran to the door and butted it powerfully with his head. As Fazio was sitting him down by force, the door opened and a befuddled Catarella appeared. 'D'jou call for me, Chief?'

  TEN

  Between words and shoves, blandishments and brandishings of handcuffs, Fazio and Montalbano finally managed to get the unchained beast to calm down. Then, after some five minutes of good behaviour, head in his hands, concentrating as he tried to remember, Micciche began to mutter: 'Wait a minute ... Wait a minute ...'

  'The head-butt is bringing his memory back’ the inspector said to Fazio, under his breath.

  'Wait a minute ... I think it was the same day that ... Yes ... Yes!' He leaped to his feet yet again, but Montalbano and Fazio were quick to jump on him and immobilize him. By now they'd learned the technique.

  'But I just wanted to speak to my wife!'

  'Well, if that's all...' said the inspector.

  Fazio held out the phone with the direct line for him. Micciche dialled a number but was too nervous and got it wrong, reaching a grocery. He dialled again and got it wrong again.

  'Let me do it for you.'

  Micciche told him the number, holding the receiver.

  'Carmelina? 's me. D'you remember six years ago when our Michilino broke 'is leg? Never mind why I'm asking you. Just say yes or no. Do you remember? You don't remember if it was six years ago? Think hard. Yes? And didn't it happen on the twelfth of October? Yes?'

  He hung up.

  'Now iss all comin' back to me. Since I got home early that day, I laid down and went to sleep. Then Carmelina woke me up, crying. Michilino 'ad fallen off 'is bike and broke 'is leg. So I took 'im to Montelusa 'ospital an' my wife came wit' me. We stayed at the 'ospital until that evening. You can check.'

  'That's what we're going to do,' said Fazio. He exchanged a glance with Montalbano.

  'For now you can go,' said the inspector.

  'Thanks. I'm going to ram Spitaleri's teeth down his throat, even if it costs me my job!' And he left the room grinding his teeth.

  'He acts as if he's escaped from a cage at the zoo’ commented Fazio.

  'Why do you think Spitaleri didn't tell him anything about the murder?' the inspector asked.

  'Because Spitaleri, having already left, had no way of knowing that Micciche's kid broke his leg. He was convinced he didn't have an alibi.'

  'So, in short, Micciche got it right: Spitaleri wanted to set him up. But the question is, why?'

  'Maybe because he thinks Dipasquale is involved. And Spitaleri cares more about Dipasquale, who probably knows a thing or two about him, than about some poor bastard like Micciche.'

  'Right.'

  'What should I do? Call Dipasquale back in?' 'Are you harbouring suspicions about him?' Thus the foreman also entered the game.

  Before going out to eat at the usual place, Enzo's trattoria, the inspector stopped in front of Catarella's cubby-hole, and the switchboard operator sprang to attention.

  'At ease. Whatever happened with that fan?'

  'Can't be found anywheres, Chief. Not even in Montelusa. They says they should have 'em in tree or four days' time.'

  'Time enough for us to be properly roasted.'

  Catarella accompanied him to the door and stood there watching him.

  The blast of heat that came out of his car when Montalbano opened the door discouraged him from entering. Maybe it was better just to walk to Enzo's, which was about fifteen minutes away on foot, taking, naturally, the sides of the streets that were in the shade. He headed off.

  'Chief! What — you goin' on foot?' 'Yes.'

  'Wait a second.'

  Catarella went back into the station and came out with a small green cap with a visor. He handed it to the inspector. 'Here, put this on to cover your head.'

  'Oh, come on!'

  'Chief! You're gonna get sunstricken!' 'Better sunstroke than looking like somebody going to the Pontida meetings.'

  'Where you going, Chief?' 'Never mind.'

  After he'd been walking five minutes with his head down, he heard a voice: 'Vocumpra?’

  He looked up. An Arab selling sunglasses, straw hats, swimsuits. Next to his face, however,
the man was holding a gadget that caught the inspector's attention, a sort of portable mini-fan that must have functioned with batteries. 'I'll take that,' he said, pointing to the fan.

  'This is mine for me.'

  'Haven't you got another?'

  'No.'

  'Come on, how much you want for it?' 'Fifty euros.'

  Well, fifty euros was surely a lot. 'Let's make it thirty.'

  'Forty.'

  Montalbano paid him the forty euros, grabbed the little fan, and resumed walking, holding the gadget next to his face. He couldn't believe it: it actually cooled him very nicely.

  Sitting down to eat, he wanted a light meal and had only a main course. It was thanks to the little fan that he was able to take his customary walk along the jetty and sit for a short while on the flat rock.

  The mini-fan was endowed with a clamp, which allowed the inspector to attach it to the end of his desk. There was no doubt about it: the thing did provide a bit of relief in the overheated office. 'Catarella.''

  'Behole the brillince o' man.'' Catarella commented in admiration, upon seeing the little fan. 'Fazio here?' 'Yessir.'

  'Tell him to come in.'

  Fazio also congratulated him on the contraption. 'How much did you pay for it?'

  'Ten euros.' He was embarrassed to admit he'd paid forty.

  'Where'd you buy it? I want to get one myself 'Some Arab passing through. Unfortunately it was the only one he had.'

  The telephone rang.

  It was Dr Pasquano. The inspector turned on the speaker so Fazio could also hear. 'You all right, Montalbano?' 'Yes, why do you ask?'

  'Well, considering the fact that you didn't bust my balls this morning, I was worried.'

  'Did you perform the post-mortem?'

  'Why else would I be phoning you? To hear your lovable, mellifluous voice?'

  He must have discovered something important to have rung at all. 'Tell me about it.'

  'Well, first of all, the girl had completely digested what she had eaten, but had not yet evacuated. Therefore she was killed either around six o'clock in the evening, or later, around eleven.'

  'I think it was around six in the evening.'

  'That's your business.'

  'Is there anything else?'

  The doctor didn't like saying what he was about to say. 'I was wrong.'

  'About what?'

  "The girl was a virgin. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.'