August Heat

by Andrea Camilleri

  'That's just it. I wanted to know more about this investigation of yours. What conclusion did you come to?'

  'I think I told you a second ago: accidental death. The work site, when I went there, was up to scratch. I allowed it to reopen after it had been closed for five days. Laurentano, the prosecutor, was pressing me to hurry up.'

  'When were you first called?'

  'On the Monday morning after the mason's body was found. And I repeat, all the safety measures were in order. The only possible conclusion was that the Arab, who'd had a bit too much to drink, climbed over the protective railing and fell. And, in fact, the post-mortem showed that there was more wine than blood in his body.'

  Montalbano baulked, but didn't let Lozupone see it. If things had really happened the way Lozupone said and Spitaleri maintained, why had Filiberto told a different story? Most importantly, didn't the receipt from Ribaudo's prove that the watchman had been telling the truth? Wasn't it better to play straight with Lozupone and tell him what he, Montalbano, thought about the matter?

  'Federi, didn't it occur to you that maybe, when the mason fell, there wasn't any protection and that the railing was put up on Sunday? So that when you came on Monday morning everything would be in order?'

  Lozupone refilled his glass with whisky. 'Of course it occurred to me,' he said.

  'And what did you do?'

  'What you yourself would have done.'

  'Namely?'

  'I asked Spitaleri which firm had supplied his scaffolding. He said Ribaudo's so I reported this to Laurentano. I wanted him to question Ribaudo, or to authorize me to question Ribaudo, but he said no. He said that, for him, the investigation ended there.'

  'The proof you were looking for from Ribaudo I managed to procure. Spitaleri had the materials sent that Sunday at dawn, and he assembled it with the help of the work foreman Dipasquale and the watchman Attanasio.'

  'And what do you intend to do with this proof ?'

  'Give it either to you or to Prosecutor Laurentano.' 'Let me see it.'

  Montalbano handed him the receipt. Lozupone looked at it and handed it back. 'This doesn't prove anything.'

  'Didn't you see the date? The twenty-seventh of July was a Sunday.''

  'You know what Laurentano might say to you? First, that given the working relationship between Spitaleri and Ribaudo, it wasn't the first time that Ribaudo had furnished materials to Spitaleri on a Sunday. Second, that the material was needed because on Monday morning they were supposed to begin construction on several new floors of the building. Third, would you please explain to me, Inspector Montalbano, how you happened to get your hands on this document? To conclude, Spitaleri gets away with it while you and whoever gave you the document are screwed.'

  'But is Laurentano in on this?'

  'Laurentano? What are you saying? Laurentano only wants to advance his career. And if you're going to get ahead, rule number one is to let sleeping dogs lie.'

  Montalbano felt so enraged that he blurted out, 'And what does your father-in-law, Lattes, think about it?'

  'Lattes? Don't stray too far, Salvo. Don't piss into the wind. My father-in-law has certain political interests, it's true, but he's certainly never said anything to me about this Spitaleri business.'

  And why do you think that is? Montalbano felt satisfied with this answer. 'So you give up?'

  'What else, in your opinion, should I do? Start tilting at windmills like Don Quixote?' 'Spitaleri is not a windmill.'

  'Montalba, let's be frank. Do you know why Laurentano won't let me take it any further? Because when he puts Spitaleri and his political protectors on one side of his personal scale and the dead body of an anonymous Arab immigrant on the other, which way do you think that scale tips? The death of the Arab was given three lines of coverage in only one newspaper. What do you think will happen if we go after Spitaleri? A pandemonium of television, radio, newspapers, questions in Parliament, pressure, maybe even blackmail. And so I ask you, how many people, among us and among the judges, have the same scale in their offices as Laurentano?'

  SIXTEEN

  He felt so furious that he stayed out on the veranda to finish the bottle of whisky, specifically intending, if not to get drunk, then at least to numb himself enough to be able to go to bed.

  After thinking it over, with a cool head and without getting too carried away, he realized Lozupone was right. He would never succeed in nailing Spitaleri with the evidence that had seemed so important to him.

  And then supposing Laurentano did find the courage to take action and some heedless colleague of his managed to bring the case to trial, any lawyer could pick apart that evidence in the twinkling of an eye. But was it really because the evidence was negligible — since it still was evidence, after all — that Spitaleri would not be found guilty? Or was it because in today's Italy, thanks to laws that increasingly favoured the rights of the accused, what was lacking above all was a firm resolve to send anyone who had committed a crime to prison?

  But why, on the other hand, had the inspector had from the start, and continued to have, such a strong desire to harm the developer? Because he was guilty of a building violation? Come on! If that was the case, he should have something against half the population of Sicily, since illegal constructions almost outnumbered the legal ones.

  Why had somebody died at one of his work sites?

  And how many so-called accidents in the workplace took place that weren't accidents at all but genuine murders by the employers?

  No, there was another reason.

  Fazio's report that Spitaleri liked underage girls, and his own conclusion that the builder was a sex tourist, had made him develop a violent aversion to the man. He couldn't stand the kind of people who took aeroplanes from one continent to another to exploit poverty, and material or moral misery in the most ignoble manner possible.

  Someone like that, even if he lived in a palace in his home country, travelled first class, stayed in ten-star hotels and ate in restaurants where a fried egg cost a hundred thousand euros, was a wretch deep in his soul, more wretched than the bastard who robbed churches of their alms boxes or children of their lunch boxes for the sheer pleasure of doing so rather than because he was starving.

  And men of that ilk are surely capable of the vilest, most loathsome acts.

  At last, after some two hours, his eyelids were drooping. There was one finger of whisky left in the glass. He knocked it back and it went down the wrong way. As he was coughing, he remembered something Lozupone had said.

  Which was that the post-mortem had confirmed that the Arab had drunk too much, and had fallen for that reason.

  But there was another hypothesis.

  That the Arab, when he fell, had not died. He had been only mortally injured, and therefore able to swallow. And Spitaleri, Dipasquale and Filiberto had taken advantage of the situation and forcibly plied him with wine, then left him to die.

  They were capable of such an act, and the idea must have come to the one most capable of all: Spitaleri. And if things had happened as he was imagining, it wasn't just he, Inspector Montalbano, who was being thwarted, but justice itself — indeed the very notion of justice.

  He didn't sleep a wink all night. His rage combined with the heat to make him sweat so much that around four o'clock in the morning he got up and changed the sheets. For nothing: half an hour later they were as drenched as the ones he had discarded.

  By eight o'clock he could no longer bear to stay in bed. Restlessness, nerves and the heat were driving him crazy.

  It occurred to him that Livia, on a boat out on the open sea, must be having a better time of it than him so he tried ringing her on her mobile phone. A recorded woman's voice informed him that the phone of the person he'd called was switched off and that, if he wished, he could call back later.

  Naturally, at that hour, the young lady was either asleep or too busy helping her dear cousin Massimiliano to manoeuvre the boat. Suddenly he was itching all over and scratching himse
lf almost raw.

  He hopped down from the veranda on to the beach. The sand was already hot and burned the soles of his feet. He went for a long swim. Far from the shore the water was still cool, but his refreshment didn't last long. He was dry by the time he got back to the house.

  Why bother to go to the station? he asked himself. He didn't have anything pressing to do; in fact, he had nothing to do. Tommaseo was busy with his press conference; Adriana had her sisters funeral to attend; the commissioner was probably too busy to look at the answers on the questionnaire he had sent to the different police forces. And he, Montalbano, felt only like lolling about, but not at home.

  'Catarella?'

  'Atcher soivice, Chief

  'Lemme talk to Fazio.' 'Straight aways.'

  'Fazio? I'm not coming in this morning.' 'Are you ill?'

  'I'm fine. But I'm convinced that I'll feel terrible if I come in to work.'

  'You're right, Chief. It's stifling here. Nobody can breathe.'

  'I'll be there this evening around six.'

  'Okay. Oh, Chief, can I borrow your mini-fan?'

  'Don't break it.'

  Half an hour later, on the road to Pizzo, he stopped in front of the rustic cottage, the one the peasant lived in. He got out of the car and approached the house. The front door was open. 'Anyone in?' he called.

  At the window directly above the door appeared the same man whose earthenware pot Gallo had shattered with the car. From the way he looked at him, the inspector could see he didn't recognize him.

  'What d'you want?'

  If he told him he was with the police, the man might not let him in. The homely clucking of some chickens behind the house came to his aid. He took a wild guess. 'Have you any fresh eggs?'

  'How many do you need?'

  It couldn't be a big chicken coop. 'Half a dozen should do.' 'Come in.'

  Montalbano entered.

  A bare room that must have served the man's every purpose. A table, two chairs, a cupboard. Against one wall, a small stove with a gas cylinder, and beside it a marble surface with glasses, dishes, a frying-pan and a pot on top. Humble utensils worn with time and overuse. A hunting rifle hung on one wall.

  The peasant came down the wooden stairs leading to the room above, which must have been his bedroom. 'I'll go and fetch them for you.'

  He went outside. The inspector sat down in a chair.

  The man returned with three eggs in each hand. He took two steps towards the small table, then stopped short. He stared hard at Montalbano as his face paled.

  'What's wrong?' the inspector asked, getting up.

  'Aaaaah!' the peasant roared. And with all his might he hurled the three eggs in his right hand at Montalbano's head. Although he was caught by surprise, the inspector dodged two, but the third hit his left shoulder and broke, dripping onto his shirt.

  'Now I recognize you — you're a cop!'

  'But listen—'

  'Still the same story? Eh?'

  'No, I came to—'

  Of the other three eggs, one got him on the forehead and two in the chest. Montalbano was blinded. He brought his handkerchief to his eyes to wipe them, and when he was able to see again the peasant was holding the hunting rifle and pointing it straight at him. 'Get out of my house!'

  The inspector ran. His colleagues must have put the poor man through a lot.

  The stains had spread so far over his shirt that it was one colour at the front and another at the back.

  He returned to Marinella to change his clothes. There he found Adelina scrubbing the floor. 'Signo, what happened? Somebuddy trow eggs at you?'

  'Yes, poor bastard. I'm going to change.'

  He washed himself in the hot water from the tanks on his roof, then put on a clean shirt. 'See you later, Adeli.'

  'Signore, I cannotta come tomorra.'

  'Why not?'

  'Cause I'ma going to go see my boy, the bigger one, who's in jail in Montelusa.'

  'How's the younger one doing?'

  ' 'E's in jail too, but in Palermo.'

  She had two sons, both delinquents, who were always in and out of jail.

  Montalbano himself had sent them there a couple of times, but he still remained fond of them. He was even godfather to one. 'Tell him I said hi.'

  'I will. Since I'ma not coming, I make-a you somethin' a eat.'

  'Just cold things, though. That way they'll last longer.' He headed back to Pizzo, with his swimming trunks this time.

  He sped past the peasant's cottage, worried that the man might shoot at his car, then past Adriana's, whose doors and windows were shuttered, and pulled up at the illegal house.

  Since he had the keys, he went inside, undressed, put on his trunks, went back outside and down the stone staircase to the beach. At this point there were few swimmers, most of whom were speaking foreign languages. After 15 August, Sicilians considered the summer season over, even if the heat was worse than before.

  He retained a memory of clean, refreshing pleasure from the first time he had swum in those waters, when he had come here with Callara. He dived into the sea and stayed there until the skin on his fingertips wrinkled, a sign that it was time to return to shore.

  He intended to have a cold shower and go home to eat whatever gift of God Adelina had prepared for him, but the climb up the staircase with the hot sun high overhead drained him. In the house, he went straight to the master bedroom and lay down on the double bed.

  It was two thirty when he fell asleep and almost five when he woke up. The mattress bore the imprint of his naked body, a damp silhouette.

  He stayed in the shower so long that he used all the water in the tank. But since he wasn't at home, and as the house wasn't inhabited, he didn't regret it.

  When he went out to go to the station, another car was parked in front of the house. He thought he'd seen it before, but he couldn't remember where. No one was around. Maybe they'd gone down to the beach.

  Then he noticed that an electrical cable had been plugged into the socket next to the door and ran round the corner of the house to the back. Surely it was to illuminate the illegal apartment downstairs.

  Who could it be? Certainly not Forensics. He was sure it must be some journalist who had come on the sly to take photos of the 'site of the atrocious crime', and was suddenly overcome with fury. How dared the brute?

  He ran to his car, took his pistol out of the glove compartment and slipped it inside his belt. Past the corner, the electrical cable continued along the wall, ran over the planks and disappeared inside the window that served as an entrance to the illegal apartment. He climbed lightly over the ledge and found himself in the bathroom. Craning his neck cautiously, he saw that the living room was illuminated.

  That fucking photographer was surely hoping to get a scoop by taking pictures of the trunk in which the body had been found.

  I'll give you a scoop, idiot, the inspector thought.

  Then he did two things at once. First, he ran towards the living room, yelling, 'Hands up!' Second, he cocked his revolver and fired one shot into the air.

  Now, either because the rooms were empty of furniture and therefore amplified noise, or because the apartment was entirely covered with plastic, which didn't allow sound to disperse, the shot sounded like a huge explosion, barely less than a bomb blast. The first person to take fright was Montalbano himself, who had the impression that the gun had exploded in his hand. Deafened he burst into the living room.

  In terror, the photographer had dropped his camera and, trembling all over, was kneeling down with his hands raised and his forehead on the ground. He looked like an Arab praying.

  'You are under arrest!' the inspector said. 'Montalbano's the name!'

  'Wha — wha—' the man whimpered, barely raising his head.

  'You want to know why? Because you broke the seals to come inside!'

  'But — but — there weren't—'

  'There weren't any seals!' said a quaking voice, coming from it wasn't clear whe
re.

  Montalbano looked about but couldn't see anyone. 'Who said that?' 'I did.'

  And from behind the plastic-wrapped stack of window frames Callara's head popped out. 'Inspector, you have to believe us! There weren't any seals!'

  At that moment Montalbano remembered that when he had been chasing Adriana he hadn't had time to put them back. 'Some young hooligan must have taken them down,' he said.

  In the living room the flood-lamp made the air even hotter than it would normally have been. He could barely speak — his throat was parched. 'Let's get out of here,' he said.

  They followed him into the apartment above, drank big glasses of mineral water, then sat in the living room with the french windows wide open.

  'I was so scared I nearly had a heart attack,' said the man Montalbano had mistaken for a photographer.

  'Me too,' said Callara. 'Every time I set foot in this damned house something strange happens!'

  'My name's Paladino,' the man with the camera introduced himself. 'I'm a builder.'

  'But what were you two doing here?'

  Callara spoke first. 'Inspector, since there's not much time left to make the amnesty request, and since Mrs Gudrun's papers arrived by courier this morning, I pleaded with Mr Paladino to start doing the things that need to be done—'

  'And the first thing that absolutely needs to be done is to document and photograph the illegal construction’ Paladino cut in. 'The photos will then be attached to the blueprints’

  'Did you finish taking your photographs?'

  'I need another three or four of the living room.'

  'Let's go.'

  He went out with them, accompanied them as far as the window but did not go inside. Instead he stopped to collect the tape that had ended up under the two planks and set it aside. 'I'll wait for you upstairs.'

  He smoked two cigarettes sitting at one end of the low wall along the terrace, in a spot where the sun wasn't beating down.

  Then Callara came out. 'We've finished.'

  'Where's Paladino?'

  'Putting his equipment in the car. He'll be back in a second to say goodbye.'