IM10 August Heat (2008)

by Andrea Camilleri

  “A good thing to know” was the inspector’s comment. Then he said, “After being informed by the watchman, they check out the situation and decide to cover their asses by putting up a protective railing, which they hadn’t already done, at the crack of dawn on Sunday. They drench the body in wine and go home to sleep.The following morning, thanks to the watchman, they work it all out.”

  “And Inspector Lozupone swallows it.”

  “You think so? Do you know Lozupone?”

  “No. But I certainly know who he is.”

  “I’ve known him a long time. He’s not—”

  The phone rang.

  “Chief ? ’At’d be Proxeter Dommaseo onna phone wanting a talk to you poissonally in poisson.”

  “Put him on.”

  “Montalbano? Tommaseo.”

  “Tommaseo? Montalbano.”

  The prosecutor got disoriented.

  “I wanted to tell you . . . er . . . ah, yes, I’ve seen the photo on the printout.What a beautiful girl!”

  “Right.”

  “Raped and slaughtered!”

  “Did Dr. Pasquano tell you she’d been raped?”

  “No, he told me only she’d had her throat slashed. But I sense intuitively that she was raped. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  As if the public prosecutor’s brain wouldn’t be working round the clock trying to imagine the crime scene down to the finest detail!

  At this moment, Montalbano had a truly brilliant idea that might perhaps spare him or Fazio the unpleasant task of breaking the tragic news to the girl’s family.

  “You know something, Tommaseo? Apparently the girl has a twin sister, or so I’ve been told, who is far more beautiful than the victim.”

  “More beautiful? Really?”

  “Apparently, yes,”

  “So today this twin sister would be twenty-two years old.”

  “It adds up.”

  Fazio was glaring at him, dumbfounded. What on earth was the inspector concocting?

  There was a pause. Surely the prosecutor, his eyes glued to the photo in the dossier, was licking his chops at the thought of meeting the twin sister.Then he spoke.

  “You know what, Montalbano? I think it’s better if I go in person to inform the family . . . given the victim’s tender age . . . and the particularly savage manner . . .”

  “You’re absolutely right, sir.You are a man of profound human understanding. So you’ll take care of telling the family?”

  “Yes. It seems only right.”

  They said good-bye and hung up. Fazio, having understood the inspector’s game, started laughing.

  “Man, that guy, the minute he hears talk of a woman . . .”

  “Forget about him. He’ll dash over to the Morreales’ house hoping to meet a twin sister who doesn’t exist. What was I saying to you before he called?”

  “You were telling me about Inspector Lozupone.”

  “Ah, yes. Lozupone’s been around, he’s smart, and he knows what’s what.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that in all likelihood Lozupone thought the same thing we did, that is, that the protective railing was put up after the accident, but he let it slide.”

  “And why would he do that?”

  “Maybe he was advised to stick to what Dipasquale and Spitaleri were telling him. But it’s unlikely we’ll ever find out who, in the commissariat or in the ministry of so-called justice, gave him this advice.”

  “Well, we might be able to get an idea, anyway,” said Fazio.

  “How?”

  “Chief, you said you know Lozupone well. But do you know who he’s married to?”

  “No.”

  “Dr. Lattes’s daughter.”

  “Ah.”

  Not bad, as news went.

  Dr. Lattes, chief of the commissioner’s cabinet, dubbed “Caffè-Lattes” for his cloying manner, was a man of church and prayer, a man who never said a word without first anointing it with lubricant, and who was continuously, at the right and wrong moments, giving thanks to the Blessed Virgin Mary.

  “Do you know what political group Spitaleri’s brother-in-law is with?”

  “You mean the mayor? Mayor Alessandro is with the same party as the regional president, which happens to be the same party as Dr. Lattes, and he’s the grand delegate of the Honorable M.P. Catapano, which is saying a lot.”

  Gerardo Catapano was a man who had managed to keep both the Cuffaros and the Sinagras, the two Mafia families of Vigàta, on good behavior.

  Montalbano felt momentarily demoralized. How could it be that things never changed? Mutatis mutandis, one always ended up caught in dangerous webs of relations, collusions between the Mafia and politicians, the Mafia and entrepreneurs, politicians and banks, money-launderers and loan sharks.

  What an obscene ballet! What a petrified forest of corruption, fraud, rackets, villainy, business! He imagined a likely dialogue:

  “Proceed very carefully because Z, who is M.P. Y’s man and the son-in-law of K, who is Mafia boss Z’s man, enjoys particularly good relations with M.P. H.

  “But doesn’t M.P. H belong to the opposition party?”

  “Yes, but it’s the same thing.”

  How did Papa Dante put it?

  Ah, servile Italy, you are sorrow’s hostel, a ship without helmsman in terrible storms, lady not of the provinces, but of a brothel!

  Italy was still servile, obeying at least two masters, America and the Church, and the storms had become a daily occurrence thanks to a helmsman whom she would be better off without. Of course, the provinces of which Italy was the “lady” now numbered more than a hundred, but the brothel, for its part, had increased exponentially.

  “So, about those six masons . . .” Fazio resumed.

  “Wait. Have you got stuff to do this evening?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Would you come with me to Montelusa?”

  “What for?”

  “To have a little chat with Filiberto, the watchman. I know how to find the worksite; Dipasquale explained it to me.”

  “It seems to me, sir, that you want to do harm to this Spitaleri.”

  “You’ve hit the nail on the head.”

  “Count me in.”

  “So, you going to tell me about these masons or not?”

  Fazio gave him a dirty look.

  “Chief, I’ve been trying to tell you for the past hour.”

  He unfolded his sheet of paper.

  “The masons’ names are as follows: Antonio Dalli Cardillo, Ermete Smecca, Ignazio Butera, Antonio Passalacqua, Stefano Fiorillo, Gaspare Miccichè. Dalli Cardillo and Miccichè are the two who worked up until the end and buried the illegal ground floor.”

  “If I ask you a question, will you answer me truthfully?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Did you go dig up the complete vital statistics on each of these six masons?”

  Fazio blushed slightly. He could not control his “records office mania,” as the inspector called it.

  “Yeah, Chief, I did. But I didn’t read them to you.”

  “You didn’t read them to me because you didn’t have the courage. Did you find out if they’re working now and where?”

  “Of course. They’re currently working at the four construction sites Spitaleri’s got going.”

  “Four?”

  “Yessir. And in five days another one’s opening up.With the connections he’s got between politicos and mafiosi, imagine the guy ever lacking work! Anyway, to conclude, Spitaleri told me he prefers always using the same masons.”

  “Except for the occasional Arab he can throw into the garbage can without too much fuss. Are Dalli Cardillo and Miccichè working at the Montelusa site?”

  “No.”

  “So much the better. I want you to call those two in for questioning tomorrow morning, one at ten and the other at noon, seeing that we’ll probably be up late tonight.And don’t accept any excuses.Threaten them if yo
u need to.”

  “I’ll get on it right away.”

  “Good. I’m going home. We’ll meet back here at midnight, and then we’ll head off to Montelusa.”

  “Okay. Should I put on my uniform?”

  “You must be kidding. It’s better if the guy thinks we’re hoods.”

  Sitting on the veranda at Marinella, he thought he felt a hint of cool, but it was mostly a hypothesis of cool, since neither the sea nor the air was moving.

  Adelina had made pappanozza for him. Onions and potatoes boiled a long time and mashed with the back of a fork until they blend together. Seasoning: olive oil, a hint of vinegar, salt, and freshly ground black pepper. It was all he ate. He wanted to keep to light food.

  He sat outside until eleven o’clock, reading a good detective novel by two Swedish authors who were husband and wife, in which there wasn’t a page without a ferocious and justified attack on social democracy and the government. In his mind Montalbano dedicated the book to all those who did not deign to read mystery novels because, in their opinion, they were only entertaining puzzles.

  At eleven he turned on the television. Lupus in fabula: TeleVigàta featured a story showing the honorable Gerardo Catapano inaugurating the new municipal dog shelter of Montelusa.

  He turned it off, freshened up a bit, and went out of the house.

  He arrived at the station at a quarter to midnight. Fazio was already there. Each was wearing a light jacket over a short-sleeved shirt.They smiled at one another for having had the same idea. Anyone wearing a jacket in that extreme heat couldn’t help but cause alarm, since ninety-nine times out of a hundred the jacket served to hide a revolver tucked into the waistband or pocket.

  And, in fact, they were both armed.

  “Shall we go in mine or yours?”

  “Yours.”

  It took them scarcely half an hour to drive to the worksite, which was in the neighborhood of the old Montelusa train station.

  They parked and got out. The worksite was surrounded by wooden fencing almost six and a half feet high and had a big, locked entrance gate.

  “Do you remember,” said Fazio,“what used to be here?”

  “No.”

  “Palazzina Linares.”

  Montalbano remembered it. A little jewel from the second half of the nineteenth century which the Linares, rich sulfur merchants, had hired Giovan Battista Basile, the famous architect of the Teatro Massimo in Palermo, to build. Later the Linares had fallen into ruin, and so had their palazzina . Instead of restoring it, the authorities had decided to demolish it and build, in its place, an eight-story block of flats. So strict, that cultural ministry!

  They walked up to the wooden gate, peered between the fenceposts, but saw no lights on.

  Fazio pushed the gate softly three times.

  “It’s locked from the inside with a bolt.”

  “Think you could manage to climb over and open it?”

  “Yeah, but not here. A car might drive by. I’ll climb over the fencing in back and get in from there.You wait for me here.”

  “Be careful.There may be a dog.”

  “I don’t think so. It would have already started barking.”

  The inspector had the time to smoke a cigarette before the gate opened just enough to let him in.

  9

  It was pitch-dark inside. To the right, however, one could make out a shed.

  “I’ll go get the flashlight,” said Fazio.

  When he returned, he relocked the gate with its bolt and turned on the flashlight. As they cautiously approached the door to the shed, they noticed that it was half open. Apparently, in this heat, Filiberto couldn’t stand being inside with the door closed.Then they heard him snoring lustily.

  “We mustn’t give him any time to think,” Montalbano whispered into Fazio’s ear. “Don’t turn on the lights. We’ll work him over by the beam of the flashlight. We need to scare him to death.”

  “No problem,” said Fazio.

  They entered on tiptoe. Inside, the shed stank of sweat, and the smell of wine was so strong that one felt drunk just breathing it. Filiberto, in his underpants, was lying on a camping cot. He was the same man as in the dossier’s photo.

  Fazio shone the flashlight around the room.The watchman’s clothes hung from a nail. There was a little table, two chairs, a small enamel washbasin on an iron tripod, and a jerry can. Montalbano grabbed it and smelled it: water.Without making any noise, he filled the basin, then picked it up in both hands, approached the cot and flung the water violently into Filiberto’s face. The man opened his eyes and, blinded by Fazio’s flashlight, shut them at once, then opened them again, raising a hand to shield himself.

  “Who . . . who . . .”

  “Whoopdeedoo!” said Montalbano. “Don’t move.”

  And he brought his pistol into the beam of light. Filiberto instinctively put his hands up.

  “You got a cell phone?” the inspector asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In my jacket.”

  The one hanging from the nail. The inspector grabbed the cell phone, dropped it on the floor, and smashed it with his feet. Filiberto mustered the courage to ask:

  “Who are you?”

  “Friends, Filibè. Get up.”

  Filiberto stood up.

  “Turn around.”

  His hands shaking slightly, Filiberto turned his back to them.

  “But what do you want? Spitaleri’s always paid his dues!”

  “Shut up!” Montalbano ordered. “Say your prayers.”

  And he cocked the pistol.

  Hearing that dry, metallic click, Filiberto’s legs turned to pudding and he fell to his knees.

  “For heaven’s sake! I ain’t done nothing! Why do you wanna kill me?” he asked, weeping.

  Fazio gave him a kick in the shoulder, making him fall forward. Montalbano put the barrel of the pistol up against the nape of his neck.

  “You listen to me . . .” he began.

  Then he suddenly stopped.

  “He’s either dead or he just fainted.”

  He bent down to touch the jugular on the man’s neck.

  “He’s fainted. Sit him up in a chair.”

  Fazio handed Montalbano the flashlight, grabbed the watchman by the armpits and sat him down. But he had to hold him up, because he kept sliding to one side.They both noticed that the man’s underpants were wet. Filiberto had pissed himself in fear. Montalbano went up to him and dealt him such a slap that he reopened his eyes. The watchman blinked repeatedly, disoriented, then immediately started crying again.

  “Don’t kill me, please!”

  “You answer our questions, you save your life,” said Montalbano, holding the pistol to his face.

  “I’ll answer, I’ll answer.”

  “When the Arab fell, was there any protective railing?”

  “What Arab?”

  Montalbano put the barrel to his forehead.

  “When the Arab mason fell . . .”

  “Ahh, yes—no, there wasn’t.”

  “Did you put it up on Sunday morning?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You, Spitaleri, and Dipasquale?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Whose idea was it to douse the dead body with wine?”

  “Spitaleri’s.”

  “Now, be real careful and make no mistakes when you answer. Did you already have the materials for the railing here at the construction site?”

  The question was essential to Montalbano. Everything hinged on the answer Filiberto would give.

  “No, sir. Spitaleri ordered it, an’ it was brought here early Sunday morning.”

  It was the best answer the inspector could ever want.

  “Who supplied it? What company?”

  “Ribaudo’s.”

  “Did you sign the receipt?”

  “Yessir.”

  Montalbano congratulated himself. He’d not only hit the nail right on the head, he h
ad even found out what he 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, ‘Ya gotta use Milluso’s! Ya gotta use Milluso’s! But, noooo . . . He wants to play wise guy wit’ us. He don’t wanna understand. So now we’s gonna kill you, just so he finally understands.”

  With the strength of desperation, Filiberto leapt to his feet. But he had no time to do anything else. Fazio, from behind, 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 said no more.

  As they were heading back to Vigàta, 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?”

  “It’s better not to think about that.”

  “Are you dissatisfied with the answers Filiberto gave you?”

  “No, on the contrary.”

  “So then, what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t like what I did.”

  “I’m sure the guy didn’t recognize us.”

  “Fazio, I didn’t say we did something wrong, I said I didn’t like it.”

  “You mean the way we treated Filiberto?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, Chief, the guy’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.”

  Fazio snapped.

  “What do you want us to do, go back and tell him we’re sorry?”

  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?”