IM10 August Heat (2008)

by Andrea Camilleri

  So why was he breaking their balls about it? What was the big deal? He translated these questions:

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Montalbano, are you working overtime at getting on my nerves today?”

  That “working overtime” made the inspector stop joking and go on the counterattack.

  “What the hell are you saying? You’re raving, sir!”

  The commissioner tried hard to calm down.

  “Listen, Montalbano. I have the patience of Job, but if you’re trying to make a fool of me . . .”

  Ah, “the patience of Job,” too! Was the guy trying to drive him out of his mind?

  “Just tell me what I did and stop threatening me.”

  “What you did? Why, you sent me last year’s questionnaire, that’s what you did! Did you get that? Last year’s questionnaire!”

  “My, how time flies!”

  The commissioner was so beside himself that he didn’t hear what the inspector said.

  “I’m giving you two hours, Montalbano. I want you to find the new questionnaire, answer the questions, and fax it to me within two hours. Got that? Two hours!”

  He hung up.

  Montalbano looked disconsolately at the ocean of papers he would have to wade through again.

  “Fazio, would you do me a favor?”

  “At your service, Chief.”

  “Would you please shoot me?”

  It took them three hours in all; two to find the questionnaire, one to fill it out. At a certain point they realized that it was exactly the same as the one from the previous year, with the same questions, in the same order; only the date in the heading had changed. They made no comments. By this point they no longer had the strength to say what they thought about bureaucracy.

  “Catarella!”

  “Here I am.”

  “Send this fax to the c’mishner right away and tell him to stick it you know where.”

  Catarella turned pale.

  “I can’t, Chief.”

  “That’s an order, Cat!”

  “Well, Chief, if you say it’s an order . . .”

  Resigned, he turned around to leave. But wait! Catarella was actually liable to do it!

  “No, listen. Just send him the fax and don’t say anything.”

  How many tons of dust can there be among the papers in an office? Back home, Montalbano stayed a good half an hour in the shower and then changed his clothes, which stank of sweat.

  He was heading towards the refrigerator in his underpants to see what Adelina had prepared for him when the telephone rang.

  It was Adriana. She didn’t even say hi, didn’t ask him how he was doing, but shot straight to the subject of interest to her.

  “I can’t make it to your place tonight. My nurse friend wasn’t able to get free. She’ll be coming here tomorrow morning. But you’re working tomorrow morning, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to see you.”

  Quiet, Montalbano, quiet. Bite your tongue, Salvo. Don’t say “Me too,” as you were about to do.

  The girl’s words, which were practically whispered, made him break into a sweat.

  “I really, really want to see you.”

  The sweat on his skin started turning to steam, an ever so light, watery vapor, since it was still, at nine in the evening, hot enough to make one faint.

  “You know what?” Adriana asked, changing tone.

  “What?”

  “Do you remember that uncle and aunt of mine who were supposed to leave to go back to Milan this afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  You couldn’t say he wasted any words with Adriana.

  “Well, they left the house, but when they got to the airport, they discovered that their flight had been canceled, along with all the others, because of a wildcat strike.”

  “So what did they do?”

  “They decided to take the train, poor things. In this heat, you can imagine the kind of journey they’ll have! Tell me what you were doing.”

  “Who, me?” he replied, taken by surprise by the sudden change in subject.

  “Would Chief Inspector Salvo Montalbano like to say what he was doing at the moment he received a telephone call from the student, Miss Adriana Morreale?”

  “I was on my way to the refrigerator to get something to eat.”

  “Where do you eat? In the kitchen, the way people who eat alone usually do?”

  “I don’t like eating in the kitchen.”

  “So where do you like to eat?”

  “On the veranda.”

  “You have a veranda? That’s fantastic! Do me a favor and set the table for two.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to be there, too.”

  “But you just said you can’t come!”

  “No, silly, I meant in my mind. I want you to take a bite from my plate, and I’ll take one from yours.”

  Montalbano’s head started spinning slightly.

  “O . . . okay.”

  “Bye. And good night. I’ll phone tomorrow. I love you.”

  “Me t . . .”

  “What did you say?”

  “Meat. I said ‘meat.’ I was just thinking of what I was going to eat.”

  He’d saved himself by kicking the ball out of bounds.

  “Oh, listen, I just had an idea. Why don’t you call me down to the station for questioning tomorrow morning and grill me with one of those eye-to-eye investigations like Tommaseo wants to do?”

  And she hung up laughing.

  So much for the refrigerator! So much for eating! The only thing to do, and immediately, was to dive into the sea and go for a long swim, to cool his head and lower the temperature of his blood, which had now reached the boiling point. So now Adriana, too, was doing her best to increase the August heat?

  As he was swimming in the dark of the night, a new torment began. It was a sensation he knew well. He turned over to float on his back, eyes open and gazing at the stars.

  The sensation was one of a hand-drill beginning to bore into his brain. And it made the classic sound of a drill with each turn: zzzrr . . . zzzrr . . . zzzrr . . .

  This tremendous nuisance—which no longer caused him any surprise, since it had been happening to him for years—meant that at some time during the preceding day he had heard something of great importance, something that might lead to a resolution of the case and to which he had not immediately paid any attention.

  But when had he heard it? And who had said it?

  Zzzrr . . . zzzrr . . . zzzrr . . .

  Like a woodworm gnawing, making him nervous.

  With broad, slow strokes, he returned to shore.

  Entering his house, he realized his appetite was gone. So he grabbed a new bottle of whisky, a glass, and a pack of cigarettes and went and sat out on the veranda, dripping wet, without bothering to take off his bathing suit.

  He racked his brains over and over, but nothing came back to him.

  After an hour of this, he gave up. It used to be, he thought, that with a little concentration he could call to mind what was bothering him. But when, exactly? he asked himself. When you were younger, Montalbà, came the inevitable answer.

  He decided to eat something. And he remembered that Adriana had asked him to set a place for her as well . . . He was tempted to do so, but then felt ridiculous.

  He set the table for only himself, went into the kitchen, put his hand on the refrigerator handle, still thinking of Adriana, and felt an electric shock.

  How could that be? Apparently the refrigerator wasn’t working properly. It was dangerous, in fact. He had to look into buying a new one.

  But then, why, though his hand was still on the handle, did he feel no more shock? Want to bet that it wasn’t an electrical shock at all, but something inside him, a short circuit in his head?

  He’d felt the shock when he was thinking of Adriana! It was something the girl had said!

  He went back out on the
veranda. His appetite had disappeared again.

  All at once Adriana’s words resurfaced in his mind. He sprang to his feet, grabbed the cigarettes, and went walking along the water’s edge.

  Three hours later, he had finished the pack and his legs ached from the long walk. He went back home, looked at the clock. It was three in the morning. He washed, shaved, got all dressed up, then drank down a big mug of coffee.At a quarter to four he went out, got in his car, and drove off.

  At that hour he could cruise in the cool of the night. At his customary pace, without needing to race around like Gallo.

  He was chasing after a hope. One so subtle, so ethereal, that the slightest doubt would have made it disappear into thin air. Actually, to tell the truth, he was chasing after a wild idea.

  When he pulled into Punta Raisi airport it was almost eight o’clock in the morning. It had taken him as long as it would have taken a normal driver to make a round trip. But it had been a peaceful ride. He hadn’t felt hot and had had no occasion to grouse at any other drivers.

  He parked and got out of the car. The air there was less oppressive than in Vigàta. One could actually breathe. The first thing he did was go to the bar: a double espresso, extra strong.Then he went to the airport police station.

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano. Is Inspector Capuano here?”

  Every time he went to the airport for Livia’s arrival or departure, he would drop in on Capuano.

  “He’s just arrived.You can go in, if you like.”

  He knocked and entered.

  “Montalbano! You waiting for your girlfriend?”

  “No, I’m here to ask you to lend me a hand.”

  “I’m at your service.What is it?”

  Montalbano told him.

  “That’ll take a little while. But I’ve got just the right person for it.”

  And he called out:

  “Cammarota!”

  He was a thirty-year-old, black as ink, eyes sparkling with intelligence.

  “I want you to make yourself available to Inspector Montalbano, who’s a friend of mine.You two can stay in here and use my computer. I have to go now and report to the commissioner.”

  They remained holed up in Capuano’s office till noon, drinking two coffees and two beers each. Cammarota proved competent and clever, calling up a variety of ministries, airports, and airline companies. By the end, the inspector knew exactly what he had wanted to know.

  When he got back in his car, he started sneezing, the delayed effect of the air-conditioning in Capuano’s office.

  Halfway home, he saw a trattoria with three tractor-trailers parked in front, a sure sign that the food was good. After ordering, he went to make a phone call.

  “Adriana? Montalbano here.”

  “Oh, goody! Have you decided to give me the third degree?”

  “I need to see you.”

  “When?”

  “This evening around nine, at my house in Marinella. We’ll have dinner there.”

  “I hope I can get organized in time. Is there any news?”

  How did she know?

  “I think so.”

  “I love you.”

  “Don’t tell anyone you’re going to my place.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  Then he immediately called headquarters and asked for Fazio.

  “Chief, where are you? I was looking for you this morning, because—”

  “You can tell me later. I’m on my way back from Palermo and need to talk to you. We’ll meet at the station at five. Be sure to drop all other engagements.”

  The restaurant had a great big ceiling fan that filled him with joy, allowing him to remain seated without having his shirt and underpants stick to his skin. As he’d expected, the food was good.

  Getting back into the car, he thought that if, when he’d left, his hope was thin as a spiderweb, now, on his return, it was thick as a rope.

  A gallows rope.

  He started singing, as off-key as a dog, O Lola, from Cavalleria Rusticana.

  Back home in Marinella, he took a shower, changed clothes, and headed off in haste to the station. He felt sort of feverish and restless, irritated by the slightest thing.

  “Aahhh, Chief, you gotta call from—”

  “I don’t give a shit who called. Send me Fazio right away.”

  He turned on the minifan. Fazio came running.The curiosity was eating him alive.

  “Come in, close the door, and sit down.”

  Fazio obeyed and sat down at the edge of his chair, eyes trained on the inspector. He looked exactly like a hunting dog.

  “Did you know there was a strike at Punta Raisi yesterday and most of the flights were canceled?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I heard it on the regional news report.”

  It was a lie. He didn’t want to tell him he’d heard it from Adriana.

  “Okay, Chief, so there was a strike. Who doesn’t go on strike these days? What’s that got to do with us?”

  “Oh, it’s got a lot to do with us. A lot.”

  “I get it, Chief. You’re beating around the bush just to make me stew a little.”

  “So? How many times have you done the same with me?”

  “Fine, but now you’ve had your revenge.Talk.”

  “All right. So I heard about this strike but didn’t pay any attention. Nevertheless, after a little while, an idea started to form in my head. I thought it over, and all at once, everything became clear to me. Crystal clear. So, very early this morning, I left for Punta Raisi. I had to see if my initial theory would check out.”

  “And did it?”

  “Completely.”

  “So?”

  “So, it means I know the name of Rina’s killer.”

  “Spitaleri,” Fazio said calmly.

  18

  “Oh, no you don’t!” Montalbano raved. “You can’t wreck my performance like that! It’s not fair! I’m supposed to be the one to say the name! You have to show more respect for your superiors!”

  “I won’t say another word,” Fazio promised.

  Montalbano calmed down, but Fazio couldn’t tell if he was seriously angry or only joking.

  “How did you figure it out?”

  “Chief, you went to Punta Raisi to confirm something. Until proven to the contrary, Punta Raisi is an airport. Now who, among the suspects, took an airplane? Spitaleri. Angelo Speciale and his stepson Ralf went by train. Correct?”

  “Correct. So, when I heard the word ‘strike,’ it occurred to me that we had always taken for granted that Spitaleri’s alibi was true. I had also learned that when our colleagues in Fiacca, who were handling the case of the disappearance, had pressed Spitaleri with questions, he had wiggled out with the story of his trip to Bangkok.And I thought they’d checked it out.Which is why we never asked him to give us proof that he actually left for Bangkok that day.”

  “But, Chief, we have indirect confirmation: Dipasquale and his secretary received a phone call from Spitaleri from a stopover along the way. And I’m convinced that phone call did take place.”

  “Yes, but who says it came from a stopover? If you call me long-distance direct from a public phone or cell phone, I don’t know where you’re calling from.You can say you’re in Ambaradam or at the Arctic Circle, and I have no choice but to believe you.”

  “True.”

  “That’s why I went to police headquarters at Punta Raisi. They were very nice. It took four hours, but I was right on target.That October twelfth was a Wednesday. The Thai Airways flight takes off from Fiumicino in Rome at two-fifteen P.M. Spitaleri leaves for Punta Raisi to catch a plane to Fiumicino that should get him there in time to catch the other flight. But, once at Punta Raisi, he finds out that the plane that’s supposed to take him to Rome is delayed for two hours due to technical problems.Therefore he’s not going to make it in time to catch the plane to Bangkok. So he’s stranded at Punta Raisi. He manages to get his ticket changed to the next day. Not a bi
g problem. The Thai flight for Thursday leaves Rome at two forty-five in the afternoon. Thus far, we’re on safe ground.”

  “In what sense?”

  “In the sense that we can document everything I’ve said. Now I’m going to make a conjecture.That Spitaleri, having nothing to do in Palermo, returns to Vigàta. I believe he took the Trapani road which, before getting here, passes by Montereale. He decides then to see if the work at Pizzo has been finished. Bear in mind that the decision to wait till the following day to bury the illegal apartment was made by Dipasquale, and therefore Spitaleri doesn’t know this.When he gets there, everybody’s gone: the masons, Speciale, Ralf. He can see, however, that the illegal floor has not been covered up. One can still get inside. At this point—and this is my boldest conjecture—he happens to notice Rina in the vicinity. And it must have occurred to him that he himself, at that moment, in that place, did not exist.”

  “What do you mean, he didn’t exist?”

  “Think. There’s no way Spitaleri can be at Pizzo at that time of the day. Everyone thinks he’s on his way to Bangkok and, what’s more, he hasn’t yet returned to Vigàta.Therefore nobody knows he never left. What better opportunity? So he calls his office from his cell phone.That way he confirms his alibi. He thinks everything is all set, but he makes a big mistake.”

  “Namely?”

  “The phone call itself. Apparently it had been at least three months since Spitaleri last went to Bangkok, because as of July, the Thai Airways flights from Rome became direct. There were no more stopovers.”

  “And what happened next, in your opinion?”

  “Always remember I’m sailing on the seas of hypothesis. Thinking he’s safe, he approaches Rina and, when he sees that the girl’s not interested, he pulls out the knife he always carries with him—which he also pointed at Ralf, as Adriana told us—and forces her into the underground apartment. You can imagine the rest.”

  “No,” said Fazio. “I don’t want to imagine it.”

  “And this also explains the contract.”

  “The one with Speciale?”

  “Exactly. The agreement he made with Speciale to fix up the house after amnesty was granted.There was one thing in it that seemed fishy to me, the bit about Speciale not being allowed to turn to any other business for the work. This meant Spitaleri wanted to be absolutely certain that he would be the one to dig out the illegal apartment, which would enable him to get rid of the trunk with the dead girl inside. This idea occurs to him while he’s abroad, and that’s why the moment he gets back, he races over to Speciale’s, hoping he’s still in Vigàta. Make sense to you?”