im6 The Scent of the Night (2005)

by Andrea Camilleri

  'Am I disturbing you, Salvo? It's Mimi.'

  'Not at all.'

  'Were you about to go to bed?' 'Well, yes.' 'Are you alone?'

  'Who else would you expect to be here?' 'Could you give me five minutes?' 'Sure, go ahead.' 'Not over the phone.' 'OK, come on over.'

  Mimi certainly didn't want to talk to him about work. About what, then? What could be the problem? Maybe he'd had a spat with Beatrice? A wicked thought entered the inspector's mind. If it turned out Mimi'd been quarelling with his fiancee, he would tell him to call Livia. After all, didn't he and Livia understand each other perfectly?

  The doorbell rang. Who could that be, at this hour? Mimi was out of the question, since it took at least ten minutes to drive from Vigata to Marinella.

  'Who is it?'

  It's me, Mimi.'

  How did he do that? Then Montalbano understood. Mimi must have been in the neighbourhood and called him on his mobile. He opened the door and his assistant came inside, looking pale, downcast, and long-suffering.

  'Are you unwell?' Montalbano asked, concerned. 'Yes and no'

  'What the hell does that mean. "Yes and no"?'

  'I'll explain in a minute. Could I have two shots of whisky, neat?' asked Mimi, sitting down in a chair next to the table..

  The inspector, while pouring the whisky, suddenly froze. Hadn't they already acted out this exact same scene? Hadn't they said almost the exact same words?

  Augello emptied his glass in a single gulp, stood up, went and poured himself another glass, and sat back down.

  'Healthwise, I think I'm fine,' he said That's not the problem.'

  For some time now, thought Montalbano, whether in politics, economics, in the public or private spheres, 'that' is never the problem, Somebody will say: "There's too much unemployment,' and the politician will answer 'Actually, that's not the problem.' A husband will ask his wife: Is it true you're cheating on me?' and she will answer: That's not the problem.' But since by now he remembered the script perfectly, he said to Mimi:

  'You no longer want to get married.' Mimi looked at him, flabbergasted 'Who told you?'

  'Nobody. I can see it in your eyes, your face, your whole appearance.'

  That's not exactly right. It's a complicated business.'

  Since 'that' was not the problem, it was only natural that this would be 'a complicated business'. What would come next? That we were getting ahead of ourselves' or that it was time to 'move on ?

  'The fact is' Mimi continued, 'that I absolutely adore Beba. I like to make love to her, I like the way she thinks, the way she speaks, the way she dresses, the way she cooks--'

  'But?' asked Montalbano, purposely mterrupting him. Mimi had set out on a long and tortuous path: the list of the qualities of the woman one loves could be infinite, like the names of the Lord.

  'But I don't feel like marrying her.'

  Montalbano didn't breathe a word. Surely there was more to come.

  'Or, rather, I do feel like marrying her, but

  There was still more.

  'Some nights I lie awake counting the hours left till I get married.'

  A tortured pause.

  'On other nights I wish I could hop on the first flight out to Burkina Faso.'

  'Are there a lot of flights from here to Burkina Faso?' Montalbano asked with a cherubic expression.

  Mimi abruptly stood up, red in the face.

  'I'm leaving. I didn't come here to be made fun of.'

  Montalbano persuaded him to stay and talk. And Mimi embarked on a long monologue. The fact was, he explained that one night he wanted one thing, the next night he wanted the opposite. He felt torn in two. One minute he felt afraid to take on obligations he couldn't meet, the next minute he was imagining himself a proud father of four. He couldn't make up his mind and was afraid he might cut and run at the moment of saying 'I do' leaving everybody high and dry. And how could poor Beba ever sustain such a blow?

  Like the previous time, they polished off all the whisky there was in the house. The first to collapse was Mimi, already worn out from the previous nights and exhausted from his three-hour monologue. He got up and left the room. Montalbano thought he'd gone to the bathroom. He was wrong. Mimi had thrown himself diagonally across his bed and was snoring. The inspector cursed the saints, cursed Augello, lay down on the sofa, and little by little fell asleep.

  He woke up with a headache, hearing somebody singing in the shower. Who could it be? Suddenly he remembered. He got up, aching all over from his uncomfortable sleep, and ran to the bathroom. Mimi was flooding the place as he showered. But he paid no mind and seemed happy. What to do? Knock him out with a blow to the base of the skull? Montalbano went out on the veranda. It was a passable day. He went back into the kitchen, made some coffee, poured himself a cup. Mimi made his entry, cleanshaven, fresh, and smiling.

  Is there any of that for me?'

  Montalbano didn't answer. He didn't know what might come out of his mouth if he opened it. Mimi filled his cup halfway with sugar. The inspector felt like throwing up. The guy didn't drink coffee; he turned it into jam and ate it.

  After drinking his coffee, or whatever it was, Mirni looked at him earnestly.

  'Please forget everything I said to you last night. I've more than made up my mind to marry Beba. It was all bullshit, the kind of passing doubts that get into my head sometimes'

  'May you bear only sons' Montalbano sullenly muttered. And as Augello was about to leave, he added, this time in a clear voice: 'And my compliments, by the way'

  Mimi turned around slowly, as if on his guard. The inspector s tone had been overtly insinuating.

  'Your compliments for what?'

  'For your work on the Gargano case. It's full of holes.'

  'Did you look at my files?' asked Augello, irritated.

  'Don't worry, I prefer reading more informative things.'

  'Listen, Salvo' said Mimi, retracing his steps and sitting back down. 'How do I have to explain to you that I only assisted in the investigation, and minimally at that? Everything's in Guarnotta's hands. Bologna's in on it too. So don't get upset with me. I only did what they told me to do.'

  'Don t they have any idea where the money went?'

  'They didn't for as long as I worked on the case. You know how these people operate: they move the money around from one country to another, one bank to another, setting up companies like Chinese boxes, offshore firms and that kind of stuff, so that you end up wondering if the money ever existed in the first place.'

  'So the only person who knows where the loot is would be Gargano?'

  In theory, he would be the only one.'

  'Explain.'

  'Well, I guess we can't exclude the possibility he might have had an accomplice. Or that he confided in someone. But I, for one, don't think he would have.'

  'Why not?'

  'He wasn't the type. He didn't trust his colleagues, kept everything under tight control. The only person with even a little autonomy at the office -- and I mean very little -- was Giacomo Pellegrino. I think that was his name, or at least that's what the other two employees said, those two women. I wasn't able to question him because he's in Germany and hasn't come back yet'

  'Who told you he went away?'

  'His landlady did.'

  'Are you sure Gargano didn't disappear, or wasn't made to disappear, somewhere around here?'

  'Look, Salvo, nobody's come up with any kind of train, boat, or airline ticket proving he went anywhere in the days before his disappearance. Maybe he came here by car, we told ourselves. He did have a digital highway pass, but there's no record of his having used it Paradoxically, Gargano may never have budged from Bologna. Nobody's seen his car around here, and it'd be pretty hard to miss.'

  He looked at his watch.

  Is there anything else? I wouldn't want Beba to start worrying about me not being at home.'

  ' This time Montalbano, feeling in a better mood, stood up and accompanied him to the door. Not beca
use Augello had made things seem any easier by what he'd said. But for the exact opposite reason. The difficulty of the case actually made him feel strangely happy and cheerful inside, rather the way the genuine hunter feels when faced with a shrewd, skilled prey.

  In the doorway, Mimi asked him:

  'Would you please tell me why you're getting so worked up over the Gargano case?'

  'No. I probably don't even know myself. But while we're on the subject, any idea how Francois is doing?'

  'I talked to my sister yesterday and she said they're all doing fine. You'll see them at the wedding. But why did you say "while we're on the subject"? What has Francois got to do with Gargano?'

  It would take too long and too much effort to explain the fright he'd had when it occurred to him the kid's money might have disappeared with the swindling ragionicre. That fright, in fact, had been one of the reasons he'd thrown himself headlong into the investigation.

  Is that what I said? Bah. I dunno,' he replied with a perfect poker face.

  'Fazio, forget what I said to you yesterday. Mimi told me they've been doing a lot of serious investigation. No sense in you wasting any more of your time. In any case, they can't even find a dog who's seen Gargano around here.'

  'Whatever you say, Chief,' said Fazio.

  But he didn't move from where he was standing in front of the inspector's desk.

  'Did you want to tell me something?'

  'I dunno. I found something in Inspector Augello's file. It's a deposition by someone who says he saw Gargano's Alfa 166 on a country road on the night of August the thirty-first.'

  Montalbano leapt out of his chair.

  'Yeah, and?'

  Inspector Augello wrote next to it "Not to be taken seriously." So they let it drop'

  'Why, for the love of God?'

  "Cause the man's name is Antonino Tommasino.'

  'What the fuck do I care what his name is! What matters is--'

  'You should care, Chief. A couple of years ago this Tommasino went to the carabinieri and reported seeing a sea monster with three heads in the waters off Puntasecca. Then last year he came to our station at the crack of dawn screaming that he'd seen a flying saucer land You should have seen it, Chief. He told his story to Catarella, who got so spooked he started screaming too. It was total pandemonium, Chief'

  EIGHT

  He'd been over an hour signing some papers Fazio had plopped down on his desk with an air of authority -- 'Chief, you absolutely have to take care of these, and you're not to move from here until you've finished]' -- when the door opened and Augello came in without even knocking. He looked very upset.

  'The wedding's been postponed.''

  Oh God, his waffling must have taken a turn for the worse.

  'You changed your mind like a good cuckold?'

  'No, this morning Beba got a call from her home town of Aidone. Her father's had a heart attack. Apparently it's not too serious, but she doesn't want to get married without her father. They're very close. She's already left and I'm going to join her later today. If all goes well, well have the wedding in about a month. What am I going to do?'

  "What do you mean?' asked Montalbano, puzzled by the question. '

  'I can't hold out for a whole month, lying awake one night counting the days till the wedding, and the next night figuring out ways to run away. By the time I'm walking down the aisle I'll be either in a straitjacket or having a nervous breakdown.'

  'I'll keep you from having a nervous breakdown. Tell you what. You go to Aidone, see how things stand, then come back here and you can get back to work.'

  He reached for the telephone.

  'I'm going to tell Livia.'

  'No need, I already called her,' said Mimi, on his way out.

  Montalbano felt a jealous rage well up inside. What? Your future father-in-law has a heart attack, your fiancee's crying and desperate, your wedding's down the drain, and the first thing you do is call Livia? He took a big swipe at the stack of papers, scattering them all over the floor, got up, left, drove to the port, and went on a long walk to dispel his fury.

  He didn't know why, but on his way back to the station he decided to go a different way and passed in front of the King Midas office'. It was open. He pushed on the glass door and went inside.

  A sense of desolate bleakness immediately grabbed him by the throat. Only one lamp in the office was turned on, shedding a funereal light, as at a wake. Mariastella Cosentino sat behind her cashier's window, immobile, eyes staring fixedly ahead

  'Good morning,' said Montalbano, 'I was just passing by and... Any news?'

  Mariastella threw tip her hands and said nothing.

  'Has Giacomo Pellegrino called in from Germany?'

  Mariastella opened her eyes wide.

  'From Germany?'

  'Yes, he went to Germany on an assignment for Gargano. Didn't you know?'

  Mariastella looked confused, disturbed.

  'No, I didn't. In fact I was wondering what had become of him. I thought maybe he hadn't shown up to avoid---'

  'No,' said Montalbano. 'His uncle, who's got the same name as him, told me Gargano had instructed Giacomo, by phone, to go to Germany on the afternoon of August the thirty-first.'

  'The day before Mr Gargano was supposed to arrive?' 'Precisely.'

  Mariastella remained speechless. 'Something not seem right to you?' To be honest, yes.' 'Tell me.'

  'Well, Giacomo was the only one of us who actually worked with Mr Gargano on payments and calculation of interest. It seems odd to me that Mr Gargano would send him so far away on business when he needed him more here. And anyway, Giacomo...'She stopped, clearly, not wanting to go on.

  'Go on, you can trust me. Tell me everything you're thinking. It's in Mr Gargano's own interest.'

  Uttering the last sentence, he felt worse than a cheater at three-card monte. But Miss Cosentino swallowed the bait.

  'I don't think Giacomo really knew much about high finance. Whereas Mr Gargano did. He was a wizard.'

  Her eyes sparkled at the thought of her beloved's brilliance.

  'Listen,' said the inspector. 'Do you know Giacomo Pellegrino's address?'

  'Of course,' said Mariastella. She wrote it down for him.

  If you hear any news, give me a call,' said Montalbano.

  They shook hands, Mariastella limiting herself to exhaling a less than audible 'Good day.' Perhaps she had no strength left Perhaps she was letting herself starve to death the way some dogs do over the graves of their masters. He raced out of the office, feeling as if he were suffocating.

  The door to Giacomo Pellegrino's apartment was wide open. There were sacks of cement tins of paint and other mason's equipment cluttering the landing. The inspector went inside. 'Can I come in?'

  'What do you want?' a mason in mason's get-up, paper hat and all, called out from atop a ladder.

  'I dunno,' said Montalbano, slighdy disoriented. Isn't this where somebody named Pellegrino lives?'

  'I don't know nothing 'bout who lives or don't live here,' said the mason.

  He reached up and rapped his knuckles against the ceiling as if it were a door.

  'Signora Catarina!' he called.