im6 The Scent of the Night (2005)

by Andrea Camilleri

  Montalbano

  'Catarella!' 'Yessir, Chief'

  'Here's a thousand lire. Go and buy a stamp, stick it on this envelope, and post it'

  'But Chief, there's stamps galore in this office!'

  'Do as I say. Fazio!'

  'Yessir.'

  'Anynews?'

  'Yes, Chief. And I have to thank a friend of mine with the airport police who's got a friend whose girlfriend works at the ticket counter at Punta Raisi. That was a lucky break. Otherwise we would've waited at least three months for an answer.'

  The Italian method for streamlining bureaucracy. Fortunately there's always somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody else.

  'And so?'

  Fazio, who wanted to relish his hard-earned triumph, took an eternity to slip his hand in his pocket, pull out a folded sheet of paper, unfold it, and hold it in front of him as a guide.

  It turns out that Giacomo Pellegrino had a ticket, issued by the Icarus Travel Agency of Vigata, for a four p.m. flight on August the thirty-first. And you know what? He never got on that flight.'

  Is that certain?'

  'Gospel, Chief. But you don't seem too surprised.' 'I was feeling more and more convinced that Pellegrino never left.'

  'Let's see if you're surprised by what I tell you next. Pellegrino showed up in person, two hours before departure, to cancel his flight.'

  'At two o'clock, in other words.'

  'Right. Then he changed destination.'

  'Now I'm surprised,' Montalbano conceded. 'Where'd he go?'

  Wait It doesn't end there. He booked a flight for Madrid, first of September, ten am, but..

  Fazio grinned triumphantly. Perhaps in the background he was hearing the march from Aida. He opened his mouth to speak, but the inspector knavishly beat him to the punch line.

  '... but he didn't get on that one, either,' he concluded.

  Fazio, visibly irritated, crumpled the sheet and shoved it unceremoniously back in his pocket.

  It's no use with you. You're no fun at all.'

  'Come on, don't get upset,' the inspector consoled him. 'How many travel agencies are there in Montelusa?'

  There are three more right here in Vigata.'

  'I'm not interested in the ones in Vigata.'

  'I'll go look it up in the phone book and get you the numbers.'

  'Don't bother. Call them yourself and ask if, at any time between the twenty-eighth of August and the first of September, there were any reservations made in the name of Giacomo Pellegrino.'

  Fazio looked dumbfounded. Then he shook himself out of it.

  It can't be done. Working hours are over. I'll take care of it tomorrow morning as soon as I come in. But, Chief, if I find out this Pellegrino made, still another reservation for, I dunno, Moscow or London, what does it mean?'

  It means our friend wanted to muddy the waters. He's got his ticket to Madrid in his pocket, when in fact he told everyone he was going to Germany. Tomorrow we'll find out if he had any other tickets in his pocket. Have you got Mariastella Cosentino's home phone number anywhere?' 'I'll go check Augello's files.'

  He went out. came back with a scrap of paper, dictated the number to Montalbano, and left. The inspector dialled the number. There was no answer. Maybe Miss Cosentino had gone out grocery shopping. He put the scrap of paper in his pocket and decided to go home to Marinella.

  He had no appetite. The pasta al ragu and pork he'd eaten at Franca's sat a little heavy on his stomach. He fried himself an egg, then ate four fresh anchovies tossed in oil, vinegar, and oregano. After eating, he tried Miss Cosentino's number again. She must have been waiting with her hand over the phone, because she answered before the first ring had time to finish. The voice of a dying woman, thin as a spider's web, said: 'Hello? Who's this?'

  'Montalbano here. Sorry to bother you, perhaps you were watching television and--' 'I don't have a television.'

  The inspector didn't know why, but he had the impression he'd heard a distant, faraway bell ring very briefly in his brain. It was so quick, so sudden, that he wasn't really sure if he'd heard right or not,

  'I wanted to know, if you still remember, of course, whether Giacomo Pellegrino didn't come to work on the thirty-first of August, either.'

  Her response came immediately, without the slightest hesitation.

  'Inspector, I could never forget those days, since I've gone over them time and again in my mind. On the thirty-first, Pellegrino showed up late for work, around eleven. And he left almost immediately; he said he had to meet with a client. He came back after lunch, probably around four-thirty, and stayed until closing time.'

  The inspector thanked her and hung up.

  It made sense, added up. Pellegrino, after going to talk to his uncle in the morning, comes in to work. At midday he goes out, not to meet with a client, but to catch a cab or pick up a rental car. He goes to Punta Raisi, arriving at the airport around two, cancels the ticket for Berlin and books a flight to Madrid instead. He gets back in the cab or the rental car, and by four-thirty he's back at the office. The timing worked out.

  But why did Pellegrino go to all this trouble? Granted, so he couldn't be easily tracked down. But by whom? And, most of all, why? Whereas the ragioniere Gargano had twenty billion reasons for vanishing, Pellegrino, to all appearances, had none.

  'Hi, darling. Did you have a rough day today?' 'Livia, could you wait just a second'

  'Sure'

  He pulled up a chair, sat down, fired up a cigarette, and got comfortable. He was sure this would be a very long phone call

  'I'm a little tired, but it's not from working too hard.'

  'So what is it, then?'

  'All told, I did almost eight hours of driving today.' 'Where'd you go?' 'To Calapiano, darling'

  Livia must have suddenly found herself short of breath, because the inspector clearly heard a kind of sob. He generously waited for her to get hold of herself, then let her do the talking.

  'Did you go because of Francois?'

  'Yes.'

  Is he sick?' 'No.'

  'So why did you go?' 'Ama spinno'

  'Don't start talking in dialect, Salvo! You know there are times when I just can't stand it! What did you say?'

  'I said I felt like seeing him. Spinno means "wish" or "desire". Now that you understand the word, let me ask you. Have you never felt the spinno to go see Francois?'

  'You're such a swine, Salvo.'

  'Shall we make a deal? I won't speak dialect if you won't insult me. OK?'

  'Who told you I'd been to see Francois?'

  'He did himself, when he was showing me what a good horseman he is. The grown-ups played along with you. They respected your agreement and didn't say a word. Because it's obvious you begged them not to tell me you'd been there. Whereas to me you said you had a day off and were going to the beach with a friend, and I, like an idiot, swallowed the bait. But tell me something, I'm curious: Did you tell Mimi you were going to Calapiano?'

  He was expecting a violent response, a tiff for the ages. But Livia burst into tears, and long, painful, desperate sobs.

  'Livia, listen--'

  The call was cut off.

  He stood up calmly, went into the bathroom, undressed, washed, and, before leaving the room, looked at himself in the mirror. For a long time. Then he gathered together all the saliva he had in his mouth and spat at his reflection in the mirror. Then he turned off the lights and went to bed. He got up at once because the telephone was ringing. He picked up the receiver, but the person at the other end said nothing. All he could hear was breathing. Montalbano recognized that breathing.

  He began to speak, and he monologued for nearly an hour, with no crying, no tears, though his words were as sorrowful as Livia's sobs. And he told her things he'd never wanted to admit to himself, how he wounded others so as not to be wounded, how for some time now he'd discovered that his solitude was no longer a strength but a weakness, and what a bitter experience it had been for him to realize th
e very simple and natural fact that he was ageing. In the end, Livia said simply: 'I love you.'

  Before hanging up, she added:

  'I haven't cancelled my holiday time yet I'll stay here another day and then come to Vigata. Free yourself of all commitments; I want you all to myself.'

  Montalbano went back to bed. He barely had time to crawl under the covers before he closed his eyes and fell asleep. He entered the country of sleep with the light step of a little kid.

  It was eleven o'clock when Fazio came into Montalbano's office.

  'Chief, you want to hear the latest? Pellegrino bought a ticket for Lisbon at the Intertour Travel Agency of Montelusa. The flight left at three-thirty in the afternoon on the thirty-first I called Punta Raisi, and it turns out Pellegrino got on that plane.'

  'Do you believe it?

  'Why shouldn't I?'

  'Because he probably sold his seat to somebody on the waiting list But mostly because he came back to the office here, in Vigata. That much is certain. At five o'clock he was at the King Midas agency. Therefore he couldn't have been on a flight for Lisbon.'

  'So what does it mean?

  'It means that Pellegrino is a fool who thinks he's clever but is only a fool. Do something for me. Ask around at all the hotels, guesthouses, and bed-and-breakfasts in Vigata and Montelusa whether Pellegrino spent the night of the thirtieth at one of their establishments.'

  'Right away.'

  'One more thing: enquire at all the car rental agencies whether Pellegrino rented any cars around the same time.'

  'But why were we looking for Gargano before, and now we're looking for Pellegrino?' asked Fazio, looking doubtful.

  'Because I've become convinced that as soon as we find one we'll know exactly where to find the other. You want to bet on it?'

  'No, sir. I would never bet against you,' said Fazio, going out

  Yet had he accepted the bet he would have won.

  The inspector felt his customary wolflike hunger come over him, perhaps because he'd slept better than he had in a long time. Unburdening himself to Livia had made him feel lighter and brought him back within himself. He felt like joking around. When Calogero came to recite the brief litany of the menu, he interrupted him at once.

  'Today I feel like Wiener schnitzel,' he said.

  'Really?' said Calogero, dumbfounded and leaning on the table to keep from falling over.

  'And do you really think I'd ask you for a Wiener schnitzel? It'd be like asking a Buddhist monk to recite the Mass. What've you got today?'

  'Spaghetti in squid ink.'

  'Bring me some. And for the second course?'

  'Baby octopus dumplings.'

  'Bring me a dozen of those, too.'

  At six o'clock that evening. Fazio reported back to him.

  'Chief, it looks like he didn't sleep anywhere that night. He did, on the other hand, rent a car in Montelusa on the morning of the thirty-first. He returned it that same afternoon, at four. The receptionist there, who's a smart girl, told me the mileage would correspond to a trip to Palermo and back.'

  It fits,' the inspector commented.

  'Oh, and the girl also said Pellegrino specified he wanted a car with a spacious boot'

  'I'm sure he did. He needed room for the two suitcases.'

  They both sat in silence for a moment 'But where did the damned guy sleep?' Fazio wondered aloud.

  The effect his words had on the inspector gave him a scare. Indeed, Montalbano looked at him goggle-eyed and then slapped himself hard on the forehead.

  "What an idiot!'

  'What'd you say?' asked Fazio, ready to apologize. Montalbano stood up, took something from a drawer, and put it in his pocket, 'Let's go.'

  TEN

  In the car, Montalbano began racing in the direction of Montelusa as if he were being tailed. When he turned onto the road that led to Pellegrino's recently constructed villa. Fazio's face turned to stone; he stared straight ahead and didn't open his mouth. Pulling up in front of the locked gate, the inspector stopped and they got out. The broken windowpanes had not been replaced, but someone had affixed plastic wrap over them with drawing pins. The word 'arsehole' in green on the four walls had not been removed.

  'There might be somebody inside, maybe the uncle,' said Fazio.

  'Let's play it safe' said the inspector. 'Call the station and get the phone number of Giacomo Pellegrino, the one who filed the report. Then call him and tell him you came here to make an inspection, and ask him if it was him that put the plastic over the windows. Also ask him if he has any news of his nephew. If there's no answer, well decide what to do'

  As Fazio was making his phone calls, Montalbano headed towards the felled olive tree. It had since lost the better part of its leaves, which now lay scattered and yellow on the ground. Clearly it wouldn't be long before it changed from a living tree to inert wood. The inspector then did something strange, or, rather, childlike: he went up to a spot around the middle of the tree and put his ear against it, as one might do to a dying man to listen if his heart is still beating. He stayed there a few minutes. What was he doing, trying to see if he could hear the flow of the sap? He started laughing. This was the stuff of Baron von Munchausen, where one needed only put one's ear to the ground to hear the grass grow. He hadn't noticed that Fazio, from afar, had witnessed his whole routine and was now approaching.

  'Chief, I talked with the uncle. It was him that covered the windows, because his nephew had left him the key to the front gate, but not to the house. And he has no news of him from Germany, but he says he should be back soon.' Then he looked at the olive tree and shook his head.

  'Look at this massacre!' said Montalbano.

  'Arsehole,' said Fazio, intentionally using the same word the inspector had written on the walls.

  'Now do you understand why I had such a fit?'

  'You don't owe me any explanation,' said Fazio. 'So what do we do now?'

  'Now we go inside,' said Montalbano, pulling out the little bag he'd taken from a drawer in his desk, which contained a rich assortment of picklocks and skeleton keys given him by a burglar friend 'You watch out and make sure no one's coming'

  He fiddled with the lock on the gate and opened it fairly easily. The front door to the house was more difficult, but in the end he succeeded. He called Fazio.

  They went inside. A big, entirely empty living room spread out before them. Also devoid of the slightest object were the kitchen and bathroom. In the living room a staircase of stone and wood led upstairs. Here there were two spacious bedrooms, unfurnished. In the second of these, however, laid out on the floor, was a kind of thick, brand-new blanket, barely used, with the company label still attached. The shelf under the bathroom mirror contained a variety of aerosol shaving cans and five disposable razors. Two had been used.

  'Giacomo did the most logical thing there was to do. When he left his rental apartment, he came here. He slept on this blanket. But where are the two suitcases he brought with him?' said Montalbano.

  They looked in the attic, and in a cupboard under the staircase. Nothing. They closed the door to this and then, just to be sure, circled round the outside of the house. In the back there was a little iron door, the upper half of which consisted of an open grid to allow air to circulate. Montalbano opened it. There was a kind of crawl space for tools. In the middle of it were two big suitcases.

  They dragged them out, as the space was too small The suitcases weren't locked. Montalbano took one, Fazio the other. They didn't know what they were looking for, but they looked anyway. Socks, underpants, shirts, handkerchiefs, a suit, a raincoat. They looked at each other, then shoved everything roughly back into the suitcases without exchanging a word. Fazio couldn't get his shut.

  Just leave it like that,' the inspector ordered.

  They put them back inside the crawl space, relocked the door and then the front gate, and left,

  'Chief, none of this makes any sense to me,' said Fazio as they were approaching Vigata. 'I
f this Giacomo Pellegrino went on a long trip to Germany, why didn't he bring along even a single change of underwear? It seems unlikely he bought all new things.'

  'And there's another thing that doesn't make sense,' said Montalbano. 'Does it seem logical to you that we didn't find a single sheet or scrap of paper, a single letter or notebook or agenda?'

  Once in Vigata, the inspector turned down a narrow street that led away from the station.