The forensics team were the first to arrive. To replace the old chief of the crime lab, Jacomuzzi, Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi had handpicked the young Dr. Arquà, who’d moved down from Florence. More than chief of forensics, Jacomuzzi had been an incurable exhibitionist, always the first to strike a pose for the photographers, TV cameramen, and journalists. To rib him, as he often did, Montalbano used to call him “Pippo Baudo.” Deep down, Jacomuzzi never believed much in forensics as a useful tool in investigations; he maintained that sooner or later intuition and reason would find the solution, with or without the support of microscopes and analyses. Heresies, to Bonetti-Alderighi, who quickly got rid of him. Vanni Arquà, for his part, was a dead ringer for Harold Lloyd. Hair always disheveled, he dressed like an absentminded professor from a thirties movie and worshiped science. Montalbano didn’t care much for him, and Arquà repaid him in kind with cordial antipathy.
Forensics thus showed up in full force, in two cars with sirens screaming as if they were in Texas. There were eight of them, all in civvies, and the first thing they did was unload boxes and crates from the trunks, looking like a film crew ready to start shooting. When Arquà walked into the living room, Montalbano didn’t even say hello; he merely pointed his thumb upward, signaling that what concerned them was upstairs.
They hadn’t all finished climbing the stairs yet when Montalbano heard Arquà’s voice call out:
“Excuse me, Inspector, would you come up here a minute?”
He took his time. When he entered the bedroom, he felt the crime lab chief’s eyes boring into him.
“When you discovered the body, was it like this?”
“No,” said Montalbano, cool as a cucumber. “She was naked.”
“And where did you get that bathrobe?”
“From the bathroom.”
“Put everything back as it was, for Christ’s sake! You’ve altered the whole picture! That’s very serious!”
Without a word, Montalbano walked over to the corpse, picked up the bathrobe, and draped it over his arm.
“Wow, nice ass!”
The comment came from one of the crime lab photographers, a homely sort of paparazzo with his shirttails hanging out of his pants.
“Go right ahead, if you want,” the inspector said to him calmly. “She’s already in position.”
Fazio, who knew what dangers lurked beneath Montalbano’s controlled calm, took a step towards him. The inspector looked Arquà in the eye:
“Understand now why I did it, asshole?”
And he left the room. In the bathroom he splashed a little water on his face, threw the bathrobe down on the floor more or less where he’d found it, and went back in the bedroom.
“I’ll have to tell the commissioner about this,” Arquà said icily. Montalbano’s voice was ten degrees icier.
“I’m sure you’ll understand each other perfectly.”
“Chief, me and Gallo and Galluzzo are going outside to smoke a cigarette. We’re getting in these guys’ way.”
Montalbano, absorbed in thought, didn’t answer. From the living room he went back upstairs and examined the little guest room and the bathroom.
He’d already looked carefully around downstairs and hadn’t found what he was looking for. For the sake of thoroughness, he stuck his head into the bedroom, which was being turned upside down by its invaders from the crime lab, and double-checked what he thought he’d seen earlier.
Outside the house, he fired up a cigarette himself. Fazio had just finished talking on the cell phone.
“I got the husband’s phone number and address in Bologna,” he explained.
“Inspector,” Galluzzo broke in. “We were just talking, the three of us. There’s something strange—”
“The armoire in the bedroom is still wrapped in plastic,” Gallo cut in. “And I also looked under the bed.”
“And I looked in all the other bedrooms. But—”
Fazio was about to draw the conclusion, but stopped when his superior raised a hand.
“—the lady’s clothes are nowhere to be found,” Montalbano concluded.
3
The ambulance arrived, followed by Coroner Pasquano’s car.
“Go and see if forensics have finished with the bedroom,” Montalbano said to Galluzzo.
“Thanks,” said Dr. Pasquano. His motto was: “It’s either me or them,” “them” being the forensics team. Jacomuzzi and his scruffy crew had been bad enough; how he put up with Dr. Arquà and his visibly efficient staff, one could only imagine.
“A lot of work on your hands?” the inspector inquired.
“Not much. Five corpses this week. When have we ever seen that? Must be low season.”
Galluzzo returned to say that forensics had moved into the bathroom and guest room. The coast was clear.
“Accompany the doctor upstairs and come back down,” Montalbano said to Gallo. Pasquano shot him a glance of appreciation; he really liked to work alone.
After a good half hour, the judge’s battered car appeared and didn’t stop until it had bumped into one of the crime lab’s squad cars.
Nicolò Tommaseo got out, red in the face, his gallows-bird neck looking like a turkey cock’s.
“What a dreadful road! I had two accidents!” he declared to one and all.
It was well known that he drove like a dog on drugs.
Montalbano found an excuse to prevent him from going upstairs at once and rattling Pasquano.
“Your Honor, let me tell you a curious story.”
He told him part of what had happened to him the previous day. He pointed to the damage the Twingo had sustained from the impact, showed him the remnants of the scrap of paper he’d written on and slipped under the windshield wiper, and explained how he’d begun to suspect something wasn’t right. The anonymous phone call to the commissioner’s office was the icing on the cake.
“What a curious coincidence!” Judge Tommaseo exclaimed, conceding no more than this.
As soon as the judge saw the victim’s nude body, he froze. Even the inspector stopped dead in his tracks. Dr. Pasquano had somehow managed to turn the woman’s head, and now one could actually see her face, which had previously been buried in the bedclothes. The eyes were bulging to the point where they looked unreal, and they expressed unbearable pain and horror. A stream of blood trickled from her mouth. She must have bitten her tongue during the spasms of suffocation.
Dr. Pasquano anticipated the question he hated so much.
“She definitely died sometime between late Wednesday night and early Thursday morning. I’ll be able to say more precisely after the autopsy.”
“And how did she die?” asked Tommaseo.
“Can’t you see? The killer pushed her face into the mattress and held her down until she was dead.”
“He must have been exceptionally strong.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Can you tell if they had relations before or after?”
“I can’t say.”
Something in the judge’s tone of voice led the inspector to look up at him. He was covered in sweat.
“He might have even sodomized her,” the judge went on, his eyes glistening.
It was a revelation. Apparently Justice Tommaseo secretly dipped into such subjects. Montalbano remembered having read somewhere a line by Manzoni about that more famous Nicolò Tommaseo:
This Tommaseo with one foot in the sacristy and the other in the whorehouse.
It must be a family vice.
“I’ll let you know. Good day,” said Dr. Pasquano, hastily taking leave to avoid any further questions.
“To my mind, it’s the crime of a maniac who surprised the lady as she was going to bed,” Judge Tommaseo said firmly, without taking his eyes off the corpse.
“Look, Your Honor, there were no signs of a break-in. And it’s rather unusual for a naked woman to open her front door to a maniac and take him up to her bedroom.”
“What kind of reasoning i
s that! She might not have noticed he was a maniac until . . . You know what I mean?”
“I myself would lean toward a crime of passion,” said Montalbano, who was beginning to amuse himself.
“Indeed, why not? Why not?” said Tommaseo, jumping at the suggestion and scratching his beard. “We must bear in mind that it was a woman who made the phone call. The betrayed wife. Speaking of which, do you know how to reach the victim’s husband?”
“Yes, Sergeant Fazio has his telephone number,” the inspector replied, feeling his heart sink. He hated giving bad news.
“Let me have it. I’ll take care of everything,” the judge said.
He had every kink in the book, this Nicolò Tommaseo. He was a raven to boot.
“Can we take her away now?” asked the ambulance crew, entering the room.
Another hour passed before the forensics team had finished fussing about and left.
“So now what do we do?” asked Gallo, who seemed to have become fixated on this question.
“Close the door, we’re going back to Vigàta. I’m so hungry I can’t see,” said the inspector.
Montalbano’s housekeeper, Adelina, had left him a real delicacy in the fridge: “coral” sauce, made of langouste roe and sea urchin pulp, to be used on spaghetti. He put the water on the stove and, while waiting, called up his friend Nicolò Zito, newsman for the Free Channel, one of the two private television stations based in Montelusa. The other, TeleVigàta, whose news programming was anchored by Galluzzo’s brother-in-law, tended to take a progovernment stance, regardless of who was running the country. Thus, given the government in power at that moment, and the fact that the Free Channel always leaned to the left, the two local stations might well be boringly similar if not for the lucid, ironic intelligence of the red-haired, Red-sympathizing Nicolò Zito.
“Nicolò? Montalbano here. There’s been a murder, but—”
“—I’m not supposed to say it was you who told me about it.”
“An anonymous phone call. A female voice phoned the Montelusa commissioner’s office this morning, saying a murder had been committed at a house in the Tre Fontane district. And it was true. A young woman, beautiful, naked—”
“Fuck.”
“Her name was Michela Licalzi.”
“Have you got a photo of her?”
“No, the murderer made off with her handbag and clothes.”
“Why did he do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“So how do you know her name was Michela Licalzi? Has somebody identified her?”
“No. We’re trying to contact her husband, who lives in Bologna.”
Nicolò asked him for a few more details, which he gave.
The water was boiling, so he put in the pasta. The telephone rang. He had a moment of hesitation, unsure whether to answer or not. He was afraid the call might last too long: it might not be so easy to cut it short, and that would jeopardize the proper al dente texture of the spaghetti. It would be a disaster to waste the coral sauce on a dish of overcooked pasta. He decided not to answer. In fact, to prevent the ringing from troubling the serenity of spirit indispensable to savoring the sauce in full, he pulled out the plug.
An hour later, pleased with himself and ready to meet the world head-on, he reconnected the telephone. He was forced to answer it at once.
“Hello.”
“Hullo, Chief? Izzatchoo y’self in poisson?”
“In poisson, Cat. What’s up?”
“What’s up is Judge Tolomeo called.”
“Tommaseo, Cat, but I get the picture. What did he want?”
“He wanted to speak poissonally wit’ you y’self in poisson. He called at lease four times. Says you should call him y’self in poisson.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, Chief, I got another streamly impoitant ting to tell ya. Somebody from Montelusa Central called to talk to me in poisson, Inspector Whatsizname, Tontona.”
“Tortona.”
“Whatever’s ’is name. Him. Says I gotta take a concourse in pewters. Whattya think, boss?”
“I’m happy for you, Cat. Take the course, you can become a specialist. You’re just the right man for pewters.”
“Thanks, Chief.”
“Hello, Judge Tommaseo? Montalbano here.”
“Inspector, I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Forgive me, I was very busy. Remember the investigation into the body that was found in the water last week? I think you were duly informed about it.”
“Any new developments?”
“No, none whatsoever.”
Montalbano sensed the judge’s silent confusion. The exchange they’d just had was entirely meaningless. As he’d expected, the judge didn’t linger on the subject.
“I wanted to tell you I tracked down the widower, Dr. Licalzi, in Bologna, and, tactfully, of course, gave him the terrible news.”
“How did he react?”
“Well, how shall I put it? Strangely. He didn’t even ask what his wife died of. She was very young, after all. He must be a cold one; he hardly got upset at all.”
Dr. Licalzi had denied the raven Tommaseo his jollies. The judge’s disappointment at not having been able to relish a fine display of cries and sobs—however long distance—was palpable.
“At any rate he said he absolutely could not absent himself from the hospital today. He had some operations to perform and his replacement was sick. He’s going to take the 7:05 flight for Palermo tomorrow morning. I assume, therefore, he’ll be at your office around noon. I just wanted to bring you up to date on this.”
“Thank you, sir.”
As Gallo was driving the inspector to work in a squad car, he informed Montalbano that, on Fazio’s orders, patrolman Germanà had picked up the damaged Twingo and put it in the police station’s garage.
“Good idea.”
The first person to enter his office was Mimì Augello. “I’m not here to talk to you about work. Day after tomorrow, that is, early Sunday morning, I’m going to visit my sister. D’you want to come, too, so you can see François? We’ll drive back in the evening.”
“I’ll do my best to make it.”
“Try to come. My sister made it clear she wants to talk to you.”
“About François?”
“Yes.”
Montalbano became anxious. He’d be in quite a fix if Augello’s sister and her husband said they couldn’t keep the kid with them any longer.
“I’ll do what I can, Mimì. Thanks.”
“Hello, Inspector Montalbano? This is Clementina Vasile Cozzo.”
“What a pleasure, signora.”
“Answer me yes or no. Was I good?”
“You were great, yes.”
“Answer me yes or no again. Are you coming to dinner tonight around nine?”
“Yes.”
Fazio walked into his office with a triumphant air.
“Know what, Chief? I asked myself a question: With the house looking the way it did, like it was only occasionally lived in, where did Mrs. Licalzi sleep when she came here from Bologna? So I called a colleague at Montelusa Central Police, the guy assigned to the hotel beat, and I got my answer. Every time she came, Michela Licalzi stayed at the Hotel Jolly in Montelusa. Turns out she last checked in seven days ago.”
Fazio caught him off balance. He’d intended to call Dr. Licalzi in Bologna as soon as he got into work, but had been distracted. Mimì’s mention of François had flustered him a little.
“Shall we go there now?” asked Fazio.
“Wait.”
An idea had flashed into his brain utterly unprovoked, leaving behind an ever-so-slight scent of sulfur, the kind the devil usually likes to wear. He asked Fazio for Licalzi’s telephone number, wrote it down on a piece of paper which he put in his pocket, then dialed it.
“Hello, Central Hospital? Inspector Montalbano here, from Vigàta police, in Sicily. I’d like to speak with Dr. Emanuele Licalzi.”
“P
lease hold.”
He waited, all patience and self-control. When he appeared to be running out of both, the operator came back on the line.
“Dr. Licalzi is in the operating room. You’ll have to try again in half an hour.”
“I’ll call him from the car,” he said to Fazio. “Bring along your cell phone, don’t forget.”
He rang Judge Tommaseo and informed him of Fazio’s discovery.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Tommaseo interjected. “When I asked him to give me his wife’s number here, he said he didn’t know it. He said it was always she who called him.”
The inspector asked the judge to prepare him a search warrant. He would send Gallo over at once to pick it up.
“Fazio, did they tell you what Dr. Licalzi’s specialty was?”
“Yes, he’s an orthopedist.”
Halfway between Vigàta and Montelusa, the inspector called back Bologna Central Hospital. After not too long a wait, Montalbano heard a firm, polite voice.
“This is Licalzi. With whom am I speaking?”
“Excuse me for disturbing you, Doctor. I’m Inspector Salvo Montalbano of the Vigàta police. I’m handling the case. Please allow me to express my sincerest condolences.”
“Thank you.”
Not one word more or less. The inspector realized it was still up to him to talk.
“Well, Doctor, you told the judge today that you didn’t know your wife’s phone number here in Vigàta.”
“That’s correct.”
“We’ve been unable to track down this number ourselves.”
“There could hardly be thousands of hotels in Montelusa and Vigàta.”
Ready to cooperate, this Dr. Licalzi.
“Forgive me for insisting. But hadn’t you arranged, in case of dire need—”
“I don’t think such a need could have ever arisen. In any case, there’s a distant relative of mine who lives in Vigàta and with whom my poor Michela had been in contact.”
“Could you tell me—”
Voice of the Violin Page 3
