Voice of the Violin

by Andrea Camilleri

  He turned off the light and lay back down.

  “And neither is François,” he added bitterly.

  10

  The next morning, at headquarters, the staff was almost at full strength: Augello, Fazio, Germanà, Gallo, Galluzzo, Giallombardo, Tortorella, and Grasso. The only one missing was Catarella, who had a legitmate excuse for his absence, attending the first class in his computer training course. Everyone was wearing a long face fit for the Day of the Dead, avoiding Montalbano as if he were contagious, not looking him in the eye. They’d been doubly offended: first by the commissioner, who’d taken the investigation away from their chief just to spite him, and, second, by their chief himself, who had reacted meanly to their letter of protest to the commissioner. Not only had he not thanked them—what can you do, the inspector was just that way—but he had called them a bunch of fucking idiots, and Fazio had told them this.

  All present, therefore, but all bored to death, because, except for the Licalzi homicide, it had been two months since anything substantial had happened. For example, the Cuffaro and Sinagra families, two criminal gangs perpetually engaged in a turf war who were in the custom of leaving behind, with near-perfect regularity, one corpse per month (one month a Cuffaro, the next month a Sinagra), seemed to have lost their enthusiasm a while back. Such indeed had been the case ever since Giosuè Cuffaro, after being arrested and having suddenly repented of his crimes, had helped lock up Peppuccio Sinagra, who, after being arrested and having suddenly repented of his crimes, had helped put away Antonio Smecca, a cousin of the Cuffaros, who, after suddenly repenting of his crimes, had pulled the plug on Cicco Lo Càrmine, of the Sinagra gang, who . . .

  The only noise to be heard in Vigàta had been made the previous month, at the San Gerlando festival, by the fireworks display.

  “The number one bosses are all in jail!” Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi had triumphantly exclaimed at a jam-packed press conference.

  And the five-star bosses are still in place, the inspector had thought.

  That morning Grasso, who had taken Catarella’s place at the switchboard, was doing crossword puzzles, Gallo and Galluzzo were testing each other’s mettle at the card game of scopa, Giallomabardo and Tortorella were engrossed in a game of checkers, and the others were either reading or contemplating the wall. The place, in short, was buzzing with activity.

  On his desk Montalbano found a mountain of papers to be signed and various other matters to be dealt with. Subtle revenge on the part of his men?

  The bomb, unexpectedly, exploded at one, when the inspector, his right arm stiffening, was considering going out to eat.

  “Chief, there’s a lady, Anna Tropeano, asking for you. She seems upset,” said Grasso.

  “Salvo! My God! On the TV news headlines they said Maurizio’s been killed!”

  As there weren’t any television sets at the police station, Montalbano shot out of his office, on his way down to the Bar Italia.

  Fazio intercepted him.

  “Chief, what’s happening?”

  “They killed Maurizio Di Blasi.”

  Gelsomino, the owner of the bar, along with two clients, were staring open-mouthed at the television screen, where a TeleVigàta reporter was talking about the incident.

  “. . . and during this night-long interrogation of the engineer Aurelio Di Blasi, Ernesto Panzacchi, captain of the Flying Squad, surmised that Di Blasi’s son, Maurizio, a prime suspect in the Michela Licalzi murder case, might be hiding out at a country house belonging to the Di Blasi family in the Raffadali area. The father, however, maintained that his son had not taken refuge there, since he’d gone there himself to look for him the previous day. Around ten o’clock this morning, Captain Panzacchi went to Raffadali with six other police officers and had begun a detailed search of the house, which is rather large, when suddenly one of the policemen spotted a man running along one of the slopes of the barren hill that stands almost directly behind the house. Giving chase, Captain Panzacchi and his men found the cave into which young Di Blasi had fled. After properly positioning his men outside, Captain Panzacchi ordered the suspect to come out with his hands up. Suddenly, Di Blasi came forward shouting, ‘Punish me! Punish me!’ brandishing a weapon in a threatening manner. One of the police officers immediately opened fire and young Maurizio Di Blasi fell to the ground, killed by a burst of automatic-weapons fire to the chest. The young man’s almost Dostoyevskian entreaty of ‘Punish me’ was tantamount to a confession. Meanwhile, Aurelio Di Blasi, the father, has been enjoined to appoint himself a defense lawyer. He is expected to be charged with complicity in his son’s escape, which came to such a tragic end.”

  When a photo of the poor kid’s horsey face appeared on the screen, Montalbano quit the bar and returned to headquarters.

  “If the commissioner hadn’t taken the case away from you, that poor wretch would surely still be alive!” Mimì shouted angrily.

  Saying nothing, Montalbano went into his office and closed the door. There was a contradiction, big as a house, in the newsman’s account. If Maurizio Di Blasi had wanted to be punished, and if he was so eager for this punishment, why was he threatening the policemen with a weapon? An armed man aiming a pistol at the people who want to arrest him doesn’t want to be punished, he’s trying to avoid being arrested, to escape.

  “It’s Fazio. Can I come in, Chief?”

  To his amazement, the inspector saw Augello, Germanà, Gallo, Galluzzo, Giallombardo, Tortorella, and even Grasso, enter behind Fazio.

  “Fazio just talked to a friend of his on the Montelusa Flying Squad,” said Mimì Augello. Then he gestured to Fazio to continue.

  “You know what he said the weapon was the kid threatened Panzacchi and his men with?”

  “No.”

  “A shoe. His right shoe. Before he fell, he managed to throw it at Panzacchi.”

  “Anna? Montalbano here. I heard.”

  “It couldn’t have been him, Salvo! I’m sure of it! It’s all a tragic mistake! You must do something!”

  “Listen, that’s not why I called. Do you know Mrs. Di Blasi?”

  “Yes. We’ve spoken a few times.”

  “Go and see her at once. I’m very worried. I don’t want her left alone with her husband in jail and her son just killed.”

  “I’ll go right away.”

  “Chief, can I tell you something? That friend of mine from the Flying Squad just called back.”

  “And he told you he was only kidding about the shoe, it was all a joke.”

  “Exactly. Therefore it’s true.”

  “Listen, I’m going home now, and I think I’ll stay there for the rest of the afternoon. Give me a ring if you need me.”

  “Chief, you gotta do something.”

  “Get off my fucking back, all of you!”

  After the bridge, he drove straight on. He didn’t feel like hearing again, this time from Anna, that he absolutely had to take action. By what right? Here’s your fearless, flawless knight in shining armor! Here’s your Robin Hood, your Zorro, your Night Avenger all in one: Salvo Montalbano!

  His appetite was gone now. He filled a saucer with green and black olives, cut himself a slice of bread, and, while munching on these, dialed Zito’s number.

  “Nicolò? Montalbano here. Do you know if the commissioner has called a press conference?”

  “It’s set for five o’clock this afternoon.”

  “You going?”

  “Naturally.”

  “You have to do me a favor. Ask Panzacchi what kind of weapon Maurizio Di Blasi threatened them with. Then after he tells you, ask him if he can show it to you.”

  “What’s behind this?”

  “I’ll tell you in due time.”

  “Can I tell you something, Salvo? We’re all convinced here that if you’d stayed on the case, Maurizio Di Blasi would still be alive.”

  So Nicolò was jumping aboard, too, behind Mimì.

  “Would you go get fucked!”

  “
Thanks, I could use a little, it’s been a while. By the way, we’ll be broadcasting the press conference live.”

  He went and sat on the veranda with the book by Denevi in his hands. But he was unable to read it. A thought was spinning round and round in his head, the same one he’d had the night before: what strange, anomalous thing had he seen or heard during his visit to the house with the doctor?

  The press conference began at five on the dot. Bonetti-Alderighi was a maniac for punctuality (“It’s the courtesy of kings,” he used to repeat whenever he had the chance, his noble lineage having apparently gone so far to his head that he now imagined it with a crown on top).

  There were three of them seated behind a small table covered with green cloth: the commissioner in the middle, flanked by Panzacchi on the right and Dr. Lattes on the left. Behind them, the six policemen who had taken part in the operation. While the faces of the policemen were grave and drawn, those of the three chiefs expressed moderate contentment—only moderate because somebody had been killed.

  The commissioner spoke first, limiting himself to praising Ernesto Panzacchi (“a man with a brilliant future ahead of him”) and briefly taking credit for having assigned the case to the captain of the Flying Squad, who had “managed to solve it in twenty-four hours, when others, with their antiquated methods, would have taken untold days and weeks.”

  Montalbano, sitting in front of the screen, took it all in without reacting, not even mentally.

  Then it was Ernesto Panzacchi’s turn to speak, and he repeated exactly what the inspector had heard the TeleVigàta newsman say earlier. He didn’t dwell on the details, however, and seemed rather in a hurry to leave.

  “Does anyone have questions?” asked Dr. Lattes.

  Somebody raised a hand.

  “Are you sure the suspect shouted ‘Punish me’?”

  “Absolutely certain. He said it twice. They all heard it.”

  He turned to the six policemen behind him, who nodded in agreement, looking like puppets on strings.

  “And in a desperate tone of voice,” Panzacchi piled it on, “desperate.”

  “What is the father accused of?” asked a second journalist.

  “Being an accessory after the fact,” said the commissioner.

  “And maybe more,” added Panzacchi with an air of mystery.

  “Being an accomplice to murder?” ventured a third newsman.

  “I didn’t say that,” Panzacchi said curtly.

  Finally Nicolò Zito signaled that he wanted to speak.

  “What kind of weapon did Maurizio Di Blasi threaten you with?”

  Of course, the journalists, who had no idea what had actually happened, didn’t notice anything, but the inspector distinctly saw the six policemen stiffen and the half-smile on Captain Panzacchi’s face vanish. Only the commissioner and the head of his cabinet had no perceptible reaction.

  “A hand grenade,” said Panzacchi.

  “Where did he get it?” Zito pressed him.

  “Well, it was war surplus, but still functioning. We have a suspicion as to where he might have found it, but we need further confirmation.”

  “Could we see it?”

  “The forensics lab has it.”

  And so ended the press conference.

  At six-thirty he called Livia. The phone rang a long time to no avail. He started to feel worried. What if she was sick? He called Giovanna, Livia’s friend at work. She said Livia’d shown up at work as usual, but she, Giovanna, had noticed she looked very pale and nervous. Livia also told her she’d unplugged the telephone because she didn’t want to be disturbed.

  “How are things between the two of you?” Giovanna asked him.

  “Not great, I’d say,” Montalbano replied diplomatically.

  No matter what he did—whether he read a book or stared out at the sea, smoking a cigarette—the question kept coming suddenly back to him, precise and insistent: What had he seen or heard at the house that hadn’t seemed right?

  “Hello, Salvo? It’s Anna. I’ve just come from Mrs. Di Blasi’s. You were right to tell me to go there. Her parents and friends have made a point of not coming round—you know, keeping their distance from a family with a father in jail and a son who’s a murderer.”

  “How is Mrs. Di Blasi?”

  “How do you expect? She’s had a breakdown; I had to call a doctor. Now she’s feeling a little better; her husband’s lawyer called saying he’d be released shortly.”

  “They’re not charging him with complicity?”

  “I really can’t say. I think they’re going to charge him anyway but release him on bail. Are you coming by?”

  “I don’t know, I’ll see.”

  “Salvo, you’ve got to do something. Maurizio was innocent, I’m sure of it, and they murdered him.”

  “Anna, don’t get any wild ideas.”

  “Hullo, Chief? Zatchoo in poisson? Catarella here. The vikkim’s huzbin called sayin’ as how yer sposta call ’im poissonally at the Jolly t’nite roundabout ten aclack.”

  “Thanks. How’d the first day of class go?”

  “Good, Chief, good. I unnastood everyting. Teacha complimented me. Said peoples like me’s rilly rare.”

  An inspiration came to him shortly before eight o’clock, and he put it into action without wasting another minute. He jumped in the car and drove off in the direction of Montelusa.

  “Nicolò’s on the air,” said a secretary at the Free Channel studios, “but he’s almost finished.”

  Less than five minutes later, Zito appeared, out of breath.

  “I did what you said; did you see the press conference?”

  “Yes, Nicolò, and I think we hit the mark.”

  “Can you tell me why that grenade is so important?”

  “Do you underestimate grenades?”

  “Come on, tell me what’s behind this.”

  “I can’t, not yet. Actually, you’ll probably figure it out very soon, but that’s your business. I haven’t told you anything.”

  “Come on! What do you want me to say or do on the news? That’s what you came here for, isn’t it? By now you’ve become my secret director.”

  “If you do it, I’ll give you a present.”

  He took one of the photos of Michela that Dr. Licalzi had given him out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Nicolò.

  “You’re the only journalist who knows what the woman looked like when she was alive. The commissioner’s office in Montelusa doesn’t have any photos. All her IDs, driver’s license, or passport, if she had one, were in the bag that the murderer took with him. You can show this to your viewers if you want.”

  Nicolò twisted up his face.

  “You must want an awfully big favor. Fire away.”

  Montalbano stood up, went over, and locked the door to the newsman’s office.

  “No,” said Nicolò.

  “No what?”

  “No to whatever it is you’re going to ask me. If you need to lock the door, I don’t want any part of it.”

  “Look, if you give me a hand, afterwards I’ll give you all the facts you need to create a nationwide uproar.”

  Zito said nothing. He was clearly torn.

  “What do you want me to do?” he finally asked in a low voice.

  “To say you received phone calls from two witnesses.”

  “Do they exist?”

  “One does, the other doesn’t.”

  “Tell me only what the one who exists said.”

  “No, both. Take it or leave it.”

  “But do you realize that if anybody finds out I invented a witness they’re liable to strike me off the register?”

  “Of course. And in that case I give you permission to say I talked you into it. That way, they’ll send me home, too, and we can go grow fava beans together.”

  “Tell you what. Tell me about the fake one first. If the thing seems feasible, you can tell me about the real one afterwards.”

  “Okay. This afternoon, f
ollowing the press conference, somebody phoned you saying he was out hunting in the area where the police shot down Maurizio Di Blasi. He said that things did not happen the way Panzacchi said. Then he hung up without leaving his name. He was clearly upset and afraid. You tell your viewers you’re mentioning this episode only in passing and nobly declare that you don’t lend it much weight, since it was, in fact, an anonymous phone call and your professional ethics do not allow you to spread anonymous rumors.”

  “And in the meantime I’ve actually repeated it.”

  “But isn’t that standard procedure for you guys, if you don’t mind my saying so? Throwing the stone but keeping the hand hidden?”

  “I’ll tell you something about that when we’re through. For now, let’s hear about the real witness.”

  “His name is Gillo Jàcono, but you’re to give only his initials, G. J., nothing more. This gentleman, shortly after midnight last Wednesday, saw the Twingo pull up by the house in Tre Fontane, and saw Michela and an unidentified man get out of the car and walk quietly towards the house. The man was carrying a suitcase. Not an overnight bag, a suitcase. Now, the question is this: Why did Maurizio Di Blasi bring a suitcase when he went to rape Mrs. Licalzi? Did it maybe contain clean sheets in the event they soiled the bed? Also: Did the Flying Squad find this suitcase anywhere? It was certainly nowhere inside the house.”

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Nicolò had turned chilly. Apparently Montalbano’s criticism of journalistic methods hadn’t gone down well with him.

  “As for my professional ethics, this afternoon, following the press conference, I received a phone call from a hunter who told me that things had not happened the way the police said. But since he wouldn’t give me his name, I didn’t report it.”

  “You’re shitting me.”