That was all. No signature, no note of explanation. He looked at the postmark: Cosenza. What the hell did it mean? Perhaps there was an explanation. Maybe it was some kind of internal vendetta. In all probability, his colleague Vattiato had mentioned how Montalbano had made an ass of himself when he called up to say he’d found the body of someone already dead and buried, and one of the people present, apparently someone not too fond of Vattiato, had decided to send the inspector the clipping on the sly. Because that short article, if read properly, somewhat undermined the certainty of Vattiato’s position. The anonymous sender of that clipping was actually posing a very simple question: If the man torn to pieces by that train was identified as Ernesto Errera solely on the basis of his identification papers and a wedding ring, how could anyone be absolutely certain that those mortal remains really belonged to Errera? Might it not have been Errera himself who killed someone bearing a vague resemblance to him, put his own wallet in the man’s pocket, his wedding ring on his finger, and then laid him down in the tracks in such a way as to make him unrecognizable once the train had run over him? And why would he have done this? For obvious reasons: so the police and carabinieri would stop looking for him, and he could therefore operate in relative peace in Brindisi.
Yet no sooner had the inspector made these conjectures than they seemed like something out of a novel. He called Augello. Mimì came in with a dark face.
“Not feeling well?”
“Leave me alone, Salvo. I was up all night helping Beba. This has been a very difficult pregnancy. What did you want?”
“Some advice. But I want you to hear something first. Catarella!”
“Yer orders, Chief!”
“Cat, tell Inspector Augello your theory about Errera, the same way you told it to me.”
Catarella puffed himself up.
“I tole the Chief Inspector as how maybe, just maybe, it was possible the dead guy came back to life and then went back to death in the water.”
“Thanks, Cat. You can go now.”
Mimì was looking at him dumbfounded.
“Well?” the inspector prodded him.
“Listen, Salvo. Until a minute ago, I thought your resignation would be a tragedy for all of us. But now, seeing your mental condition, I’m thinking the sooner you go, the better. What is this? So now you’re starting to take the nonsense that passes between Catarella’s ears seriously? Back to death in the water?”
Without saying a word, Montalbano handed him the newspaper clipping.
Mimì read it through twice. Then he set it down on the desk.
“What do you think it means?” he asked.
“That someone wanted to let me know that there’s a chance—a remote one, admittedly—that the body buried in Cosenza is not Ernesto Errera’s,” said Montalbano.
“The piece you had me read,” said Mimì, “was written by a reporter two or three days after the body’s remains were found. And it doesn’t say whether our Cosenza colleagues did any further, more serious investigation that could have led to a more definite identification. Dental checks, fingerprints, that kind of thing. Which they surely must have done. And if you start digging and trying to find out more about the case, you risk falling into the trap they’ve set for you.”
“What are you talking about?!”
“Do you have any idea who sent you the clipping?”
“Maybe somebody from Cosenza Police who overheard Vattiato ragging me and wanted to give me a chance—”
“Salvo, do you know Vattiato?”
“Not very well. He’s a surly—”
“I worked with him before coming here. He’s a son of a bitch.”
“But why would he send me the article?”
“To arouse your curiosity and make you start asking questions about Errera. So he can have the whole police department of Cosenza laughing at you.”
Montalbano stood up halfway out of his chair, searched through the papers scattered helter-skelter over his desk, and found Errera’s dossier and photos.
“Have another look at these, Mimì.”
Holding the dossier with Errera’s photo in his left hand, Mimì picked up, one by one, the computerized reconstructions of the dead man’s face with his right, comparing each of them closely with the mug shot. Then he shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Salvo. My opinion hasn’t changed. Those are two different people, even though they do look rather alike. Have anything else to tell me?”
“No,” the inspector said brusquely.
Augello became irritated.
“Salvo, I’ve got enough problems of my own to put me on edge. I don’t need you creating more.”
“Explain.”
“You want an explanation? You’re pissed off because I keep insisting that your corpse is not Errera. You’re really something, you know. Am I supposed to say, yes, they’re the same person, just to make you happy?”
He went out, slamming the door behind him.
Not five minutes later, the same door flew open, crashed against the wall, and, on the rebound, closed again.
“Sorry, Chief,” said Catarella’s voice from behind the door.
The door then began to open very slowly, just enough to allow Catarella to slide through.
“Chief, I brought you the ting Torrisi gave me which he said you was poissonally intristed in.”
It was a greatly enlarged image of a detail of the rocks below the villa in Spigonella.
“It can’t come out no better than ’at, Chief.”
“Thanks, Cat, you did an excellent job.”
A glance sufficed to convince him he’d been right.
Between the two tall rocks forming the narrow entrance of the tiny natural harbor, there was a straight, dark line, barely an inch above the water, against which the surf broke. It must have been an iron barrier that could be operated from inside the villa to prevent outsiders from entering the little harbor with any sort of craft. This might not indicate anything suspicious, of course; it might only mean that unannounced visitors were unwelcome. Studying the rocks more closely, he noticed something else that piqued his curiosity, about three feet above the water. He looked and looked until the image began to blur before his eyes.
“Catarella!”
“Yessir, Chief!”
“Get Torretta to lend you a magnifying glass.”
“Right away, Chief.”
He’d guessed right. Catarella returned with a big magnifying glass and handed it to the inspector.
“Thanks, you can go now. And close the door behind you.”
He wouldn’t want to be caught by Mimì or Fazio in a pose typical of Sherlock Holmes.
With the help of the glass, he managed to figure out what he was looking at. There were two small signal lights which, when illuminated at night or in conditions of poor visibility, would precisely mark the boundaries of the entrance, allowing anyone maneuvering a craft to enter without risk of crashing into the rocks. They must certainly have been installed by the villa’s original owner, the American smuggler, and the whole setup must have been very useful to him. Still, subsequent tenants had kept it in working order. He pondered this a long time. Slowly, he began to think he ought perhaps to go and take another, closer look—from the sea, if possible. And, most importantly, on the sly, without telling anyone.
He glanced at his watch. Ingrid would be there at any moment. He took his wallet out of his pocket to see if he had enough money for dinner. Catarella stuck his head inside the door and said, panting:
“Ahh Chief! Miss Ingrid’s ousside, waiting for you!”
Ingrid wanted the inspector to get in her car.
“With yours we’ll never get there, and it’s pretty far.”
“Where on earth are you taking me?”
“You’ll see. You can break the monotony of your fish dishes once in a while, can’t you?”
Between Ingrid’s chatter and the speed she maintained, it didn’t seem like they’d been driving long when
the car pulled up in front of a farmhouse in the open country. Was it really a restaurant, or had Ingrid made a mistake? When he saw a dozen or so parked cars, he felt reassured. Once inside, Ingrid greeted all present and they all greeted her. She was one of the family. The manager came rushing over.
“Salvo, will you have what I’m going to have?” Ingrid asked.
The inspector thus enjoyed a dish of ditalini in a sauce of fresh and properly salted ricotta, with pecorino and black pepper on top. The dish cried out for wine, a demand that was amply fulfilled. For the second course they stuffed themselves with costi ’mbriachi, that is, “drunken” pork ribs drowning in wine and tomato concentrate. When it came time to pay the bill, the inspector blanched: he’d forgotten his wallet on his office desk. Ingrid took care of it. On the drive back, the car did a few waltzlike turns. As they approached the police station, Montalbano asked Ingrid to stop so he could get his wallet.
“I’ll come in with you,” she said. “I’ve never seen where you work.”
They went into his office. The inspector walked over to his desk, Ingrid following behind. As he grabbed the wallet, Ingrid noticed the photos on the table and picked one up.
“Why do you have pictures of Ninì on your desk?”
12
For an instant everything stopped; for an instant, even the confused background noise of the world vanished. Even a fly that was decidedly aiming for the inspector’s nose froze, suspended in air, wings spread. Getting no answer to her question, Ingrid looked up. Montalbano looked like a statue, wallet half-inserted in his jacket pocket, mouth hanging open, eyes staring at Ingrid.
“Why do you have all those pictures of Ninì?” she asked again, picking up the other photos on the desk.
A kind of furious southwester, meanwhile, was blasting through all the twists and turns of the inspector’s brain, and he couldn’t get hold of himself. What?! They’d searched everywhere, phoned Cosenza, combed the archives, questioned potential witnesses, explored Spigonella by land and sea in the hopes of giving that corpse a name, and along came Ingrid, cool as a cucumber, actually calling it by a nickname?
“D-d-d . . . y-y-y . . . ouuu . . . nnn—”
Montalbano was struggling to get out the question, “Do you know him?” but Ingrid misunderstood and interrupted him.
“D’Iunio, exactly,” she said. “I believe I already mentioned him to you once.”
True enough. She’d talked about him the evening they’d downed a bottle of whisky on the veranda. She said she’d had an affair with this D’Iunio, but they’d broken it off because . . . Because why?
“Why did you break up?”
“I broke off the affair. There was something about him that made me uneasy . . . I was always on my guard . . . I could never relax with him . . . Even though there wasn’t really any reason . . .”
“Did he make unusual . . . demands on you?”
“In bed?”
“Yes.”
Ingrid shrugged. “Well, no more unusual than any other man.”
Why did he feel an absurd twinge of jealousy upon hearing these words?
“So, what was it, then?”
“Just a feeling, Salvo. I can’t really explain it . . .”
“What did he say he did for a living?”
“He’d been captain of an oil tanker . . . Then he came into some kind of inheritance . . . In reality, he didn’t do anything.”
“How did you meet him?”
Ingrid laughed.
“By chance. At a filling station. There was a long queue, and we started talking.”
“Where did you normally get together?”
“In a place called Spigonella. Do you know where it is?”
“Yeah, I know it.”
“Excuse me, Salvo, but are you interrogating me?”
“I’d say so.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“Would you mind if we continued somewhere else?”
“Why, don’t you like it here?”
“No. In here, the way you’re asking me those questions . . . you seem like a different person.”
“A different person?”
“Yes, a different person, someone I don’t know. Could we go to your place?”
“If you like. But no whisky. At least not before we’ve finished.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Inspector.”
They drove to Marinella in separate cars, and naturally Ingrid got there long before he did.
Montalbano went and opened the French doors giving onto the veranda.
It was a very soft night, perhaps a little too soft. The air smelled of brine and mist. The inspector took a deep breath, his lungs enjoying the sweetness.
“Shall we go sit on the veranda?” Ingrid suggested.
“No, it’s better inside.”
They sat down across from each other at the dining room table. Ingrid stared at him, looking perplexed. The inspector set the envelope with D’Iunio’s photos, which he’d brought from the station, down on the table beside him.
“Want to tell me why you’re so interested in Ninì?”
“No.”
Ingrid felt hurt, and Montalbano noticed.
“If I told you, it would very probably influence your answers. You said you called him Ninì. Is that a diminutive for Antonio?”
“No. Ernesto.”
Was it a coincidence? Oftentimes people who change identities keep the initials of their first and last names. Did the fact that both D’Iunio and Errera were called Ernesto mean they were the same person? Better go at it slowly, one step at a time.
“Was he Sicilian?”
“He never told me where he was from. Except he once said he’d been married to a girl from Catanzaro who died two years after they were married.”
“Catanzaro, he said?”
Ingrid seemed to hesitate, sticking the tip of her tongue between her lips.
“Or was it Cosenza?” Adorable wrinkles appeared on her forehead. “My mistake. I’m sure he said Cosenza.”
That made two! The late Mr. Ernesto D’Iunio kept picking up points of resemblance to the equally late Mr. Ernesto Errera. Without warning, Montalbano got up and kissed Ingrid on the corner of her mouth. She gave him a quizzical look.
“Do you always do that when the person you’re questioning gives you the answer you want to hear?”
“Yes, especially when it’s a man. Tell me something. Did your Ninì walk with a limp?”
“Not always. Only in bad weather. But you could hardly tell.”
Dr. Pasquano had been right. Except that there was no way to know whether Errera also limped or not.
“How long did your affair last?”
“Not very long, a month and a half, maybe a little longer. But . . .”
“But?”
“It was very intense.”
Another twinge of groundless jealousy.
“And when did it end?”
“About two months ago.”
Shortly before somebody killed him, therefore.
“Tell me exactly what you did when you broke it off with him.”
“I called him on his cell phone in the morning to tell him I was coming to see him that same evening in Spigonella.”
“Did you always meet in the evening?”
“Yes, late in the evening.”
“So you never, say, went out to eat?”
“No, we never met anywhere but in Spigonella. It was as though he didn’t want to be seen, either with me or without me. That was another thing that bothered me.”
“Go on.”
“Anyway, I called him to say I’d be at his place that evening. But he said there was no way he could see me. Somebody had come unexpectedly, and he needed to talk to this person. The same thing had already happened twice before. So we arranged to meet the following night. Except that I never went. By my own choice.”
“Ingrid, honestly, I don’t understand why, all of a sudden, you—
”
“I’ll try to explain, Salvo. Whenever I arrived there in my car, the front gate would be open and I would drive up the driveway to the villa. Then there was a second gate, which would also be open. While I pulled into the garage, Ninì, in the dark, would go and close the gates. Then we would go up the stairs—”
“What stairs?”
“The villa has two storeys, right? Ninì was renting the upstairs, which you could enter by an external stairway on the side of the house.”
“Let me get this straight. He wasn’t renting the whole villa?”
“No, just the upstairs.”
“And the two floors were not connected?”
“Yes, they were. Or at least that’s what Ninì said. There was a door that led to an internal staircase, but the door was locked and the landlord had the key.”
“So you got to know only the upper floor?”
“Right. As I was saying, we would go up the stairs and straight into the bedroom. Ninì was a maniac. Before we could ever turn on a light in a room, he had to make sure it couldn’t be seen from outside. Not only were all the shutters closed, but there were heavy curtains over all the windows.”
“Go on.”
“We would get undressed and start making love.”
This time it wasn’t a twinge, but an out-and-out stab wound.
“Who knows why I started having second thoughts about our affair after I couldn’t see him that time? The first thing I noticed was that I had never felt like sleeping with Ninì—I mean, spending the night there with him. After making love, I would just lie there, smoking the customary cigarette, staring at the ceiling. Him too. We never talked. We had nothing to say to each other. And those bars over the windows—”
“Bars?”
“Over all the windows. Even on the ground floor. I used to see them even when I couldn’t see them, when the curtains were drawn . . . They made me feel like I was in some kind of prison . . . Sometimes he would get up and go talk over the radio . . .”
IM7 Rounding the Mark (2006) Page 13
