“Your idea sounds to me more like something out of Totò and Peppino than an American movie. Use your brains! You can’t pull off this kind of kidnapping alone, Nicolò! Some accomplice would surely have told your homecoming son of Vigàta that Mistretta could scarcely put bread on the table! By the way, could you tell me how the Mistrettas happened to lose everything?”
“You know, I don’t have the slightest idea myself? I believe they were forced to sell everything off, all at once…”
“To sell off what?”
“Land, houses, stores…”
“They were forced, you say? How strange!”
“What’s so strange about it?”
“It’s as though, six years ago, they urgently needed money to pay, well, a ransom.”
“But there was no kidnapping six years ago.”
“Maybe not. Or maybe nobody knew about it.”
Although the judge had taken immediate action, TeleVigàta managed to broadcast a replay of the special report before the restraining order went into effect. And this time not only all of Vigàta, but the entire province of Montelusa watched and listened, spellbound. The news had spread by word of mouth with lightning speed. If the kidnappers’ intention had been to make everyone aware of the situation, they had fully succeeded.
One hour later, in the place of another rebroadcast of the special report, Pippo Ragonese appeared on the screen with his eyes popping out of his head. In a hoarse voice he said he felt duty-bound to inform everyone that at that moment the television station was being subjected to “some highly unusual harassment that was clearly an abuse of power, an intimidation tactic, a veritable persecution.” He explained that the recording of the kidnappers’ message had been confiscated by court order and that police were presently searching the premises for something, though nobody quite knew what. He concluded by saying that never in a million years would the authorities succeed in throttling the voice of free information as represented by him and TeleVigàta, and that he would keep the public duly informed of any new developments in this “dire situation.”
Montalbano relished all the confusion he’d caused from Nicolò Zito’s office, then went back to the station. He had barely entered when he received a call from Livia.
“Hello, Salvo?”
“Livia! What’s wrong?”
When Livia called him at the office, it usually meant that something serious had happened.
“Marta phoned me.”
Marta Gianturco was the wife of an officer with the Harbor Authority and one of Livia’s few friends in Vigàta.
“So?”
“She told me to turn on the television immediately and watch the special edition of TeleVigàta News, which I did.”
Pause.
“It was terrible…that poor girl…her voice was heartbreaking…” she continued, after a moment.
What was there to say?
“Yeah…I know…” said Montalbano, just to let her know he was listening.
“Then I heard Ragonese say you were searching his offices.”
“Well…actually…”
“Are you getting anywhere?”
We’re sinking fast, he wanted to say. Instead he said:
“We’re making progress.”
“Do you suspect Ragonese of having kidnapped the girl?” Livia asked ironically.
“Livia, this is no time for sarcasm. I told you we were making progress.”
“I hope so,” Livia said stormily, in the sort of tone a low, black cloud might have.
And she hung up.
So now Livia had taken to making insulting and threatening phone calls. Wasn’t it a bit excessive to call them threatening? No, it was not. She was liable to prosecution, in fact. Come on, stop being such an asshole and get over your anger. There. Are you calm now? Yes? Then call the person you were thinking of calling and forget about Livia.
“Hello? Dr. Carlo Mistretta? Inspector Montalbano here.”
“Any news?”
“No, I’m sorry to say. But I’d like to have a few words with you, Doctor.”
“I’m terribly busy this morning. And this afternoon as well. I’ve been neglecting my patients a bit, I’m afraid. Could we do it this evening? Yes? All right, let’s see, we could meet at my brother’s house around—”
“I’m sorry, Doctor, but I would like to speak to you alone.”
“Do you want me to come to the station?”
“No, you needn’t bother.”
“Okay, then come to my house around eight o’clock this evening. All right? I live on Via…well, it’s too complicated to explain. Let’s do this. I’ll meet you at the first filling station on the road to Fela, just outside Vigàta. At eight o’clock.”
The telephone rang again.
“H’lo, Chief? There’s some lady wants to talk to you poissonally in poisson. Says iss a poissonal matter.”
“Did she say what her name is?”
“I tink she said GI Joe, Chief.”
What! Mostly out of curiosity to find out what the woman’s real name was, he accepted the call.
“Is det you, Signore? This is Adelina Cirrinciò.”
His housekeeper! He hadn’t seen her since Livia arrived. What could have happened? Or maybe she wanted to threaten him, too, with something like: If you don’t free that girl within two days, I’m not going to come to your house and cook for you anymore. A terrifying prospect, especially as he remembered one of her favorite sayings: Tilefunu e tiligramma portanu malanna, or, “Phone calls and telegrams bring bad news.” Therefore, if she’d picked up the phone, it meant she had something very serious to tell him.
“What is it, Adelì?”
“Signore, I wanna youta know that Pippina’s a jess hedda baby.”
Who the hell was Pippina? And why was she telling him she’d just given birth? His housekeeper realized the inspector was drawing a blank.
“Don’ you rimimber, Signore? Pippina’s my son a Pasquali’s wife.”
Adelina had two criminally inclined sons who were constantly in and out of jail, and the inspector had attended the wedding of the younger son, Pasquale. Had nine months already passed? Jesus, how time flew! He grew sullen. For two reasons: one, because old age was drawing closer and closer and, two, because old age brought to mind banal clichés like the one that had just come into his head. But his anger at having had such a commonplace thought cut short the sadness rising up inside him.
“Boy or girl?”
“Boy, signore.”
“My heartfelt congratulations.”
“Wait, signore. Pasquali an’ Pippina said they wanna youta be the godfather atta bappetism.”
In short, he’d done them one good turn by attending the wedding, and now they wanted him do them another by becoming the kid’s godfather at the baptism.
“And when’s the baptism?”
“In about ten days.”
“Gimme a couple of days to think about it, Adelì, okay?”
“Okay. And when’s a Miss Livia leaving?”
He went to his usual trattoria. Livia was already sitting at a table. From afar one could see, from the look she gave him as he sat down, that this going to be no picnic.
“So, are you getting anywhere?” she attacked.
“Livia, we spoke less than an hour ago!”
“So what? A lot of things can happen in an hour.”
“Does this seem like the proper place to discuss these things?”
“Yes. Because when you come home you never tell me anything about your work. Or would you rather I come to the station to discuss it, Inspector?”
“Livia, we really are doing everything we can. At this very moment, most of my men, including Mimì and another squad from Montelusa, are scouring the nearby countryside, looking for—”
“And why, while your men are out scouring the countryside, are you quietly sitting here with me in a trattoria?”
“It’s what the commissioner wanted.”
“Th
e commissioner wanted you to go eat at a trattoria while your men are working hard and that girl’s life is a living hell?”
What a pain in the ass!
“Livia, stop breaking my balls!”
“Hiding behind obscenity, eh?”
“Livia, you would make a peerless agent provocateur. The commissioner has divvied up responsibilities. I’m working with Minutolo, who’s in charge of the investigation, while Mimì and others keep searching. It’s hard work.”
“Poor Mimì!”
Poor everybody, according to Livia. Poor girl, poor Mimì…The only person unworthy of her pity was him. He pushed away the dish of plain spaghetti all’aglio e olio, which he’d been forced to order because Livia was with him. Enzo, the proprietor, came running, concerned.
“What’s wrong, Inspector?”
“Nothing, I’m just not very hungry,” he lied.
Livia didn’t make a peep and went on eating. In an attempt to lighten the atmosphere and get himself ready to savor the second course he’d ordered—aiole in a sauce whose fragrance was wafting out from the kitchen, sending him positive signals—he decided to tell Livia about the phone call from his housekeeper. He set off on the wrong foot.
“Adelina rang me at the office this morning.”
“I see.”
She shot out the words like bullets.
“What’s ‘I see’ supposed to mean?”
“It means Adelina rings you at the office, not at home, because at home I might answer instead of you, which would surely leave her traumatized.”
“Okay, never mind.”
“No, I’m curious. What did she want?”
“She wants me to go be the godfather at the baptism of her grandson, the son of her son Pasquale.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“I asked her to give me a couple of days to think about it. But I have to confess, I’m leaning toward saying yes.”
“You’re insane!”
She said it too loudly. Mr. Militello, an accountant sitting at the table to their left, stopped his fork in midair, mouth hanging open; Dr. Piscitello, sitting at the table on their right, choked on the wine he’d just sipped.
“Why?” asked Montalbano, puzzled at her vehement reaction.
“What do you mean, why? Isn’t this Pasquale, your housekeeper’s son, a repeat offender? Haven’t you arrested him several times yourself?”
“So what? I would be the godfather of a newborn infant who, until proved otherwise, hasn’t yet had the time to become a repeat offender like his father.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. Do you know what it means to be the godfather at a baby’s baptism?”
“I dunno, you hold the baby while the priest—”
Livia shook her forefinger.
“Sorry, darling, but becoming a godfather means taking on specific responsibilities. Didn’t you know?”
“No,” Montalbano said sincerely.
“If anything should happen to the father, the godfather is supposed to take his place in all matters concerning the child. He becomes a kind of stand-in for the father.”
“Really?!” said Montalbano, in shock.
“Ask around, if you don’t believe me. So, what may happen is that next time you arrest this Pasquale, he’ll go to jail and you’ll have to see to the needs of his son and keep an eye on his behavior…Can you imagine that?”
“Er…shall I bring the fish?” asked Enzo.
“No,” said Montalbano.
“Yes,” said Livia.
Livia refused to let him drive her home, taking the bus to Marinella instead. Since he hadn’t eaten anything, Montalbano skipped the walk along the jetty and went back to the office. It wasn’t even three o’clock yet. Catarella intercepted him in the main entrance.
“Ahh, Chief! Chief! The c’mishner called!”
“When?”
“Now, now! In fack, he’s still onna line!”
The inspector grabbed the phone from the closet that passed for a switchboard.
“Montalbano? You must activate yourself immediately,” Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi said in an imperious tone.
How was he supposed to do that? By pushing a button? Turning a knob? And wasn’t the propellorlike spin his cojones went into whenever he so much as heard the commissioner’s voice a kind of activation?
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve just been informed that Inspector Augello fell and hurt himself in the course of his investigations. He must be immediately replaced. You, for the moment, will take over for him. But don’t take any initiatives. Within a few hours I’ll arrange for a younger person to step in.”
Ah, how kind and sensitive of the commissioner! A younger person. What, did Bonetti-Alderighi somehow think himself a babe in arms?
“Gallo!”
He put all the pique that was bubbling up inside him into that shout. Gallo appeared in an instant.
“What is it, Chief?”
“Find out where Inspector Augello is. Apparently he’s hurt himself. We must go relieve him at once.”
Gallo turned pale.
“Matre santa!” he said.
Why was he so worried about Augello? The inspector tried to console him.
“I don’t think it’s anything serious, you know. He must have slipped and—”
“I was thinking about myself, Chief.”
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, Chief, it must’ve been something I ate…The fact is that my stomach’s all upside down and I’m running to the bathroom every couple of minutes.”
“Well, you’ll just have to hold it in.”
Gallo went out muttering to himself, then returned a few minutes later.
“Inspector Augello and his team are in Cancello district, on the road to Gallotta. About forty-five minutes from here.”
“Let’s go. Go fetch the squad car.”
They’d been rolling along the provincial road for over half an hour when Gallo turned to Montalbano and said:
“Chief, I can’t take it anymore.”
“How far are we from Cancello?”
“A couple of miles at most, but I—”
“Okay, pull over the first chance you get.”
On their right began a sort of trail marked by a tree with a board nailed to it. On the board were the words: FRESH EGGS. The countryside was uncultivated, a forest of wild plants.
Gallo turned onto the trail, stopped almost at once, dashed out of the car, and disappeared behind a thicket of boxthorn. Montalbano also got out and lit a cigarette. About a hundred yards away was a little white die of a country cottage with a small yard in front. That must be where the fresh eggs were sold. He walked over to the edge of the trail and started to open the zipper on his trousers, but it promptly got stuck on his shirt and refused to budge any further. Montalbano looked down to examine the hitch, and as he was lowering his head, a shaft of light struck him square in the eyes. Once he’d finished, the zipper got stuck again, and he repeated the same motion, with the exact same results. That is, he lowered his head and the shaft of light struck his eyes again. He looked to see where the gleam was coming from, and there, half hidden by the bottom part of a bush, was some sort of round object. He immediately realized what it was, and in two strides he was in front of the bush. A motorcycle helmet. Small. Made for a woman’s head. It must not have been lying there very long, because there was only a very fine layer of dust on it. New, no scrapes. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapped it around his right hand, fingers included, crouched down, grabbed the helmet, and flipped it over. Then he flopped face-down on the ground to look carefully inside it. It appeared to be very clean. No bloodstains. Two or three long strands of blonde hair were snagged inside it and stood out against the black padding. He was absolutely certain the helmet belonged to Susanna.
“Hey, Chief, where are you?”
It was Gallo. He put the helmet back the way he’d found it and stood up.
Gallo approached, his curiosity aroused. Montalbano pointed to the helmet.
“I think that’s the girl’s.”
“You really are one lucky asshole,” Gallo couldn’t help saying.
“It’s your asshole that’s the lucky one,” said the inspector. “My compliments to its investigative skills.”
“But if the helmet is here, it means the girl is being held somewhere nearby! Should I call for reinforcements?”
“That’s what they want you to think, and that’s why they dumped the helmet here. They’re trying to throw us off the trail.”
“So what should we do?”
“Get ahold of Augello’s team and have them send somebody to stand guard here. Meanwhile, don’t you move from this spot until they arrive. I don’t want some passerby to find the helmet and make off with it. And move the car as well, because you’re blocking the way.”
“Who is ever going to pass this way?”
Montalbano, who had started walking away, didn’t answer.
“And where are you going?”
“I’m going to see if they really do have fresh eggs.”
As he approached the cottage, the sound of clucking grew louder and louder, but he didn’t see any chickens. The coop must have been behind the house. As he entered the yard, a girl came out of the open front door of the cottage. She was thirtyish, tall, with black hair but fair skin, and a full, beautiful body. She was sort of dressed up and wearing high heels. For a moment Montalbano thought she was some lady who’d come to buy eggs. But the woman smiled at him and said in dialect:
“Why’d you leave your car so far away? You could have parked it right here in front.”
Montalbano made a vague gesture with his hand.
“Please come in,” said the woman, going in first.
A wall divided the small house’s interior into two rooms. The one in front, which must have been the dining room, featured a table in the middle with four baskets of eggs on top, as well as four cane chairs, a sideboard with a phone, a refrigerator, and a small gas stove in the corner. Another corner was hidden by a plastic curtain. The only thing that looked out of place in the room was a small cot that served as a sofa. Everything was sparkling clean. The young woman stared straight at him but said nothing. A few moments later she finally asked, in a whisper the inspector didn’t know what to make of:
The Patience of the Spider Page 8
