The Patience of the Spider

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Whereas a father is only sometimes a father?” the inspector retorted brusquely, feeling slightly irritated by the cliché.

  “I meant that with Susanna’s life in danger, if Giulia weren’t so sick, she wouldn’t have hesistated a second to ask Antonio for help.”

  “And you think your brother won’t?”

  “Salvatore has a lot of pride.”

  The same word the former Peruzzo employee used.

  “So you think there’s no way he would ever give in?”

  “My God, ‘no way,’ I can’t say. Maybe, if put under enough pressure…”

  “Like receiving one of his daughter’s ears in the mail?”

  He’d said it on purpose. The whole manner in which the doctor had set about telling the story had put his nerves on edge. The man acted like he had nothing to do with any of it, even though he’d personally thrown in two hundred and fifty million lire. He only got upset when Susanna’s name was mentioned. This time, however, the doctor gave such a start that Montalbano could feel it in the bench they were sitting on, which shook a little.

  “Would they go so far?”

  “They could go even farther than that, if they want.”

  He’d succeeded in rousing the doctor. In the wan light filtering out the living room’s French doors, he saw him reach into his pocket, pull out a handkerchief, and wipe his brow. What he needed to do now was to pry open the chink he’d opened in Carlo Mistretta’s armor.

  “I’m going to tell it to you straight, Doctor. The way things stand right now, we haven’t the slightest idea who the kidnappers are or where they’re keeping Susanna prisoner. Not even a vague idea, despite the fact that we’ve found your niece’s helmet and backpack. Did you know we’d found them?”

  “No, this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  A long, deep silence ensued. Because Montalbano was waiting for the doctor to ask a question. A natural question that any other person would have asked. The doctor, however, didn’t open his mouth. So the inspector decided to go on.

  “If your brother doesn’t take the initiative, the kidnappers could take that as a sign that he’s not willing to cooperate.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Try to persuade your brother to make some overture to Antonio.”

  “That won’t be easy.”

  “Tell him that otherwise you’ll have to make the overture yourself. Or is it too hard for you, too?”

  “Well, yes, it’s very difficult for me too, you know. But certainly not as hard as it is for Salvatore.”

  He stood up stiffly.

  “Shall we go back inside?”

  “I think I’d like to get a little more air.”

  “Well, I’m going in. I’ll go see how Giulia’s doing, and if Salvatore’s awake, which I doubt, I’ll tell him what you said to me. If not, I’ll tell him tomorrow morning. Good night.”

  Montalbano didn’t have the time to finish a cigarette before he saw the doctor’s silhouette come out of the living room, slip into his SUV, and drive off.

  Apparently Salvatore hadn’t been awake and the doctor hadn’t been able to talk to him.

  The inspector got up and went into the house. Fazio was reading a newspaper, Minutolo had his head buried in a novel, and the uniformed policeman was looking at a travel magazine.

  “Sorry to disrupt the quiet contemplation of your reading group,” said Montalbano. Then, turning to Minutolo, “I need to talk to you.”

  They withdrew into a corner of the room, and the inspector told him everything he’d learned from the doctor.

  While driving home, he glanced at his watch. Christ, was it late! Surely Livia’d already gone to bed. So much the better, because if she was still up, the usual squabble, sure as death, was bound to break out. He opened the door gently. The house was dark, but the outside light on the veranda was on. And there was Livia, in a heavy sweater, sitting on the bench in front of half a glass of wine.

  Montalbano bent down to kiss her.

  “Forgive me.”

  She returned his kiss. The inspector heard singing in his head. There would be no quarrel tonight. Livia, however, seemed melancholy.

  “Did you stay home waiting for me?”

  “No. Beba called and told me Mimì was in the hospital. So I went to see him.”

  10

  A sudden pang of jealousy. Absurd, of course, but he couldn’t help it. Could Livia be melancholy because Mimì lay in a hospital bed?

  “How is he?”

  “He’s got two broken ribs. They’re discharging him tomorrow. He’ll have to take care of himself at home.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, I couldn’t wait any longer,” said Livia, getting up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to warm up some—”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll get some stuff from the fridge.”

  He returned with a dish covered with green and black olives and Ragusan caciocavallo. In his other hand, a glass and a bottle of wine. The bread he’d slipped under his arm. He sat down. Livia gazed at the sea.

  “I can’t stop thinking about that girl who was kidnapped,” she said without turning, “and something you said to me the first time we talked about it.”

  In a way, Montalbano felt reassured. Livia’s melancholy was not for Mimì but for Susanna.

  “What did I say?”

  “That the day she was kidnapped, she went to her boyfriend’s apartment to make love.”

  “So?”

  “But you told me that normally it was always the boy who had to ask; whereas that day, Susanna herself took the initiative.”

  “What does that mean, in your opinion?”

  “That maybe she had a premonition of what was going to happen.”

  Montalbano said nothing. He didn’t believe in premonitions, prophetic dreams, or things of that nature.

  After a brief silence, Livia asked:

  “Are you getting anywhere?”

  “Just two hours ago, I had neither compass nor sextant.”

  “And now you’ve got both?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  He began telling her what he’d learned. When he’d finished speaking, Livia looked puzzled.

  “I really don’t see what conclusions you can draw from the story this Dr. Mistretta told you.”

  “No conclusions at all, Livia. But it provides many starting points, many indications that I didn’t have before.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the fact—and I’m convinced of this—that they wanted to kidnap not the daughter of Salvatore Mistretta but the niece of Antonio Peruzzo. He’s the one with the dough. And there’s no saying she was kidnapped only for the ransom money; there’s also the revenge motive. When Peruzzo went bankrupt, he must have messed up many people’s lives. And the kidnappers’ strategy is to drag Antonio Peruzzo slowly into the middle of this. Slowly, so that nobody realizes that they wanted to get to him from the start. Whoever organized this kidnapping knew what had happened between Antonio and his sister; they knew that Antonio was beholden to the Mistrettas, and that, as Susanna’s godfather, he was responsible…”

  He trailed off, wanting to bite his tongue. Livia cast a placid glance at him; she looked like an angel.

  “Why don’t you continue? Did you suddenly remember that you yourself want to become the godfather at the baptism of a criminal’s son, and that you may soon have some serious responsibilities of your own?”

  “Can we please drop that subject?”

  “No, I think we should explore it.”

  They explored it, squabbled, made peace, and went to bed.

  At three twenty-seven and forty seconds, time’s mechanism jammed again. But this time the clack sounded far away, and only half woke him up.

  It was as if the inspector had spoken to crows. (Indeed, people in Vigàta and environs believe that to those who can understand them, these black birds, garrulous crea
tures that they are, communicate the latest news on the doings of human beings, since they have a clear view—a bird’s-eye view, in fact—of the whole.) What happened was that around ten o’clock the following morning, when Montalbano was in his office, the bomb exploded. Minutolo called.

  “Do you know what’s up at TeleVigàta?”

  “No. Why?”

  “They’ve interrupted all their programming. There’s only a notice saying that in ten minutes there’s going to be a special edition of the news.”

  “I guess they’re acquiring a taste for it.”

  He hung up and rang Nicolò Zito.

  “What’s this business about a special news broadcast at TeleVigàta?”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Have the kidnappers got back in touch with you?”

  “No. But since we gave them no satisfaction last time…”

  The inspector went to the café near the station. The television was on, displaying a notice for the upcoming broadcast. Some thirty people had gathered round, also awaiting the special edition. Apparently word had spread fast. The notice then disappeared, and the TeleVigàta News logo appeared, with the words Special Edition underneath. When all this disappeared, the chicken-ass face of Pippo Ragonese appeared.

  “Dear viewers, about an hour ago, in the morning mail, our editorial offices received a perfectly normal-looking envelope, posted in Vigàta, with no return address, and with our address written in block letters. Inside was a Polaroid snapshot of Susanna Mistretta, who is being held prisoner. We cannot show it to you because we had it sent immediately to the magistrate conducting the investigation, as it was our legal duty to do. On the other hand, we believe it is our journalistic duty to inform you of this development. Susanna is shown at the bottom of some sort of dry well, wearing a heavy chain around her ankle. She is neither blindfolded nor gagged. She is sitting on the ground, atop some rags, her arms around her knees, and looking up with tears in her eyes. On the back of the photo, also in block letters, are the enigmatic words: ‘To the person concerned.’”

  He paused, and the camera zoomed in on him. A very close close-up. Montalbano had the distinct impression that at any moment a nice warm egg might come out of Ragonese’s mouth.

  “The instant we first learned of the girl’s kidnapping, our hard-working editorial staff sprang into action. What point was there, we asked ourselves, in kidnapping a girl whose family is in no way able to pay any ransom? Thus we immediately steered our investigation in what turned out to be the right direction.”

  Like hell you did, asshole! Montalbano said to himself. You immediately fingered the immigrants!

  “And today we’ve come up with a name,” Ragonese continued, his voice sounding like something out of a horror film. “The name of the person who is in a position to pay the ransom demanded. He is not the girl’s father, but perhaps her godfather. The words on the back of the photo, To the person concerned, are addressed to him. Out of our longstanding and continuous respect for privacy, we won’t mention his name. But we implore him to intervene, as he can and must, without any further delay.”

  Ragonese’s face disappeared, and a hush came over the café. Montalbano left and returned to his office. The kidnappers had got what they wanted. He’d barely sat down when Minutolo called again.

  “Montalbano? The judge just sent me the photo that asshole was talking about. Do you want to see it?”

  Minutolo was alone in the villa’s living room.

  “Where’s Fazio?”

  “He went into town. He had to go sign something for some bank account of his,” Minutolo replied, handing him the photo.

  “Where’s the envelope?”

  “Forensics kept it.”

  The photo looked a bit different from the way Ragonese had described it. First of all, it was obvious she was not in a well, but in some sort of cement vat or cistern a good ten feet deep. It clearly hadn’t been used for a long time, because on the left-hand side there was a long crack that started at the very top and ran about a foot and half downward, growing wider at the end.

  Susanna was in the position he’d described, but she wasn’t crying. On the contrary. In her expression Montalbano noticed a determination even stronger than he’d seen in the other photo. She was sitting not on rags, but on an old mattress. And there was no chain around her ankle. Ragonese had made it up, no doubt to add color. In any case, never in a million years could the girl escape on her own. Beside her, but almost outside the frame, were a dish and a plastic glass. She was wearing the clothes she’d had on when she was abducted.

  “Has her father seen this?”

  “Are you kidding? Not only have I not let him see the photo, I haven’t let him watch TV. I told the nurse not to let him out of his room.”

  “Did you inform the uncle?”

  “Yes, but he said he couldn’t come for another two hours.”

  As he asked his questions, the inspector kept looking at the photograph.

  “They’re probably keeping her in a rainwater cistern that’s no longer in use,” said Minutolo.

  “Out in the country?”

  “Well, yes. They probably used to have these kinds of tanks here in town, but now I don’t think it’s very likely. Anyway, she’s not gagged. She could scream if she wanted to. If she was in some inhabited area, people would hear her.”

  “She’s also not wearing a blindfold, for that matter.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything, Salvo. They could put on ski masks when they go visit her.”

  “They must have used a ladder to put her down there,” said Montalbano. “Which they lower whenever she needs to come up. And they probably feed her by lowering a basket on a rope.”

  “If we’re in agreement, then,” said Minutolo, “I’ll ask the commissioner to intensify the searches across the countryside. Especially around farmhouses. The photo, at least, was good for one thing: We know now she’s not being held in a cave.”

  Montalbano was about to hand back the photograph, but changed his mind and continued to study it carefully.

  “Something not look right to you?”

  “The light,” replied Montalbano.

  “They probably just put a lamp down there.”

  “Okay. But not just any lamp.”

  “You’re not going to tell me they used a floodlight!”

  “No. They used one of those lights that mechanics use…You know, when they need to look at a motor in a garage…One of those with a long cord…See these regular lines of shadow that intersect? They’re a projection of the broad-mesh screen that protects the lightbulb.”

  “And so?”

  “But that’s not the light that doesn’t look right to me. There must be some other light source, because it’s casting a shadow on the rim across from it. See? The person taking the photo is not standing on the edge, but beside it, and he’s leaning forward to take the shot of Susanna below. This means that the sides of the cistern are quite thick and slightly above ground level. To cast this sort of shadow, the man taking the snapshot must have some kind of light behind him. But, mind you, if it was an intense light, the shadow would be deeper and more sharply defined.”

  “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

  “There was an open window behind the photographer.”

  “So?”

  “So does it seem logical to you for them to photograph a kidnapped girl with the window open and not put a gag on her?”

  “But that merely confirms my hypothesis! They’re holding her at some godforsaken country farmhouse, and she can scream all she wants! Nobody will hear her, even with all the windows open!”

  “Bah,” said Montalbano, flipping the photo over. TO THE PERSON CONCERNED

  Written in block letters with a ballpoint pen by someone clearly accustomed to writing in Italian. Still, there was something odd, something forced, about the handwriting.

  “I also noticed,” said Minutolo. “He didn’t try to falsify
his handwriting. It looks rather like somebody left-handed trying to write with his right hand.”

  “To me it looks like it was written slowly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t really explain it. It’s as though somebody with bad, almost illegible handwriting had forced himself to trace every letter clearly, and thus had to slow down his normal writing speed. Then there’s another thing. The letter T beginning the word the is written over something, as if to correct it. One can clearly see that a W was written there first. He’d probably intended to write ‘To whom it may concern,’ then changed it to ‘To the person concerned.’ Which is more precise. The person who kidnapped Susanna or masterminded the operation is not just any old thug but someone who understands the importance of words.”

  “You really are very good,” said Minutolo. “But as things stand now, where do your deductions lead us?”

  “As things stand now, nowhere.”

  “Then shall we try to think about what we need to do? In my opinion, the first thing is to get in touch with Antonio Peruzzo. Do you agree?”

  “Absolutely. Have you got his number?”

  “Yes. While I was waiting for you, I did a little research. At present Peruzzo has three or four businesses that are subsidiary to a kind of central office in Vigàta, called Progresso Italia.”

  Montalbano sneered.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “How could it be otherwise? In perfect keeping with the times. Italy’s progress is in the hands of a crook!”

  “You’re wrong, because officially everything’s in his wife’s name, Valeria Cusumano. Although I’m convinced the lady has never set foot in that office.”

  “Okay, call him up.”

  “No, you call him. Set up an appointment and go talk to him. Here’s the number.”

  The scrap of paper Minutolo handed him had four phone numbers on it. The inspector chose to dial the one for “Senior Management.”

  “Hello? This is Inspector Montalbano. I need to speak with Antonio Peruzzo.”

  “Mr. Peruzzo’s out.”

  Montalbano felt his nerves begin to fray.

  “Out of the office? Out of town? Out of his mind? Out of—”