Patience of the Spider

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Of course,” he said with a smile.

  No, on further inspection it was not a smile that played on Carlo Mistretta’s lips, but rather a smirk. Or more precisely, a sneer.

  “Why haven’t you reported this?”

  “Because there are no legal grounds for prosecution. One can only report it to God in heaven, if one believes in Him.

  But He, I’m sure, is well aware of the situation.” Montalbano began to understand.

  “So, when you say Mrs. Mistretta has been poisoned, you’re speaking somewhat metaphorically, I gather?”

  “Let’s say I’m not sticking to a strictly scientific vocabulary.

  I’m using words and expressions that, as a doctor, I ought not to use. But you didn’t come here for medical advice.”

  “And with what has Mrs. Mistretta been poisoned?”

  “With life. As you see, I keep using words that would be unacceptable in any diagnosis. She’s been poisoned by life. Or, better yet: Someone has cruelly forced her to enter an obscene realm of existence. And at a certain point, Giulia refused to go any further. She dropped all her defenses, all resistance, and gave up the will to live.” He was well-spoken, this Carlo Mistretta. But the inspector needed to hear facts, not well-turned sentences.

  “Excuse me, Doctor, but I’m required to ask you more.

  Was it the husband, perhaps unwittingly, who . . . ?” Carlo Mistretta’s lips parted, uncovering just the edge of his teeth. This, on the other hand, was his manner of smiling.

  “My brother? Are you kidding? He would give his own life for his wife. And when you know the whole story, you’ll see that your suspicion was absurd.”

  “A lover?”

  The doctor looked dazed.

  “Eh?”

  “I was saying, perhaps another man, some amorous disappointment, if you don’t mind my—”

  “I believe the only man in Giulia’s life has always been my brother.”

  At this point Montalbano lost patience. He’d grown fed up with playing charades. On top of this, he wasn’t too keen on this Dr. Mistretta. He was about to open his mouth to ask more questions when the doctor, as though sensing the inspector’s change of mood, raised his hand to stop him.

  “A brother,” he said.

  Jesus Christ! Now where’d this brother come from? Whose brother?

  He’d known from the start that between all the brothers, uncles, in-laws, nephews, and nieces, this case was going to drive him crazy.

  “Giulia’s brother,” the doctor continued.

  “Mrs. Mistretta has a brother?”

  “Yes. Antonio.”

  “And why hasn’t he—”

  “He hasn’t been heard from in the current crisis because he and Giulia haven’t spoken for some time. A long time.” At this point something happened that often happened to Montalbano during the course of an investigation. That is, a variety of apparently unrelated facts all came together at once in his brain, each piece assuming its proper place in the puzzle.

  And this occurred even before he had full knowledge of them. Thus it was the inspector’s own lips, almost entirely of their own will, that said:

  “Shall we say six years?”

  The doctor looked at him in surprise.

  “Do you already know the whole story?”

  Montalbano made a gesture that meant nothing.

  “No, not six years,” the doctor corrected him, “but it’s true that it all began six years ago. You see, my sister-in-law, Giulia, and her brother,Antonio, who is three years her junior, were orphaned in early childhood. A terrible misfortune.

  Their parents died in a railway accident. They owned a bit of property. The orphans were taken in by an uncle from the mother’s side, a bachelor, who treated them well and with great affection. Giulia and Antonio became very attached as they grew up, as often happens with orphaned siblings. Shortly after Giulia’s sixteenth birthday, the uncle died. He had very little money, and so Giulia left school so that Antonio could continue his studies. She took a job as a salesgirl. Salvatore, my brother, met her when she was twenty and fell in love with her. Actually, they both fell in love. But Giulia refused to marry him before Antonio had graduated and found a decent job. She never accepted the least bit of financial help from her future husband. She did everything herself. Finally Antonio became an engineer, found a good job, and Giulia and Salvatore could get married. Three years later, my brother was offered a job in Uruguay. He accepted and went to live there with his wife. Meanwhile—” The trill of the telephone shattered the silence of the villa and the surrounding countryside like a burst of Kalashnikov fire. The doctor sprang to his feet and went over to the console the phone was on.

  “Hello? . . . Yes, what is it? . . . When? . . . Yes, I’ll be right over . . . Inspector Montalbano’s here with me; would you like to speak with him?”

  He was pale. He turned around and, without a word, handed the receiver to the inspector. It was Fazio.

  “Chief? I tried you at the office and at home, but nobody could tell me where . . . Listen, the kidnappers just called, not ten minutes ago . . . I think it’s better if you come here yourself.” “I’m on my way.”

  “Just a minute,” said Carlo Mistretta. “I need to go get some medication for Salvatore. He’s very distraught.” He went out. They’d phoned sooner than they’d said.

  Why? Perhaps something had gone wrong for them and they no longer had much time? Or was it simply a tactic to confuse everyone? The doctor returned with a small handbag.

  “I’ll go out first, and you can follow me in your car.

  There’s a shortcut to my brother’s house from here.”

  09

  They arrived in less than half an hour. A uniformed policeman from Montelusa who didn’t know the inspector opened the gate. He let the doctor pass and then blocked Montalbano’s car.

  “Who are you?”

  “What I wouldn’t give to know! Let’s just say that, conventionally speaking, I’m Inspector Montalbano.” The policeman gave him a puzzled look, but let him drive through. In the living room they found only Minutolo and Fazio.

  “Where is my brother?” the doctor asked.

  “Listen,” said Minutolo, “when listening to the phone call he nearly passed out. So I went upstairs to call the nurse, who roused him and persuaded him to go lie down.”

  “I’m going upstairs,” said the doctor.

  And he left, bag in hand. Fazio, meanwhile, had set up the equipment near the telephone.

  “This one’s also a recorded message,” Minutolo began.

  “And this time they get to the point. Listen, and we’ll talk afterwards.”

  Pay close attention. Susanna’s health is fine, but she’s feeling desperate because she wishes she could be at her mother’s side.

  Get six billion lire ready. I repeat, six billion lire.The Mistrettas know where to find it. Goodbye.

  The same disguised male voice that was in the first recording.

  “Did you manage to trace the call?” Montalbano asked.

  “You ask such useless questions!” Minutolo retorted.

  “This time they didn’t let us hear Susanna’s voice.”

  “Right.”

  “And they talk in lire.”

  “How did you expect them to talk?” Minutolo asked sar-castically.

  “In euros.”

  “Isn’t it the same thing?”

  “No, it’s not. Unless you belong to that class of shopkeepers who think a thousand lire’s the same as a euro.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Nothing, just an impression.”

  “Say it.”

  “The person sending the message still thinks the old way.

  It’s comes more naturally to him to count in lire instead of euros. He didn’t say ‘three million euros,’ he said six billion lire. In short, it seems to me that the man on the phone is of a certain age.” “Or he’s clever enough to have us thinking that way,” said Minuto
lo. “He’s taking us for a ride the way he did when he scattered the helmet and backpack at the opposite ends of town.” “Can I go outside for a bit? I need some air,” said Fazio.

  “I’ll be back in five minutes. In any case, if the phone rings, you’re here to pick up.”

  Not that he really needed to go out. He just didn’t feel right, listening to a conversation between his superiors.

  “Go ahead, go ahead,” Minutolo and Montalbano said in unison.

  “But there is something new, and rather serious, in my opinion, in that phone call,” Minutolo resumed.

  “Right,” said Montalbano. “The kidnapper is certain that the Mistrettas know where to find six billion lire.”

  “Whereas we haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “But we could.”

  “How?”

  “By putting ourselves in the kidnappers’ shoes.”

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Not in the least. What I mean is that we, too, could force the Mistrettas to take the necessary steps in the right direction, the one that leads to the possible ransom money. And those steps might clear up a whole lot of things for us.” “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me sum it up for you. The kidnappers knew right from the start that the Mistrettas were not in any position to pay a ransom, and yet they kidnapped the girl anyway. Why?

  Because they also knew that the Mistrettas could, if necessary, get their hands on a large sum of money. Do you agree so far?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mind you, the kidnappers are not the only ones who know that the Mistrettas can do this.”

  “They’re not?”

  “No.”

  “And how do you know?”

  “Fazio reported two strange phone calls to me. Have him repeat them to you.”

  “And why didn’t he report them to me?”

  “It must have slipped his mind,” Montalbano lied.

  “Concretely speaking, what should I do?”

  “Have you informed the judge of this last message?”

  “Not yet. I’ll do it right now.”

  He made as if to lift the receiver.

  “Wait. You should suggest to him that, since the kidnappers have now made a specific request, he should put a restraining order on the assets of Mr. and Mrs. Mistretta, and then report this measure to the press.” “What would we gain from that? The Mistrettas don’t have a cent, and everybody knows it. It would be a pure formality.”

  “Of course. It would be a pure formality if it remained between you, me, the judge, and the Mistrettas. But I said the measure should be made known to the public. Public opinion may be full of shit, as some maintain, but it matters. And the public will begin to wonder if it’s true that the Mistrettas know where to find the money, and if so, they’ll ask themselves why they don’t do what they need to do to get their hands on it. It’s possible the kidnappers themselves will have to tell the Mistrettas what they need to do. And something will finally come out in the open. Because, on the face of it, my friend, this doesn’t look to me like a simple kidnapping.” “What is it, then?”

  “I don’t know. It gives me the impression of a billiards game, where one banks a shot off the cushion in front so that the ball will end up on the opposite side.”

  “You know what I say? As soon as he recovers a little, I’m going to put the squeeze on Susanna’s father.”

  “Go ahead. But keep one thing in mind. Even if, five minutes from now, we learn the truth from the Mistrettas, the judge must still proceed the way we said. With your permission, I’ll speak with the doctor as soon as he comes downstairs.

  I was at his house when Fazio called. He was telling me some interesting things, and I think the conversation is worth continuing.”

  At that moment Carlo Mistretta entered the room.

  “Is it true they asked for six billion lire?”

  “Yes,” said Minutolo.

  “My poor niece!” the doctor exclaimed.

  “Come, let’s go have a breath of air,” Montalbano invited him.

  The doctor followed him outside as though sleepwalking.

  They sat down on a bench. Montalbano saw Fazio hurry back into the living room. He was about to open his mouth when the doctor again beat him to it.

  “The phone call my brother just described to me relates directly to what I was telling you at my place.”

  “I’m sure it does,” said the inspector. “I think, therefore, that if you feel up to it, you need to—”

  “I feel up to it. Where were we?”

  “Your brother and his wife had just moved to Uruguay.”

  “Oh, yes. Less than a year later, Giulia wrote a long letter to Antonio, suggesting he come join them in Uruguay. The work prospects were excellent, the country was growing fast, and Salvatore had won the esteem of many important people and was in a position to help him . . . I forgot to mention that Antonio had got a degree in civil engineering—you know, bridges, viaducts, roads . . . Well, he accepted and came. In the early going, my sister-in-law supported him unstintingly. He remained in Uruguay for five years. Just think, they’d bought two apartments in the same building in Montevideo so they could be close to one another. Among other things, Salvatore sometimes had to leave home for months at a time for work, and he felt reassured to know that he wasn’t leaving his young wife alone. Anyway, to make a long story short, during those five years, Antonio made a fortune. Not so much as an engineer, the way my brother tells it, but through his skill in manipulating the various ‘free zones’ that were so numerous over there . . . which was a more or less legal way of evading taxes.” “Why did he leave?”

  “He said he was terribly homesick for Sicily. And he couldn’t stand being away any longer. And that, with all the money he now had, he could start up his own business over here. My brother later suspected, though not at the time, that there was a more serious reason.” “What was that?”

  “That maybe he’d made a wrong move and feared for his life. In the two months prior to his departure, his moods had become impossible, though Giulia and Salvatore attributed this to the fact that he was leaving soon. They were like a single family. And Giulia, in fact, suffered a great deal when her brother left. So much, in fact, that Salvatore accepted an offer to go work in Brazil just so that she could live in a new and different environment.” “And they didn’t see each other again until—”

  “Are you kidding? Aside from the fact that they continually called and wrote to each other, Giulia and Salvatore came to Italy at least once every two years and spent their vacations with Antonio. Just think, when Susanna was born . . .” At the mention of her name, the doctor’s voice cracked. “. . . When Susanna was born rather late in their marriage—they’d given up hope of having children—they brought the baby here so she could be baptized by Antonio, who was too busy to travel.

  Eight years ago, my brother and Giulia finally moved back.

  They were tired. They’d been all over South America and they wanted Susanna to grow up in Italy. On top of this, Salvatore had managed to put aside a good deal of money.”

  “Could you say he was a rich man?”

  “Frankly, yes. And it was I who took care of everything. I invested his savings in stocks, land, real estate . . . As soon as they arrived, Antonio announced that he was engaged and would soon be married. The news took Giulia entirely by surprise. Why hadn’t her brother ever mentioned having a girlfriend he intended to marry? She had her answer when Antonio introduced Valeria, his future wife, to her. A beautiful child, barely twenty years old. Antonio, by this point, was pushing fifty, and he went head over heels for the girl.” “Are they still married?” Montalbano asked with involun-tary malice.

  “Yes. But Antonio quickly discovered that to hold on to her, he had to cover her in gifts and fulfill her every desire.”

  “Did he ruin himself?”

  “No, that’s not what happened. ‘Operation Clean Hands’

  happene
d.”

  “Wait a minute,” Montalbano interrupted. “Operation Clean Hands started in Milan over ten years ago, when your brother and his wife were still abroad. And before Antonio got married.” “True. But you know how things go in Italy, don’t you?

  Everything that happens up north—Fascism, liberation, industrialization—takes a long time to reach us. Like a long, lazy wave. Anyway, a few magistrates finally woke up down here as well. And Antonio had won quite a few government contracts. Don’t ask me how, because I don’t know and I don’t want to know, though it’s not hard to imagine.” “Was he investigated?”

  “He made the first move himself. He’s a very clever man.

  To save himself from an eventual investigation that would surely have led to his arrest and conviction, he needed to make some papers disappear. He confessed this, in tears, to his sister, one evening six years ago. And he added that the operation would cost him two billion lire, which he needed to find in a month’s time, because he didn’t have the cash at that moment and didn’t want to borrow from the banks. Those were days when anything he did could be interpreted the wrong way.

  He said the whole thing almost made him laugh—or cry—

  because two billion lire was a trifle compared to the huge sums that often passed through his hands. And yet those two billion lire represented his salvation. And they would, of course, be only a loan. He pledged to repay the entire sum within three months, supplemented by any losses incurred by the hasty sell-off. Giulia and my brother stayed up an entire night discussing this. Salvatore would have given the shirt off his back to keep his wife from despairing. The following morning they phoned me and told me of Antonio’s request.” “And what did you do?”

  “I must confess that I reacted badly at first. Then I had an idea.”

  “What?”

  “I said the request seemed senseless, insane, to me. All he needed was to have Valeria sell her Ferrari, her boat, and some jewelry, and they would have their two million quite easily.

  Or, if he had trouble reaching that figure, Giulia and Salvatore could make up the difference. But only the difference. In short, I was trying to limit the damage.”