“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 sub-sidiary 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 “Se-nior 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—”
“Out of town,” the secretary cut him off coldly, sounding a bit miffed.
“When will he be back?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Where did he go?”
“To Palermo.”
“Do you know where he’s staying?”
“At the Excelsior.”
“Has he got a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“Please give me the number.”
“I really don’t know if—”
“Okay, you know what I’m going to do?” Montalbano said in the sinister tone of someone unsheathing a dagger in the shadows. “I’m going to go there and ask him for it myself.” “No! Okay, here it is.”
He wrote it down and phoned the hotel.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Peruzzo is not in his room.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Actually, he wasn’t even here last night.” The cell phone was turned off.
“Well, what do we do now?” asked Minutolo.
“We jerk off big-time,” said Montalbano, still on edge.
At that moment Fazio appeared.
“The whole town’s abuzz with rumors! Everybody’s talking about Engineer Peruzzo, the girl’s uncle. Even though they didn’t say his name on TV, everyone knew they meant him. Two factions have formed; one group says the engineer has got to pay the ransom, and the other says he’s under no obligation to his niece. But the first group’s a lot bigger. They almost came to blows at the Café Castiglione.” “Well, they’ve managed to screw Peruzzo,” was Montalbano’s comment.
“I’m going to have the phones bugged,” said Minutolo.
o o o
It didn’t take long for the rain falling from heaven onto Antonio Peruzzo to turn into the Great Flood. And this time, the engineer hadn’t had enough time to build himself an ark.
o o o
To all the faithful who went to the church to ask him his opinion, Father Stanzillà, the oldest and wisest priest in town, said there was no doubt about it, human or divine: The uncle must pay the ransom, since he was made the child’s godfather at her baptism. Moreover, by shelling out the money the kidnappers were asking, he would only be repaying the girl’s mother and father the huge sum he had pried away from them by deceit. And the priest told everyone about the two-billion-lire loan, a matter he knew all about, down to its finest details.
In short, he added a good dose of fuel to the fire. It was a good thing for Montalbano that Livia didn’t have any churchgoing girlfriends who could tell her what Father Stanzillà thought of the whole affair.
o o o
On the Free Channel News, Nicolò Zito announced to one and all that Antonio Peruzzo, in the face of this specific obligation, was suddenly nowhere to be found. Once again, the engineer had behaved true to form.This flight from a life-and-death matter, however, not only did not absolve him of his responsibility, it made it weigh all the more heavily upon him.
o o o
On TeleVigàta, Pippo Ragonese proclaimed that since Peruzzo was a victim of the communist judiciary who had managed to remake his fortune thanks to the new government’s initiatives to spur private enterprise, it was his moral duty to show that the confidence the banks and institutions had placed in him was well-founded. Especially since rumor had it—and it was certainly no secret—that he was considering running for public office among the ranks of those currently renovating Italy. Any gesture that could be interpreted as a re-jection of public opinion on his part could have fatal consequences for his political aspirations.
o o o
Titomanlio Giarrizzo, venerable former presiding judge of the Court of Montelusa, declared in an unwavering voice to his associates at the local chess club that if the kidnappers had appeared before his bench, he would have condemned them to the harshest of punishments but also praised them for having exposed the true face of that notorious scallywag, “Engineer” Antonio Peruzzo.
o o o
And Signora Concetta Pizzicato, who had a stand at the fish market with a sign that read cuncetta the clairvoyant fortune-teller’s live fish, replied to any and all who asked if Peruzzo would pay the ransom: “Cu al sangu sò fa mali morii> mangiatu da li maiali,” or “He who harms his own flesh and blood/ shall be eaten by pigs and die.”
o o o
“Hello? Progresso Italia? This is Inspector Montalbano. Have you heard from Enginee
r Peruzzo, by any chance?”
“No. No news.”
It was the same girl as before, except that now there was a shrill, almost hysterical tone to her voice.
“I’ll call back.”
“No, please, look, it’s useless. Mr. Nicotra has ordered all telephones to be cut off in ten minutes.”
“Why?”
“We’re getting dozens and dozens of calls . . . full of insults . . . obscenities.”
The girl was about to burst into tears.
1 3 9
0p>
11
Around five in the afternoon Gallo reported to Montalbano that a nasty rumor had spread about town which, if there was still any need, turned everyone against Antonio Peruzzo. The gossip had it that the engineer, to get out of paying the ransom, had asked a judge to freeze his assets. And that the judge had refused. The story didn’t seem to hold water, but the inspector decided to check it out anyway.
“Minutolo? Montalbano here. Do you know, by any chance, what the judge intends to do about Peruzzo?”
“Look, he just called me up and was beside himself.
Somebody told him there was a rumor—”
“I’ve already heard.”
“Well, he told me he’s had no contact of any sort, either direct or indirect, with Peruzzo. And that, for the moment, at least, he’s not authorized to freeze the assets of any of the Mistrettas’ family, friends, acquaintances, or neigh-bors . . . He went on and on, like a river overflowing its banks.” “Listen, have you still got Susanna’s photo?”
“Yes.”
“Could you lend it to me till tomorrow? I want to have a better look at it. I’ll send Gallo for it.”
“Still fixated on that business about the light?”
“Yes.”
It was a lie. The point wasn’t the light, but the shadow.
“Okay, Montalbano, but don’t lose it. I mean it. Otherwise, who’s going to deal with the judge?”
o o o
“Here’s the photo,” said Gallo half an hour later, handing him an envelope.
“Thanks. Send Catarella in here.”
Catarella arrived in a flash, tongue hanging out, like a dog responding to his master’s whistle.
“Your orders, Chief!”
“Listen, Cat, that trusty friend of yours . . . the guy who’s really good with photographs and can blow them up . . . what’s his name?”
“His name’s Cicco De Cicco his name is, Chief.”
“Is he still at Montelusa Central?”
“Yessir, Chief. Still posted at his post.”
“Excellent. Have Imbrò man the switchboard and go take this photo to him. Let me explain exactly what I want him to do.”
o o o
“There’s some kid wants to talk to you. His name’s Francesco Lipari.”
“Let him in.”
Francesco had lost weight. The dark circles under his eyes now took up half his face. He looked like the Masked Man of comic book fame.
“Have you seen the photo?” he asked without saying hello.
“Yes.”
“How is she?”
“Look, to begin with, she wasn’t in chains, as that asshole Ragonese claimed. And she’s not in a well, but inside an empty cistern at least ten feet deep. Given the circumstances, she looked like she was doing all right.” “Could I see the picture?”
“If you’d come earlier . . . I just sent it to Montelusa for an analysis.”
“What kind of analysis?”
He couldn’t very well tell Francesco everything he had in mind.
“It’s not about Susanna, but the place where they’re keeping her.”
“Can you tell if . . . if they’ve hurt her?”
“I really don’t think so.”
“Could you see her face?”
“Of course.”
“How did her eyes look?”
This kid was going to make a really good cop.
“She wasn’t scared. That’s probably the first thing I noticed. In fact, her expression looked very . . .”
“Determined?” said Francesco Lipari.
“Exactly.”
“I know her. It means she’s not giving in to her situation, and that sooner or later she’s going to try to escape. The kidnappers will have to watch her very closely.” He paused. Then he asked: “Do you think Peruzzo will pay up?” “The way things are going, he’s got no choice but to cough up the money.”
“Did you know that Susanna never said anything to me about this business between her mother and her uncle? I felt sort of bad when I heard about it.”
“Why?”
“Because I felt like she couldn’t confide in me.”
o o o
When Francesco left the office, feeling a little more relieved than when he’d entered, Montalbano sat there thinking about what the kid had just told him. There was no question that Susanna was courageous, and her look in the photo confirmed this. Courageous and resolved. Then why had her voice sounded so desperate when she asked for help in that first phone call? Was there not a contradiction between the voice and the image? Perhaps only an apparent contradiction.
The telephone recording was probably made only a few hours after she’d been kidnapped, when Susanna hadn’t yet regained control of herself and was still suffering from severe shock.
One can’t be courageous nonstop, twenty-four hours a day.
This was the only possible explanation.
o o o
“Chief, Cicco De Cicco says he’s gonna get on it straightaway and so the pitchers’ll be ready round nine aclack t’morrow morning.”
“I want you to pick them up yourself.”
Catarella suddenly assumed a mysterious manner, leaned forward, and said in a low voice:
“Are wese the only twos that knows about this, Chief?” Montalbano nodded, and Catarella walked out of the office stiff-legged, knees straight, arms swinging out from his sides with fingers spread. The pride of sharing a secret with his boss had changed him from a dog into a strutting peacock.
o o o
The inspector got in his car to go home, lost in thought. But could that confused tangle of meaningless words and indefin-able images that passed now and then through his head be really called thought? His mind seemed to have gone awry like a television set when the picture breaks apart into a sort of grainy zigzag of muddled interference that prevents you from watching what you want to watch and at the same time gives you a faded image of another simultaneous program, and you’re forced to fiddle with the settings, trying to find the cause of the disturbance and to make it go away.
Suddenly Montalbano no longer knew where he was. He no longer recognized the habitual landscape along the road to Marinella. The houses were different, the shops were different, the people were different. Jesus, where had he ended up?
He must certainly have made a wrong turn. But how was that possible, since he’d been taking this road at least twice a day for years?
He pulled over, stopped, had a look around, and then understood. Without realizing or wanting to, he’d taken the road to the Mistrettas’ villa. For a brief moment, his hands on the steering wheel and his feet on the pedals had acted on their own, without his taking the slightest notice. This happened to him sometimes. That is, his body would do things quite independently, as though not connected to his brain.
And when it did this, there was no point in opposing it, because there always turned out to be a reason.
What to do now? Turn around or continue? Naturally, he continued.
When he entered the living room, there were seven people there listening to Minutolo. They were standing around a big table that had been moved from its corner to the middle of the room. Spread out on the table was a giant map of Vigàta and surroundings, a military sort of map that showed everything down to the street lamps and back alleys where only dogs and goats went to pee.
From his headquarters, Commander-in-Chief Minutolo ordered his men
to conduct more intensive, and hopefully fruitful, searches. Fazio was in his usual place. By this point he had merged with the armchair in front of the little table holding the telephone and its related contraptions. Minutolo looked surprised to see Montalbano. Fazio made as if to get up.
“What is it? Did something happen?” asked Minutolo.
“No, no, it’s nothing,” said Montalbano, who was just as surprised to find himself there.
Some of those present greeted him, and he replied vaguely.
“I’m giving out orders for—” Minutolo began.
“I can see that,” said Montalbano.
“ ‘Did you wish to say something?” Minutolo politely invited him.
“Yes. No shooting. For any reason.”
“May I ask why?”
The question had been asked by a young guy, an up-and-coming assistant inspector, well-dressed, quick-tongued, and well-toned, with a lock of hair falling rakishly onto his forehead. He looked like a social-climbing business type. One saw so many of his ilk nowadays. A rapidly proliferating race of assholes. Montalbano took an immediate dislike to him.
“Because once, somebody like you shot and killed some wretch who had kidnapped a girl. The search went on, but in vain. The only person who could say where the girl was being held could no longer speak. She was found a month later, bound hand and foot, dead of starvation and dehydration. Satisfied?” A heavy silence descended. Why the hell had he come back to the villa? Was he, the old cop, merely turning uselessly round and round like a screw stripped of its threads?
He needed a sip of water. There had to be a kitchen somewhere in there. He found it at the end of a corridor. In the kitchen was a nurse, fiftyish and chubby, with an open, friendly face.
“You’re Inspector Montalbano, aren’t you? Would you like something?” she asked with a sympathetic smile.
“Yes, a glass of water, please.”
The woman poured him a glass of mineral water from a bottle she’d extracted from the refrigerator. As Montalbano drank, she filled a hot-water bottle with steaming water and made as if to leave.
“Just a minute,” the inspector said. “Where’s Mr. Mistretta?”
“He’s sleeping. It’s what the doctor wanted. And he’s right. I gave him some tranquilizers and sleeping pills, as he told me.”
“And Mrs. Mistretta? Is she better? Worse? Any news?”
Patience of the Spider Page 12
