The Other End of the Line

by Andrea Camilleri

  Augello seemed to turn into a pillar of salt.

  “The beautiful Elena . . .” he whispered.

  “But what happened during the landing?” Montalbano asked.

  “And you don’t give me any guff, either! How was Elena killed? What the hell happened? Eh? Did they shoot her? Was it an accident? How the fuck is that possible?”

  “Mimì, I have no idea. They found her in her shop, carved up with at least twenty-two scissor wounds.”

  “She was killed with a pair of scissors?”

  “Yes. Tailor’s scissors, the long, fat kind.”

  “It was probably some jilted lover. Losing a woman like that would be hard to swallow.”

  “I don’t know, Mimì. All I know is that whoever did it, did it with as much hatred and ferocity as he could muster. But are you going to tell me what happened here or aren’t you?”

  Mimì seemed to have lost all interest in what had happened during the landing.

  “What can I say, Salvo? Your plan worked like a dream. But all hell broke loose when the families of the four dead people refused to get on the bus. They wanted to stay with their dead. The only problem was, Sileci was against it, and that triggered a nice little scuffle. Three or four migrants took advantage of the confusion to try and run away. That was when I rang you.”

  “And then what?” asked Montalbano.

  “And then Dr. Osman was finally able to make peace. And now I’m outta here. I’m going home to get some sleep.”

  “Godspeed!” said Montalbano, raising his head and starting back towards his car.

  8

  He reached for the handle to open the door, but then changed his mind. His head felt heavy, as if all the thoughts in his brain were tied up in knots. Maybe a bit of sea air would do him good.

  He started walking and came to the edge of the dock.

  And here he stopped, and started breathing deeply. With each mouthful of night-scented air that entered his lungs, he could feel his thoughts disentangling, his brain becoming light and alert again.

  He got back in the car, turned on the engine, but did not drive away.

  Twisting and turning his entire body, and cursing the saints all the while, he managed to extract his cell phone from his jeans pocket.

  He rang Fazio.

  “How far along are you guys?”

  “We’ve got enough to keep us busy for another hour, hour and a half, Chief.”

  “Okay. Have you got Meriam’s number within reach?”

  “Yeah, Chief. Both the cell phone and the land line.”

  “Gimme both.”

  He set the phone down on the passenger’s seat and, unable to find a clean piece of paper, wrote the numbers on the back of the car registration.

  Finally he drove off, straight to Via Alloro.

  * * *

  He pulled up outside number 14. Grabbing his cell phone, he rang Meriam’s land line. The phone rang a long time before the woman’s sleepy voice replied:

  “Hello! Who is this?”

  “It’s Inspector Montalbano.”

  He clearly heard her hold her breath. Then she asked, alarmed:

  “Has something happened to Leena?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to come to the port?”

  “No. I need to talk to you.”

  “All right. In half an hour I—”

  “I’m right outside your place,” Montalbano interrupted her. “As soon as you’re ready, please buzz me in.”

  He got out of the car and locked it. Firing up a cigarette, he approached the main door.

  * * *

  A short while later, he heard her voice over the speaker:

  “Are you there, Inspector?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  The front door clicked, and Montalbano pushed it open, went inside, and climbed the stairs slowly, trying to think of what words to use to break the terrible news to Meriam.

  She was waiting for him outside her open door.

  Her eyes met Montalbano’s at once, and it was as though she’d read his mind, because her face suddenly changed expression. But she said nothing. She stepped aside just enough to let the inspector in. Closing the door, she led him into a small sitting room and gestured for him to sit down.

  She, on the other hand, remained standing in silence, not once taking her eyes off him.

  Then she asked:

  “Shall I make you some coffee?”

  “That would be wonderful,” said the inspector, who still hadn’t figured out where to begin.

  Meriam raced out of the room as if feeling relieved not to have to remain in the same room with him. Or, at least, that was Montalbano’s impression.

  Too many times he’d felt like the bird of ill omen, too many times he’d been forced to enter people’s lives with bad news that would in turn destroy those same lives.

  And yet, despite all that experience, he still had never found a proper way to bear such news, or at least to make it seem a little less harsh, even to himself.

  Meriam took a good while to return with a tray and coffee, and Montalbano noticed, upon seeing her, that her eyes were red, and that she’d washed her face in the meantime.

  The woman sat down without speaking.

  Montalbano sipped his coffee, and was about to open his mouth when Meriam beat him to it.

  “It’s about Elena, isn’t it?” she asked.

  He very nearly choked on his coffee. How did she know? He felt puzzled, but at the same time relieved, because Meriam was sparing him the hardest part of his task.

  “Yes,” he said.

  She buried her face in her hands and started crying in silence, her body shaking with sobs she tried to suppress. Then she said, “Excuse me,” and she got up and left the room again.

  A few minutes later she returned and sat back down. This time Montalbano was the first to speak.

  “She was murdered,” he said.

  “When?” asked Meriam, though it was not so much by her voice but by the movement of her lips that Montalbano understood the question.

  “Around eleven p.m.”

  “How?”

  “With a large pair of tailoring scissors.”

  “But who would do such a thing?” Meriam asked, more to herself than to the inspector.

  “I don’t know the answer. But now you must tell me why you immediately thought of Elena.”

  “I really don’t know, Inspector . . . Yesterday afternoon, when we left, I . . . I had a strange feeling. Actually, shortly after you’d done your fitting, Signora Elena literally chased us out of the shop. She said she needed to be alone. But she was clearly upset, very upset, to the point that she started tearing up, with her own hands, some of the fabrics that had just arrived. I’d never seen her act that way. She was impolite, almost rude. Even with Nicola.”

  “Why with Nicola?”

  “Well, Inspector, Nicola sees himself as a kind of father to Elena. His wife died some years ago, and his children live up north. He spends much of his day in the shop, and often, when Elena closes up, he stays behind, working, tidying up, cleaning . . . The shop is sort of his home. And yesterday evening Elena practically had to shout at him to leave, because Nicola wanted to stay.”

  “Do you have any idea why Elena might have been so upset? Any suspicions?”

  “Elena is very reserved. She really doesn’t talk much about her private life.”

  “Do you know if she has any relatives?”

  “Her parents are both dead, and she was an only child. I don’t know if she has any close relatives, but I know her sister-in-law, who lives here in town.”

  “So Elena’s married?”

  “Yes, or she was, to a man from Vigàta, but he died many years ago, when she was still very young, and so she d
ecided to come and live here, because she gets along very well with Teresa, her sister-in-law.”

  “Could you give me her address?”

  “Of course. Via della Regione, number 18. But I’d like to be there when you go. I’m afraid Teresa won’t be able—”

  “Yes, of course you can come. I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow morning, before I go.”

  “All right, thank you.”

  Silence descended. Then Meriam, as though embarrassed, asked:

  “Where is she now?”

  “I think she’s still in the big room at the shop. That’s where we found her.”

  Meriam looked bewildered.

  “I would have thought,” she said, “that she’d be . . . in her apartment.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. The shop is . . . you know, just for customers . . . When she chased us out I had the feeling she was waiting for someone she didn’t want us to meet.”

  “You may be right. It appears that Elena didn’t eat alone last night. Why she then went downstairs with her killer, I can’t say. They must have had an argument . . .”

  At this point Meriam couldn’t take it any longer.

  She started rocking back and forth, still from a sitting position, while from her lips came a sort of wailing lament. The words were in Arabic, but it sounded exactly like what one hears during the Good Friday processions.

  “Meriam . . .” he called to her softly.

  But she didn’t even hear him.

  So Montalbano stood up, went over to her, stroked her head gently, left the room, descended the stairs, opened the front door, got back in his car, and headed off in the direction of the police station. But then he merely drove past it, because he’d already decided to go home and take off those goddamn jeans, which made him feel as though he was trapped in a cage.

  Entering his house, he dashed straight into the bedroom.

  He lay down on the bed. This time he counted to five, sucked in his belly, and was finally able to pull down his jeans, which remained stuck, however, around his shoes. He took these off and, cursing to high heaven while executing a move worthy of a fakir, managed to pull one leg of the jeans off by turning it inside out, and with his free foot he seized the hem of the other jeans leg and pulled as though in a tug-of-war.

  Free at last, he went and selected, following the law of opposites, a pair of trousers that were way too big for him. He put these on and raced out of the house.

  * * *

  In Catarella’s place was another officer he was unfamiliar with. He walked past him, not bothering to wake him up, and went into Fazio’s office.

  Fazio, too, was in a deep sleep, head cradled in his arms, which were folded on his desk. The inspector put a hand on his shoulder and shook him.

  “Whaaa . . . !” said Fazio, opening his eyes.

  “Come with me.”

  In the twinkling of an eye, Fazio shook off his sleepiness and fatigue and followed him into his office.

  “Chief, before anything else, I need to tell you about something weird that happened to me.”

  “So tell me.”

  “After the traveling circus had left and put seals over the door, an old man suddenly came up holding a packet, and when he asked me what had happened, I told him the whole story. Matre santa, Chief! You wouldn’t believe his reaction! He immediately started crying like a baby. I was afraid he was gonna fall, so I grabbed him, and since he couldn’t stand on his own two feet, I brought him over to my car and sat him down. When he finally managed to calm down a little, he explained that he worked at the tailor’s shop and that he’d baked a ciambella for Signora Elena during the night. And since I realized he might be able to tell us something, I brought him back with me here. He’s in the waiting room.”

  “It must be Nicola. Go and get him.”

  The little old man came in, practically held up by Fazio, and when Montalbano approached him, he nearly threw himself in the inspector’s arms.

  “Now, now, Nicola!” said Montalbano, sitting him down.

  Nicola set the packet on the table.

  “Was this something you did every morning?” asked Montalbano.

  “Did what?”

  “Bring her breakfast.”

  “No, sir. Not every morning. Just every so often.”

  “Did Elena always wake up so early?”

  “No, Inspector. Usually around seven. But I . . .”

  He stopped.

  “Go on.”

  “But I had a bad night.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened yesterday afternoon.”

  “Why, what happened? Can you tell me about it?”

  “Okay. Right after we did your fitting, Elena wanted us all out of the shop. And since I wanted to stay, because there was still a lot of stuff that had to be done, she started yelling at me and insulting me. She’d never done that before. She reminded me that I was nothing but a simple hired hand and that she was the one who gave the orders. The thing is, Inspector, I know she didn’t really think those things; she was just saying them to make me mad and leave. So, even though I knew it wasn’t true, I put the fabrics back on the shelves, I got the others to help me clear the big worktable, and then we all left. And I went home feeling really, really worried.”

  “Do you have any idea why Elena was so agitated?”

  “No, sir, no idea at all. Don’t you remember how she was when we were doing the fitting? All smiling as usual, cheerful and calm. Then all of a sudden she changed. She wanted us all to leave, ’cause it was clear she wanted to be alone. But . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “But thing is, Inspector, I was scared. So, after Elena closed up the shop and pulled down the shutter, I went back to Via Garibaldi and hung around in view of her front door. I was convinced she was waiting for someone and that this visitor was the reason she got so upset. I stayed there for about an hour, but I didn’t see anyone go in or come out, and so I went home.”

  “Listen to me carefully, Nicola,” said Montalbano. “After I left, did Elena go upstairs into her apartment?”

  “No, sir. She went straight back into the big room.”

  “Another question: Just before telling you all to leave the shop, did she by any chance receive a phone call, on her cell phone or land line?”

  “No, sir. There weren’t any phone calls. You have to believe me, Inspector. Nothing out of the ordinary happened yesterday. If anything happened it was only inside her head. And I can’t get any rest over it.”

  “Nicola, Meriam mentioned to me that Elena has a sister-in-law, but didn’t tell me anything else. Do you know this woman?”

  “Of course. Teresa Messina! They’re really more than sisters-in-law, you know. They’re just like real sisters. Teresa’s got two little kids who just adore Elena. Oh, but, Jesus! Jesus Christ! And who’s gonna tell her now? Teresa’s already lost her brother, her father, and her mother, and now Elena! It’s just not right, Inspector! Who could ever wish any harm to such a good, generous, bighearted woman! It’s really true that the best are the first to go!”

  Nicola started crying again.

  Montalbano let him get it out of his system, then said:

  “Listen, Nicola. I am definitely going to be needing you—”

  Fazio interrupted him.

  “I’ve already got his address and phone number.”

  Nicola stood up. Montalbano shook his hand, then pulled him towards himself and hugged him.

  “Try to be strong,” he said.

  Nicola looked him in the eyes and said:

  “What for?”

  “Because life, unfortunately, goes on,” said Montalbano. Then, turning to Fazio: “Have somebody drive him home.”

  Fazio returned almost immediately.


  “Tell me what Forensics said,” the inspector ordered him.

  “Since the killer would have been covered in blood, he must have taken care to remove his shoes, meticulously avoided leaving any traces, then went upstairs, into Signora Elena’s bathroom, and took a shower. Forensics found blood in the shower stall. Almost certainly the victim’s. They took a sampling of it for testing. And another thing: There are no fingerprints on the shower’s sliding glass door, and not even on the taps. Which means the killer wiped them away with the towels. There are no traces anywhere, not even on the scissors. He probably wiped them down with the piece of fabric they found beside them.”

  “And what do you yourself think?” asked the inspector.

  “Chief, if you ask me, we’re looking at a crime of passion. Some kind of rash act, probably triggered by an argument. The fact remains, however, that the killer spared her chest.”

  “And what does Forensics say about that?”

  “They say it’s almost impossible it was an accident. That there was clear intentionality in avoiding her breasts.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “How should I know!”

  “You know what you need to do, starting this very morning?”

  “Yeah, Chief.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “A woman like that had to have a man around.”

  “I agree. Good luck in your endeavors,” said the inspector.

  “Thanks,” Fazio replied, getting up and leaving the room.

  Montalbano glanced at his watch. It was already almost seven.

  By now Livia must already be drinking her first morning coffee. He dialed her number at home.

  “Livia?”

  “Salvo, what is it?” she replied with surprise and concern.

  “I have some bad news. Elena, the tailor, was murdered last night.”

  “You are such an asshole!” Livia yelled, hanging up.

  Montalbano got angry.

  Did she really think he was so cynical as to joke about something like death?

  He felt so upset he dialed the wrong number twice.