The Other End of the Line

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Okay, okay,” said Montalbano. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “Past ten, Chief.”

  He’d slept for an hour and a half!

  “I’m gonna go wash my face. You go back to the switchboard,” he said to Catarella.

  He went into the bathroom, took off his jacket and shirt, leaving himself bare-chested, and washed himself all over. Then he dried himself off, put his clothes back on, and went to tell Catarella to make him a triple espresso. But he already felt quite a bit better, and so he called Meriam on her cell phone.

  “Sorry about just now, I was out of the room. Where are you?”

  “I’m at Teresa’s.”

  “Can I come there?”

  “Yes, Inspector, but I don’t know whether Teresa . . .”

  “All right, I’m going to try anyway.”

  He drank his triple espresso, got in his car, and was soon pulling up in Via della Regione.

  The person who opened the door was a handsome man of about fifty.

  “I’m Stefano Messina. Pleased to meet you.”

  He showed the inspector into a small sitting room.

  Montalbano summoned his courage and asked him whether, if need be, he could go and identify Elena’s body.

  “Of course.”

  “How is Signora Teresa?”

  “What can I say, Inspector. For Teresa it’s as if Franco has died a second time.”

  Franco must have been Elena’s husband’s name.

  “Could I see her?”

  “Excuse me just a second,” said the man, getting up and leaving the room.

  He returned a few minutes later.

  “Please follow me.”

  In the bedroom Montalbano saw Teresa lying on the bed looking like an empty sack thrown down on the blanket.

  She was all dressed up and wearing an overcoat and even shoes on her feet, her right hand still clutching the purse she’d taken to go shopping. Her eyes were closed.

  Meriam was sitting beside her in a chair.

  “Is she asleep?” the inspector asked softly.

  “She’s sedated,” said Stefano.

  The inspector realized it was all for naught.

  Without a word, he turned around and went back into the sitting room.

  Moments later, Stefano came in. He looked at the inspector and said:

  “Thank you for understanding.”

  Moments later Meriam came in as well.

  “I think that even if we’d woken her up she wouldn’t have been in any condition to answer my questions. That only happens in movies.”

  “Let’s do this,” said Meriam with a hint of a smile. “If Teresa has recovered by this afternoon, I’ll give you a call. Okay?”

  “Okay, thanks, Meriam. You’re a rare jewel.”

  He shook both their hands and headed back to the station.

  * * *

  He’d just gone into his office when Mimì Augello shot in like a rocket.

  “I was reading Fazio’s transcript of Trupia’s statement,” he said, sitting down.

  “And so?”

  “What an asshole!”

  “Mind telling me why?”

  “Don’t you realize that it was I who introduced him to Elena? And I even told him I had my eye on her. And he betrayed me. He stole her from me, said nothing to me, and he may even have killed her!”

  “Cut the shit, Mimì.”

  “But why are you so certain he’s innocent?”

  “At the moment I don’t know whether he’s innocent or guilty, but it’s not as if everyone who’s ever snatched a girl away from you has become a killer. And, anyway, wasn’t this Trupia a close friend of yours?”

  “You said it right. He was a friend of mine. Anyone who betrays his friends in this fashion is capable of anything.”

  “Do you realize you’re talking nonsense?”

  “No, Salvo. Just think about it for a minute. He was her last lover. He comes here on his own initiative to tell us that they’d had a quarrel three days earlier. And the crime was one of passion. I’m totally convinced that Trupia went out to eat, then dropped by Elena’s, where they had a fight that ended the way it ended.”

  “Well, so much for friendship, Mimì! Sure, that’s one possible hypothesis, even though in my opinion the killer dined with Elena. But do you know this Trupia to be a violent man?”

  “No, but it’s you who taught me that it’s the opportunity that makes the thief. If I was in your shoes, there’s something I would do.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “All you need to do is check whether Elena received any phone calls from Trupia, or vice versa, on the day she was murdered.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea. Montalbano picked up the phone and said to Catarella:

  “Send me Fazio, would you, Cat?”

  Fazio came in.

  “Has Forensics got Elena’s cell phone?” Montalbano asked him.

  “No, Chief, they haven’t got it ’cause they couldn’t find it. We looked everywhere for it, even inside the freezer. In my opinion—and Forensics agrees—the killer took it.”

  “Wha’d I say?” Mimì said triumphantly. “So apparently Trupia did call her, and therefore he had to get rid of the phone.”

  “Fazio, try, as soon as you can, to get a printout of Trupia’s phone records. But I have to tell you, there’s no doubt in my mind that this is the wrong track.”

  Mimì stood up angrily.

  “And now you’re gonna tell me I’m biased. Well, I’m outta here.”

  He left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  The echo of the crash segued into the ringing of the telephone.

  “Chief, ’at’d be Dacter Pasquano onna line.”

  Montalbano couldn’t believe his ears. Was it possible Pasquano had already performed the autopsy? And that he was being so kind as to take the trouble of phoning him to tell him the results? Whatever the case, the inspector turned on the speakerphone so that Fazio could also hear their conversation.

  “Good morning, Doctor. I’m at your service. Do you need a poker partner?”

  “From you I need nothing at all. It’s the other way around. It’s you who need something from me.”

  “Then to what do I owe the pleasure of hearing your voice?”

  “I thought you might be interested in the murder of the beautiful seamstress.”

  “Of course I’m interested.”

  “And don’t you want to know about the autopsy?”

  So the world really was turning upside down.

  “Well, yes . . . th-thanks,” Montalbano stammered, trying to recover from the shock.

  “First of all, the lady had just eaten dinner and was murdered before her digestive processes had even begun.”

  “Which confirms what I was already thinking.”

  “Then your mind must be so farsighted, so razor-sharp, that I have no words, and so I’ll stop talking and you can feel free to listen to your own thoughts.”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor, but did you by any chance get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? I promise I won’t interrupt you again. I’m all ears.”

  “The murder weapon,” Pasquano resumed, “was that pair of scissors that was found on the table. The wounds were perfectly consistent with that. And I should add that it would take great strength to plunge a pair of scissors like that so deeply into a body the way the killer did.”

  Montalbano couldn’t restrain himself.

  “So you think the killer was a rather powerful man?”

  “No, no, there you go again. You’re not abiding by the rules. You’re doing the thinking instead of me. I swear that if you interrupt me again—”

  “Sorry, sorry . . .”

  “The first stab apparently caug
ht her entirely by surprise. There’s no sign of any wounds on her hands from self-defense. The killer, who was standing behind her, aimed for her neck and cleanly severed her jugular, wounding her fatally. The woman should theoretically have fallen down face-forward, but she must have made some kind of movement to make her fall on her back. And now I beg your pardon, but I can’t help but ask: Given your advanced age, can I go on talking? Have you grasped everything I’ve said so far?”

  He was clearly trying to provoke him, but Montalbano let it slide and played along.

  “I hope so. Go on.”

  “At this point the killer bent down and started stabbing the body wildly. This was how, given the close distance, he was able to avoid striking the breasts.”

  “And so,” said Montalbano, “the fact that he spared the entire area of the breasts was not an accident?”

  “No! Certainly not. It was clearly intentional.”

  “And why do you think he acted that way?”

  “You can finally start thinking again now, and you’ll see that with a little mental effort you, too, will, ever so slowly, manage to come up with an answer to that question.”

  “Why, do you have an idea yourself?”

  “Me, no. But the poets, yes. You’ve got an embarrassment of riches there. We could begin with Ariosto: her rotund bosoms were like milk . . . And surely you’ll recall the amorous sorrow of D’Annunzio when he wrote: Oh, but to seek, in the shadow that lay across her breast, as at the bottom of a tomb, Infinity . . . And how could we forget Cardarelli? Wretched woman of turgid breast, your only richness is your milk . . .”

  Montalbano was slack-jawed, spellbound. He could never have imagined Pasquano would be a connoisseur of poetry.

  “Mind putting that in plain language?” he ventured.

  “No,” said Pasquano, hanging up.

  “Shit!” said Fazio. “I wanna know if the doctor’s knowledge of poetry stops at the breasts or includes some of the other parts of the female body.”

  “Fazio, what can I tell you? All I can say is that this blast of poetry has stirred up a hunger in me so powerful I can barely stand it any longer.”

  And for once, perhaps owing to his fatigue, or his advanced age, or his fear of falling asleep while eating, he invited Fazio to come and have lunch with him at Enzo’s.

  “But on one condition,” he added. “That we don’t talk about the case while we’re eating. Better yet, let’s not talk at all.”

  10

  As the inspector’s car was crossing the Corso, Fazio said:

  “Pull over for a second so I can get out.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait for you. Did you forget something?”

  “No, I just want to check something. You go on ahead, I’ll join you in a minute.”

  Montalbano continued on to the restaurant, parked, went inside, and said to Enzo:

  “Set a table for two.”

  “Who is it? A man or a woman?” Enzo asked.

  “It’s just Fazio.”

  Enzo walked away a little disappointed, but after taking three steps he turned around and came back to Montalbano.

  “Forgive me for asking, Inspector, but what can you tell me about the murder of poor Elena?”

  “Did you know her?”

  “I did, Inspector. If only there were more women like her!”

  “In what sense?”

  “First of all, she was so cheerful and open, and always smiling. And so friendly. And what an appetite! You know, Inspector, nowadays women don’t eat anymore. A little salad here, a bit of chicory with oil and lemon there. But not Signora Elena. She would sit down and order antipasto, first course, second course, dessert, and you have no idea how much coffee. All of it nicely sprinkled with good wine. And since she would sometimes come alone but didn’t like to eat alone, she would ask me to sit down with her and we would chat. And you know what? Often, when she would come late in the evening and all the other customers had left and I was starting to close up, we would play tressette when she was done eating. And if she won, she didn’t have to pay.”

  “What can I say?” said Montalbano. “Unfortunately, we’re still at the initial stages. But I’ll keep you informed.”

  At that moment Fazio came in and sat down.

  “What do you want to eat?” the inspector asked him.

  “You know what? I feel like some pasta with bottarga.”

  Just hearing the word stirred a fervent desire for bottarga in Montalbano.

  At their request Enzo said that wouldn’t be a problem, and he would add a little grated lemon rind from his own tree.

  During the entire meal, which included, aside from the bottarga, some fried mullet with onions, Fazio kept his word and never once opened his mouth except to express appreciation and wonderment at the excellence of the dishes. Only after drinking his coffee did he pull a folded magazine out of his jacket pocket.

  He set it down on the table and then covered it with one hand so that the inspector couldn’t see the cover.

  He had a sly, smug little smile on his face, which immediately got on Montalbano’s nerves.

  Determined not to give him any satisfaction, the inspector got up without saying a word and went to the bathroom.

  He managed in time to see the smile vanish from Fazio’s face.

  When he returned, he remained standing and said hurriedly:

  “Let’s go.”

  Whereupon Fazio said:

  “Excuse me, Chief, but would you just listen to me for a second? I have to show you something.”

  “Well, then, let’s see it!” the inspector said rudely, sitting down in a huff.

  “As we were passing by in the car, I spotted this magazine on display and thought I’d caught one of its headlines.”

  Without a word, Montalbano reached out with one hand and pulled the magazine out from under Fazio’s hand to where he could read it.

  On the cover was an image of a beautiful pair of female breasts, with, beneath it, the title: THE FEMALE BREAST IN ITALIAN POETRY.

  “That’s where Dr. Pasquano got all his knowledge of poetry!”

  “The son of a bitch!” the inspector exclaimed.

  He felt so reassured, however, that he said to Fazio:

  “Thank you. Because it’s very likely that I would never have been able to sleep tonight, thinking about all of Pasquano’s quotations. I’ll drive you back to the station.”

  “There’s no need,” said Fazio. “I’m happy to go on foot if you feel like taking your usual walk along the jetty.”

  * * *

  He’d just started walking along the jetty on his way to the flat rock when his cell phone rang. Since at that very moment he’d been thinking of how to get back at Pasquano for tricking him, he had confirmation that not only was it enough to speak of the devil for him to appear, one only had to think of him.

  For it was none other than the doctor calling.

  “Montalbano, I’m so sorry to wake you during your postprandial siesta.”

  “Who says I’m sleeping? You’re the one who needs to sleep, not me. I feel just fine and am enjoying the sea air. So, tell me instead, what winds are blowing at the morgue?”

  “Well, that’s just it. Inside the morgue, and in my room, the usual fetid air is putrescent, but out in the hallway it’s even worse.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because for the last two hours there’s been a gentleman sitting on the floor out there, without any shoes on his feet, wailing, crying, singing, praying, and saying he wants to see the victim’s corpse.”

  “And what’s that got to do with me?”

  “The man says he’s a friend of yours. And if you don’t come and get him, I’m going to kill the guy and put him directly in bed with Signora Elena. That way he can see her all he wants.”

&n
bsp; “What’s his name?”

  “He’s got some kind of Turkish name: Ossiman, Osman, something like that . . . Hello? Hello! . . .”

  But Montalbano had already hung up and was running towards his car.

  * * *

  While speeding along the road to Montelusa, he was unable to string together any thoughts with even the slightest logical connection between them.

  It felt as if a vast forest of question marks had sprouted inside his brain, and he was trying blindly to wend his way through them, crashing into one after another, as though in a labyrinth with no way out.

  All he could manage to formulate were a few fragments of questions.

  Osman? What did he have to do with anything? What was he doing at the morgue? Why was he crying? Why was he barefoot? Had he heard right? Might it not be some Turk by the name of Osman? But the man had said he was a friend of his . . . and so . . .

  And then, given the man that he, the inspector, knew, who was always so soft-spoken, reserved, and self-contained, how had Osman been reduced to such a state?

  At last he pulled up in the lot of the Institute for Forensic Medicine, got out of the car, raced inside, and found the corridor completely deserted.

  Halfway down the hall, however, was a sort of large ball of rolled-up rags that didn’t even look human, and yet it was emitting a sort of melodious lament.

  He drew near to it and stopped.

  The doctor was scarcely recognizable, sitting as he was on the floor, shoulders against the wall, head buried between his legs, arms wrapped around his knees . . . But the inspector clearly heard, in the faint, stifled breath emitted by that human ball, the sound of the name “Elena.”

  He knelt down in front of him, lowering himself to the point where his face was almost touching the doctor’s hair. He started calling to him in a low voice.

  “Osman, Osman . . . It’s Montalbano here. Come on, Osman, buck up. I’m here for you.”