The Other End of the Line

by Andrea Camilleri

  * * *

  It was a kind of funeral wake. Everyone was sitting in a row in the great room of the tailor’s shop. There was Dr. Osman with one arm around Meriam; beside her was the old tailor, Nicola; beside him was the young tailor, with Enzo’s arm around him; and the last in the row was Trupia.

  Montalbano sat in the armchair looking at them all and slowly drinking a cup of mint tea.

  They were clearly waiting for someone. Then Pasquano appeared in the doorway, holding Rinaldo in his arms. He approached the big worktable, set the cat down, and went to stand stiffly at attention next to the inspector’s armchair.

  “We can now begin!” Montalbano said in a loud voice.

  Fazio came in with a ball of blue yarn, which he set down in front of the cat. Everyone held their breath as though waiting for something extraordinary to happen, but the cat merely started playing with the ball of yarn, making it roll to the edge of the table without ever letting it fall off.

  At a certain point the animal took one end of the yarn in its mouth and jumped down to the floor, trotted towards the doorway, and disappeared from sight. But it was clearly still playing in the hallway, because everyone could see that the ball of yarn on the table was turning and turning and getting smaller by the second. At a certain point all that was left of the ball was the other end of the yarn.

  Montalbano stood up and started following the woolen strand. He went out into the corridor. The yarn disappeared through the door that led upstairs. He followed its path. The strand went up the stairs, which the inspector climbed one at a time. He reached the apartment. The strand continued down the entire length of the hallway and then turned, disappearing into Elena’s bedroom. He went in. The yarn ended right in the middle of the floor. It looked like a sign traced in blue chalk.

  Rinaldo had disappeared.

  * * *

  Montalbano woke up, wondering what that sign might mean. But he still needed to get more sleep and didn’t feel like wasting any time with Jungian or Freudian interpretations.

  When he showed up at the station, Catarella informed him that Dr. Cosma was already there and waiting in the waiting room.

  “Is Fazio on the premises?”

  “Yeah, Chief, totally onna premisses.”

  “Tell him to come to my office.”

  Montalbano went and shook Osman’s hand.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Terrible, but better.”

  “Do you feel up to . . . ?”

  “Of course, let’s do it.”

  Montalbano put his arm around him and led him into his office.

  Fazio, who was already sitting down, stood up and also lent a hand to Osman.

  “Please sit down,” said the inspector.

  The doctor took his place in the chair opposite the desk and Fazio sat down in the other.

  “Let me make a preliminary statement,” Montalbano began. “You, Dr. Osman, are here as someone informed of the facts of the case. There are no charges whatsoever against you, nor could any sort of accusation be made against you, since at the moment of the crime you were with me. In spite of this fact, you could avail yourself, if you wanted, of the help of a lawyer. Therefore, if you wish, we could suspend our discussion and postpone the meeting until such time as you had such assistance.”

  “I don’t need any lawyer,” said Osman. “And I’m ready to answer all of your questions.”

  “Thank you,” said Montalbano. “I never had any doubt about that. I would, however, like Fazio to take down your declarations.”

  After Osman nodded his assent, Fazio opened his computer.

  “Can you tell me, Doctor, what sort of relationship you had with the victim?”

  “I first met Elena eight years ago. She came to me as a patient. I’d been recommended to her by Meriam, who had already been working at her shop for a while. What struck me most when she came into my office—and I still remember it as if it was yesterday—was her smile. We’re all a little nervous when we first come into a new dentist’s office. But not her. She was smiling and chatting, and sat down in the chair full of questions about all the buttons she saw around, touching them all, one after another. It was thanks to Elena herself—her spontaneity, how naturally she put me at my ease—that I, the long-faced, dour Muslim that I am, found the courage to invite her out to dinner. That’s how it all began.”

  “How what began, Doctor?”

  “A beautiful, passionate, genuine love story.”

  “How long did it last?”

  “It’s still ongoing, but in a different way.”

  “Please explain what you mean.”

  “Just as our doctor/patient relationship changed after our first encounter, we just as quickly became lovers after only a few days. And we were both surprised and happy with the intensity of our feelings. Our love was overwhelming and mature. The sort of affair that you can only have if you are free and open to life. And this was perhaps, and still is, the greatest lesson that Elena taught me. To be ready for life. To be able to accept what life has to offer.”

  “And how did that change later on?” asked Montalbano.

  Osman looked at him with admiration.

  “You mean how did it change from love to friendship?”

  “Yes.”

  “It happened just as fast and naturally as the first change. One day, five years later, we were together in bed and were surprised to find that our bodies no longer felt that original urgency, but only a need for a tender embrace. And so we realized that we had to accept this new situation. I have often wondered what we would have done if we had had children.”

  “And why didn’t you?”

  “Elena never wanted children.”

  “And why did you never get married?”

  “Elena was always adamantly against that, too. She’d been married once and didn’t want to repeat the experience. And she didn’t want us to live together, either.”

  “What do you know about her marriage?”

  “I only know what Elena wanted to tell me about it, which is very little. She had this husband, they married very young, and they both lived in the north. They were in the same line of work, and they opened a tailoring shop together. At Rovigo, or Treviso, I forget. But then he took his own life. Elena never wanted to tell me the whole story. Even when she saw her sister-in-law, Elena was always very careful to steer the discussion away from that period of her life. And I respected her desire for silence. But now I would like to see clearly on this. I simply can’t understand why anyone would want to kill her.”

  “Well, in order to gain some understanding of it,” said Montalbano, “I need as much information as possible on Elena’s life. I met her only twice. You practically lived with Elena for five years. So what I’m asking you is to search your memory well, try to really concentrate to see if you can call up a forgotten recollection of any oddity, any change, however minor, in Elena’s normal, daily behavior.”

  “Inspector, I haven’t been able to sleep because of that very question. And during the night I’ve tried to bring together all my memories of those five years. Even the smallest details. And I must say that only twice did I find myself wondering why Elena didn’t want to fill me in on something she was going through that I knew nothing about.”

  “Explain a little better.”

  “We would meet at either my place or hers. One evening we were having dinner at her place, and while Elena was busy in the kitchen and I was setting the table, the phone rang. ‘Could you get that?’ she said to me. When I picked up the receiver, a woman asked me if she had reached Elena’s place, and when I said yes, she hung up on me. Elena asked who’d called, and when I told her what happened, she fell silent. The second time was the following day. When the telephone rang, Elena raced to answer it. And I heard her say: ‘I can’t talk right now. Don’t call me anymore.
I’ll call you tomorrow morning.’ Then she sat down at the table, but she was visibly shaken.”

  “And you didn’t ask her anything?”

  “Of course I did. But Elena replied that it was none of my business. I don’t quite know how to put it, but she didn’t mean to be rude; she was really trying to tell me that the matter had nothing to do with me.”

  “And you don’t know where the phone calls were made from?”

  “No, Inspector. But I do remember that Elena’s mood changed after those two calls. She was irritable and nervous. Clearly something was bothering her, something unknown to me, which I had no way of ever finding out. Yet, despite how close we were to each other, I respected her wishes and never asked her about it again.”

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “Nothing, for now. But I’m hoping I’ll remember something that might help us.”

  Montalbano stood up.

  “Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll see you again very soon. But now, please, go and get some rest.”

  Osman looked at him and almost smiled. His eyes seemed to be saying: I’d like to see you try to rest in my situation!

  As soon as Fazio returned from seeing him out, the outside line rang. And at that moment Mimì Augello appeared.

  It was that enormous pain in the ass of a prosecutor, Tommaseo. Montalbano turned on the speakerphone.

  “I am genuinely surprised at your manner of procedure, Inspector,” said Tommaseo.

  In a fraction of a second, the inspector realized that the prosecutor wasn’t entirely wrong to be angry at him.

  “What have I failed to do, sir?”

  “Everything, Montalbano, everything. Does it seem right to you that it’s only through your written reports that I should learn how far along you are in your investigation of the murder of that splendid, gorgeous woman who worked as a tailor?”

  The inspector could easily imagine the twinkle of morbid desire in the eyes of Tommaseo, who literally lost his head whenever he had a case of a beautiful murdered woman on his hands, since, apparently, the man had never managed to get his hands on a living woman in all his life. Montalbano decided to lay it on thick.

  “On top of that, sir, you’ve only seen her in photographs. You should have seen her when she was alive!”

  “Oh, yeah? Really?”

  “But do tell me what I did wrong.”

  “You were wrong not to come in person to talk to me about the case. Because, you see, it took very little for me to put the investigation on the right track.”

  “And what would be the right track?”

  “I’ve just released a notice of impending arrest for Diego Trupia, her lover.”

  “But, sir, if I may, that seems a little hasty to me, because there’s still—”

  “There’s still what, Montalbano? Don’t make me laugh. We weren’t born yesterday, were we? The solution is obvious. Trupia has a quarrel with his girlfriend. Two or three days later he goes to see her, hoping to patch things up with passionate, pacifying sex. The woman refuses, of course, and Trupia, in an irresistible fit of lust, grabs her and pulls her roughly against his own body, and, as the woman continues to deny his request, the man, now blind with passion, grabs the scissors and shreds the body he so craves. And that’s not all I can tell you. He spares her breasts because he didn’t have the heart to disfigure a part of her body he loved, desired, yearned for with such—”

  “Your Honor, please, if you’ll allow me . . .”

  “No, Montalbano. I’m not going to give in to your tortuous excogitations this time. The truth of the matter is much clearer than your far-fetched fantasies.”

  Montalbano decided to cut the conversation short.

  “Then please tell me how I should proceed.”

  “Listen to me closely. You have twenty-four hours to put the screws to Trupia. As soon as he confesses, and I guarantee you he will, I will take the proper measures to request and validate his arrest with the investigating judge.”

  “As you wish, sir. Talk to you soon,” the inspector said, hanging up.

  “For once,” said Augello, “I agree entirely with Tommaseo.”

  “Oh, do you?” Montalbano retorted. “Too bad you’re not free at the moment, or I could have given you the assignment of interrogating Trupia.”

  “But I am free,” Mimì said, smiling broadly, “and just this morning I got a call from the commissioner, who informed me that, as of today, our unit is relieved of providing support for Sileci. Except, of course, should unusual circumstances dictate otherwise.”

  “So much the better,” said Montalbano. “All right, then, summon your erstwhile friend Trupia, make sure he has a lawyer present, and put the screws to him, as the prosecutor said.”

  “With pleasure!” said Mimì, getting up and leaving the room.

  Fazio twisted up his mouth.

  “What’s bothering you?”

  “Chief, if the defense lawyer finds out that Augello is Trupia’s friend, don’t you think he’s going to use that to his advantage? It’ll be very easy to contest the interrogation.”

  “Why, do you somehow think that hadn’t occurred to me?”

  “So you think Trupia had nothing to do with it?”

  “Let’s just say I’m ninety percent certain he didn’t.”

  “But he has no alibi.”

  “That’s exactly why. He came here of his own accord knowing perfectly well that he would be the prime suspect and had no line of defense.”

  “On the other hand, it might actually be a smart move.”

  “Yes, of course, and that covers the other ten percent. But I’m not gonna send a man to jail, not even for a day, if I’m not absolutely certain.”

  “And so? How are we going to get Trupia out of this?”

  “Why should we get him out of anything? Let’s wait for the results of Mimì’s interrogation. Clearly he’s going to do everything in his power to screw the guy. And if Trupia manages, in spite of everything, to give us even the slightest clue in his favor, that’s what we’ll have to work on.”

  There was a pause.

  Fazio started staring intensely at his shoe tops. He always did that when he’d taken some initiative on his own and was afraid to tell Montalbano about it.

  “Out with it,” said the inspector. “Tell me everything.”

  “Chief. You have to believe me when I tell you that I ran into Nicola by accident today. Remember him? The old tailor who worked for Elena?”

  “Of course I remember him.”

  “Well, this Nicola managed, between sobbing and wailing, to tell me a few things about everyday life at the shop, and how everyone had got along like newlyweds on a honeymoon until two months ago.”

  “Why, what happened?”

  “What happened is that from one day to the next, Lillo Scotto, the younger tailor, who’s just a kid, fell in love with Elena. Worse yet, he felt that she must certainly feel the same way. And that’s when the trouble began.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He just would never let up for a minute during work hours. He’d follow her all over the store and never leave her side. When Elena was upstairs in her apartment, he would find every excuse for going up and spending a few minutes with her. At first she laughed it all off, which only stirred Lillo up even more. Apparently on a couple of nights, after work, he’d even gone and knocked on her front door. At this point Elena couldn’t take it anymore, so she talked it over with Nicola and Meriam and decided to sack him.”

  “When was he supposed to leave?”

  “Ten days from now, at the end of the month.”

  “Thank you for that,” said Montalbano. “Now you know exactly what you need to do.”

  “Yeah, Chief,” said Fazio. “I’ll get on it right away.” And he left.

  The in
spector sat there alone for a spell, trying to think things over.

  But he was unable to, because the door flew open and crashed against the wall with a tremendous boom and then bounced back and closed again with equal force.

  “Uh, sorry, Chief, my ’and slipped,” came Catarella’s voice from behind the door.

  “Okay, come in.”

  “I can’t, Chief. ’Ss not passible. If I try an’ make the same move as before, iss gonna make even more rackit.”

  Montalbano got up and opened the door.

  Catarella’s face was all bloodied and he looked like a Christmas tree. In his left hand he was holding a cat carrier with Rinaldo inside, and the animal looked ready to kill someone. Hanging from the same left arm were two small plastic bags, while a litter box was precariously balanced on his right arm, and the right hand held a child’s bucket full of sand.

  The inspector stepped aside to let him in.

  Catarella came forward ever so cautiously, but as he was about to set the cat carrier down on the chair in front of the desk, the bucket slipped out of his hand and the sand spilled all over the floor.

  Montalbano cursed the saints.

  Looking like a battered dog, Catarella set all his ornaments down on the floor and reassured the inspector.

  “Don’ choo worry, Chief, I’ll be right back,” he said.

  He disappeared.

  Montalbano went and sat back down behind his desk as Catarella reappeared with a broom and a small shovel. It didn’t take him long to get the sand all back into the pail. Then he came and stood stiff as a rail in front of the desk, holding the broom as though standing at ground arms.

  “What did you do to your face?”

  “Iss nuthin’, Chief, bu’ when they brough’ me the cat, I tried a take ’im outta the kitty cage, bu’ he din’t wanna come out an’ so ’e scratched me.”

  “Cat, do me a favor. Go and wash your face, disinfect the scratches, and then come back. And please close the door, ’cause it looks like a zoo in here.”