The Other End of the Line

by Andrea Camilleri

  Stepping down from the chair, he went over and opened both nightstands. Nothing.

  As he walked into the sitting room, he felt discouraged. There were too many magazines and books to sort through. Once again, he had come up empty-handed. He had found nothing.

  He went back downstairs to the great room. He searched everywhere, in every imaginable place, and finally realized that he was wasting his time in there.

  Climbing the stairs again, he walked down the hall, descended the other stairs, opened the front door, went out into the street, locked the door behind him, and headed for his car.

  He was opening its door when his cell phone rang. It was Fazio, confirming the appointment with Lillo Scotto.

  He bent down to get in and then froze.

  Matre santa! He’d forgotten Rinaldo!

  He called the station to talk with Catarella. But a voice he didn’t recognize answered the phone.

  “Montalbano here. Who are you?”

  “Officer De Vico, sir.”

  “Where’s Catarella?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Catarella went back home this afternoon to check on the cat, and when he saw that it wasn’t there, he practically lost his mind and is now looking for it all over town.”

  “Okay, thanks,” said the inspector.

  He rang Catarella on his cell phone.

  “No, no, no, sir,” Catarella said at once. “Ya shou’n’t be callin’ me, Chief, ’cuz I’m not woity to talk t’yiz.”

  “Cat . . .”

  “Nah, nah, Chief, f’hivven’s sake, don’ talk to me! I did a wicket ting! I let Rinaldi get aways an’ now I don’ know where to find ’im. An’ until I get ’at cat an’ my honor back, I’m too disgraced to set foot inna p’leece station!”

  “Cat! What is this, the puppet theater or something? I found Rinaldo myself.”

  At the other end the inspector heard a shout that sounded like a cross between a Tarzan yell and a horse’s whinny.

  “Y’er a reggler Moilin the Wizzid, Chief!”

  Then, voice cracking with joy:

  “Bu’ didja rilly find ’im, Chief?”

  “Yes.”

  “Y’er a magishin, Chief! Ya woik magickal mirakles! An’ where’d ya find ’im?”

  “He went back home.”

  “Bu’ I looked fer ’im all over the place a’ my house, e’en downna drain! An’ inside the oven! An’ even inside the warshin’ machine—”

  “Lemme speak for a minute, Cat. The cat went back to his own home, where Signora Elena lived.”

  “On Via Calibardo?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Man, ’a’ss so lucky! I’m juss rounna corner. I’ll be over in a sec.”

  Montalbano turned around, went back to Elena’s front door, sat down on the step, and set fire to a cigarette. He’d smoked half of it when he saw Catarella appear at a run, holding the cat carrier in one hand.

  “’Ere I am, Chief,” he said, stopping in front of the inspector and panting heavily.

  Montalbano handed him the house keys and said:

  “You go and get him yourself. I’m going home.”

  * * *

  The first thing he did when he entered his house was take off his clothes and get into the shower.

  Not that he was particularly dirty, but he felt sticky all over, as though the aura of Elena’s life, which he had profaned by poking his hands into her memories and thoughts, had remained attached to his skin.

  He got dressed again as best he could and, since it was a cozy evening, sat down on the veranda and started smoking, thinking back on every move he’d made in front of Meriam in the tailoring shop, and then after she’d left.

  Well in the background inside his brain, there was a small detail he’d noticed and momentarily formed an opinion about, but which had later slipped his mind.

  He saw himself moving about in the shop, as though watching a film.

  But he still had that same feeling of discomfort.

  He decided to watch the film one more time, and all at once the cause of his malaise appeared clear as day.

  He glanced at his watch.

  Surely Leanza was no longer in his office at that hour. He would have to call him on his cell phone, and it might even be too late, but his urgent need for an answer to the question spinning around in his head won out.

  He dialed the number.

  “Sorry to bother you, Fernà. Montalbano here.”

  “No problem. What is it?”

  “Listen, do you remember seeing a piece of blue cloth on the large worktable in the tailor’s shop?”

  “Yes, the one the killer used to clean the scissors.”

  “Well, Elena’s assistant has told me that it’s actually a piece of old cloth. Did you notice that it had been torn?”

  “Yeah, sure, I remember quite clearly.”

  “My question is this: Would it be possible for the forensics lab to determine whether that rent is recent or as old as the scrap itself?”

  “Of course. At least, I think so. And there may be a logical explanation for it.”

  “For what?”

  “For the rent. If it turns out to be recent, the killer could have made it while wiping off the scissors.”

  “Yes, of course, that’s certainly likely,” said Montalbano. “Thank you, and my apologies for the disturbance.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” asked Leanza. “How do we leave things? Shall I go and get the scrap of cloth myself or will you send it to me?”

  “I’ll bring it to you personally in person.”

  “Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”

  While he was at it, he might as well call Livia.

  As he was about to dial her number, the phone rang.

  “Oh, Inspector, Inspector . . .” said a desperate voice. It was Meriam.

  “What’s wrong, Meriam? Has something happened?”

  “I just now found out from Nicola that Lillo tried to kill himself. He’s been taken to the hospital in Montelusa.”

  “So how did that happen?”

  “This afternoon Nicola got a call from Lillo’s mother, pleading with him to come to their house. Lillo was beside himself: yelling, bashing his head against the wall, drooling! He seemed to be having an epileptic fit. Do you remember that you asked Fazio to summon him to your office?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, ever since that moment, he’s gotten worse, if that was possible. When Nicola arrived, Lillo’s mother went out to the pharmacy to get some tranquilizers. But Nicola wasn’t able to see Lillo because he’d locked himself in the bathroom and wouldn’t open the door.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then he tried to talk to Lillo through the door, but when Lillo stopped answering, his mother returned and together they forced the door open and found him in the tub with his wrists slashed. But he was still conscious, and he managed to whisper to Nicola, ‘Without Elena my life has no meaning.’”

  Montalbano listened to Meriam’s words with astonishment. This was one turn of events he hadn’t even vaguely expected.

  He didn’t know what to say.

  “Thank you, Meriam. If you find out anything else, call me, no matter the hour. Don’t hesitate.”

  He didn’t know what to think.

  Lillo’s act could, of course, be considered an admission of guilt, but it could equally be taken for the opposite.

  The inspector had taken one step towards the French door when the phone rang again.

  “Sorry to call, Chief, at such a late hour, but something nasty has happened.”

  “What is it, Fazio?”

  “I’ve just been told that Lillo Scotto tried to kill himself this evening. He’s been admitted to Montelusa Hospital.”

>   “Already taken care of,” said Montalbano.

  “Huh?” said Fazio, confused.

  “Nothing, sorry. I just meant to say I already knew.”

  “What do you say I hop over to the hospital and then give you a call and tell you how things stand?”

  “Okay.”

  He hung up and made a move towards the veranda, when the phone, which apparently was determined to be a pain in the ass, started ringing again.

  “Salvo! What’s new?”

  At the sound of this simple question, Montalbano felt overcome by a doglike rage and, more than speak, he barked:

  “What’s new??? I’ll tell you straightaway: Elena’s last lover is in the slammer because the public prosecutor, who’s in cahoots with Mimì Augello, decided beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is the culprit. Lillo, the boy who would have liked to be her lover, has just tried to kill himself and is in the hospital. And I’m in deep shit up to my neck. Her computers have vanished, her cell phone can’t be found, and there’s no trace of anything. The only clues are: a piece of torn fabric, a piece of a photo with a small child’s foot, and a piece of a letter with a sentence I can’t make heads or tails of. Elena’s body is in the morgue; the funeral is tomorrow at eleven o’clock sharp at the Chiesa Matrice. And what else? Ah, yes. Catarella lost the cat, but then I found it.”

  “Good night,” said Livia, ending the conversation.

  14

  The tirade did him good, to the point that five minutes later, as he was sitting out on the veranda, he suddenly felt hungry.

  He went into the kitchen for the usual inspection. Every once in a while Adelina would decide to make him a sfincione with meat. And there it was. It gave off an aroma so pleasing it could have been used as cologne. He heated it up in the oven and then took it outside. Not bothering to set the table, he merely put down a bottle of wine and glass. And there was no need for cutlery.

  Adelina, as usual, had been generous. The sfincione was big enough for four, and in fact the inspector felt terribly disappointed that he could only manage to eat half.

  So he went and took a large sheet of wax paper, wrapped the remainder of the sfincione carefully in it, and put it in the refrigerator.

  He was heading for his bedroom when he heard his cell phone ring.

  It was Meriam.

  “I’m sorry to call so late, Inspector, but I wanted to let you know I went to the hospital and they told me Lillo Scotto is out of danger and they think they can release him as early as tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Thank you for that, Meriam,” said Montalbano. “I hope you can get a little rest now.”

  “Thanks. You have a good night, too.”

  He left the cell phone beside the television, headed for his bedroom, lay down with satisfaction, closed his eyes, and was taking a deep breath when he was interrupted halfway with the ring of his cell phone.

  Cursing the saints, he got out of bed and answered. It was Fazio.

  “Just on my way back from Montelusa, Chief . . . Lillo Scotto’s out of danger and—”

  “Already knew that,” said Montalbano, feeling almost ashamed. He was exacting too much revenge on poor Fazio.

  “Did you know that they want to discharge him tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Yeah, I knew that, too.”

  “Well, since you seem to know everything, I’ll let you sleep in peace, though there actually was something I wanted to ask you. Good night.”

  “Wait!!!” the inspector yelled. “So you’re going to get pissed off at me at this hour of the night?”

  “Sorry, Chief, you’re right. But when you keep saying you already know things, it starts to get on my nerves.”

  “Well, imagine how I feel!” replied Montalbano. “Now speak. What did you want to ask me?”

  “If the kid recovers, can I summon him for the day after tomorrow morning?”

  “Have him come in at nine,” said Montalbano. “Thank you, and good night.”

  He lay down and fell asleep at once, only to wake up again moments later, sitting up in bed with his eyes wide open.

  A thought had flashed through his head like a kind of luminous, lightning-fast snake that he was unable to grab, not even by the tail. Damn it all! What was it? Nothing. Total darkness.

  He lay back down and closed his eyes, and only then did it come back to him that the elusive thought had something to do with Elena’s phone calls and something he hadn’t done relating to them. What had he forgotten to do?

  “Damn my fucking old age!” he cursed.

  But he could do nothing about it. And so he lost another hour before he could fall back asleep.

  And he didn’t open his eyes again until the morning light was already bright.

  But he decided he could stay in bed for a bit, since he had nothing urgent to do at the station.

  Then he changed his mind.

  He got up, put the coffee on the burner, shaved, drank a mug of black espresso, and slipped into the shower.

  Instead of getting dressed, however, he put on a bathing suit and headed off for a long walk along the water’s edge. This lightened his spirits and cleaned out his lungs.

  When he drove off for Vigàta, it was nine o’clock.

  * * *

  As he entered the station, he stopped in front of Catarella’s closet and asked him:

  “What’s new with Rinaldo?”

  Catarella grimaced, as if in displeasure.

  “Chief, ’e jess don’ like me. ’E’s continually cryin’ in continusity. ’E wants to run away alla time. Poor ting! ’E was useta bein’ witta woman an’ iss too bad I’m jess a man. When I c’n manatch t ’old ’im still an’ pet ’is head ’tween ’is ears, isstead of purrin’ ’e jess goes all hissy like ’e wants ta ’tack me. ’E won’ even lemme give ’im no Vissikassi.”

  “You know what I say, Cat? I say that, since I’m going to have to see Meriam again sooner or later, I’ll tell her to take the cat.”

  “But now I’m startin’ a get a tatch to the cat, Chief.”

  “You can adopt another white cat off the street and do a good deed. Listen, do you still have the keys to Elena’s shop?”

  “Yessir, Chief.”

  “Gimme ’em.”

  Catarella pulled open a drawer and handed him the keys.

  “Now please go,” said Montalbano, “and get me a small plastic bag.”

  “Fer goin’ shoppin’?”

  “No, Cat, one of those little bags for evidence specimens.”

  Catarella bent back down, opened another drawer, and handed him a transparent bag still unsealed.

  Montalbano put the bag in his pocket.

  “I’ll be back in half an hour,” he said.

  * * *

  He got back in the car and drove off in the direction of Via Garibaldi. Luckily there was a parking space right outside Elena’s front door.

  He parked, unlocked the door, climbed the stairs, went quickly down the corridor and down again to the great room, set the little plastic bag on the table, picked up the scrap of blue cloth with two fingers, and slipped it into the bag.

  He then retraced his steps and was on his way out, but when he put his hand on the front door handle to open it, he froze. There was something troubling him. It was that luminous snake of the night before again, the one that had made him sit up in bed. Once again he had that distinct feeling he was neglecting to do something he absolutely needed to do.

  But what?

  He stood there for several moments without moving a muscle, but nothing came to mind.

  And so he opened the door, got back in his car, and returned to the station.

  “Is Fazio here?” he asked Catarella.

  “Yessir, Chief.”

  “Send him to me.”

  He went into his office, and Fazio
appeared at once.

  “Hello, Chief.”

  “Have a seat and let’s talk a little. What do you make of Lillo Scotto’s suicide attempt?”

  “What can I say, Chief? I talked it over a little with Augello as well, but he totally rules out any chance it might be an admission of guilt. He’s stuck on the idea that Trupia’s the killer, and he won’t budge.”

  “But what do you think?”

  “I did gather some information on the kid. And there wasn’t anyone, not one person, who considered Scotto capable of killing so much as an ant. In my opinion Lillo tried to commit suicide for no other reason than because he lost Signora Elena.”

  “Well, aren’t we just brilliant!” Montalbano said bitterly. “We’ve got two potential killers in our grasp: one’s in jail, the other’s in the hospital, and yet, deep down, we’re convinced that neither of them had anything to do with it.”

  “Maybe because we don’t know the whole story yet,” said Fazio.

  “Explain what you mean.”

  “Chief, what I’m saying is that maybe we won’t get any ideas until after we’ve questioned the kid. You became convinced that Trupia didn’t do it after you talked to him. It’s possible that after you interrogate Scotto, you’ll think the opposite.”

  “Okay. We’ll leave the question hanging and set it aside for the moment.”

  “Are you going to Signora Elena’s funeral?” asked Fazio.

  “Yes.”

  “You want me to come, too?”

  “No.”

  Fazio realized that the inspector’s monosyllabic replies of “yes” and “no” meant that their conversation had ended.

  “I guess I’ll get back to work,” he said, getting up and going out.

  Montalbano wondered how he was going to spend the hour remaining before it was time to go to the church.

  He remembered his fictional colleague, that Inspector Schiavone, who’d been assigned to Aosta and whose first act in the morning, before going to the office, was to smoke a joint.

  No, no, this was no time, so late in life, to start smoking weed!

  He reached out melancholically with one arm, grabbed the sheet of paper sitting at the top of the pile, and gloomily started signing . . .