“Yes,” said Montalbano.
“But the last time I saw it, it was whole. And it wasn’t so dirty. What are these stains?”
Montalbano took the little bag out of her hand.
“That’s what I’m taking it to the crime lab to find out.”
And as he was congratulating himself for his excellent lie, he shut the car door for Teresa, who had finally managed to move, and then got in on the driver’s side to head off to the woman’s house.
Montalbano parked the car and went to open the passenger door. Teresa got out and stopped in front of him.
“You must make me a promise,” she said.
“All right.”
“I want to be the first to know the killer’s name.”
“You will be,” said Montalbano. “And do not forget that I want to be the first to hear of anything you might remember in the meanwhile concerning Elena’s past and present. Even if it’s something that seems of no importance to you.”
“I promise.”
They shook hands. Montalbano waited for her to go through the front door, then got back in the car and, before starting it up, glanced at his watch.
It was two o’clock. He sped off in the direction of Enzo’s trattoria.
Along the way he managed to blot the entire conversation with Teresa out of his mind.
He wanted to think only of eating while eating.
Upon entering the restaurant he almost collided with Beba, who was coming out with a large, steaming pot, followed by another woman with an identical pot.
There was no need for him to ask whether the dish of the day would again be “migrants’ soup.”
Beba greeted him hastily, and he replied with a nod and went and sat down at his usual table.
“No need to tell me anything,” he said to Enzo as soon as the restaurateur approached. “Just bring me some of that soup.”
Enzo thanked him with his eyes and went into the kitchen.
When the inspector left the restaurant, he felt heavy again, because, like the first time, he’d slurped down two helpings, along with a platter of fried baby octopus and shrimp.
The stroll along the jetty was rather labored, and when he went and sat on the flat rock, he was out of breath.
He waited for the sea air to blow a cool gust into his brain, and then started thinking again about everything Teresa had told him.
Two clear, indeed obvious, things jumped out from her words: that Elena spoke very little, if at all, about the period of her marriage, and when she was in one way or another forced to do so, she was careful to limit herself to singing only half the Mass. Even Teresa had noticed this in her sister-in-law’s behavior.
What had happened in Elena’s past that had to remain buried with her husband?
And might those telephone calls actually be an unpleasant echo of that past?
And if that was the case, who was the mysterious person at the other end of the line?
He realized that “line” might not actually be the correct word, since the phone calls to both Elena and Franco had all been made on cell phones.
Well, line or not, this was a lead to be further explored, because it just might prove to solve the case. Still, what had struck him even more was the story about Franco tying his own hands with the scarf to prevent himself from swimming instinctively once he jumped into the river.
How had the local police, or the carabinieri, been able to establish with such certainty that Franco had tied his own hands?
In other words: How had they managed to rule out the hypothesis of murder? This, too, was a fundamental point.
He took out his cell phone and called Catarella.
“Cat, there are two things I have to tell you. First, you must take Rinaldo to the house of Signora Elena’s sister-in-law, in Via della Regione, 18 . . .”
“Ah, no, Chief! ’At’ll break my heart! Jess iss mornin’, isstead o’ goin’ all hissy hissy, ’e started purrin’ for me . . .”
“I’m sorry, Cat. But I also want you immediately to find me the telephone number of the sexton of the cemetery and give it to me.”
“Okay, Chief, le’ss see . . . Signor Sexton . . .”
“No, Cat. That’s not his name. I don’t know his name. He’s just the sexton of the cemetery—you know, the guardian.”
“Sorry, Chief. Whatcha gonna do? ’Ang up or stay onna line?”
“I’ll stay on and wait.”
“Be right wit’ yiz, Chief.”
Catarella really wasted no time this time.
Two minutes later, the inspector was calling the sexton.
“This is Inspector Montalbano.”
“What can I do for you, sir? I noticed I had the pleasure of seeing you here just this morning.”
Only a sexton could use the word “pleasure” to describe seeing someone at the cemetery.
“I would like to ask a favor of you. I want you to go into the Guida family vault and tell me the date of Franco Guida’s death.”
“Of course, I can do that! Want me to call you back, Inspector, or will you call me?”
Montalbano gave him his cell phone number.
He sat there watching a fishing trawler slowly enter the port.
The cell phone rang.
“Inspector, Franco Guida died on February 19, 2002. Do you need anything else?”
“No, nothing else, thanks. Have a good day.”
He wrote the date down on a piece of paper he had in his pocket.
Then he called Catarella back.
“I need you to do a search for me.”
“Atcha soivice, Chief,” Catarella said enthusiastically.
“Get me all the death notices for Franco Guida that you can find. To repeat: Franco Guida,” said the inspector, pronouncing all the letters explicitly. “He died on February 19, 2002, and you should look in the newspapers of the Friuli region. I repeat: Friuli. But also look for anything you can find in our local papers as well.”
“Awright, Chief, ’iss kind o’ ting’s rilly easy nowadays wit’ the interneck.”
The inspector headed back, one slow step at a time, to his car, but on the way he thought it best to make one more phone call.
“Ciao, Fernà. If I come to Montelusa right now, can you give me five minutes?”
“Sure, I’ll be waiting for you. Is this about that piece of cloth?”
“Yes.”
* * *
“Gimme the cloth,” Leanza said rudely, without saying hello, “so I can take it to Micheluzzi.”
“Wait a second,” Montalbano said, surprised. “What’s wrong? Did I somehow offend you?”
“No, Salvo, you didn’t. I’m just pissed off at my men.”
“Why?”
“Because we attached no importance whatsoever to that scrap of cloth, whereas it was in fact very important, if now you’re thrusting it in my face.”
“No, Fernà, that’s not right, because neither you nor me, for that matter, knew at the time how valuable that scrap might be.”
“All right,” said Leanza. “Have a seat and wait for me. If you want I’ve got a little whisky to help you pass the time.”
“No, thanks,” replied Montalbano, “but do you think I could smoke a cigarette?”
“Tell you what,” said Leanza. “I’ll lock you in so no one can enter.”
Montalbano had to smoke three cigarettes before Leanza reappeared.
“Micheluzzi says the tear is very recent. Whereas the fabric is more than ten years old. Now tell me why this scrap of cloth is so important.”
“So, in your opinion, could the tear be attributed to scissors?”
“I’ve already got the answer to that: Micheluzzi says that if it had been made by scissors, the cut would have been clean. No, it was torn by hand. And anot
her thing: They say that there are long folds across the entire piece, as if it had been folded and compressed for a long time, as if stored away. Make sense to you?”
“It makes sense to me,” said Montalbano. “And thanks.”
“What? And you’re going to leave me hanging, just like that? Aren’t you going to fill me in on anything?”
“You’ll have to forgive me, Fernà, but I’m still pretty vague and confused about this whole story. If I tried to explain anything to you, it would probably end up being all bullshit.”
They said good-bye, and Montalbano took the little plastic bag and headed back to the station.
* * *
“Did you take the cat to the lady?”
“Did it straightaways, Chief. But, man, it rilly broke my ’eart to do it. And when the lady saw the cat, she started cryin’ an’ ’enn she hugged it and kissed it all over. And so I decided ’at Rinaldo was in good ’ands, an’ I felt a li’l better.”
“Well, if you want to feel even better, there’s a mama cat with two kittens right beside where I parked my car.”
“Know what I’m gonna do?” said Catarella. “Since I got some cat food left over, I’m gonna go an’ take it to ’em right now.”
“Are you doing that newspaper research I asked you to do?”
“Assolutely, Chief! An’ I even awriddy foun’ two long arcticles. Bu’ I’m still lookin’, Chief, irrelentlissly. I ain’t wastin’ a single minnit.”
“Thanks, Cat. Listen, is anyone here?”
“Yeah, Chief. Isspector Augello’s onna premisses.”
“Send him to me.”
As soon as Mimì came in and quietly sat down, Montalbano could tell, from the dark expression he was wearing, that Mimì had some bad news.
“What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong is that there’s an enormous pain in the ass.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that five minutes ago the commissioner called me to tell me to make myself and ten other men available to Sileci tonight.”
“So that shit’s starting all over again?” asked Montalbano.
“The commissioner said tonight is an exception. But, in essence, it’s the same old story. The shears fly into the air and end up in the gardener’s asshole. Apparently they’re expecting about seven hundred desperadoes tonight . . . And that’s only the first pain in the ass.”
“And what’s the second?”
“The second is that the investigating judge is not inclined to validate the arrest of that big turd Trupia.”
“And why not?”
“Because the defense lawyer was very clever and managed to convince him that lack of an alibi is no indication of guilt and that there’s no evidence against him. And then the judge said he would take twenty-four hours to decide. But I’m sure he’s going to set him free.”
“Tell me something, Mimì,” Montalbano said with a grin. “If he’d been put on trial, would you have become a witness for the prosecution because he screwed a woman you wanted?”
“You are such an asshole, Salvo. I am deeply convinced he is the killer, and even if he’s set free, I won’t let him breathe freely for so much as one second. I will find no peace until I have proved his guilt.”
Montalbano started applauding.
“What is wrong with you?” asked Mimì, taken aback.
“Brilliant! Splendid performance! I felt like I was watching an American movie. If you do it over again, with the same emphasis, I’ll whistle the background music.”
“Fuck off!” said Mimì, getting up and slamming the door on his way out.
A split second later, the same door opened again and Fazio appeared, and upon sitting down he noticed the little plastic bag with the blue fabric and sat there staring at it in silence, his face darkening.
“Have you suddenly lost your voice?”
“No, Chief. It’s you who should do the talking.”
“About what?”
“Well, for example, this piece of cloth, which the last time I saw it was on the worktable in Signora Elena’s shop.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you everything. Do you remember that it was bloodstained because the killer had wiped the scissors with it, and that it was also torn?”
“Yes.”
“Well, leaving out the finer details, I can tell you that I became curious to know whether that tear was recent, and so I went to the forensics lab, and they told me that the rip is quite new, but the fabric is rather old.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means what Signora Teresa explained to me.”
“Please explain it to me, too.”
“Okay, listen up. Franco, Elena’s husband, took his own life by throwing himself into a river. To thwart his natural instinct for survival, he tied his own hands so he couldn’t swim. With this same scarf.”
Fazio’s coppish instincts got the better of him.
“But how could they be so sure it wasn’t somebody else who tied his hands? Such as, for example, the very same person who wanted to kill him and make it look like a suicide?”
“That’s what I’m waiting for Catarella to tell me.”
“For Catarella to tell you?”
“Yes. I asked him to collect all the obituaries from the papers concerning that suicide. But there’s something that’s had me thinking a lot. Which is this: The scarf had been kept along with papers and other stuff in the bottom drawer of Elena’s desk. But when I opened that drawer, it was completely empty. Which, in plain words, means the killer took away everything that was in that drawer. The troubling question that all this raises is the following: Why did Elena pull that scarf out and take it into the big workroom? The only answer I’ve been able to come up with so far is that she wanted to show it to the killer.”
“And why would she want to do that?”
“Dunno. In fact, at the moment, only God knows.” After a brief pause, the inspector continued: “Any news about the kid?”
“I summoned him for nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Good. Listen, it’s getting pretty late, so we can go home now.”
The phone rang.
“Ah, Chief, ’ere’d a happen a be a Mister Measles onna line wantin’ a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”
“Tell me, Cat, is he contagious?”
“Oh, my Gah, Chief! I don’ know. Ya tink ’e might be contatious? E’en over the phone?! Matre santa, Chief! When I was a kid I got the mamps, but never the mizzles!”
“Do this, Cat: Put him through to me and then go and disinfect your ear with a little alcohol.”
“Tanks, Chief. Ya rilly know so much!”
“This is Montalbano here. And you are Mr. . . .”
“Aurelio Mizzillis,” said a deep, gravelly, pedantic old man’s voice.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Fifteen minutes ago I got back from Palermo.”
Silence.
“Glad to hear it,” said Montalbano.
Then, blocking the mouthpiece, he whispered to Fazio:
“I think we can have a little fun with this guy. You listen in, too.”
He turned on the speakerphone. But since the man at the other end was still silent, the inspector prodded him.
“And do you intend to stay for a while in Vigàta?”
“I live here. In Via Giosuè Cusumano, number 22, where my family’s been living for generations.”
“My compliments,” said Montalbano, winking at Fazio. “Got anything else of interest to tell me, Mr. Mizzillis?”
“Yes, sir, I do. In fact, I’m calling you because I need someone to help my wife deliver her burden.”
“Why, is she pregnant?”
“No, Inspector, she’s seventy years old, and I’m not kidding. And we ha
ve four grandchildren from our two sons, whose names are Antonio and Filippo.”
“My warmest congratulations. And now I must say good-bye, because . . .”
“Please wait just a minute. You absolutely must help relieve Concettina of her burden.”
“And Concettina would be your wife?”
“Yes, sir, and she absolutely must free herself of this burden, which she’s been carrying in her heart and was unable to unload because I was away in Palermo.”
“And what is this burden?”
“The burden is the fact that my wife suffers from insomnia at night, and so she spends her time watching.”
“Watching TV?” Montalbano suggested.
“No, Inspector. Television only makes her eyelids flutter.”
“So what does she watch?”
“She watches the building in front of ours.”
One practically had to pull the words out of Mr. Mizzillis with pliers.
“And what does she see in the building in front?”
“Well, for example, she saw Diego Trupia.”
Montalbano’s and Fazio’s expressions changed. The smiles they had on their faces vanished.
“And what was he doing?”
“Nothing, Inspector. He was sitting down watching television.”
“Yes, but when was this?”
“Well done, Inspector. It’s clear you’re a great cop, as the concierge of my building said to me. And that’s the weight my Concettina’s been wanting to get off her chest: On the night that poor Signora Elena was killed, Diego Trupia watched TV until two o’clock in the morning. Then he turned off his set and went into his bedroom, but as soon as she saw him start to get undressed, my wife, who is an honest, chaste woman, turned her eyes to the window two floors above him, where she watched Signor Anzalone play cards with his friends until daybreak.”
And so, just like that, Trupia suddenly had an alibi, and was now off the hook!
“Listen, Mr. Mizzillis,” said the inspector, “would your wife be willing to come to the police station and make a declaration of what you have just told us?”
“Of course. Now that I’m back from Palermo, I can bring her to you.”
“Then I would like to ask you a favor: Could you come right now?”
The Other End of the Line Page 19
