The telephone rang.
“Chief, ’at’d be Francischino onna line, wantin’ a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”
Who on earth was that? But rather than waste time with Catarella, he had him put the call through.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Francischino, Inspector, the mechanic.”
“Ah, right. What is it?”
“I’m calling you from the Lombardos’ home. Somebody busted up their engine. What should I do? Tow it into the garage, or leave it here?”
“I’m sorry, but why are you asking me?”
“Because the lady don’t answer her cell phone, and since she’s your friend—”
“She’s not my friend, Francischì, she’s just an acquaintance. I don’t know what to tell you.”
“All right, sorry.”
One of the things the mechanic said stuck in the inspector’s mind.
“Why do you say somebody ‘busted up’ her engine?”
“Because that’s what happened. They opened the hood and did a load of damage.”
“Are you saying it was done on purpose?”
“I know my trade, Inspector.”
So who could have anything against the lovely Liliana Lombardo?
“So what’s this all about?” the inspector asked Fazio and Augello as soon as they sat down in front of him.
It was up to Deputy Inspector Domenico Augello, whom everyone called Mimì, to answer. And, in fact, he said:
“In my opinion, it’s a case of nonpayment of protection money. But Fazio doesn’t agree.”
“Let’s hear you out first,” said Montalbano.
“The warehouse belongs to a certain Angelino Arnone, who also owns a grocery, a bakery, and a shoe store. That makes three protection-racket payments he has to pay. Either he forgot to pay a couple, or they upped the price and he refused. And so, to bring him back in line, they sent him a warning. That’s what I think.”
“And what’s this Arnone have to say?”
“The usual bullshit we’ve heard a thousand times before. That he’s never paid the racket because he’s never been asked to pay, that he has no enemies and is loved by all.”
“And what do you think?” Montalbano asked Fazio.
“I dunno, Chief, the whole thing just doesn’t add up to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because it would be the first time they set a bomb off in front of a warehouse to get somebody to pay the racket. What did they damage? His metal shutter? With a few euros it’s all taken care of. Whereas according to normal procedure, they should have put it in front of his grocery or bakery or shoe store. In that case the warning would make sense.”
The inspector didn’t know what to say. On the other hand, Fazio’s doubt wasn’t really so far-fetched.
“So why, in your opinion, didn’t they stick to normal procedure this time?”
“I have no answer, to be honest. But if you’ll allow me, I’d like to know more about this Angelino Arnone.”
“Fine, gather your information and then let me know. Oh, and just what kind of bomb was it?”
“A classic time bomb. Inside a cardboard box that looked like it was left there for the garbage collectors.”
On his way to Enzo’s trattoria for lunch, the inspector happened to read the name of a short, narrow street he went up and down at least twice a day: Via Pisacane.
He’d never noticed the name before. He slowed down in front of number 28. Arnone’s warehouse, the ground floor of a three-story building, was wedged between a hardware store and the door leading to the apartments above. The bomb had been placed not in the middle of the metal shutter, but on the far right.
At Enzo’s he gorged himself. A variety of antipasti, spaghetti in squid ink, a sampling of pasta in clam sauce, and a main course of striped surmullet (actually two generous helpings).
So a walk along the jetty to the flat rock under the lighthouse became a necessity, despite the heat.
He spent an hour there, smoking and pestering a crab, then headed back to the office.
He parked and got out of the car, but to enter the building he had to push aside with his foot a large package blocking the entrance.
Something like a flash went off in his brain.
“Cat, what’s that parcel in the doorway?”
“Sorry, Chief, but summon from a’ministration’s comin’ straightaways ta pick it up. Eight packitches o’ forms, quessionaires, an’ litterhead arrived.”
How was it that the Ministry of Justice had the money to increase the bureaucratic pains in the ass but didn’t have any to buy gas for the mobile units?
“Is Fazio in?”
“Yessir.”
“Send ’im to me.”
Fazio arrived with an excuse.
“Chief, I haven’t had a free minute all morning to look into Arnone.”
“Have a seat; I want to tell you something. Today I discovered, entirely by chance, that one of the streets I usually take to go to lunch was Via Pisacane. So I had a look.”
Fazio looked at him inquisitively.
“Judging from the marks left by the blast and the hole it made in the shutter, it looked to me like the bomb was placed at the far right end of the shutter. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“In other words, close to number twenty-six, which is the entrance to the rest of the building. Right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, now listen up. I have a theory. If a tenant coming out or going into the building first thing in the morning sees a cardboard box blocking the doorway, what does he do?”
“Probably pushes it aside with his foot,” said Fazio. Then, a moment later: “Holy shit!”
“Exactly. It’s possible the bomb was not a warning for Arnone, but for someone who lives in that building.”
“You’re right. Which complicates things and means we have a lot more work to do.”
“Do you want me to talk to Inspector Augello about it?”
Fazio grimaced.
“If I could bring Gallo along . . .” he said.
“Sure, go ahead,” said the inspector.
Augello came in about half an hour later.
“Have you got a minute?”
“I’ve got as much time as you need, Mimì.”
“I’ve been thinking about what Fazio said this morning about the bomb. And it is indeed an anomaly. So I asked myself why the bomb was placed at the far right end of the shutter and not in the middle. Because right beside the warehouse is the entrance to a three-story apartment building. So my question is: Couldn’t the bomb have been intended for that building? And a tenant just pushed it aside without realizing that it had a bomb inside?”
Montalbano gave him a look of jubilation.
“Do you know that’s a brilliant observation, Mimì? Congratulations. I’ll tell Fazio to start investigating the building’s tenants right away.”
Augello stood up and went back to his office feeling satisfied.
Why disappoint him? Young Eagle Scout Salvo Montalbano had done his good deed for the day.
2
When passing by the Lombardos’ house on his way home, he immediately noticed that her car was no longer there, and through an open window in the back he could see a bedroom all lit up and Signora Lombardo standing in front of an open armoire.
The moment he set foot in his house, he froze, unable to move, beset by a sudden doubt. How should he proceed with his lovely neighbor? Francischino surely must have told her that someone had damaged her engine on purpose. So was it or was it not his duty, as a police inspector, to offer to help her find who had done it and to protect her from further danger? Perhaps the lady was expecting him to offer to intervene. Or should he just sit tight and say nothing, since she ha
dn’t reported anything yet?
But what if the lady hadn’t yet had the time to report it?
As he was searching for the right answer, another doubt assailed him, this one of a strictly personal nature. If Signora Liliana was not a beautiful woman but a cross-eyed, toothless, bowlegged crone, would he still be so interested in her?
Feeling offended for having had such a thought, he answered himself sincerely: yes, he would be just as interested in her.
And this was enough to persuade him to stop wasting time and go ring the bell at the Lombardos’ gate.
He walked there, given how close their house was to his.
Signora Liliana seemed quite pleased to see him. It was said that the Piedmontese were false and polite, but her welcome didn’t seem the least bit false.
“Come in, come in! Just follow me.”
She was wearing a little dress as light as could be, short and formfitting. It looked as if it were painted on her skin. Montalbano followed her like an automaton, totally hypnotized by the harmonious undulations of the spheres moving before him. Two more spheres to be added to the celestial one of which the poets sang.
“Shall we go out on the veranda?”
“With pleasure.”
The veranda was exactly the same as his, except for the table and chairs, which were fancier and more modern.
“Can I get you something?”
“No, thanks, no need to bother.”
“I should tell you, Inspector, I’ve got some excellent vodka. But if you haven’t eaten dinner yet . . .”
“Actually, something cold might be nice in this heat, thank you.”
“I’ll go and get you some.”
She returned with a bottle of vodka in a bucket of ice, two small stemmed glasses, and an ashtray.
“I’ll have just a little drop to keep you company,” she said. “If you feel like smoking—”
They heard a cell phone ring inside the house.
“Damn, what a pain! Excuse me for a second. In the meantime please help yourself.”
She went inside and must have gone into the bedroom to talk, perhaps closing the door, because the inspector couldn’t hear even the faintest murmur.
The phone call was long enough for Montalbano to smoke a whole cigarette.
When she returned, Signora Liliana’s face was quite red and she was breathing heavily. And her panting, incidentally, had an additionally lovely result, evoking other celestial spheres, since she clearly wasn’t wearing a bra. She must have just had a rather animated exchange.
“I’m sorry, that was Adriano, my husband. An unexpected hassle. But you haven’t had anything to drink! Here, let me serve you.”
She poured two fingers’ worth of vodka into one of the little glasses, which she held out for Montalbano, then gave herself a rather hefty dose in her own, which she brought to her lips and downed in a single draft.
So much for the “little drop”!
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Inspector?”
“I don’t know whether the mechanic told you . . .”
“That it’s going to take a long time to fix the engine? Yes, he did, and in fact I had him tow the car to his garage. It’s not going to be easy for me to go back and forth to Montelusa. It’s true there’s the bus, but its schedule is so odd . . .”
“I usually leave for the office around eight in the morning. If you want I can give you a ride, at least on the way in . . .”
“Thanks, I think I’ll take you up on that. I’ll be ready and waiting tomorrow at eight.”
Montalbano returned to the subject that interested him.
“Did the mechanic tell you how the engine got damaged?”
She laughed. Matre santa, what a laugh! It hit him right in the gut. She sounded like a dove in love.
“There was no need for me to ask him. I’m a terrible driver; I must have subjected that poor engine—”
“No, that’s not it.”
“It’s not?”
“No. Your car’s engine was intentionally damaged, quite on purpose.”
She immediately turned pale. Montalbano continued:
“That’s the mechanic’s opinion, and he knows what he’s talking about.”
Liliana poured herself more vodka and drank it. She started looking out at the sea without saying anything.
“Did you use your car yesterday, signora?”
“Yes. I was out until evening, and up to then it ran just fine.”
“So it happened last night. Someone must have climbed your gate, raised the hood, and rendered the engine unusable. Did you hear any noise?”
“Nothing at all.”
“And yet the car was parked very close to the bedroom window.”
“I said I didn’t hear anything!”
Montalbano pretended not to notice that she’d answered crossly. But having come this far, he might as well go all the way.
“Do you have any idea who it might have been?”
“No.”
But as soon as she’d said no, Liliana seemed to change her mind.
She turned and looked Montalbano in the eye.
“You know, Inspector, I’m often alone, and for long periods of time. And so I’m an attractive target for . . . In short, I’ve had some trouble. Just imagine, one night some idiot came and knocked on the shutter to my bedroom window! So this might have been done by someone wanting to avenge himself for my indifference . . .”
“Have you had any explicit propositions?”
“As many as you like.”
“Could you give me the names of any of these, er, suitors of yours?”
“But can’t you see I don’t even know what they look like? They call me up and tell me their names, but it might just be made up, and then they’re off on a string of obscenities.”
Montalbano pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and wrote something on it.
“Here’s my home phone number. Don’t hesitate to call me if anyone comes by and bothers you during the night.”
Then he stood up and said good-bye. Liliana walked him out to the gate.
“I’m so grateful you’re taking an interest in this. See you tomorrow.”
After scarfing down a dish of pasta ’ncasciata and a huge serving of eggplant parmesan, both prepared by his housekeeper Adelina, he went outside and sat down on the veranda.
The sky was so full of stars it looked as if you could reach up and touch them with your hand. The gentle wind that had risen felt like a caress on his skin. After five minutes of this, however, Montalbano realized it wouldn’t work. He absolutely needed a long walk along the beach for digestive purposes.
He went down to the beach, but instead of turning right in the direction of Scala dei Turchi, as he always did, he turned left, towards town. And thus he passed directly in front of the Lombardos’ house.
But he hadn’t done it on purpose. Or had he?
All the lights were off, and he couldn’t tell whether the French door to the veranda was open or closed. Perhaps Liliana had eaten, knocked back a few more little glasses of vodka, and gone to bed.
At that moment, along the main road, a car made a U-turn and its headlights briefly lit up the rear of the house.
That was enough for Montalbano to see distinctly that there was a car stopped outside the gate.
He got worried. Want to bet the unknown engine basher had come back to do more damage? And that Liliana had phoned him to ask for help, and he hadn’t been there to take the call because he was out walking on the beach?
He changed course and headed for the Lombardos’ house. When he got to the veranda he saw that the French door was closed from the inside. And so he circled very carefully around the house to the back.
The car, a green Volvo with the license plate XZ
452 BG, was parked with its nose up against the closed gate. Through the carefully closed shutters of what Montalbano knew to be the bedroom, a thin shaft of light filtered out. The window was low enough that a person’s head came up to the sill.
He went up to it and immediately heard Liliana moaning. Certainly not in pain.
Montalbano rushed away. And to work off the agitation that had suddenly come over him, he resumed his walk along the beach.
That his lovely, amiable neighbor was telling him a pack of lies had dawned on Montalbano even during his visit. And what was happening at that very moment in the signora’s bedroom was the irrefutable confirmation of this.
At this point he would have bet the house that the person who’d phoned her was not her husband but another man.
Probably the brilliant idea of vandalizing her car’s engine had come to a lover of hers whom she’d grown tired of and given his walking papers to make room for the owner of the Volvo. Or else she’d had a quarrel with the owner of the Volvo, who’d then lost his head and taken it out on her car. Then there’d been the reconciliation, of which he’d just heard part of the soundtrack. Therefore Liliana knew perfectly well not only the first and last names and addresses of the men who called her up, but also their vital statistics and distinguishing features.
At this point Montalbano concluded that the whole affair was a private matter between Liliana and her lovers and decided that there was no more reason for him to get involved.
And so, after his customary good-night phone call to Livia, with the requisite beginnings of a squabble, he went to bed.
The following morning at eight o’clock sharp, Liliana was waiting for him in the driveway. Naturally the Volvo was no longer parked in front of the gate or anywhere in the vicinity. Perhaps because it was even hotter than the day before, she was wearing a dress similar to the one she’d had on the previous night, except this one was light blue. And it had the same devastating effect.
Game of Mirrors Page 2
