“Cat, is Fazio in?”
“Nah, Chief, but ’e called poissonally in poisson likeabouts fitteen minutes ago to say ’e’s on ’is way.”
“What about Inspector Augello?”
“Nah, ’e ain’t ’ere neither. I put a call true to him and a li’l while later ’e went onna scene.”
“And where’s that?”
“’E din’t say. Sorry, Chief, but d’jou know there was an aschange of fires wit’ the carabinieri atta roadblock?”
“Yes, I know.”
He went into his office and had just grabbed some papers from the pile in order to sign them when Fazio came in.
“Nuttata persa e figlia fìmmina.”
“Meaning?”
“I went to Montelusa to talk to some people at the clothing store, but it was closed.”
“You can go back tomorrow.”
“Did you know you have a hole?” Fazio asked out of the blue.
Montalbano instinctively checked his jacket and shirt. Fazio smiled.
“On your car, I mean. I noticed just now when I parked alongside it.”
“On my car?!”
They went outside to the parking lot, Fazio leading the way.
The hole was in the right-hand door, at more or less the height of the passenger’s seat. A close look revealed that it was clearly from a firearm.
Montalbano opened the door. The bullet had gone straight through the car’s body, penetrated the seat back, and come to rest in the stuffing.
Fazio was silent, pale, and worried.
“Don’t be alarmed,” Montalbano said, smiling. “It was a stray shot; it wasn’t aimed at me.”
“But how’d it happen?”
He told him about the shoot-out. Fazio heaved a sigh of relief.
“But you can’t be driving around with this!”
“What do you suggest?”
“I’ll have the car sent to our appointed body shop. I’ll tell them to do a quick touch-up job.”
“Have them dig out the bullet.”
“But they’ll have to rip the guts out of the seat!”
“Worse things have happened.”
“I’ll have Gallo drive you home to Marinella this evening,” Fazio decided. “And he’ll come and get you in the morning as well. We’ll look for a better solution if the repair ends up taking a long time.”
“Okay.”
Half an hour later Mimì Augello straggled in.
“Where’ve you been?”
“To Via Pisacane.”
“Why?”
“I got a phone call from a man, but he didn’t want to give me his name.”
“What did he say?”
“That the bomb went off by accident.”
This was a new development.
“What do you mean ‘by accident’?”
“That’s what he said. According to our nameless witness, the bomb was put together by a certain Filippo Russotto, who lives on the third floor of twenty-six, Via Pisacane, and every now and then makes bombs for the Mafia. Supposedly when he was putting the bomb in his car to take it to his clients, something went wrong—exactly what, I didn’t quite understand—and so he left the bomb in the street.”
“And you believe that?”
“Calm down. Before making any moves, I checked the records. The guy’s got a clean one. And so I went and looked at all the names of people associated in any way with bomb explosions. And, in fact, in a trial five years ago, someone claimed Filippo Russotto was the guy who provided the explosives, but he couldn’t prove it, and so Russotto got off. And so, just to be sure, I decided to go and check things out.”
“And how did they check out?”
“Depends on your point of view.”
“Explain.”
“Russotto’s wife told me her husband’s been in Montelusa Hospital for some tests. Apparently he’s got something in his lungs. It seems our anonymous caller wasn’t aware of this detail.”
The attempt to add another mirror to the game had failed.
Fazio returned, and Montalbano brought him up to speed on what Augello had told him.
“They’re trying every trick in the book,” Fazio commented.
“How’d it go at the body shop?”
“Chief, even for a quick touch-up job, they have to keep the car for four days.”
Montalbano cursed.
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“I’ve already taken care of it. I got you a car that drives exactly the same way as yours. It’s outside in the parking lot, the gray car next to mine. Here are the keys.”
He set them down on the desk.
“And here’s the bullet,” he continued.
Montalbano picked it up and looked at it.
“Are you sure this is it?”
“Chief, how many bullets do you think were embedded in your seat?”
“But this is a special bullet from a rifle!”
“So?”
“It can’t be from the carabinieri.”
“But didn’t you tell me you saw someone shooting from the passing car?”
“Yes, but not with a rifle!”
“Maybe you just didn’t notice that there was someone else with a rifle.”
Montalbano turned pensive. He replayed the scene at the roadblock in his mind and came to a conclusion.
“You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to talk to Lieutenant Vannutelli.”
He had Catarella ring the lieutenant, who replied that he would be waiting for him at the headquarters of the carabinieri.
He decided to go on foot. He hadn’t had time yet to try out the borrowed car.
“Did you manage to catch them?” he asked the lieutenant.
“No, they got away.”
“Did anyone tell you I was there?”
“You were there?!”
Montalbano told him the whole story. And then he showed him the bullet. Vannutelli picked it up, examined it, and looked dumbfounded.
“Where on earth did this come from? People were shooting machine guns and automatic weapons, not rifles.”
“That’s why I’m here. The entry hole in my car door is perfectly round. The shot must have been fired from a point parallel to my car.”
Vannutelli kept looking at the bullet with puzzlement.
“The carabinieri stopped me just as I was beside the first car in the line going towards Montelusa. The shot could only have come from that car, or from the one right behind it.”
“What I think you’re trying to say is that the guys who drove through the roadblock had armed accomplices, is that right?”
“Precisely.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to the marshal who conducted the roadblock and get back to you.”
When he got to his office, he called Fazio.
“Have you got any friends in Forensics?”
Montalbano, for his part, had a profound dislike of the chief of Forensics. The mere sight of him gave him a stomachache. And his feelings were returned in kind.
“Sure.”
He handed him the bullet.
“Have him look at it in private.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Whatever there is to know.”
“You in a hurry?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll take it to Montelusa tomorrow.”
As he was about to leave to go home, Lieutenant Vannutelli rang.
“Listen, I had a long talk with Marshal Capua and De Giovanni, the carabiniere who stopped you and remembers you perfectly.”
“What did they say?”
“They said your theory doesn’t hold water.”
“And why not?”
“Because at
the moment the speeding car reached the roadblock, Capua was checking the first car in the queue and he’s absolutely positive that nobody fired a shot from that car. De Giovanni, on the other hand, right after stopping you, was walking over to the second car and had to squeeze up against it to avoid the speeding car coming through. If anyone fired a shot from that car, it would have struck him.”
The argument was airtight.
Then how to explain the bullet hole?
He went into the parking lot, got in the car that Fazio had procured for him, and drove three times around the lot as a test. It felt fine.
So he headed off to Marinella.
6
The lights were on in the Lombardos’ house. Therefore Liliana was at home, even though he couldn’t see her. Would she be coming to eat the arancini as she’d promised? For no apparent reason, Montalbano had the suspicion that at the last minute she would find an excuse not to come. As he slipped the key into his front door, he heard the telephone ringing. This was something that happened often. It was as though the phone could hear his car approach from a distance and then started ringing at once, so that he wouldn’t have time to answer. He tried to move as fast as possible, but when he lifted the receiver he heard only a dial tone.
He went straight to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, took out the arancini, and put them in the oven, which he then lit and set at a low temperature. Then he went to the bathroom and washed up, came back out, turned on the television, sat down, and watched himself being interviewed by Nicolò. After turning off the set, he started setting the table on the veranda.
When he’d done this, he sat down on the bench, lit a cigarette, and started thinking about what was eating away at him. Where could the shot that struck his car have come from?
The hole of entry spoke quite clearly: there was no splintering; it was clean and formed a perfect circle. The bullet was fired by someone positioned at a perfect right angle to the car and, therefore, if the carabinieri’s reconstruction was correct, the shot could only have come from a gunman on the other side of the queue of cars, in the open countryside along the road.
But this wasn’t possible, either, because in that case the bullet, before reaching his car, would have ended up hitting one of the cars stuck in traffic.
Unless the gunman happened to have fired the shot from the second floor of a building. But in this case the entry hole should have had an almost oval shape.
There was no explanation.
He looked at his watch. It was already nine fifteen. What was keeping Liliana? Or had she again lacked the nerve to come, as he’d already imagined?
The telephone rang. He hestitated for a moment, unsure whether to answer or not. It might be some hassle that would send his evening up in smoke, just as easily as it might be Liliana herself.
He picked up the receiver.
“Inspector Montalbano?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Liliana.”
“Are you coming?”
“I got as far as your front door, but then I saw a car there that wasn’t yours, and so I thought . . .”
“Don’t worry, it’s mine.”
“Why’d you change cars?”
“I had to. I’ll explain later.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right over.”
Montalbano went and opened the door and waited there until he saw her approaching from the road. She was wearing slacks and a blouse, maybe because she had something serious to tell him.
But she certainly was beautiful.
By way of greeting, she shook his hand, a strained smile on her pale face. The inspector took her out to the veranda.
He didn’t like the fact that Liliana was so serious and apparently worried, as if preparing to be interrogated. It would be better if she loosened up a little; that would make it easier to talk.
“In the fridge I’ve got a bottle of that nice wine you liked.”
“Sure, why not?”
After she’d drunk half a glass, she sighed deeply, and a bit of color returned to her face.
“Why did you have to change cars?”
Montalbano told her about the shoot-out at the checkpoint, but didn’t tell her that the carabinieri had ruled out that the shot could have been fired at that moment.
Now she seemed more relaxed.
“Shall I go and get the arancini?”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Let’s bring our plates with us.”
As soon as he opened the oven, a heavenly scent wafted out and overwhelmed their senses.
“Let’s do this,” said Montalbano. “Since they should be eaten nice and hot, let’s just take one each right now, and then we’ll come back for reinforcements.”
“That sounds wise to me.”
They ate them in the twinkling of an eye, finishing the bottle in the process.
“Shall we go?” Liliana suggested.
“Let’s.”
Liliana opened the oven, put two arancini on the inspector’s plate and the only remaining one on hers.
“That way we won’t have to come back.”
Montalbano grabbed another bottle of wine.
This time they savored them ever so slowly, without talking, but only smiling at each other with their eyes.
Liliana was her usual self again, cordial and pleasant. The arancini had performed a miracle, lightening the burden of what she had to tell him.
“If you’re still hungry, I’ve got some excellent cheese.”
“Are you kidding?”
Liliana helped him clear the table and bring a bottle of whisky, two glasses, and an ashtray outside.
Montalbano noticed when she poured herself a hefty dose.
“Could I have a cigarette?”
She smoked it.
“Could you please turn off the light?”
Maybe she was thinking that she would feel more at ease in the dark.
The inspector turned it off. But between the light from the dining room and the moonlight outside, they could still look each other in the eye.
Liliana began speaking softly.
“I want to explain why I didn’t file a report when my car was damaged.”
Montalbano held his breath. He knew from experience that any question at all from him, the mere sound of his voice, might at that moment have a negative effect.
“I know who did it,” she continued.
This time her pause was longer.
“And I wouldn’t want, for any reason in the world, to harm him. It was a childish act, a moment of anger. He won’t do anything like it again, I’m convinced of that.”
She poured herself more whisky.
“Now comes the hardest part for me.”
At that moment the inspector decided to speak.
“Listen, Liliana, as far as I’m concerned, you can stop here. You’re under no obligation to explain your actions to me. Especially if we’re talking about motivations that I presume are, well, strictly personal.”
“But I want to tell you anyway.”
She’d suddenly used the familiar form of address, which put Montalbano slightly ill at ease. It lessened considerably the distance he would rather have maintained.
“Why?”
“Because I want to see you as a friend. I would like to be able to ask you for advice, or help . . . You know, I don’t have anyone to talk to, to confide in . . . Sometimes the situation becomes unbearable for me . . . And you’re a man who conveys such a sense of solidity and self-assurance . . .”
Since they were sitting on the same bench, she slid closer to him, to the point where her body touched his, and continued talking as she lay her head on his shoulder.
Where was she intending to go with this?<
br />
“I want you to listen to me. I’m speaking with an open heart, without hiding anything. For two years now, Adriano and I have not had relations. We’ve become strangers to each other. How this came about I really don’t know, but the fact is that it happened. A month after we moved to Vigàta, I found a job in Montelusa, as chief of sales personnel in a large clothing store for both women and men. It’s called All’ultima moda. Among the sales personnel there was a young man of about twenty, very good-looking, tall, athletic . . .”
In the inspector’s head there appeared a name in giant neon-lit letters: Arturo Tallarita.
But he didn’t open his mouth.
“To make a long story short, I resisted his advances. But then I couldn’t anymore. After a while I realized I was making a big mistake. He was too young, too impulsive, too possessive . . . And so I forbade him to come and see me anymore. The other evening a friend came and picked me up and brought me home quite late. And the following morning my car was . . . well, you saw it yourself. And so, when I went in to work, I called him aside and . . . he started crying. He confessed and begged me not to report him. And that’s the whole story.”
No, it was not the whole story. What about the man with the Volvo? But Liliana was no longer talking. She’d put her arm around his shoulders and held him tight.
“I feel so good with you!” she whispered to him, her lips almost touching his ear. All he had to do was turn his head slightly and . . .
The telephone rang.
“Excuse me,” he said, freeing himself from her embrace.
It was Livia.
“Are you alone?”
Why did she ask that? What, did she have a sixth sense or something? Did a little bird tell her?
“Yes.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, aren’t we talkative tonight! Can you talk or can’t you?”
“I just said—”
“All right, all right, I won’t bother you any further.”
She hung up.
When he went back out on the veranda, Liliana had stood up and was leaning on the railing.
The magical moment had passed. It was unlikely to return, at least that evening. Montalbano went and stood beside her, firing up a cigarette.
Game of Mirrors Page 6
