The inspector looked over at Savagnoli.
“That should be enough to charge them with a crime, I should think,” he said. “Don’t you agree? Violation of property, violation of privacy, intent to blackmail . . .”
“I was only following the orders of my employer, Mr. Ragonese,” the cameraman replied.
“And what orders were those?”
“He said there was a big scoop in the making. He’d received an anonymous phone call.”
“At what time did you arrive at the scene?”
“A little before you did. We noticed there was a lot of light outside on the veranda . . .”
“You didn’t know this beforehand?”
“How could we have known?”
“Go on.”
“We saw a boat beached nearby, so we put it out in the water and pretended we were fishermen. We were hoping things would heat up quickly. But after a while you and the lady went into the dining room. There was no way we could film you in there. And so we forgot about the boat, went around the house, climbed over the gate, and waited in the dark outside the bedroom window in the hope that sooner or later . . .”
Between the heat and the things the guy was saying, Montalbano couldn’t stand it any longer. He felt like he was going to throw up and didn’t want to hear anything else.
He sprang to his feet. Everyone looked at him.
“Tell Mr. Ragonese that, if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll be here at the station tomorrow morning at nine,” he said to Savagnoli.
Then to Fazio:
“Confiscate the video cam, write up a report, then release these assholes. I’m going home.”
There were two points in Liliana’s favor, Montalbano reflected on his way home.
She had not put in the hundred-watt bulb to facilitate the filming. And she had made no prior arrangement with the cameramen.
So was she part of it or wasn’t she? And, if so, to what degree?
Or was she totally innocent of the trap that had been set for him, which luckily hadn’t worked out?
In other words, did the person who made the phone call to Ragonese want to entrap just him, or Liliana as well?
Driving past the Lombardos’ house, he noticed that it was all dark. Liliana must have gone to bed, mad as hell at him.
He sat outside for a while, waiting for his agitation to pass. He’d dodged a bullet, thanks to Nicolò. Ragonese would probably have aired the scoop ad infinitum.
But, when you came right down to it, would it really have been such a scoop? There certainly wasn’t anything illegal about his actions, though he, much more than Liliana, would have been publicly disgraced. The commissioner would surely have had him transferred. And perhaps, in the final analysis, that was the real purpose of the scoop. He went to bed, but tossed and turned a great deal before finally managing to fall asleep. The heat was the main reason, of course, but every so often the image of Liliana with her arms open threw gasoline on the fire.
The following morning, Liliana was not waiting outside the gate at eight. There was no sign of life inside the house. She must have taken the city bus to work. It had to have been the first time she’d been rejected by a man. He probably wouldn’t be seeing her again, except perhaps by chance—unless her unexplained need to have him as a friend somehow proved stronger than her resentment over being slighted.
Indeed, things had not gone the way he’d wanted them to go the previous night, and he’d failed in his intent to discover Liliana’s reasons for acting out this whole song and dance with him.
At nine on the dot, he got a call from Catarella.
“Chief, ’at’d be ’at ’ere’s a Signor Fragolesi onna premisses sez ’e got a pointment wit’ yiz . . .” (It must have been Ragonese) “ . . . anna lawyer called Calalasso ’oo’d be ’ere wit ’im, ’im bein’ a foremintioned Signor Fragolesi.”
“Show them in and get me Fazio, too.”
The lawyer’s name was Calasso. Montalbano knew and respected him. He didn’t hold out his hand for Ragonese to shake, and the newsman responded in kind. The two men were sitting down as Fazio appeared with some papers in his hand. The reports from the night before.
“Shall I go first?” Montalbano asked.
“You have to, since you’re the prosecution,” said Ragonese.
“No,” the inspector retorted, “the prosecution will be represented by the prosecutor, for whom I will immediately draft a report after this meeting, which, if your attorney agrees, will not be set down in writing.”
“I agree,” said the lawyer.
“So, here’s what happened. Yesterday evening, Inspector Fazio, here present, and Officer Gallo, conducting their normal patrol, saw two individuals climb the gate outside a house in Marinella, enter the yard, and position themselves outside an open window. Shortly thereafter one of them started filming what was happening inside the room. At this point Fazio and Gallo decided to intervene. All this was written down in a report last night and confirmed by the two persons arrested. If you’d like to read it . . .”
Fazio made as if to hand it to the lawyer, but the attorney stopped him.
“There’s no need,” he said.
“I don’t agree,” said Ragonese.
“You don’t agree with what?”
“That the two policemen were just there by chance. I am more than certain that Inspector Montalbano was warned in advance by someone at TeleVigàta and that—”
“Would you like to intervene, counsel?” Montalbano asked. “Would you please explain to your client that he’s making an assertion with no rhyme or reason to support it? And that, in any case, that’s not the problem here?”
Ragonese was about to open his mouth again, but Calasso said dryly to him:
“Please speak only when I tell you to.”
“Okay,” the inspector resumed. “Savagnoli, the cameraman, stated in the report that he was acting on orders from Mr. Ragonese, here present, who apparently sent the clandestine film crew based on information he received from an anonymous phone call.”
He paused for a moment, then slowly uttered a statement he’d prepared in advance, and upon which all his hopes rested.
“A phone call which Mr. Ragonese, naturally, is in no position to prove actually happened, and which, therefore—”
“Just a minute,” said Ragonese.
And before going on, he glanced at his lawyer, who nodded in agreement.
Montalbano’s face was blank, but he was rejoicing inside. He’d been hoping against hope that Ragonese would let him hear the phone call.
“Actually, I can prove that the phone call took place,” Ragonese said triumphantly.
“How?”
“I customarily record all incoming phone calls.”
He pulled a small tape recorder out of his pocket, placed it on the desk, and turned it on.
A good hundred or more bells started pealing festively in Montalbano’s head.
10
As the tape started, Ragonese, convinced he’d scored a point in his favor, looked at the inspector triumphantly, not realizing he’d fallen straight into a trap.
The first thing they heard was the telephone ringing over and over, then the sound of the receiver being picked up, then a voice, recognizable as Ragonese’s:
“Hello?”
Izziss . . . Izziss TeleVigàta?
“Yes.”
Izziss the news desk?
“Yes.”
’Ooziss talkin’?
“Ragonese, the editor in chief.”
Yer jess the man I wanna talk wit’. Lissen up . . . an’ lissen close. T’night, ’rounnabout eight thirty, Isspecter Mon . . . Montalbano’s gonna go see Signura Lombardo ’oo lives inna house ri . . . right nexta his, in Marinella. Got that? Or d’ya wan’ me to repeat it? T’night Isspecte
r Mon . . . Montalbano’s gonna—
“Yes, yes, I got that, but I don’t see how the thing could be of any interest to us. And who is this calling, may I ask?”
Fuhgeddabout ’oo’s callin’. Jess lissen to what I gotta say. The way tings is goin’, iss guaranteed the two’s gonna end up fu . . . in bed together. An’ you c’n film ’em when they’s fuckin’. Whattya say, ya intersted?
“Well, yes, thank you for the valuable information. I really appreciate it, but . . .”
Try not to waste any time.
The call was cut off.
Montalbano, who had felt his blood boiling as he was listening, glared indignantly at Ragonese.
“I want you to leave my office this instant without another word. Counsel, I advise you that in my report I intend to charge your client with attempted blackmail.”
“It was a scoop, not blackmail!” Ragonese protested.
Then he started yelling.
“This is an attack on freedom of information! On the proper functioning of the press! I intend to publicly denounce this action on your part!”
“Don’t raise your voice! You should be ashamed of yourself! You’re not a journalist, you’re an extortionist!”
“I demand the immediate restitution of my station’s video camera and all recorded materials!”
“You can address your request through the proper channels,” said the inspector. “And I advise you not to destroy the recording of the telephone conversation, since you can be sure the prosecutor will subpoena it. And now I ask you please to vacate the premises. Fazio, please show these gentlemen out.”
Fazio went out with the two as the inspector circled his desk four times, trying to calm down.
Naturally a charge of blackmail would never hold up. He’d only said it in a moment of rage.
But this very fact made his blood boil even more.
Fazio was back in a flash. He was panting heavily, as if he’d been running hard.
“Ah Chief!”
He sounded exactly like Catarella whenever the c’mishner called. Montalbano got scared.
“What is it?”
“I recognized the voice in the recording!”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely certain. Didn’t you notice how he stammered every so often?”
“I did. So who is it?”
“Nicotra. Carlo Nicotra.”
Montalbano felt bewildered. He sat down.
“Nicotra? The one who oversees the drug trade for the Sinagras? And who lives on Via Pisacane?”
“That’s the one.”
“And what’s he got to do with any of this?”
It was an entirely unexpected complication. A new element that might shed light on a lot of things or else cast them into a permanent fog.
The inspector felt as if he were in a boat without oars in the middle of a storm at sea. But his disorientation didn’t last long.
“Let’s think about this for a minute.”
Fazio sat down.
Think about it? Of course, they could and should think about it. But it would take a good long while.
“The first and most natural question that comes to mind,” said Montalbano, “is: How did Nicotra find out about my dinner with Signora Lombardo?”
Fazio squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, then said:
“Chief, I can tell you what I think, but you mustn’t take offense at what I say.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“It’s something that just came to me out of the blue, without me having to think about it. Don’t you think it might have been Signora Lombardo herself who informed Nicotra?”
The inspector remained silent. The same thought had flashed through his mind as well, but he’d discarded it at once. Still, it was best to find out why Fazio’d had the thought in the first place, so he asked:
“Are you trying to tell me that you assume Lombardo and Nicotra know each other?”
“No, I didn’t make myself clear. The lady doesn’t know Nicotra, I would bet the house on it. But you can be sure Arturo Tallarita knows him. His father, the one who’s in jail, has worked for Nicotra and still does. And it’s possible the kid was present when La Lombardo phoned you.”
Montalbano drew the logical conclusion.
“So, in your opinion, Arturo is aware of Liliana’s designs on me?”
“Yessir.”
“So why would he just sit back and let her cheat on him?”
“’Cause they have an agreement.”
This was something that hadn’t even remotely occurred to him. But there were some grounds for the assumption. Something to work with.
Fazio continued.
“They’re using you to make it look like there’s nothing between them anymore, like they’ve broken up. And what better way to make a show of it than to have a video aired on TV?”
“When you put it that way, it seems convincing. I think you’re right. But I also think that Arturo acted on his own initiative in informing Nicotra, without letting Liliana know.”
“So you’re convinced the girl didn’t know anything?”
“I’m almost convinced, after what Savagnoli told us. Before, I saw things differently. I thought Liliana was in it up to her neck. But there’s still something in your argument that doesn’t add up for me.”
“And what’s that?”
“What need was there for Arturo Tallarita to get Nicotra involved by having him make the phone call? He could have phoned Ragonese himself, whether or not Liliana was in on it.”
“That’s true.”
They remained silent for a spell, thinking.
“Unless . . .” the inspector said all at once.
“Unless?”
“You said once that Arturo, knowing that people were saying his father was planning to collaborate with the authorities, was probably afraid of how Nicotra would react. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Now, say Nicotra has Arturo under surveillance and therefore has someone inside the big clothing store in Montelusa working as his informer. Might this person not have overheard Liliana’s phone call to me and then informed Nicotra?”
“It’s a plausible hypothesis. However . . .” Fazio began cautiously.
They both seemed to be walking on eggshells. Before venturing to say anything, they had to weigh their words.
“However?” the inspector pressed him.
“I still don’t see what Nicotra gets out of this,” Fazio concluded.
“Look, if a scandal broke out, I would definitely be transferred. That’d be already a lot.”
“In all honesty, it doesn’t seem like enough to me. Underneath it all there’s got to be something bigger.”
All things considered, it didn’t seem like enough to Montalbano either.
Then, all at once, he had a crazy idea.
“And what if the scoop wasn’t supposed to harm me?”
“You mean what if it was supposed to harm the lady instead?”
“In a sense, yes . . .”
“Explain.”
“Let’s say Arturo knows nothing about Liliana’s behavior with me, and that she’s acting the way she is for reasons we don’t know yet. Upon seeing those images, how would the kid react with his lover? Surely he would leave her. Maybe this is the result Nicotra wanted.”
Fazio shook his head skeptically.
“Chief, just think for a second. Why would Nicotra want to make trouble between Liliana and Arturo? There’s no indication anywhere that he’s gay and has a relationship with the kid!”
This was also true.
Montalbano sighed.
“I don’t understand any of this anymore” was his bitter conclusion.
When he entered the trattoria, the i
nspector noticed cavaliere Ernesto Jocolano sitting alone at a table.
The cavaliere was a tiny, skinny man of about seventy with thick eyeglasses, who for reasons unknown came to eat at Enzo’s once a month.
The next two hours thus promised to be entertaining, because the cavaliere never missed an opportunity to quarrel with Enzo over the most harebrained pretexts imaginable.
Having just sat down, he took the napkin off his plate, picked up the plate, brought it to his nose, and started breathing deeply. Then he put the dish back down on the table.
“Enzo, come here at once!”
He had a very high-pitched voice that was hard on the ears.
“What is it?” asked Enzo.
“I’m going to report you to the bureau of hygiene!”
“What for?”
“Because this plate stinks!”
“That’s impossible!”
“I’m telling you it stinks so bad you can smell it a mile away! Can you tell me what was on it before?”
“How should I know? After they’re washed, the dishes are all the same! They’re clean!”
“I’ll tell you what was on it before! You don’t have to be a fortune-teller to know! You just have to have a nose! It was fish!”
“Cavalié, you—”
The other cut him off.
“How do you wash them, by hand or in a dishwasher?”
“In a dishwasher.”
“And you trust a dishwasher? Big mistake! Whenever you pick up a washed dish, you must check to see if it’s actually clean! Because there might still be a trace of what there was before!”
He didn’t calm down until after he’d sniffed for a long time the new dish Enzo had brought him. The owner had washed it by hand and finished drying it before their eyes.
Montalbano ate without much conviction and then left the restaurant in a hurry because the cavaliere had started making another fuss.
Sitting down on the flat rock to smoke a cigarette, he started thinking that rarely, during his life as a cop, had he ever found himself so hard up for ideas as now.
Better just distract himself by teasing the usual crab or recalling the scene Cavaliere Jocolano had made . . .
Game of Mirrors Page 10
