Game of Mirrors

by Andrea Camilleri

  Wait a second, Montalbà.

  Stop right there.

  Something passed through your head for a second while the cavaliere was talking, something that lit up like a match in the night and then immediately went out.

  What was it?

  He tried to remember.

  The flash in his brain was so bright and sudden that he gave a start.

  “Can you tell me what was on it before?”

  No, he couldn’t.

  He hadn’t even asked himself the question.

  He went immediately back to the office.

  “Fazio! We’re a couple of imbeciles!”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “What was in the two warehouses that the bombs were placed in front of?”

  “Nothing, Chief. They were empty.”

  “Because they’d been put in the dishwasher.”

  Fazio looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

  “The warehouses? In the dishwasher?!”

  “Never mind that. But before they were empty, they must have had something inside them, mustn’t they?”

  “Of course.”

  “And do you know what?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Find out at once.”

  “But do you really think it’s so important?”

  “I can’t really say.”

  “All it takes is a phone call,” said Fazio, leaving the room.

  Five minutes later he was back. Before saying anything, he looked at Montalbano with admiration.

  “How did you figure it out?”

  “Never mind,” the inspector repeated. “Just tell me.”

  “The two warehouses held computers, printers, ink cartridges . . .”

  “Ah,” said Montalbano.

  “And the same person who first rented the one on Via Pisacane later moved into the warehouse on Via Palermo, because the first one was too small.”

  “Do you know this person’s name?”

  “Yessir, I do.” Fazio’s eyes were sparkling. “Lombardo. Adriano Lombardo.”

  “Liliana’s husband?”

  “Yessir.”

  They looked at each other in puzzlement. Montalbano recovered quickly.

  “Wait a second, wait just one second. This means that the bombs were intended for Lombardo. That they were warnings that only he could understand. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “So now I ask: Why didn’t they put the bomb in the warehouse he currently uses, whose address we don’t know, where he most certainly keeps his merchandise?”

  “Because maybe he never rented a third warehouse.”

  “So where’s he keeping the computers, then?”

  “Probably in Marinella, at home. Maybe that’s why he often goes there.”

  The inspector’s reply was immediate.

  “Aside from the fact that they could have planted a bomb at the house, and didn’t, I don’t think all of Lombardo’s stuff could fit in the only extra room they have.”

  Fazio said nothing.

  “Here we must make a conjecture,” the inspector resumed. “Which is that Lombardo transferred his stuff to some town nearby, and his enemies don’t know where.”

  “That’s possible,” said Fazio.

  “And the reason for the bombs might be failure to pay the protection racket.”

  Fazio seemed doubtful.

  “Not convinced?”

  “No. Because they planted the bombs not when Lombardo’s stuff was inside, but after the places had been emptied out. It doesn’t make any sense. Especially if Lombardo didn’t rent any other warehouse space in Vigàta and isn’t keeping his merchandise at his house.”

  He had a point.

  “Let’s try to catch Lombardo and ask him to explain,” Fazio suggested.

  Montalbano shook his head.

  “The guy’ll laugh in our faces. He’ll say the bombs had nothing to do with him and he knows nothing about them.”

  “So what can we do?”

  “Liliana must certainly know the whole story. We should talk to her, but at the moment I’m the least suitable person for the job.”

  Without warning he slapped himself in the forehead.

  “Why didn’t I think of that sooner?”

  “Think of what sooner?”

  “Of sending Mimì Augello to buy himself a suit in Montelusa. Go and get him immediately.”

  Fazio left and came back with Augello.

  “Mimì, when was the last time you bought yourself a new suit?”

  “About a year ago. Why?”

  “I’ll explain later. Do you know a big store in Montelusa called All’ultima moda?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been there with my wife.”

  “Sorry to ask a personal question, but how long does it take you, normally, to win a woman’s confidence?”

  “I can see you haven’t got much experience in these matters. The amount of time is rather variable. A lot depends on the woman.”

  “Would one morning suffice?”

  “Alone, one on one?”

  “No, with others around.”

  Mimì didn’t open his mouth.

  “Well?”

  “I’m not going to tell you unless you tell me first what you’re cooking up.”

  Montalbano told him.

  The light was on in the Lombardo home, but there was no sign of Liliana. He was putting the key in the lock when he heard the telephone ring. This time he got to it in time, managing to pick up the receiver right in the middle of a ring.

  “Hello?”

  There was definitely someone at the other end, but whoever it was, they remained silent.

  “Hello?”

  They hung up.

  He went and opened the refrigerator. Adelina had made sartù di riso alla calabrisa and swordfish involtini. He prepared himself for a pleasant evening.

  After he lit the oven to warm up the dishes, the telephone rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Liliana.”

  11

  He wasn’t all that surprised. The situation between them remained all too confused, not to mention that he’d left her in the lurch. Sooner or later she was going to demand an explanation.

  Since Liliana hadn’t said anything else, the inspector spoke.

  “Did you call just a few minutes ago?” he asked.

  “Yes, I heard your car drive by, and I couldn’t . . .”

  She fell silent again. Was she going to say “resist”? The intonation she’d given to her sentence seemed to suggest this.

  “Why did you hang up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  If they’d been at the station, he would have continued: And why are you calling me now?

  But he remained silent. As did Liliana. After a few moments, she broke the ice, though she still seemed uncomfortable.

  “Will you believe me if I say I can hardly remember anything that happened last night?”

  Let her talk, Montalbà; don’t you dare open your mouth.

  “I drank too much,” she continued, “and must have said some . . . well, inappropriate things, to make you run away like that. I want to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For not . . . taking advantage of me.”

  She was good, no doubt about it. She’d turned the tables and passed the hot potato to him with nonchalance and elegance. Now it was his turn, and he had to be careful what he said.

  “I ran away because I was needed at the office.”

  “Duty always first, eh?”

  Was she being ironic?

  “Well, that sets my mind at rest. So it wasn’t that I made you feel uneasy,” she concluded.

  There was a
nother pause. The inspector now wanted her to lay down the first card.

  “I want to talk to you,” said Liliana.

  She clearly wanted to start the whole business all over again.

  So the inspector decided to shake things up a little. It was a good way, and a good moment, to find out what sort of relationship she really had with her husband, a man who appeared and disappeared at will, and about whom nobody knew anything.

  “Speaking of which,” he said, “could you tell me where your husband is at the moment?”

  “Adriano?!” asked Liliana, taken aback.

  “Why, do you have another husband with a different name?”

  She was too overwhelmed by the inspector’s first question to react to his quip.

  “What is this? Why do you want to know?”

  She seemed seriously concerned; her tone was apprehensive. Montalbano improvised:

  “Somebody’s filed charges against him for a brawl he was apparently involved in a few days ago.”

  “Are you sure they mean Adriano?”

  “That’s precisely why I want to talk to him.”

  Liliana hesitated before responding.

  “Look, I honestly don’t know where he is at the moment. But if you want, I can call him right now and have him ring you at home.”

  It was clear she didn’t want to give him her husband’s telephone number. This was in fact where Montalbano wanted to go with this. Why was Adriano Lombardo so guarded?

  “It’s not really all that urgent. And actually, you could give me a hand yourself.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll repeat the basic facts of the accusation to you. Adriano Lombardo, son of Giovanni Lombardo and Nicoletta Valenza—”

  “No!” Liliana interrupted him. “That’s wrong! Adriano’s father’s name was Stefano and he died seven years ago, and his mother’s maiden name was Maria Donati.”

  “So much the better. A case of mistaken identity, apparently. I guess that settles that.”

  “Well, I’m glad. And what’s the plan for us?”

  He played dumb.

  “In what sense?”

  “When will we see each other again?”

  Pushy, the lady.

  “Look, tonight I can’t do anything. I’m waiting for some phone calls to do with work.”

  “So when, then?”

  “Are you going to work tomorrow?”

  “Of course.”

  “You haven’t got your car back yet, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning at eight, and we’ll decide on a time and place. Okay?”

  “Well, if there’s no other way . . . then okay,” she said.

  She was disappointed, and she’d let him know.

  He hung up.

  And so, thought the inspector, tomorrow I shall do my part to have you meet my second in command, Inspector Mimì Augello, a man who could teach Don Juan a thing or two.

  He set the table on the veranda and contentedly ate the sartù, the involtini, and a big dish of chicory so bitter it seemed poisonous. Then he sat down in an armchair to watch some TV.

  Ragonese was careful not to talk about what had happened to him. This time he laid into the mayor and the garbage problem.

  A little later Livia rang. She seemed to be in a good mood.

  “I had some fun today.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “I’m not going to tell you.”

  “Then you’ll make me suspect the worst.”

  “Please, Inspector, don’t suspect.”

  “Then tell me where you’ve been.”

  “A friend of mine dragged me to a fortune-teller.”

  Montalbano lit up like a match.

  “What’s this nonsense? So now you’re going to fortune-tellers? Pretty soon it’ll be wizards and witches!”

  “Come on, Salvo . . .”

  “Come on, my eye! I certainly hope you didn’t believe what the lady told you!”

  “So I shouldn’t believe it?”

  “Absolutely not! You would be a fool to believe it!”

  “Too bad.”

  “Why too bad?”

  “Because she assured me that you were very faithful to me.”

  He’d fallen straight into the trap, which enraged him even more. A blowout was inevitable.

  Liliana was waiting for him at the gate. She got in the car but didn’t kiss him. She merely said:

  “Ciao, Salvo.”

  She wasn’t as cheerful as all the other times, and all she did during the drive was stare at the road. It didn’t fit with the way she’d acted on the phone the previous evening. It was possible she’d received some news during the night, or early that morning, which had upset her.

  They’d agreed that during their morning drive they would decide on where and when to meet next, but she didn’t mention it. And Montalbano didn’t bring it up, either.

  Before getting out at the bus stop, she turned to Montalbano and said she would phone him in the evening.

  “Ciao.”

  And that was that. No kiss, no caresses. Her mind was clearly elsewhere.

  The first part of the morning went smoothly. Then, just before noon, Catarella called him to tell him that Tommaseo, the public prosecutor, was on the line.

  “Hello, sir; what can I do for you?”

  “I received your report denouncing that journalist . . . what’s his name . . .”

  “Ragonese.”

  “Right. And I’ve had a . . . ch . . . chance to . . . l . . . look . . . at the . . . the v . . . vid . . . eo . . .”

  The prosecutor stopped, unable to go any further. He was out of breath.

  The stammering fit had been brought on by the sight of a half-naked Liliana on the bed.

  Prosecutor Tommaseo, who was known not to have a woman in his life, was a proper sex maniac who never actually had sex and therefore drooled after every pretty woman he saw, dead or alive.

  “What do you think?”

  “Stu . . . pen . . . dous . . . !”

  “I didn’t mean the lady, sir, but my report. Do you think you’ll act on it right away?”

  “Do . . . re . . . re . . . mi . . . mind . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . fa . . . first . . . so l . . . so . . . little time . . .”

  Would he manage to sing the whole scale?

  “A la . . . la . . . lot . . . t . . . t . . . to . . . do . . .”

  Yes!

  “Do you plan to call her in for questioning?”

  “One . . . one . . . too . . . too many . . . things to do. Th . . . three days . . .”

  Good God, was he going to start counting now? Up to what? A hundred? A thousand? At this rate they’d be there till nightfall. Montalbano hung up. If the guy called back, he’d tell him they got cut off. But Tommaseo never called back.

  Instead a call came in from Mimì Augello.

  “So you didn’t go to Montelusa?”

  “Of course I did! I’m calling from right outside the store.”

  “And so?

  “Listen, Salvo, when I got here it must have been around nine thirty, and I combed all three floors of the store without ever seeing the lady you described to me.”

  “Maybe you didn’t see her because she was back in a dressing room with a customer who was trying on some clothes.”

  “Don’t you think I thought of that myself? And so I stood outside the line of dressing rooms and waited. Nothing, no sign of her. And so I went up to a salesgirl and struck up a conversation, saying I was the husband of a customer. At a certain point I asked her about Signora Lombardo, and she told me her boss had come in on time, but five minutes later she’d got a call on her cell phone that seemed to upset her, after which she said she was
taking a day of sick leave and left. So I called to tell you this. But now I have to go because the store’s about to close for lunch.”

  “What do you care if the store’s about to close?”

  “Salvo, just think for a second. I couldn’t very well let the whole morning go to waste. I’m taking the salesgirl out to lunch. Her name’s Lucia and I assure you she’s—”

  Montalbano hung up.

  What the hell was happening to Liliana? Was something amiss?

  Leaving the office to go to Enzo’s, he asked Catarella if he had any news of Fazio, whom he hadn’t seen all morning.

  “’E called at eight this mornin’, Chief, sayin’ as how ’e was gonna betoken hisself to Montelusa.”

  “Did he say what he was going to do there?”

  “Nah, Chief, ’e din’t.”

  As soon as he got in his car, the inspector changed his mind and headed for Marinella. It was possible Liliana had gone home. Driving past her house, he slowed down. The gate and windows were closed. She wasn’t home, or at least was pretending she wasn’t. He turned around and went off to eat.

  He’d already finished when Enzo came up to him and said he was wanted on the phone.

  It was Mimì Augello.

  “Sorry, Salvo, but since Lucia—”

  “Who’s Lucia?”

  “The salesgirl. I’m having lunch with her . . . By the way, I told my wife, Beba, that I have to go on a stakeout tonight, so please, don’t pull any of your usual stunts . . .”

  “Fine, but what was it you wanted to tell me?”

  “I don’t know if it’s of any importance . . . You told me this Liliana had something going with a young salesman, Arturo Tallarita, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, Lucia, who talks a lot, told me that Tallarita didn’t come into work this morning. And he didn’t call to say he wouldn’t be coming.”

  “Thanks, Mimì.”

  “But I mean it about Beba. If she happens to call, be sure to confirm that I have to stay out tonight for work.”

  Want to bet the two lovers fled in secret on an amorous escapade? Just like Mimì was getting ready to do? Maybe even for only a day, to be spent in total freedom, without having to hide anything from anybody . . .

  “What did you go to Montelusa for?”