Game of Mirrors

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Please sit down,” said the commissioner.

  He was wearing a dark expression.

  Montalbano settled into the other chair. He and Arquà didn’t even exchange greetings.

  “I’ll get right to the point,” said the commissioner.

  But he didn’t. First he opened and closed a drawer of his desk, then he stared at the tip of a pencil as though not knowing what it was for, and finally he said:

  “It’s better if you talk, Arquà.”

  The chief of Forensics stared at his shoe tops as he spoke.

  “When taking evidence samples from the Lombardo house, we found a great many of your fingerprints.”

  “How did you know they were mine?” asked Montalbano.

  “The way I always do. I compared them. All of our fingerprints are on file.”

  “I see. So, as soon as you saw the fingerprints taken from the house, you said to yourself: Want to bet these are Montalbano’s? And indeed they were. Congratulations on your intuition. So tell me: Is that the way it went?”

  He knew that it couldn’t be the way it went. But he wanted to know who had put the idea in Arquà’s head. And, in fact, Arquà squirmed uncomfortably in his chair and looked at the commissioner.

  Who decided to intervene.

  “Late yesterday morning, Dr. Arquà received an anonymous letter. He turned it over to me immediately, and I read it and gave him authorization to compare the fingerprints. He acted quite correctly. If you want to read the letter . . .”

  He pulled it out of a drawer and held it out for Montalbano. Who didn’t reach out to take it, and did not even move.

  “Don’t you want to read it?”

  “I’m sorry, but I find it rather distasteful to read anonymous letters, especially first thing in the morning. At any rate, I don’t need to read it. I can easily imagine the contents. It says that I was madly in love with Signora Lombardo, kept her prisoner in her house while conducting searches for her far and wide, and finally, the other night, slit her throat after raping her. And then I set fire to her house in the hopes of destroying all trace of my repeated visits. Have I guessed right?”

  “Yes,” said the commissioner.

  He’d imagined that was the way it was, but to hear it confirmed made him start to seethe with rage.

  He turned to Arquà but his words were for other ears.

  “And you, Arquà, you felt no shame at lending credence to an anonymous letter? Are you aware that a copy of this defamatory letter was sent to Pippo Ragonese the TV journalist, who now expects ‘clamorous consequences’?”

  “It certainly wasn’t me who sent it,” said Arquà.

  “I don’t doubt that for an instant. It was the murderers themselves who sent it, and in whom you place such trust.”

  Arquà didn’t react. The commissioner was studying the ceiling intently. The inspector turned to him.

  “Excuse me, sir, but did you inform Dr. Arquà that I’d already been inside the house, having been invited there by Signora Lombardo, and that I was the victim of attempted blackmail on that occasion?”

  “Yes, and I also told him that there was an investigation in progress being conducted by Prosecutor Tommaseo.”

  “So of course you found my fingerprints there!”

  This time it was Bonetti-Alderighi who looked at the chief of Forensics.

  “There’s one fingerprint in particular that cannot be from the evening you went there to dinner,” said Arquà.

  “Oh yeah? And where’d you get it?”

  “From the bloodstained sheet on the bed.”

  It was true! He’d touched the sheet after asking the fire sergeant for the flashlight, to check whether the blood was dry or not. But he was alone at that moment; there were no witnesses. It was a stupid fucking mistake.

  No matter what he said, there was no guarantee they would believe him. He decided to change tactics.

  “Well?” said the commissioner. “How do you explain it?”

  A little theatre at this point might not hurt. But was it really theatre? Or did he feel genuinely offended at being suspected of murder? He shot to his feet, twisted his face up into a frown, and spoke in an angry tone.

  “In short, it seems you both believe me capable of such a revolting murder. All I can do at this point is make two requests. The first is to have Dr. Arquà take one of those psychiatric tests similar to the one that you, Mr. Commissioner, had me subjected to!”

  Bonetti-Alderighi looked flummoxed.

  “I had you take a psychiatric test?! When?”

  “I don’t know, maybe I dreamed it, but it’s the same thing.”

  “How is it the same thing?!”

  “It is! Haven’t you ever read Life Is a Dream by Calderón de la Barca? My second request is: I want my lawyer! I won’t answer any more of your questions until my lawyer is present!”

  He sat back down, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his brow, though there wasn’t a drop of sweat on it.

  Bonetti-Alderighi and Arquà exchanged glances.

  “Good God, Montalbano, nobody’s accusing you of anything!” said the commissioner. “We’re just trying to clear up—”

  “On the basis of an anonymous letter?”

  “No!” said Arquà. “On the basis of a fingerprint for which you haven’t been able to give us an explanation.”

  So that was the conclusion? Did Bonetti-Alderighi and Arquà really believe what they were saying? Montalbano was beginning to feel overwhelmed by a blind rage. Should he react now or wait and embarrass their asses later? He chose the second option and remained silent.

  “For the time being, let’s do this,” said the commissioner. “You, Montalbano, are relieved of all ongoing investigations, effective immediately. And you’re excused from duty. But you must remain available. I shall turn your investigations of the two crimes over to the chief of the Flying Squad.”

  Without a word, and without taking leave, Montalbano stood up and left the room.

  But as soon as he was outside, he turned and went back into the room, striding decisively up to the commissioner’s desk. The two men were looking at him openmouthed.

  “I forgot to tell you one little detail: I have an ironclad alibi,” he said.

  “And what’s that?” asked the commissioner.

  “Have you read the report that Dr. Pasquano sent you?”

  “I’ve got it here on my desk, but I haven’t had time yet,” the commissioner replied, taking it out from a pile of other papers and starting to read it.

  “And how about you?” he turned and asked Arquà.

  “Me neither.”

  “So you both chose to read an anonymous letter rather than the coroner’s report. If you’d be so kind, Mr. Commissioner, to read out loud at what time the doctor says the murder was committed . . .”

  “Here it says between midnight and two a.m.,” said the commissioner.

  “Very well. At that hour I was in the district of Spinoccia, where the dead body of—”

  “You’re lying!” Arquà exclaimed angrily. “I was there and I didn’t see you!”

  “Be careful what you say, Arquà. You’ve already made the commissioner look bad; don’t make things worse. Did Fazio come over to you to ask whether the burnt-up car might be a Suzuki?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean you were present!”

  “Mr. Commissioner, I will give you the names of the people who can testify that I was in Spinoccia that night, but only on the condition that Dr. Arquà is not present. Otherwise I shall institute legal proceedings to defend myself from this ignoble accusation.”

  The commissioner didn’t hesitate for a second. He realized that things were taking a nasty turn.

  “Would you please step outside?” he asked Arquà.

  Palefaced, the chief of
Forensics stood up and went out.

  “Officer Gallo, Inspector Fazio, Dr. Pasquano, and an orderly from the Forensic Medicine Institute can confirm that between midnight and two a.m. I was in the district of Spinoccia and therefore could not have raped and murdered Signora Lombardo,” Montalbano said all in one breath.

  “But why did they try to implicate you?” asked the commissioner.

  “So the case would be taken out of my hands. As was in fact about to happen. Maybe they’re beginning to suspect that I’m just a step away from the truth. But I don’t think the whole setup was premeditated. The people who torched young Tallarita alive are the same who held Signora Lombardo prisoner. The night of the murder they must have driven by on the main road, from which you can see my house. In the trunk they had poor Liliana Lombardo and were surely taking her to her place of execution. But when they saw my car parked in front of my house, they drew the logical conclusion that I was at home sleeping. And so they decided to kill Signora Lombardo in her own home and to rape her, though without ejaculating, so that I could be suspected of that, too, since we wouldn’t be able to do a DNA test that would have cleared me of everything. Except that I was not, in fact, at home. I’d had Officer Gallo come and pick me up and take me to Spinoccia.”

  “I didn’t quite understand what you said to Arquà about an anonymous letter supposedly sent to Ragonese.”

  “I don’t actually know whether it was a letter or an anonymous phone call, but Ragonese started talking about clamorous developments and even mentioned a film in which a police inspector murders his mistress . . . Clearly he wants revenge for the failed scoop.”

  “What can I do?”

  “A generic disavowal would suffice.”

  “I’ll do it at once,” said the commissioner. “But . . .”

  He had a question on the tip of his tongue but not the courage to ask it. Montalbano understood.

  “As for the fingerprint on the bedsheet, Dr. Arquà had no way of knowing that once the blaze had been brought under control, I went inside the house together with a sergeant of the Fire Department. I wanted to check whether the blood on the sheet was still fresh. The fire sergeant could certainly confirm my story.”

  Bonetti-Alderighi stood up and held out his hand.

  “Thanks for your understanding,” he said.

  “No problem,” said Montalbano.

  And to work off all the agitation that had built up inside him, he decided to get off the bus back to Vigàta at the station for the temples, and walked very slowly the rest of the way.

  17

  By the time he got to his office it was already almost ten o’clock. During his long walk he had made up his mind to haul in his fishing nets, now that it was all clear to him. No more games of mirrors.

  “Cat, send Augello and Fazio to me.”

  “Isspecter Augello’s not onna premisses.”

  “Then get me Fazio.”

  He decided not to tell Fazio anything about his meeting with the commissioner and Arquà. It would have been a waste of time and he didn’t feel like wasting any more.

  “What is it, Chief?”

  “Listen, Fazio, I urgently need you to do two things for me. The first thing is that you have to find out, before the morning is over, how many cars Carlo Nicotra has and what their license plate numbers are.”

  “Where does Nicotra suddenly appear from?”

  “He hasn’t suddenly appeared. He’s always been around. You yourself mentioned his name, at the beginning of this story.”

  “You’re right. But I can’t figure out how he’s involved in this and to what degree.”

  “Fazio, you surprise me. He’s the one who had Arturo Tallarita and Liliana murdered.”

  “But why?”

  “Ever heard of Romeo and Juliet?”

  “Yeah, I saw the movie once.”

  “Romeo and Juliet belonged to two rival families, which made their love impossible.”

  “Come on, Chief, what’s Nicotra got to do with a story of impossible love?”

  “But didn’t you tell me that Tallarita’s father dealt drugs for Nicotra? You could therefore consider Nicotra as the head of one of the two families.”

  Fazio thought about this for a moment.

  “All right,” he said. “But what does he care if Arturo has a lover? From the north, to boot? Why wouldn’t he want the two to be together?”

  “But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Because Liliana belonged to another family.”

  “Chief, what family are you talking about? I repeat, not only are they from way out of town and have no friends, but Liliana’s husband is a computer representative!”

  “Or so it seemed.”

  Fazio balked.

  “He’s not?”

  “Let’s say it was a good cover. In fact, he may even have been one for a while, but then . . .”

  “So what did he do, then?”

  “He dealt drugs. Big time. He was given the task of taking over Nicotra’s circuit, replacing him little by little until he could push him out.”

  “But how do you know this?”

  “I’ve given it a lot of thought. Then, at a certain point, I wanted proof. And I got it.”

  “How?”

  “By opening up a computer and printer that were still in the Lombardos’ house. They didn’t work. They were simply containers for cocaine.”

  Fazio’s eyes opened wide.

  “But Lombardo couldn’t have been acting alone! And anyway, he’s not even from around here! What could he possibly know about the local drug circuit?”

  “In my opinion, he was most likely hired by the Cuffaros, who have been supplanted in the drug business by the Sinagras for a while now. He wasn’t acting alone; I’m sure the Cuffaros were behind him. And they brought Lombardo in from the outside. You’ll see—if we manage to arrest him, he’ll turn out to be a big-time specialist in the field.”

  “I think I’m beginning to understand.”

  “When Nicotra discovered that Arturo had a thing going with Liliana, he must have got really worried that the kid might reveal some important secrets to his lover, stuff about his organizational system that Liliana would then tell her husband.”

  “So why not have him killed right away?”

  “He can’t, because he’s concerned about how Tallarita senior, who’s in jail, will react. It’s possible the father would take revenge by collaborating in earnest with Narcotics. It’s a kind of boomerang, really.”

  “How?”

  “Because Nicotra himself started the rumor of his collaboration when he wanted to throw us off the scent of the bombs. So what does he do? He goes and talks to Arturo’s mother, warning her that her son is going with a woman who could bring real harm to him, but then nothing happens.”

  “So he sends someone to vandalize her car,” Fazio continued.

  “Right you are. But in this case, too, no results. So he has Liliana shot at when she’s in the car with me, but they miss. Same with the scoop, which was supposed to have driven a wedge between Arturo and Liliana, but that fails, too. Then at some point Arturo begins to understand Nicotra’s intentions and suggests to her that she try to get everyone to think that she’s my lover. But Nicotra knows that the two are still seeing each other. So he gets more serious. First he kidnaps Arturo, then Liliana, as she’s trying to flee. Then he kills Arturo and—”

  “Excuse me for interrupting, but why did he wait so long to kill Liliana?”

  “Maybe he thought he could use her to put pressure on Lombardo. But apparently the guy didn’t give a fuck about his wife.”

  “But why kill her in her own house?”

  “To try to have the murder pinned on me. Nicotra wanted revenge for the failed scoop.”

  “And what about the bombs?”

  �
�Nicotra had those planted to let Lombardo know that he’d been unmasked and that it’d be best if he moved to another neighborhood.”

  Fazio had no more questions.

  “All right,” he said, “I’ll go and find out about those cars.”

  “Wait. The other thing I want you to do is talk to whoever’s in charge and ask for permission to speak with Tallarita senior in prison. I’ll need it for this afternoon. And by the way, was Signora Tallarita ever informed about the death of her son?”

  “Of course. His sister came down from Palermo to identify the body.”

  An hour later Fazio came back and informed him that Carlo Nicotra had three cars. One was a Mercedes with the license plate GI 866 CP.

  “Nicotra’s fucked,” Montalbano said to Fazio, who only gave him a bewildered look.

  The inspector then started searching through the papers in his jacket pocket.

  At last he found the scrap with Japico’s cell phone number written on it.

  He dialed it.

  “Montalbano here.”

  “What can I do for you, Inspector?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m in town.”

  “Could you come to the station?”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “I’m right in the neighborhood. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  Fazio looked at him questioningly.

  “This young man saw two cars at the drinking trough in Spinoccia before one of them caught fire. He took down the license plate numbers, but without the letters, only the numbers, so he could play them at Lotto. One was Liliana’s Suzuki; the other was a big car that we now know was a Mercedes. Carlo Nicotra’s Mercedes.”

  Fazio was confused.

  “What’s wrong? Doesn’t make sense to you?”

  “What I’m wondering is how can someone like Nicotra go in his own car to the place where somebody’s about to be murdered? Why would he do that without taking the slightest precaution?”

  “Because these people are morons who think they’re omnipotent. Like some of our politicians. And they fuck up time and again.”