It was about nine in the morning, and Montalbano had already been in his office for half an hour or so when the telephone rang.
He was in a dark mood and didn’t feel like doing anything. He was staring at the damp stains on the ceiling, trying to make out faces and animal shapes, but that morning his imagination had abandoned him, and the stains remained stains.
“Ahh Chief! Iss a man says ’is name’s Fiorentino.”
How was it that Catarella had finally got someone’s name right?
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“Yessir. ’E wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”
“Put him through.”
“I can’t put ’im true in so how as ’e’s on—”
“The premises?”
“Yessir.”
“Show him in.”
Five minutes went by and nobody appeared. He called Catarella.
“Well? Where’s this Fiorentino?”
“I showed ’im in.”
“But he’s not here!”
“He coun’t be there, Chief, in so much as, juss like you said, I showed ’im into the waitin’ room.”
“Bring him to me!”
“Straitaways, Chief.”
A short little man of about fifty, well dressed and wearing glasses, came in.
“Please sit down, Signor Fiorentino.”
The man gave him a confused look.
“I beg your pardon, but my name is Toscano.”
Catarella’s mangling of people’s surnames was getting more and more sophisticated.
“I’m sorry. Please sit down and tell me what I can do for you.”
“I’m the owner of the Bellavista Hotel.”
Montalbano knew the place. It had been recently built just outside of town, on the Montereale road.
“A few days ago a guest arrived, saying he was going to stay for a day and a night. He went up to his room, then came back down to the lobby, had us call a cab for him, and then left, and we haven’t seen him since.”
“Was it you who registered him?”
“No, I drop by the hotel only once a day. My primary business is furniture. Late last night, as I was going to bed, I got a call from the night porter, who had just seen the appeal from the Free Channel for information about an unknown man who had been found dead. In his opinion, the description they gave fit our missing client, so I decided to come and tell you.”
“Thank you very much, Signor Toscano. So presumably all the information on this man is at the hotel desk?”
“Of course.”
“Would you like to go there with me?”
“I’m at your service. I told the night porter to wait at the desk for that very purpose.”
The document the guest had left with the porter and never picked up was not, however, much help at all. It was a European Union passport issued by the French Republic two years earlier, and it said that its bearer was Émile Lannec, born in Rouen on September 3, 1965. The tiny photograph showed the nondescript face of a sandy-haired man of about forty with broad shoulders. Montalbano felt as if he’d heard that name before. But when? On what occasion? He tried hard to remember, but couldn’t come up with anything.
The passport’s only peculiarity lay in the fact that there wasn’t a single page that wasn’t covered with stamps and entry and exit visas for various Middle Eastern and African nations. The man had certainly traveled a lot in two years! He whirled about more than a spinning top!
Émile Lannec. The inspector couldn’t get the name out of his head. Then, all at once, he associated it with the sea. Lannec had something to do with the sea.
Want to bet he’d met him the time Livia had wanted to go to Saint-Tropez and he kept wanting to shoot himself in the head for living inside a cliché?
“I’m going to take this with me,” he said, putting the passport in his pocket.
Gaetano Scimè, the sharp, fortyish night porter, was, on the other hand, a tremendous help.
“Was it you who signed the guest in?”
“Yessir.”
“What shift do you work?”
“From ten at night to seven in the morning.”
“And at what time did this gentleman arrive?”
“It must have been around nine-thirty in the morning.”
“Why were you still on the job?”
Scimè threw his hands up.
“By chance. That day my coworker, who’s also a friend, had to take his wife to the hospital and asked me to fill in for him until noon. Every so often we do these kinds of favors for each other.”
“What did this man look like?”
“Just like they said on TV. I got a good long look at him when he came down to—”
“Let’s proceed in orderly fashion, please. How did he seem the first time you saw him?”
The porter gave him a bewildered look.
“What do you mean?”
“Was he nervous, worried . . . ?”
“He seemed perfectly normal to me.”
“How did he get here?”
“By cab, I think.”
“What do you mean by ‘I think’?”
“I mean that from here you can’t see the drop-off area and so I wasn’t able to see the taxi. But when the man came in, he still had his wallet in his hands, as if he had just paid his fare, and right after that, I heard a car leaving.”
“Where do you think he was coming from?”
The porter didn’t hesitate.
“From Punta Raisi, the airport.”
And he anticipated the inspector’s next question.
“The morning flight from Rome lands in Palermo at seven. And, in fact, three customers from Rome arrived about half an hour after he did. Apparently the Frenchman left the airport a little before the others.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, the man was carrying only a sort of overnight bag, whereas the others had suitcases and therefore had to wait for them at the luggage belt.”
“Go on.”
“Anyway, the guy stayed in his room for about an hour, then came back down.”
“Did he make any phone calls?”
“Not through our switchboard, no.”
“But can one call from the rooms without passing through the switchboard?”
“Of course. But in that case, a charge for the call would show up on the client’s account, whereas there was no charge for that room.”
“Do you know if he had a cell phone?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Go on.”
“So the man came down and asked me to call him a cab. Since we’re a bit out of the way, the taxi took about twenty minutes to get here.”
“And what did he do during that time?”
“He sat down and started thumbing through a magazine. He was . . .”
The porter paused.
“No, never mind,” he said. “Excuse me.”
“No, you’re not excused. Finish your sentence.”
“When the guy came downstairs, he seemed to be in a different mood.”
“In what way?”
“Oh, I dunno . . . More cheerful. He was humming.”
“As if he’d received some good news?”
“Something like that.”
“You should be a policeman.”
“Thanks.”
“Did he speak Italian?”
“He managed. Then the cab arrived and he left.”
“And since then you haven’t heard from him at any time.”
“No, he hasn’t called.”
“Had he reserved his room in advance?”
“No.”
“How do you think he knew about this hotel?”
“We advertise a lot,” the manager interjected. “Even abroad.”
“And have there been any phone calls for this man during this time?”
“None.”
“Do you think he’s ever been a guest before at this hotel?”
> “I’d never seen him before.”
“Do you know the cab driver who came to pick him up?”
“Of course! Pippino Madonia, co-op number 14.”
“Where’s the man’s overnight bag?”
“Still in his room,” said the manager.
“Let me have the key.”
“Would you like me to come with you?” the manager asked.
“No, thanks.”
Émile Lannec and the sea.
The room, which was on the fourth floor, was in perfect order. The bathroom, too. It had a small balcony from which you could see the sea and, to the left, half of the port. It was so clean, in fact, that it seemed as if no one had ever stayed in it. The little suitcase, which was slightly bigger than an overnight bag, sat unopened atop the baggage stand. Montalbano opened it.
Inside were a shirt, a pair of underpants, and a pair of clean socks. In another compartment were the dirty garments the man had taken off.
What Montalbano hadn’t expected to find in it was a large pair of binoculars. He picked them up, looked at them carefully, then went out onto the balcony, pointed the binoculars at a rowboat that was barely larger than a dot, then zoomed in.
They had extraordinary powers of magnification. The little dot immediately turned into the face of one of the fishermen on the little boat.
The inspector then pointed the lenses towards the port.
At first he didn’t understand what he was seeing. Then he realized he was looking at the deck of the Vanna—more specifically, the door that led below decks, to the mess room.
He went back inside and emptied the little suitcase onto the bed. There wasn’t a single piece of paper, document, ticket—nothing whatsoever. He put the binoculars back inside, closed it, grabbed the bag, went down to the lobby, and turned it over to the manager.
“Keep this in your depository.”
8
At the cab co-op, the moment the inspector told them who he was, they sent him to the office of the secretary, Signor Incardona, a man with the face of an undertaker, a goatee, and a tedious air about him.
“I urgently need to talk to one of your associates: Madonia, cab number 14.”
“Pippino is an honest man,” Incardona said defensively.
“I don’t doubt that for an instant, but I—”
“Can’t you just talk to me?”
“No.”
“I’m sure he’s working at this hour, and I don’t think it’s such a good idea to disturb him right now.”
“I, on the other hand, think it’s an excellent idea,” said Montalbano, who was starting to feel his cojones go into a spin. “Shall we settle this here or would you prefer to talk about it at the police station?”
“What is it you want?”
“Are you in direct communication with him?”
“Of course!”
“Then check in with him and let me know where he is at this moment.”
He said it in such a tone that the other man got up without saying anything and left the room. He returned a few minutes later.
“At this moment he’s at the taxi stand in front of the Bar Vigàta.”
“Tell him to wait for me there.”
“And what if he gets a fare in the meantime?”
“Tell him to make himself unavailable. I’ll pay for whatever fare he loses.”
There were four cabs waiting at the stand. The moment Montalbano arrived, the four cabbies, who’d been standing around shooting the breeze, turned and eyed him with curiosity. Apparently number 14 had spoken to his colleagues.
“Which one of you is Madonia?” the inspector asked, leaning out of his car window.
“I am,” said a portly man of about fifty without a hair on his head.
Cool as a cucumber, Montalbano parked his car in one of the empty spaces reserved for taxis.
“You can’t park there,” said one of the cabbies.
“You don’t say!” the inspector said, feigning surprise.
He opened the door to cab number 14 and sat down in front, on the passenger’s side. The car’s owner, looking flustered, got in on the driver’s side.
“Start ’er up and let’s go,” said Montalbano.
“Where to?”
“I’ll tell you once we get going.”
As soon as they drove away from the stand, Montalbano started talking.
“Do you remember getting a call from the Bellavista Hotel a few mornings ago to pick up a fare?”
“Inspector, there’s not a morning goes by when they don’t call me to go there!”
“This particular client was about forty and athletic, a good-looking guy who—”
He remembered the passport he had in his pocket. Pulling it out, he put it under the cabbie’s nose.
“The French guy!” he exclaimed upon seeing the photo.
“So you remember him?”
“Of course!”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he didn’t know where he wanted to go. Or, at least, that’s how it seemed to me.”
“Explain.”
“First he had me take him to the cemetery. He got out, went in, stayed there about ten minutes, and then came back to the car. Then he had me take him to the north entrance to the port, got out, disappeared for about ten minutes, and came back. After that, he had me drive him to the train station, where he got out, was gone for about ten minutes, then got back in the car. Finally, he told me to take him to the Pesce d’Oro restaurant, where he paid me and left.”
“Did you notice whether he went into the restaurant?”
“Nah, when I left he was just standing there, looking around.”
“What time was it?”
“A little after twelve-thirty.”
“All right. I want you to retrace the exact route you took that morning, then drop me off at the Pesce d’Oro. Actually, no. Let’s go back to the taxi stand. I’ll take my car and follow you.”
He paid the man his fare, went and parked his own car, then returned to the spot where the cabbie had dropped off Lannec. Montalbano was convinced that all the twists and turns the Frenchman had made the driver go through had a specific purpose, that of making it impossible for anyone to know where he was actually going. A waiter stood in the doorway to the restaurant, inviting him to come in. And the inspector yielded to the temptation.
He went inside. The place was completely empty. Maybe it was too early. He sat down at the first table he came to and opened the menu.
The dishes looked promising. But writing is one thing, and cooking another.
The waiter approached the table.
“Have you decided?” he asked.
“Yes. But first I must ask you for some information.”
He pulled the passport out of his pocket and handed it to the man. The waiter took a long look at the photo. Then he asked:
“What would you like to know?”
“If this man came and ate here a few days ago.”
“No, he didn’t come inside. But I did see him.”
“Tell me everything.”
“Why, may I ask?”
The man’s tone had changed and the smile had disappeared from his face.
“The name’s Montalbano. I’m an inspector with the—”
“Good God, yes! So you are! Now I recognize you!”
“So, please tell me . . .”
“I was standing outside the door, like I was doing just now, when a cab pulled up and this man got out. The cab drove off and the passenger just stood there in front of the curb without moving. He looked like he didn’t know where to go. So I went up to him and asked him if he needed any help. And you know what he said?”
“No.”
“That’s exactly right. He said no. A minute later, he started walking, turned right, and after that I didn’t see him anymore. And that’s the story. Now, what can I get you to eat?”
Damn the moment he’d decided to eat at that stinking restaurant! Stink
ing and expensive to boot! The cook must have been a terminal drug addict or a criminal sadist bent on exterminating humanity. The food was overcooked, burnt, flavorless, or oversalted. The guy didn’t get a single thing right, not even by accident.
An unlucky couple who had entered after him started showing signs of distress right after the first course. The woman raced to the restroom, perhaps to rinse out her mouth, while the man knocked back a whole bottle of wine to wash away the bad taste in his.
Back outside, he started walking, turned right as Lannec had done, then continued straight. A short while later, after crossing a side street, he saw the north entrance of the port come into view.
He headed in that direction. The moment he was past the gate, there were the Ace of Hearts and the Vanna, right in front of him.
Lannec and the sea.
The inspector became convinced that the Frenchman had come to the port to meet someone, not knowing he would meet his death instead. He had made a journey to go to the last appointment of his life.
Then, all at once, the bad lunch bubbled up in Montalbano’s throat in a burst of burning, acidic reflux. There was only one thing to do. He walked over to a stack of wooden crates, took cover behind them, stuck two fingers into his throat, and vomited.
He walked out of the port, retracing the steps he had taken, got in his car, and headed to Enzo’s trattoria. He went into the bathroom, rinsed out his mouth, then sat down at a table.
“What would you like, Inspector?” Enzo asked.
“The best thing you’ve got.”
“Ahh Chief! Ahh Chief Chief! Dacter Latte rang four times lookin f’ yiz!”
That colossal pain in the ass of the ruined documents.
“I’m not back yet. Is Augello here?”
“Nah, ’e ain’t onna premmisses.”
“How about Fazio?”
“Yessir, ’e’s ’ere.”
“Send him to me.”
The first thing the inspector noticed about Fazio was that he had a black eye.
“What happened to you?”
“A fist.”
“Whose?”
“Our friend Zizì’s, late last night.”
“Sit down and tell me what happened.”
“Chief, some time after nine o’clock last night I staked out a spot near Giacomino’s tavern and waited for the crew of the Vanna to show up. They didn’t come by until past eleven.”
The Age of Doubt Page 8
