He closed the armoire and went and had a look in the bathroom. Razor blades, shaving brush and soap . . .
He’d forgotten to inspect the little drawer in the bedside table. Going back into the bedroom, he opened the drawer and the first thing he saw was a large, loaded revolver and, beside it, a box of cartridges. There was nothing else. But on the bedside table, next to a bottle of water, was a phial of medicine with a dropper attached to its cap. It contained heart medication.
So the man must not have been someone passing through, but a sort of permanent guest.
He couldn’t have been a relative, otherwise the old woman would have mentioned him.
Indeed, the old woman must not even have been aware of him, since she was surprised to find that they spent too much on food for just two people.
So who was he? And what was he doing in that house? And had the intruders taken Inge away because she was a potentially dangerous witness?
In conclusion, the situation had, in a sense, worsened: Now there was one murder victim and two people kidnapped.
There was nothing more to be done in that house. He went back downstairs, turned off his flashlight, and opened the door. But to see where he’d left his shoes, he had to turn the flashlight back on.
And that was how he managed to notice a metallic glint somewhere very near his shoes. He felt around until he found what it was. A bullet shell. One hundred percent certainly from the gun that had fired the shot into Nicotra.
And this proved, in part, the inspector’s reconstruction.
He left the shell where he’d found it, put on his shoes, closed and locked the door, got into his car, and drove off.
As he was driving to Marinella he started thinking about some things that didn’t add up.
The first was the story the old woman had told him, that is, that Ingrid received visitors, because cars would sometimes pull up outside the house and then leave a few hours later.
How could Inge have been fucking her occasional lovers so brazenly, not giving a shit about the old man staying at her house? This would have meant that the guy, among other things, had to have been her accomplice, not to have revealed anything to the cuckolded husband. No, this seemed inconceivable.
And so it was legitimate to make another, more reasonable hypothesis. The men who parked their cars outside the house were going there to meet not with Inge, but with the person staying there. And it was convenient for Inge to let people think she was a slut, so that nobody would suspect that a man was hiding out at their house.
The other thing that didn’t add up was the elderly guest himself. Why was he staying there? What was his relationship with the owner of the house? Why were people coming to see him?
And, most importantly, why, when he slept at night, did he keep a revolver within reach?
The inspector was unable to answer even one of these questions.
But this did not prevent him, when he finally got into bed, from having an excellent sleep.
The following morning, before going to Prosecutor Jacono’s office, he dropped in at Montelusa Central Police to speak with Angelo Micheletto, the new chief of Narcotics, who was a good friend of his and with whom, between jokes and banter, he had exchanged many mutual favors in the past.
“Listen, ’Ngilì, I’ve got a sensitive matter on my hands I want to talk to you about confidentially, like a brother,” said Montalbano, putting on a serious face.
“Well, I’m the most sensitive person you know, little brother. Confide away,” said Micheletto, making the same face.
“Following an anonymous phone call yesterday, my second-in-command, Mimì Augello, unbeknownst to me, arrested some poor bastard for narcotics possession, a certain Saverio Piscopo, who—”
“Save your breath, I know all about it. What do you need from me, brother?”
“You need to know that Piscopo is not a dealer; he was set up, in retaliation.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Piscopo’s an informer of mine,” said the inspector, making as sincere a face as possible.
“Ah, I see. And your second-in-command was not aware of this?”
“No.”
“I questioned Piscopo myself. Can you explain to me why he didn’t tell me he was an informer of yours?”
“I have no explanation.”
“Well, I do. It’s because he’s not an informer of yours, and you just made that up to get him out of trouble.”
At this point, the only solution was to lay his cards on the table.
“You’re right.”
“No, no, no! Brothers don’t lie to each other! At any rate, just to set your little heart at rest, you should know that I, too, became convinced that Piscopo was not involved in any way in drug trafficking. We turned his life inside out like a sock, and found that all he’d ever done was work as a stonemason. He’s clean.”
“So you’re setting him free?”
“This very morning. But I mean it: Next time, don’t come to me spouting bullshit.”
To the prosecutor he told the whole story, except, of course, for the part about the nocturnal visit.
“So you think it’s absolutely necessary to get into that house?”
“I see no other way to move forward on the case. If you have a better idea—”
Jacono had no better ideas.
“When would you go?”
“First thing this afternoon.”
“Let me know immediately if you find the woman’s body in there,” he said firmly as he signed the authorization.
He’d made the inspector wait two hours in the waiting room, but he’d wasted no time making up his mind.
The moment Montalbano entered the station he told Catarella to have Fazio and Augello meet in his office. Then he said to Fazio:
“Can you go outside for a minute? I need to speak with Inspector Augello in private.”
Fazio got up and went out. Augello gave him a questioning look.
“Mimì, I’m going to have to retract the praise you extorted from me over your brilliant arrest of Saverio Piscopo. He turns out to have no connection whatsoever with drug trafficking.”
“But we found drugs in the—”
“I know, but somebody planted them there on the sly and then called you up so that he would be arrested.”
“Who told you this?”
“The chief of Narcotics, that’s who. Good enough for you? So, next time, think carefully before believing an anonymous phone call.”
Furious, Augello got up and went out without saying a word. A moment later, Fazio came in.
“I got Jacono’s authorization,” said Montalbano. “Tell Forensics to be on the scene by four o’clock. They’re the ones who must unlock the door. If we find Inge dead inside, we’ll have to alert the prosecutor and Pasquano. And what have you got to tell me?”
“Can I read the notes I jotted down on a piece of paper?”
“On the condition that you don’t, as usual, start with the subject’s great-grandparents.”
“Okay. Gerlando Nicotra was born thirty-four years ago in Vigàta and got a degree in accounting. He was the son of an accountant.”
“Are his parents alive?”
“The father, yes, and I’ve got his address and telephone number. But not his mother.”
“Go on.”
“He’s been married for five years to Inge Schneider, born in Bonn, twenty-nine years old. We know where they live. He seems to have been a pretty serious young man, hardworking, no vices, no women on the side. Clean record. He’d recently bought himself a new car, a Volvo. I’ve got the license plate number, which might prove useful. For the last year and a half he was the chief accountant for the Rosaspina firm.”
“What does that mean, ‘chief accountant’?”
“It means he h
andled payouts and salaries, reviewed expenditures for materials, and balanced the books as well.”
“A position of responsibility, in other words.”
“Absolutely. He practically knew about every cent that came in or went out.”
“One second, Fazio. But isn’t Rosaspina the one building the water main?”
“That’s right. But Nicotra wasn’t always at the worksite; he worked in an office.”
“Therefore it’s likely the two workers didn’t recognize him.”
“Yes, they probably didn’t.”
“And before working for Rosaspina, what did he do?”
“He was an accountant for the Primavera firm.”
What poetic names these firms had! Firms which, to get the public works contracts, were capable of the vilest things.
“But that’s a little strange,” Fazio continued.
“Why?”
“If you recall, I already told you that before Rosaspina got into the act, the company working on the water main came under investigation for fraud, and there were arrests and convictions and they eventually lost their contract. That company was in fact Primavera.”
“So what’s strange about that?”
“The only former employee of Primavera hired by Rosaspina was Nicotra.”
“Are you sure they didn’t take on anyone else?”
“Absolutely certain.”
“Not even any of the laborers?”
“Not even.”
“Maybe he’s a good accountant.”
“Good accountants are a dime a dozen.”
“Then there can only be one explanation: He’s got friends in high places.”
“That’s possible. In fact people say that in order to hire Nicotra, Rosaspina had to sack the accountant they’d just hired.”
“Anybody whispering who recommended him?”
“One rumor has it that someone on the board of directors—Nino Barbera, a lawyer—wanted him.”
“Anybody know why?”
“For the simple reason that, based on what people say, he was sleeping with Nicotra’s wife.”
“So it’s the usual story.”
“Apparently.”
“You’re not convinced.”
“Nah.”
“Tell me why.”
“I know this lawyer Barbera. He might well have been Inge’s lover, but I know that he’s small potatoes on the board of directors. There must be another reason. I just can’t figure out what.”
“Maybe Nicotra’s name was pushed on Barbera by one of the other directors he couldn’t say no to. But we’re still in the realm of conjecture. And you know what you have to do to take us from conjectures to certainties.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Montalbano started to feel irked.
“Then if you know, tell me.”
“Find out the names of the directors of the board.”
“Bravo. Now get up, inform yourself, and report back to me.”
“Already taken care of,” said Fazio, taking another piece of paper out of his pocket.
Montalbano saw red. Whenever Fazio said that, he lost control. To let off steam, he pinched himself painfully on the thigh with his right hand, which was out of view.
“Can I read it?”
“Go ahead, go ahead.”
“Michele La Rosa, engineer, chairman of the board; Giovanni Filipepi, medical doctor; Nicolò Transatta, landlord; Mario Insegna, businessman; and Nino Barbera, lawyer.”
“I don’t know them. Do you?”
“I know two of them. Barbera the lawyer and Dr. Filipepi. It’s well-known that he’s the Cuffaro family doctor.”
As if the Mafia wouldn’t be involved in this affair! They were always up to their necks in the shady business of public contracts.
“Are the Cuffaros his only patients?”
“No, Chief. He’s a good doctor, and he’s got a lot of patients. You can see them lining up outside his office.”
“Then the fact that he also cares for a Mafia family might not mean anything.”
“Or it might mean many things,” Fazio felt compelled to add with a pensive air.
“If you have any suspicions, all you have to do is get moving,” said Montalbano.
“That’s what I’ve been wanting to do.”
5
“Meanwhile,” said the inspector, “as we’re sitting here talking, something is happening that doesn’t make sense to me.”
Fazio gave him a befuddled look.
“As we’re sitting here talking?” he asked.
“Exactly.”
“What is it?”
“First answer a few questions for me.”
“Go ahead.”
“Did Rosaspina, like every other company in the world, have an office with an office manager?”
“Sure. It’s on Via—”
“Never mind the address, I’m not interested in that, at least for now. What’s the office manager’s name?”
“Wait a second while I look.”
He dug the piece of paper out of his pocket, ran his eyes over it, and then said:
“Pasquale Ranno. He’s a surveyor.”
“And what time is it right now?”
Fazio, completely bewildered, took a look at his watch and said:
“Twelve minutes after twelve.”
“Excellent. Finding himself shot and killed, yesterday, chief accountant Gerlando Nicotra was prevented from going to the office by circumstances beyond his control and wasn’t in a position to explain his absence. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“So my question is: How is it that, by early afternoon, no one has got in touch with us yet? Not a single phone call concerning the accountant’s disappearance?”
“You’re right,” said Fazio. “But there may be an explanation. Maybe they called the carabinieri.”
“Could you find out?”
Fazio left and returned five minutes later.
“There haven’t been any reports.”
“This is starting to smell fishy to me. It’s as though they knew immediately who the murder victim was. And if that’s the way it is, they made a huge mistake. A mistake of omission. They should at least have pretended to be upset.”
“Think it’s possible the workers who discovered the body did recognize it, even though they said nothing to us?”
“The body was facedown and all covered in mud. No, if they did know who it was, that wasn’t how they found out.”
Catarella appeared in the doorway.
“Chief, ascusin’ the distoibance for cummin’ ’ere in poisson, but the tiliphone at the moment momentarily don’t woik. I wannit a tell yiz ’at Nicotra the ’countant’s ’ere onna premisses.”
But wasn’t he dead? Montalbano and Fazio exchanged a confused look.
“Are you sure that’s his name?”
“Swear onna Byber, Chief.”
Fazio slapped himself on the forehead.
“It must be his father!”
“Show him in,” said the inspector. Then, turning to Fazio:
“What did I tell you about not hearing anything from Rosaspina? How much you want to bet that his father is here because he has no news of his son?”
“I don’t like to lose bets.”
“Hello, my name is Ignazio Nicotra,” said a slender, well-dressed man of about seventy with an aquiline nose, a halo of white hair, and thick glasses, as he came in.
He had a worried look on his face and felt quite uncomfortable, as could be seen from the slight tremor in his hands and Adam’s apple, which kept bobbing up and down.
“Please sit down and tell us what we can do for you.”
“I may be a bit apprehensive by nature, and I’m
probably just wasting your time, but the fact is that I’m worried about my son Gerlando.”
“Why?”
“Because, since he doesn’t live with me, and I’m a widower, he normally phones me twice a day, early in the morning before going to work, and again in the evening when he goes home. Yesterday he didn’t call me, and he didn’t call this morning, either.”
“Did you try to get in touch with him?”
“Of course. I talked with his office manager, Signor Ranno, who told me that they didn’t have any explanation for Gerlando’s absence, either. Also because Gerlando always makes sure to let them know when he’s running late or not coming in to work.”
“When was the last time you saw your son?”
“Six months ago.”
“But do you live in Vigàta?”
“Yes.”
“So why so long without . . .”
Ignazio Nicotra squirmed in his chair, threw up his hands, and shook his head a few times.
“I used to go to their house every Sunday for lunch. Then, about six months ago, Gerlando told me it would be better if I stopped coming around, at least for a little while. He’d been quarreling with Inge, his wife. Apparently she liked to go out for lunch on Sundays, and my presence . . .”
He trailed off. Montalbano made a mental note that the unknown visitor must have been in that house for six months, and that was the real reason they kept the father away.
“I’m going to have to think for a moment about what steps we should take,” said Montalbano, who meanwhile was racking his brains trying to think of how to give him the bad news.
But it was the old man himself who put him on the right track. After clearing his voice, Signor Nicotra said:
“Just last night I heard that a man was found dead at the Rosaspina worksite—that’s the firm my son works for—and hasn’t been identified yet. And so I had a terrifying thought, and I didn’t sleep all night. Could I see the corpse?”
“Yes,” Montalbano said immediately. “But first . . .”
He interrupted himself and looked over at Fazio, who nodded his approval.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he said to the old man.
The Pyramid of Mud Page 5
