“Right.”
“Then we learned—first from Terrazzano, then from the German lawyer—that Ingrid is free in Germany. Aside from the fact that we still don’t know how she got there, who gave her the travel money, and so on along those lines, I now ask myself: After everything that happened—the break-in, her husband’s murder, her kidnapping—how is it that, once out of harm’s way, the first thing she thinks of is to call a lawyer to get back the security deposit on her house? Is that a normal way to act, in your opinion?”
“No.”
“But let’s assume it’s all true, that Ingrid is free in Germany and wants her deposit back. Can you tell me what need there was for her to do it through a lawyer? Wouldn’t it have been a whole lot simpler for her to phone Terrazzano herself?”
“You’re right. Why didn’t she call him herself?”
“There can only be one answer to your question: because Terrazzano knows the sound of Inge’s voice quite well.”
“You’re right again.”
“In conclusion, the likelihood that this Inge is a fake Inge is, unfortunately, a little too great.”
“But what could be the reason? Why go through all the song and dance of getting in touch with someone in Germany, finding a woman who looks like Inge, sending her to a lawyer . . .”
“I’m starting to get an idea why. But it’s so far-fetched, so off-the-wall that at the moment I don’t even feel like talking about it.”
“Please, Chief. I’ll keep it to myself.”
“Fazio, I’m getting more and more the feeling that in conducting this investigation, we, without knowing it, are handling a bomb. And those guys know we have a bomb on our hands, but they won’t tell us, and neither do they want it to blow up.”
“And so?”
“In my opinion, but it’s just an impression, they’re trying to move the goalposts by putting on this big production—of which, however, we’ve only seen the first two acts so far.”
“And what would they be?”
“Don’t you understand?”
“No.”
“The first act was to make us believe that Nicotra got hold of Barbera’s pistol for the purpose of killing his wife’s lover, but the opposite happened. The second act was supposed to convince us that Inge is alive and well and back in her native Germany. Do you remember the film called The Pizza Triangle? These guys are trying to put on something similar. Somebody from around here once wrote that the only cause of death in Sicily is adultery.”
“And what’s in the third act?”
“I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I’m neither the author nor the director of this play, but only a spectator who nevertheless has the right, at a certain point, to say exactly what he thinks about the whole thing, and whether he approves or disapproves.”
“So what are we gonna do in the intermission between the second and third acts? Go outside for a smoke?”
“There’s one or two small things we could do.”
“Tell me one.”
“Remember when we were driving out to the house with Terrazzano and I told you to remind me that there was something I wanted to talk to you about?”
“Yeah, you’re right, I’m sorry, but with all that happened . . .”
“It’s something you can do without leaving the comfort of your office. I just need some simple information. I want to know how many construction sites, run by which firms, have been shut down by the regional government in Montelusa province since Nicotra’s death.”
Fazio looked confused. He was about to ask a question but decided not to.
“I’ll get on it right away,” he said.
The inspector was getting up to go out and head home when Mimì Augello came into his office.
“Well, look who we have here! Care to tell me where you’ve been all afternoon?” the inspector asked.
“Leave me alone. There was a terrible family fight with knives drawn . . .”
“Over money?”
“These horrible family quarrels are always over money! This time we have the case of a girl, an orphan, brought into the house by an uncle, her late father’s brother. The girl then gets married to a guy the uncle doesn’t like, and so—”
“So the fight was between the uncle and the niece?”
“Yes,” said Mimì.
Then he resumed his story.
But Montalbano was no longer listening, lost in a thought that had suddenly occurred to him.
All at once he stood up.
“I’m sorry, Mimì, but I have to go.”
And he raced out, leaving behind a bewildered Augello, went down to the parking lot, got in his car, and drove off to Pizzutello.
In the hope that the old woman’s store-restaurant was also open evenings.
He slowed down as he approached the Nicotras’ house.
Jannaccone’s cars were no longer there. The garage door was pulled down, and the Forensics team had put a padlock on it. Good idea.
The sun had set. It was a quiet evening, and darkness was falling.
He drove past the store without stopping.
It was open and he was even able to see a few people sitting at a table inside.
Moments later he did a U-turn and went back, stopping about twenty yards past the store.
He got out, walked a short distance, then saw a footpath that led behind the house.
He came to a large farmyard with a stable of goats, a chicken coop, and a large fenced-in pen that served as a rabbit hutch.
Pitrineddru’s giant silhouette was pacing back and forth inside the chicken coop.
Montalbano approached and called to him softly.
“Pitrineddru!”
The big man stopped and hunched slightly forward, peering into the darkness, shading his eyes with one hand.
“Whoozat?”
“It’s Inspector Montalbano. The man you talked to after lunch.”
“Oh,” said Pitrineddru.
He came out of the chicken coop and approached him.
“Is Inghi back?” he asked hopefully.
“No, not yet. But as soon as she gets back, I’ll let you know.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Want a cigarette?”
Pitrineddru sighed.
“I’d like one but my mama don’t want me to smoke. Not even ousside o’ the house. Says iss bad for my lungs.”
“C’mon, just take one and smoke it with me. Anyway, right now your mama can’t see me.”
Pitrineddru took his first drag with satisfaction, keeping the cigarette hidden inside his cupped hand.
“If Mama sees me she’ll slap me around pretty bad.”
He gave a giggle that sounded rather donkeylike, took a second puff, and then asked:
“Whattya doin’ here?”
“I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“Were you aware that Inge had an uncle of hers eating and sleeping at her house?”
“Yessir.”
“How did you find out?”
“Inghi tol’ me and warned me not to tell nobody ’bout it, not even my mama.”
“Why didn’t she want anyone to know?”
“Dunno.”
“But, when you made love with her, where was the uncle?”
“He was always in the room upstairs. ’E never come downstairs. An’ we din’t make no noise.”
“So you never saw him?”
The giant seemed uneasy.
“Nah.”
He didn’t know how to lie. His “nah” came out nasal and false.
“So you can’t tell me anything about him?”
“One time I heard him talkin’ on ’is cell phone. ’E was still upstairs but ’e was pissed off and yel
lin’.”
“And what was he speaking?”
Pitrineddru balked at the question.
“’Wha’ss he asposta be speakin’? He’s speakin’ words.”
“No, I wanted to know whether he was speaking in German.”
“Nah, ’e was talkin’ juss like you an’ me’s talkin’ now.”
Montalbano, who hadn’t forgotten Pitrineddru’s lie, returned to the subject.
“But you never saw his face?”
Pitrineddru did a sort of bear-dance, balancing first on one foot, then the other.
“Want another cigarette?” asked the inspector.
“Okay.”
Montalbano lit it for him.
And he patiently waited for him to decide to start talking.
“I saw him once. But . . .”
“But?”
“You must promise me that you won’t say anything to Inghi when she comes back.”
“I promise.”
“One day when I wanted her I brought ’er ’er groceries wittout waitin’ for ’er call. An’ I saw ’er bike ousside the front door, an’ ’at meant she’s a’ home. So I went in, bu’ she wasn’t downstairs. So I leff the groceries onna table an’ tippytoed up the stairs so I cou’ call ’er wittout ’er uncle ’earin’ me. You cou’ see the uncle’s room wittout havin’ a climb the stairs, an’ so ’ass ’ow I’s able a see Inghi nekkid an’ on ’er knees wit’ ’er ’ead between ’er uncle’s legs, an’ ’e’s nekkid too an’ sittin’ onna edge o’ the bed.”
“Did he see you?”
“Nah, ’e cou’n’t see me ’cause’is ’ead was all bent backward.”
“And what did you do?”
“Wha’ could I do? I went back to the store.”
“Were you angry?”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you take it up with Inge?”
“’Cause afterwards I thought, well, the guy’s ’er uncle, after all. ’Ese kinda things ’appen a lot inna family an’ nobody ge’ss upset.”
“Do you remember what this man looked like?”
Pitrineddru resumed his bear-dance in his effort to remember.
“Wait . . . Wait . . . okay, okay, now iss comin’ back to me . . . ’E looked about sixty an’ din’t ’ave no hair on ’is ’ead, but ’e had a mustache an’ ’e wore white gloves an ’e had a pitcher on ’is left arm.”
“A tattoo?”
“Yeah, juss like you said.”
“A picture of what?”
“It was the sun wit’ iss rays around it, but the sun had a man’s face.”
“Can you remember anything else?”
“Nah, nothin’. Bu’ you’ll lemme know right away when Inghi comes back?”
“I’ll let you know immediately. Listen, you can have my pack of cigarettes. But you better hide it good.”
On his way home he felt like a hunter with his game bag full at the end of the party.
When he went inside, he rang Augello.
“Mimì, I wanted to apologize for leaving you in the lurch.”
Augello remained silent.
Montalbano thought perhaps they’d been cut off, and started yelling desperately.
“Hello! Hello!”
“I’m right here,” said Mimì. “I was just recovering from the shock. You apologizing to me is a pretty rare event, you know. Even an earthquake affects me less.”
“I also wanted to thank you.”
“You want to give me a heart attack?! Thank me for what?”
“For an idea you gave me. Good night.”
Immediately afterwards he called Livia.
“How are you?”
“Do you know what Selene did today?” Livia asked, all excited, instead of answering the question.
“No. Tell me.”
God, was it wonderful to hear Livia back to being her usual self!
She went on to talk for ten minutes straight about the same subject: Selene. Only at the end did she remember him.
“And how are you?”
“Almost all better. The stitches are coming out tomorrow.”
There was a moment of silence.
“What stitches?”
Damn it all! Why did he say that? To compete with the dog?
“Just a little thing, nothing really . . .”
“No, don’t get me all worried. Tell me.”
“Well, I slipped and . . .”
“Why didn’t you tell me anything?”
The tone in Livia’s voice heralded the start of a squabble.
And a half squabble did occur. A half squabble that made the inspector happy.
Afterwards, his happiness was redoubled by what he found in the kitchen.
And since, when he had finished, it was time for the ten o’clock news, he turned on the TV, tuning into TeleVigàta. Anchorman Ragonese was on the screen, talking.
. . . two leaks that have come to our attention from reliable sources. The first is that Nicotra supposedly got his hands on a pistol that had been kept in the office safe. What for, we ask ourselves, if not for the purpose of killing his wife’s lover, or perhaps both of them, caught in flagrante delicto? The second is that Inge Schneider, Nicotra’s wife, is supposedly in Germany. Which lends credence to the thesis we put forth in the days immediately following the crime. Namely, that we are dealing with a case of marital infidelity that unfortunately ended in violence, but where the victim was the husband, disarmed by the lover who shot him in self-defense, or accidentally. Regrettably, as far as we know, Inspector Montalbano of the Vigàta police has steadfastly refused to take such a thesis into consideration, wasting his time and our money as taxpayers in pursuit of who knows what bizarre fantasies . . .
Ragonese had actually given a sort of synopsis of the prior episodes.
And this meant that the intermission was over, and the third act was about to begin.
Montalbano changed channel.
He happened upon a bicycle race taking place in a very fine rain.
There was one solitary cyclist ahead of everyone else. A voice off-camera said:
Bartoletti is leading the pack . . .
The expression struck him like a cudgel straight to his forehead.
Leading the pack.
What if Nicotra . . .
What if Nicotra had gone into the tunnel not to hide from whoever shot him but to lead the pack in there—the pack being his playmates, or maybe even the police?
As if to say: The truth of my death is to be found here, at the construction site.
And if that was the way it was, it was confirmation of the idea, though vague, confused, uncertain, which had been knocking about in the inspector’s head for a while . . .
The following morning he got into his car and drove off to Montelusa Hospital to get his stitches removed.
Then he took the car again and headed over to Montelusa Central Police. He pulled up in front of a café that was for all intents and purposes the “cops’ café” and from there rang Jannaccone from his cell phone.
“I was just on my way to see you,” said Jannaccone.
“But I’m already in Montelusa.”
“Then come on over.”
“No, I wouldn’t want to run into . . .”
“He’s not coming in today.”
“Okay, I’ll be right over.”
He parked the car properly, got out in a hurry, and ten minutes later was standing in front of Jannaccone.
There was no need for him to open his mouth.
“It didn’t take us very long to figure out what had been in the safe,” Jannaccone announced to him. “We found a lot of tiny fragments of paper money.”
“Euros?”
“Yes.”
“Authentic?”
“Yes. Just think, there were fragments on every single shelf. There must have been millions and millions of euros in there.”
“Dirty money.”
“I agree.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Yes. A man’s.”
“Were you able—”
“Yes, they were his, Inspector,” Jannaccone said, smiling. And he continued, “Do you remember those very clear footprints the two men who broke in had left inside the house?”
“Of course.”
“We found the same footprints, less clearly delineated, in the basement room, outside the safe.”
“So it would be logical to assume that in addition to killing Nicotra and kidnapping his wife and their elderly guest, the two men also made off with the money?”
“So it would seem.”
“About this safe, incidentally . . . the less said, the better . . .”
Jannaccone understood at once.
“Well, sooner or later I’m going to have to write my report for the commissioner just the same.”
“Is it pressing?”
“No, I can wait four or five days . . .”
“Thanks.”
“Oh,” said Jannaccone, “I also thought it was best to padlock the garage door. Here are the keys.”
12
After telling Fazio and Augello what he’d learned first from Pitrineddru and then Jannaccone, Montalbano wanted to know what they thought.
But Augello, who at a certain point started to look distracted, came out with a question instead.
“Could you repeat your description of the tattoo?”
“Pitrineddru said it was a sun with rays and that the sun had a man’s face. On his left arm.”
Augello remained silent, with a faraway look in his eyes.
“I can’t read your mind, you know,” said the inspector.
“I’m sorry,” said Augello, “but I’m positive I saw that tattoo a number of years ago . . . but I can’t remember where I saw it or who the man was who had it.”
“Really?” said Montalbano. “If you could somehow manage to recover that memory, it would be like winning the lottery.”
“It’s better if we forget about it for the time being, because the more I try to force myself, the worse it is. At any rate, if you want to know my opinion, I’ll say only that I think we finally have a motive for the whole affair.”
The Pyramid of Mud Page 12
