“Did you have the light on?”
“No, sir. Inghi said . . . she said she liked to do it better in the dark with the lightning flashin’.”
“When did Nicotra arrive?”
“Around three-thirty the wind and rain let up a little and we both heard a car pull up and stop. Inghi recognized the sound of the engine. She started trembling and told me her husband was back. I grabbed my clothes, went out of the room and into the uncle’s room while Inghi remade the bed. Then she told me from behind the door to leave as soon as her husband fell asleep.”
“Did you leave the uncle’s door three-quarters open?”
“Yeah, and in fact I had trouble puttin’ my clothes back on.”
14
At this point Pennisi stopped, opened his mouth and closed it again, and started squirming in his chair. His lawyer, who hadn’t expected this interruption, looked at him with concern.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Pennisi kept opening and closing his mouth as if he couldn’t breathe. Then he murmured:
“I can’t talk no more.”
“Why not? What’s come over you?” Mahoney asked, seeming more and more worried.
“My mouth is dry.”
The lawyer’s face brightened at once.
Montalbano felt like laughing. Mahoney had been scared to death that Pennisi had either forgotten his lines or no longer felt like continuing.
Then Fazio, on the inspector’s cue, stood up, filled a glass from the water bottle that was always on top of the filing cabinet, and handed it to Pennisi.
The young man drank it down in a single gulp.
“Do you want to continue, or would you rather wait and resume after a break?” Montalbano asked.
“Let’s continue, let’s continue,” said the lawyer.
“Let him decide,” said the inspector.
Pennisi nodded yes. But since Montalbano said nothing, Mahoney tried to get things going again.
“My client is ready to—”
“Yeah, I got that. How long did it take Nicotra to put the car in the garage and then come upstairs?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
“I dunno, six, seven minutes. In the meantime I put my clothes back on and was right behind the door.”
“Afraid?”
“Who?”
“What do you mean, ‘who’? You. Were you afraid?”
“Of course.”
“Were you sweating?”
“I don’t—”
“Trembling?”
“I said I don’t—”
“Was your throat all dry like a minute ago?”
“C’mon, man! I—”
“I don’t see the point of these questions,” Mahoney interrupted nervously.
“You surprise me, counsel! Are you going to claim self-defense or not?”
“Of course I am!”
“Well, my questions were aimed at trying to understand what state of mind your client was in. But if you don’t . . . I’ll desist, you know.”
“No, no, of course not . . .”
“Okay, let’s drop that subject. Once he was upstairs, what did Nicotra do?”
“He asked Inghi if she was asleep, and she didn’t answer. So he went into the bathroom and stayed in there a really long time.”
“How long?”
Pennisi looked at him as though completely bewildered. He was all sweaty and his hands were shaking.
“What do you mean?”
“Can’t you be a little more precise? ‘A really long time’ is a little vague, don’t you think?”
Thrown for a loop, Pennisi turned to the lawyer.
“How long was he in there?” he asked him.
“How should I know?” Mahoney said, irritated.
“Shall we say fifteen minutes?” the inspector suggested.
“All right.”
“Then what happened?”
“When he went back into the bedroom, it was past four o’clock. A short while later he got up, muttering to himself, and went downstairs, maybe to drink some water. Then finally, about half an hour later, I realized he’d fallen asleep.”
“How could you tell?”
“His breathing was regular.”
“Didn’t you suspect he might be faking it?”
“No, sir.”
“In your opinion, how did Nicotra come to realize that there was a stranger in the house? Did he see your raincoat and shoes in the room downstairs?”
“I don’t think he saw them.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because they were at the back of the room, in the sitting area, and the light was off over there.”
“And so?”
“In my opinion, the story about him havin’ to go to Palermo wasn’t true. He just made it up. It was a trap, and me and Inghi fell right into it. If anything, he knew I was there when he saw my scooter parked by the garage.”
“But that doesn’t explain how Nicotra found out that his wife was cheating on him with you.”
“Maybe somebody told him.”
“Who?”
“Maybe some friend of mine who saw me going to see Inghi.”
“What reason would this person have had for making trouble for you?”
“I dunno, maybe he was jealous . . . that I was . . . Inghi . . . is a fine-lookin’ girl, you know.”
“Tell me what you did when you thought Nicotra had fallen asleep.”
“I started moving very carefully.”
“Meaning?”
“I went out of the room.”
“And the uncle never woke up?”
“No.”
“How strange!” said the inspector.
“The man may be hard of hearing, or perhaps he took sleeping pills,” said the lawyer.
“Yes, of course . . . And after you left the room?”
“I’m sure it took me fifteen minutes to go down the stairs, that’s how slow I was goin’.”
“And when you got downstairs, what did you do?”
“I was so confused an’ scared that the only thing I could think of was to get out of that house, an’ so I went an’ opened the door, which was only locked with the spring-lock. So I opened it but then I realized I was barefoot. So I ran to the far end of the room, put on my shoes, which were under the radiator, grabbed my raincoat, and went back over to the door, but then Nicotra’s voice stopped me in my tracks.”
“What did he say?”
“Freeze or I’ll shoot.”
“Did he yell it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did he whisper it?”
“I dunno, I just heard it, that’s all.”
“So you froze and . . . ?”
“I instinctively put my hands up an’ heard him say, as he’s walkin’ up to me, that he wanted to have a good look at the man who was fuckin’ his wife.”
“So not for a second did he take you for a burglar?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what?”
“I realized I was screwed. When he was right next to me, he told me to turn around. Without thinking twice, since I was already done for, I turned around really fast and threw the raincoat I was holding in my raised right hand right in his face and—”
“My compliments. Good move,” Montalbano commented. Then, turning to Fazio: “Don’t you think it was a good move?”
“An excellent move,” Fazio said, continuing to write as he’d been doing for a while, since the inspector had signaled him to do so when he’d returned to the room.
“And then?”
“And then I grabbed his hand and tried to wrestle the gun away from him, but I wasn’t able to. He kneed me i
n the balls but I didn’t let go, despite the pain. Then as we was still strugglin’ and both almost outside the door, he suddenly had his back to me but the arm that was holdin’ the gun was turned toward me to my advantage. So I twisted his hand until he had to let go, and then I disarmed him, pushed him away, and shot him, all at the same time. I didn’t mean to—it was just a kind of instinctive reaction.”
“The natural instinct of self-preservation,” Mahoney emphasized.
“Go on, go on,” Montalbano said enthusiastically.
“After the shot, I just stood there in shock. I saw him grab Inghi’s bike, which was just outside the door, and ride off. At this point Inghi, who’d come downstairs and witnessed part of our struggle, kinda went crazy.”
“What did she say?”
“She started screamin’ and holdin’ me really tight and trembling all over, and sayin’ they would blame it on her and I couldn’t just leave her like that. Then she ran upstairs and called her uncle.”
“And he’d remained upstairs all this time?”
“Yessir.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange he didn’t come down even when he heard the shot?”
“Maybe he was afraid.”
“Go on.”
“I took advantage of the situation to run and grab my scooter and get out of there as fast as I could.”
“Did you go in the same direction as Nicotra?”
“That’s the only way out of there.”
“Did you catch up to him?”
“No, sir. I didn’t even see him.”
“I get the impression that you never saw Inge again after that.”
“That’s right.”
“Listen, what did you do with that gun? It was a pistol, right? Not a revolver?”
“Yes, an Italian pistol, a Beretta. A friend o’ mine had one just like it. I found it in my pocket as I was going home. I didn’t even remember putting it there.”
“Do you still have it?”
“No, I threw it off the bridge over the Simeto, which by then was more mud than water.”
“One last thing I’m curious about. We found the pillow on the uncle’s bed all covered with blood. Did you strike him that night, perhaps to keep him quiet?”
“No, sir. But Inghi did tell me once about that problem.”
“What problem?”
“One day she told me that sometimes her uncle starts bleedin’ from the nose all at once.”
“Ah, so that’s it!” the inspector exclaimed. “So, the following day, did you go and check to see whether Inge was still in the house or had gone away?”
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
“Did you know that we found Nicotra’s car torched?”
“Yessir, I saw it on TV.”
“But you have no explanation for it.”
“No, sir.”
“And there you have it,” the lawyer said at this point. “Now, if you could just read the report back to us—”
“What report?” said the inspector, looking astonished.
“Why, the report of what my client has confessed . . . and which your assistant has been writing down . . .”
“Were you by any chance taking all this down?” Montalbano asked Fazio with an air of surprise.
“Me? No. You never told me to. I was just writing the memo you wanted.”
“See? There’s no report of the proceedings.”
The lawyer completely lost his composure.
“But, what fucking way of doing things is this?” he asked, raising his voice.
“Use decent language and lower your voice.”
“What?! You spend half an hour taking my client’s confession, and then—”
“I didn’t take anything! Don’t try to reshuffle the cards! You asked me if I wanted to listen to what had happened, and I, purely out of politeness, agreed to do so.”
“But you’re denying the obvious! You started asking all kinds of detailed questions!”
“Of course! Curiosity got the better of me. It’s such a thrilling story!”
The lawyer bit his lips, adjusted his tie, and tried to calm himself down.
“Must I infer from your attitude that you refuse to begin arrest proceedings?”
“Are you kidding? But please don’t infer anything, I beg you! I have given due consideration to the situation and will proceed accordingly. Just sit tight for another five minutes, and I’ll contact the proper authorities presently.”
He dialed a number on the outside line and started speaking.
“Prosecutor Jacono? Good morning, sir. Sorry to trouble you, but a lawyer by the name of Mahoney has come to our station with his client, a certain Giuseppe Pennisi, who says he killed Gerlando Nicotra. What should I do? Ah, you want to talk to him right away? Yes, yes, okay.”
He hung up.
“All taken care of. Prosecutor Jacono says he’ll be waiting for you and your client. Would you like us to drive you there in one of our cars, or would you rather take your own?”
“We’ll take mine. Good day,” said the lawyer, face red with rage.
He grabbed Pennisi by the shoulder, after his client had sat back down in utter confusion, and dragged him out of the office.
Fazio couldn’t keep from laughing.
“Matre santa! That lawyer was about to burst like a balloon! Our playacting really got to him!”
Montalbano, on the other hand, was serious.
“What’s wrong, you worried?” asked Fazio.
“No, but I was thinking that there must be some pretty subtle minds behind this whole affair. Who are thinking things through, down to the finest details. Take the story of Inge having Pennisi take his wet shoes off. You know why they made that up? Because they thought we might have heard, from the Forensics analyses, that there were no footprints from Pennisi’s shoes. And they also found a good explanation for the blood on the pillow. The uncle suffered from frequent nosebleeds. The uncle who spoke German. Hats off. But they’re unaware of the three aces we’re holding. Pitrineddru’s testimony; the fact—unknown to them—that both the uncle and Nicotra were armed; and, finally, that we discovered the underground safe.”
“So what happens now?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“If Jacono has read Forensics’ report, he’ll be wondering where the Beretta came from when there were already two Russian revolvers in the house, and he’ll start putting the screws on Pennisi. If he hasn’t read it, he’ll arrest him.”
“But can you explain to me why you won’t just go to Jacono and tell him exactly how things stand?”
“Because the more they believe we’ve swallowed their bait, the better. And now let’s talk about what I’m interested in. Did you get all the names?”
“Yeah. I’ve got the names of the heads of all six firms.”
He took a sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket. Montalbano stopped him.
“I’m not interested in knowing them. Now listen up. First of all, I want to know whether any of them is in any way related, closely or remotely, by blood or marriage, to either the Sinagras or the Cuffaros. And, if there are no blood relations, I want to know whether at any time in the past there have been other kinds of relations: friendship, business, godfathers, godmothers, and so on . . . Got that?”
“Got it.”
“Afterwards, you must do another very important thing. Before being taken on at Rosaspina, did Nicotra, when he was still working for Primavera, have any assistant accountants working under him? And if so, where do these people work now?”
Augello came in.
“Good morning to all. I have a cold.”
“How much time do I have?” Fazio asked the inspector.
“Two days.”
Fazio got up and
shot out of the room.
“Want to know the big news of the day? Nicotra’s killer came here to turn himself in.”
“Really?” Mimì asked, astonished.
“It’s a nice little tale of adultery you’re sure to like. Have a seat and I’ll tell you the whole story. And then I’ll explain why it’s all a put-on.”
“I wonder what mountain-high pile of shit they’re trying to cover up?” Augello asked when the inspector had finished.
“I’m starting to get an idea.”
“Let me in on it.”
“It’s still too early to talk about it. What about you? Did you meet with Pitrinnedru?”
“Forget about me. All I got out of it was this cold.”
“But did you talk to him?”
Augello grimaced.
“When I got there it was pouring, and I had to take the little road that leads behind the house on foot, getting drenched in the process. Pitrineddru was in the chicken coop, under the roof. I called to him and he came out and approached me. ‘Who are you?’ he asked me. I wanted to reply that I was a friend of Inge’s but I was only able to get out the words ‘I am’ before he punched me right in the stomach, saying, ‘You’re a dickhead cop, ’a’ss what you are.’ And he went back into the chicken coop.”
“So wha’d you do?”
“What was I supposed to do, in your opinion, with a gorilla that size? Arrest him? Shoot him? I got back in my car and drove back here. A lot of effort for nothing.”
“So you still can’t remember where you saw the man with the tattoo?”
“Utter darkness.”
He got to the trattoria so late that Enzo had already started clearing the tables.
“Is there anything left for me?” the inspector asked.
“I’ll put some pasta on to boil immediately.”
“No, never mind. No first course. Just bring me a large helping of seafood antipasto.”
“Yes, sir. And would you like a dish of sea bass after that?”
“Sounds perfect.”
But Enzo didn’t move.
“Is there something?”
“I beg your pardon, but is it true that the guy who killed Nicotra turned himself in?”
“Yes, it’s true. But how did you find out?”
“I heard it on television, on TeleVigàta.”
The Pyramid of Mud Page 15
