“Listen, I need to go to Lido di Palmi. Should I take the autostrada?”
“The autostrada doesn’t go there—or, rather, you would have to follow a long and complicated route. You’re better off taking the state road, which’ll take you down the shoreline. It’s a lot nicer.”
The man explained how to get to the state road.
“One more thing, I’m sorry. Could you tell me where Via Gerace is?”
“You’ll pass it on the way to the state road.”
Via Gerace 15 consisted of a little apartment that must have originally been a rather large garage. It was the first of four identical apartments situated one beside the other, each with a little gate and a tiny yard. Beside the door was a garbage bin. The four flats were situated behind a rather tall building of some ten stories. No doubt they were used as crash pads or pieds-à-terre for people passing through. The inspector got out of the car, took from his pocket the keys he had taken from Fazio’s desk, opened the little gate, closed it behind him, opened the door, and closed this too. Macannuco had done a good job entering the place without forcing the locks. The apartment was quite dark, and Montalbano turned on the light.
There was a tiny entrance hall that hadn’t been photographed ; it had barely enough room for a coatrack and a small, low piece of furniture with one drawer and a small lamp on top, which illuminated the space. The kitchen looked the same as in the photograph, but now the cupboards were open, as was the refrigerator; and bottles, boxes, and packages had been scattered higgledy-piggledy across the table.
The search team had passed through the bedroom like a tornado. Alfano’s trousers were balled up on the floor. In the bathroom, they had dismantled the flushing system and exposed all the pipes, breaking the wall. The trapdoor directly above the sink was left open, and there was a folding stepladder beside the bidet. Montalbano moved it under the trapdoor and climbed it. The storage space was empty. Apparently the Forensics team had taken the suitcase and shoebox away with them.
He climbed down, went back into the entrance hall, and opened the drawer on the little stand. Stubs of electric and gas bills. Sticking out from under the stand, whose legs were barely an inch and a half tall, was the white corner of an envelope. Montalbano bent down to pick it up. It was an unopened bill from Enel, the electric company. He opened it. The payment deadline on it was August 30. It hadn’t been paid. He put it back under the stand and was about to turn out the light when he noticed something.
He went up to the little stand again, ran a finger over it, picked up the lamp, put it back down, opened the door, went out, closed it behind him, and raised the lid on the garbage bin. It was empty. There were only a few rust stains at the bottom. He put it back in place, opened the little gate, was about to close it again behind him, when a voice above him called out:
“Who are you, may I ask?”
It was a fiftyish woman who must have weighed a good three hundred pounds, with the shortest legs Montalbano had ever seen on a human being. A giant ball. She was looking out from a balcony on the first floor of the tall building, directly above the Alfanos’ apartment.
“Police. And who are you?”
“I’m the concierge.”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“So talk.”
A half-open window on the second floor of her building then opened all the way, and a girl who looked about twenty came forward, resting her elbows on the railing, as if settling in to listen to the proceedings.
“Look, signora, must we speak at this distance?” the inspector asked.
“I got no problem with it.”
“Well, I do have a problem with it. Come down to the porter’s desk at once. I’ll meet you there.”
He closed the little gate, got into his car, circled round the building, stopped in front of the main entrance, got out, climbed four steps, went inside, and found himself face-toface with the concierge, who was getting out of the elevator sideways, pulling in her tits and paunch as best she could. Once out, the ball reinflated.
“Well?” she asked belligerently.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Alfanos.”
“Them again? Haven’t we heard enough about them? What’s your rank with the police?”
“I’m an inspector.”
“Ah, well, then, can’t you ask your colleague Macannuco about it instead of hassling me again? Do I have to keep repeating the same story to all the inspectors in the kingdom?”
“I think you mean the republic, signora.” Montalbano was starting to have fun.
“Never! I do not recognize this republic of shit! I am a monarchist and I’ll die a monarchist!”
Montalbano smiled cheerfully, then assumed a conspiratorial air, looked around carefully, bent down towards the ball, and said in a low voice:
“I’m a monarchist, too, signora, but I can’t say so openly, or else my career . . . You understand.”
“My name is Esterina Trippodo,” the ball said, holding out a tiny, doll-like hand to him. “Please come with me.”
They went down a flight of stairs and entered an apartment almost identical to the Alfanos’. On the right-hand wall in the entrance hall was a portrait of King Vittorio Emanuele III under a little lamp, which was lit. Next to this, lit up in turn, was a photo of his son, Umberto, who had been king for about a month, though Montalbano’s memory was a bit hazy. On the left-hand wall, on the other hand, was a photograph, unlit, of another Vittorio Emanuele, Umberto’s son, the one known in the scandal sheets for a stray shot he had once fired. The inspector looked at the photo in admiration.
“He certainly is a handsome man,” said Montalbano, bullshitter extraordinaire, without shame.
Esterina Trippodo brought her index finger to her lips, then applied her kiss to the photograph.
“Come in, come in, please make yourself at home.”
The kitchen–living room was ever so slightly bigger than the Alfanos’.
“Can I make you some coffee?” asked Esterina.
“Yes, thank you.”
As the lady was fumbling with the napoletana, Montalbano asked:
“Do you know the Alfanos?”
“Of course.”
“Did you see them the last time they were here, on the third and the fourth of September?”
Esterina launched into a monologue.
“No. But they were here, in fact. He’s a gentleman. He called me to ask me to buy a bouquet of roses and to have them left in front of the door to their apartment, and said they would be arriving in the early afternoon. He’d asked me to do this before. But that evening, the roses were still in front of the door. The next day I dropped by a little before noon to pick up the money for the roses. The flowers were gone, but nobody answered the door. They’d already left. So I opened their gate—I’m the only one’s got a key—to empty the garbage—it’s my job—but all I found inside the bin was a syringe full of blood. They didn’t even put it in a bag or a piece of paper! Nothing! Just thrown there! Disgusting! Good thing I had gloves on! Who knows what the hell the goddamn slut was up to!”
“Did you mention these things to Inspector Macannuco?”
“No, why? He’s not one of us!”
“What about the roses, were you paid for them?”
“Good things come to those who wait!”
“If I may presume . . . ,” said Montalbano, reaching into his wallet.
Signora Trippodo magnanimously allowed him to presume.
“I noticed an electric bill under the little table in the entrance,” said the inspector.
“When the bills come, I slip them under the door. Apparently she didn’t take that one away with her and pay it.”
And in the name of their common faith in the monarchy, she answered all his other questions in generous detail.
About half an hour later, Montalbano got back in his car, and after barely five minutes on the road, he saw the sign indicating the way to Palmi. It was logical, therefor
e, that Dolores had taken this road instead of the autostrada. At once the sign for the bypass to Lido di Palmi appeared before him.
Jesus! It was barely two and a half miles from the apartment on Via Gerace! You could even walk there! Taking the bypass, he spotted a motel barely a hundred yards farther on. If Dolores had her accident right at the bypass, there was a very good chance this was the motel she went to.
He parked the car, got out, and went into the bar, which was also the motel’s front desk. It was empty. The coffee machine was even turned off.
“Anybody here?”
Behind a bead curtain that concealed a door on the left, a voice called out.
“I’ll be right there!”
A man without a hint of hair on his head appeared: short, fat, ruddy, and likeable.
“Can I help you?”
“Hello, the name’s Lojacano, I’m with the insurance company, and I need a little information from you, if you’d be so kind. And who are you, if I may ask?”
“I’m Rocco Sudano, I own this place. But at the moment, since it’s the low season, I take care of almost everything myself.”
“Listen, was your motel open on this past September the fourth?”
“Of course. That’s still high season.”
“Were you here?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember whether that morning, a dark, very attractive women came in after having a minor accident at the bypass?”
Rocco Sudano’s eyes started glistening, and his billiardball head even started glowing as if there were a lamp inside it. His mouth broadened into a smile of contentment.
“I certainly do remember! How could I forget? Signora Dolores!” Then, suddenly worried: “Has something happened to her?”
“No, nothing. As I said, I’m with the insurance company. It’s about the car accident she had, remember?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you remember by any chance what the lady did for the rest of that day?”
“Well, yes. You don’t see a whole lot of women like that, not even in high season! First she went to her room and rested for a couple of hours. She wasn’t hurt or anything, just very scared. I even brought her some chamomile tea, and she was lying down...”
He lost himself in the memory, a dreamy look in his eyes, and, without realizing, started licking his lips. Montalbano snapped him out of it.
“Do you remember what time of day she arrived?”
“Uh, it must’ve been ten, ten-thirty.”
“And what did she do next?”
“She ate in our restaurant, which was still open then, being high season. Then she came down and said she was going to the beach. I saw her again in the evening, but she didn’t have dinner here. She went to her room. At seven o’clock the next morning Silvestro, the mechanic, brought her car back. And then she paid and left.”
“One last question. Are there any buses or private coaches linking Lido di Palmi and Gioia Tauro?”
“Yes, during the high season. There’s a number of transportation services, which also go farther than just Gioia Tauro and Palmi, naturally.”
“So they were probably still running on September the fourth, right?”
“Around here, the high season lasts until the end of September.”
Montalbano looked at his watch. It was past five.
“Listen, Signor Sudano, I need to rest for a couple of hours. Have you got any rooms available?”
“Any one you want. It’s low season.”
15
He slept like a log for four hours straight. When he woke up, he called Fazio from his cell phone.
“I’m not going to make it back tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at the station.”
“All right, Chief.”
“Did you talk to Alfano’s friend?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you anything interesting?”
“Yes.”
It must be really interesting, if the words had to be dragged out of Fazio’s mouth. Whenever he had something decisive to tell him about a case, he only revealed it in dribs and drabs.
“What did he say?”
“He said that what got Arturo Pecorini to move so suddenly out of Vigàta was the Sinagras.”
Montalbano balked.
“The Sinagras?!”
“Yes indeed, Chief. Don Balduccio himself.”
“And what was the reason?”
“Rumors were starting to circulate in town about an affair between the butcher and Signora Dolores. So Don Balduccio sent word to Pecorini that it was best if he had a change of scene.”
“I see.”
“By the way, Chief, Prosecutor Tommaseo was looking for you.”
“Do you know what he wanted?”
“He talked with Catarella, so go figure. From what I could gather, he said a colleague of his from Reggio had called about a disappearance. He complained that he didn’t know anything about the case. He wants to be filled in. I think Tommaseo’s colleague was referring to our very own Giovanni Alfano.”
“I think so, too. I’ll go and talk to him tomorrow.”
The inspector got out of bed, took a shower, changed clothes, and went to the front desk in the bar. Signor Sudano didn’t want to be paid (“It’s low season, after all”).
He got in the car and left.
When he got to Villa San Giovanni it was already past ten. He headed for the same trattoria where he had eaten at midday. And he wasn’t disappointed the fourth time, either.
At one o’clock in the morning he was back in Sicily.
He traveled the road between Messina and Catania under a sort of rough copy of the Great Flood. The windshield wipers were helpless to wipe away the heavens’ waters. He stopped at the Autogrill service areas at Barracca, Calatabiano, and Aci Sant’Antonio, more to fill up on courage than on coffee. When all was said and done, it had taken him three hours to drive a distance that would have taken an hour and a half in normal weather. But once he’d left Catania behind and got on the autostrada for Enna, the deluge not only stopped suddenly, but the stars came out. Taking the Mulinello bypass, he headed in the direction of Nicosia. Half an hour later, he saw on the right a sign indicating the way to Mascalippa. He took that road, a dilapidated mess that here and there still preserved a faded memory of asphalt. As he entered Mascalippa, there wasn’t a living soul in the streets. He stopped in the town square, which was exactly the same as he had left it so many years before, got out of the car, and fired up a cigarette. The cold penetrated straight to the bones, and the air smelled of grass and straw. A dog approached him, then stopped short a few steps away, wagging its tail in friendship.
“Come here, Argo,” said Montalbano.
The dog looked at him, turned around, and sauntered off.
“Argo!” he called again.
But the dog vanished around a corner. It was right. It knew it wasn’t Argo. The idiot was him, pretending to be Ulysses. He finished his cigarette, got back in his car, and began the journey home to Vigàta.
He awoke after an untroubled, satisfying sleep. On the road from Mascalippa, his mind had cleared up, and he now knew what he had to do. He phoned Livia before she left for work. At nine o’clock he called Dr. Lattes, the chief of the commissioner’s cabinet. And he arrived at the station fresh, calm, and rested, as if he had got a full night’s sleep. Whereas, in fact, he had slept barely three hours.
“Ahh Chief Chief! Yest’day Proseccotor Gommaseo called ’n’ said—”
“I know already, Fazio told me. Is he in his office?”
“Who? Gommaseo?”
“No, Fazio.”
“Yessir.”
“Send him to me at once.”
Lots of newly arrived mail, gobs of it, covered the whole desktop. He sat down and pushed the envelopes to the far edges to create a bit of space in front of him—not for writing anything, but for resting his elbows.
Fazio came in.
“Close the do
or, sit down, and tell me the story of Balduccio Sinagra and Pecorini again, in fuller detail.”
“Chief, you told me to talk to Giovanni Alfano’s third friend, remember? Well, it was this friend, whose name is Franco Di Gregorio, and who seems like a decent man, who told me the whole story.”
“But the other two didn’t even mention it to me.”
“They didn’t want to talk about it.”
“And why not?”
“If you’ll let me tell it my way, I’ll get to that.”
“All right, go on.”
“Let’s just say that over two years ago, this fifty-year-old butcher falls head over heels for Dolores Alfano, who used to buy her meat from him. But he doesn’t go about it under cover, on the sly—nosirree, he starts sending her a bouquet of roses every morning, buys her gifts, sweets, and even fancy things, plants himself outside her home, waiting for her to come out so he can follow behind her . . . In short, the whole town finds out about it.”
“Is he married?”
“No, he’s not.”
“But doesn’t he know that Dolores is Alfano’s wife, and that Alfano is Balduccio’s protégé?”
“He does, he does.”
“Then he’s a fool!”
“No, Chief, he’s not a fool. He’s a cocky, violent man. The kind who says he’s not afraid of anything or anyone.”
“A blowhard?”
“No, sir. Arturo Pecorini is a man who doesn’t kid around. He’s a thug. When he was barely twenty years old he was arrested for murder, then acquitted for lack of evidence. Five years later, another acquittal for attempted murder. After that there are no more serious offenses, aside from a few brawls, since he is a bully, after all. When friends tell him he should be more careful with this Dolores stuff, he replies that he doesn’t give a shit about the Sinagras. He says, let ’em try and they’ll see.”
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