IM5 Excursion to Tindari (2005)

by Andrea Camilleri

  “After Fazio explained things to us,” Mimì resumed, “we reached the same conclusion as you, that is, that it was Balduccio who had his grandson killed. But why?”

  “At the moment it’s not clear. But something’ll come out sooner or later. As far as we’re concerned, the whole business ends here.”

  The door flew open, crashing against the wall with such force that the windows rattled. Everybody jumped. Naturally, it was Catarella.

  “Oh Chief! Chief! Cicco de Cicco called just now! He made the development! An’ it worked! I wrote the number down on this piece a paper here. He made me repeat it to him five times!”

  He set a half-sheet of squared notebook paper on the inspector’s desk and said:

  “Beg your pardon ‘bout the door.”

  He went out. And reclosed the door so hard that a crack in the paint near the handle widened slightly.

  Montalbano read the license-plate number and looked at Fazio.

  “You got Nenè Sanfilippo’s license-plate number within reach?”

  “Which car? The Punto or the Duetto?”

  Augello pricked up his ears.

  “The Punto.”

  “That one I know by heart: BA 927 GG.”

  “They correspond,” said Mimi. “But what does it mean? Would you explain?”

  Montalbano explained, telling them how he’d found out about the postal passbook and the money on deposit; how, following up on what Mimi himself had suggested to him, he’d studied the photos from the excursion to Tindari and discovered that a Fiat Punto had been riding on the bus’s rear bumper; and how he’d brought the photo to the Montelusa forensics lab to have them enlarge it. The whole time the inspector was speaking, Augello maintained a suspicious expression.

  “You already knew,” he said.

  “I already knew what?”

  “That the car following behind the bus was Sanfilippo’s. You knew it before Catarella gave you that slip of paper.”

  “Yes,” the inspector admitted.

  “And how did you know?”

  A tree, a Saracen olive tree told me. That would have been the correct answer, but Montalbano didn’t have the courage to say it.

  “I had an intuition,” he said instead.

  Augello let it drop.

  “This means,” he said, “that the Griffo and Sanfilippo murders are closely connected.”

  “We can’t say that yet,” the inspector disagreed. “The only thing we know for sure is that Sanfilippo’s car was following the bus the Griffos were in.”

  “Beba even said he kept turning around to look at the road. Apparently he wanted to make sure Sanfilippo’s car was still behind them.”

  “Right. Which tells us that there was a connection between Sanfilippo and the Griffos. But we have to stop there. Maybe Sanfilippo did pick them up in his car on the drive back, at the last stop before Vigàta.”

  “Don’t forget that Beba said it was Alfonso Griffo himself who asked the driver to make that extra stop. Which means they must have planned it together beforehand.”

  “Right again. But this does not allow us to conclude that Sanfilippo killed the Griffos himself, or that he in turn was shot as a consequence of the Griffos’ murders. The infidelity hypothesis still holds.”

  “When are you going to see Ingrid?”

  “Tomorrow evening. But you, tomorrow morning, try to gather some information on Eugenio Ignazio Ingrò, the transplant doctor. I’m not interested in what the papers have to say, but in the other stuff, the whispers.”

  “I’ve got somebody, a friend in Montelusa, who knows him pretty well. I’ll find some excuse to pay him a visit.”

  “But, Mimi, I’m warning you: kid gloves. It should be the furthest thing from everyone’s mind that we might be interested in the doctor and his cherished consort, Vanya Titulescu.”

  Mimì; offended, pulled a frown.

  “Do you take me for some kind of idiot?”

  The moment he opened the refrigerator, he saw it.

  Caponata! Fragrant, colorful, abundant, it filled an entire soup dish, enough for at least four people. It had been months since Adelina, his housekeeper, last made it for him. The bread, in its plastic bag, was fresh, bought that morning. The notes of the triumphal march of Aïda came spontaneously, naturally, to his lips. Humming, he opened the French window after turning on the light on the veranda. Yes, it was a cool night, but still warm enough to eat outside. He set the little table, brought the dish, the wine, and the bread outside, and sat down. The telephone rang. He covered the dish with a paper napkin and went to answer.

  “Hello? Inspector Montalbano? This is Orazio Guttadauro.”

  He’d been expecting this phone call. He’d have bet his ass on it.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “First of all, please accept my apologies for being forced to call you at this hour.”

  “Forced? By whom?”

  “By circumstances, Inspector.”

  Clever, this lawyer.

  “What circumstances are you referring to?”

  “My client and friend is worried.”

  Was he afraid to mention Balduccio Sinagra’s name over the phone, now that a fresh corpse had been added to the mix?

  “Oh, is he? And why’s that?”

  “Well ... he hasn’t heard from his grandson since yesterday.”

  Since yesterday? Balduccio Sinagra was starting to cover himself.

  “What grandson? The exile?”

  “Exile?” the lawyer repeated, genuinely puzzled.

  “No need to be so formal, Counsel. Nowadays ‘exile’ and ’fugitive’ mean pretty much the same thing. Or so they would have us believe.”

  “Yes, of course,” said the lawyer, still dazed.

  “But how could he hear from his grandson if he was on the run?”

  One roguish turn deserved another.

  “Er ... well, you know how it is, mutual friends, people passing through ...”

  “I see. And what has this got to do with me?”

  “Nothing,” Guttadauro was quick to affirm. And he repeated, clearly pronouncing the words: “None of this has anything to do with you.”

  Message received. Balduccio Sinagra was letting him know that he had taken the advice relayed to him by Father Crucillà. Of Japichinu’s murder there would be no mention. Japichinu could just as easily have not been born, if not for the people he’d killed.

  “Why, Mr. Guttadauro, do you feel the need to communicate your friend and client’s worry to me?”

  “Oh, it was just to let you know that, despite this agonizing worry, my friend and client has been thinking of you.”

  “Of me?” said Montalbano, on his guard.

  “Yes. He asked me to send you an envelope. He says there’s something inside that may interest you.”

  “Listen, Mr. Guttadauro. I’m going to bed. I’ve had a rough day.”

  “I entirely understand.”

  The goddamn lawyer was being ironic.

  “You can bring me the envelope tomorrow, at the station. Good night.”

  He hung up, went back out on the veranda, then reconsidered. Returning inside, he picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Livia, darling, how are you?”

  There was silence at the other end.

  “Livia?”

  “My God, Salvo, what’s happening? Why are you calling me?”

  “Why shouldn’t I call you?”

  “Because you only call when something’s bothering you.”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “No, really, it’s true. When you’re not feeling bothered, I’m always the first to call.”

  “Okay, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

  “What did you want to tell me?”

  “That I’ve been thinking a lot about our relationship.”

  Livia—Montalbano distinctly heard it—held her breath. She didn’t speak. Montalbano continued.

  “I realized that we’re often bicker
ing, too often. Like a couple who’ve been married for years and are feeling the strain of living together. But the good part is, we don’t live together.”

  “Go on,” said Livia in a faint voice.

  “So, I said to myself: why don’t we start all over again, from the beginning?”

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “Livia, what would you say if we got engaged?”

  “Aren’t we already?”

  “No. We’re married.”

  “Okay. So how do we begin?”

  “Like this: Livia, I love you. And you?”

  “Me too. Good night, my love.”

  “Good night.”

  He hung up. Now he could stuff himself with the caponata without fearing any more phone calls.

  14

  He woke up at seven, after a night of dreamless sleep so leaden he had the impression, upon opening his eyes, that he was still in the same position as when he first lay down. It was certainly not the most glorious of mornings—scattered clouds giving the impression of sheep about to gather into flocks—but one could clearly see that it did not promise any major bouts of ill humor. He slipped on a pair of shabby old trousers, stepped down from the veranda, and, barefoot, went for a walk along the beach. The cool air cleansed his skin, lungs, and thoughts. Back inside, he shaved and went into the shower.

  In the course of every investigation that came his way, there was always one day—actually, a specific moment on a certain day—when an inexplicable sense of physical well-being, a happy lightness in the interaction of his thoughts, a harmonious conjunction of his muscles, made him feel as if he could endlessly walk along a road, eyes closed, without once stumbling or running into anything or anyone. As happens, sometimes, in the land of dream. It didn’t last very long, but it was enough. By now he knew from experience that from this point on—it was like the buoy at the bend in the sea-lane, the sign of the approaching turn—every piece of the puzzle, the investigation, in other words, would fall into place, all by itself, without any effort. It was almost enough just to will it so. And this was what was going through his head in the shower, even though many things, indeed most everything, still remained obscure.

  It was quarter past eight when he pulled the car up in front of the station, slowing down to park, then reconsidered and drove on to Via Cavour.The concierge gave him a dirty look and didn’t even say hello: she’d just finished washing the floor at the entrance, and now the inspector’s shoes were going to muck it all up again. Davide Griffo looked less pale. He’d recovered a little. He didn’t seem surprised to see Montalbano and immediately offered him a cup of coffee, which he’d just made.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Nothing,” said Griffo. “And I looked everywhere. There’s no passbook, and there’s nothing in writing that might explain Papa’s two million lire a month.”

  “Mr. Griffo, I need you to help me remember something.”

  “I’m at your disposal.”

  “I believe you told me your father didn’t have any close relatives.”

  “That’s right. He had a brother, whose name I forget, but he was killed in the American bombing raids in 1943.”

  “Your mother, however, did have some close relations.”

  “Exactly. A brother and a sister. The brother, Zio Mario, lives in Comiso and has a son who works in Sydney. We talked about him, remember? You asked me—”

  “I remember.”The inspector cut him short.

  “The sister, Zia Giuliana, used to live in Trapani, where she became a schoolteacher. She remained single, never wanted to get married. But neither Mama nor Zio Mario saw much of her, though she and Mama got a little closer in recent years, to the point that Mama and Papa went to visit her two days before she died. They stayed in Trapani for almost a week.”

  “Any idea why your mother and her brother had fallen out with this Giuliana?”

  “My grandfather and grandmother, when they died, left almost all of the little they had to Giuliana, practically disinheriting the other two.”

  “Did your mother ever tell you why—”

  “She hinted at it. Apparently my grandparents felt abandoned by Mama and Zio Mario. But my mother got married very young, you see, and my uncle had left home to go to work before he was even sixteen. Only Zia Giuliana stayed with her parents. As soon as my grandparents died—Grandma died first—Zia Giuliana sold what she owned here and moved to Trapani.”

  “When did she die?”

  “I can’t really say exactly. At least two years ago.”

  “Do you know where she lived in Trapani?”

  “No. I didn’t find anything relating to Zia Giuliana in this apartment. I do know, however, that she owned her place in Trapani. She’d bought it.”

  “One last thing: your mother’s maiden name.”

  “Di Stefano. Margherita Di Stefano.”

  One good thing about Davide Griffo: he was generous with his answers and frugal with his questions.

  Two million lire a month. More or less what a low-level clerk makes by the end of his career. But Alfonso Griffo had been retired for some time and was getting by on his pension—his combined with his wife’s. Or, more accurately, he’d been able to get by because for two years he’d been receiving a considerable supplement. Two million lire a month. From another perspective, a derisory sum. Like if this were a case of systematic blackmail, for example. And yet, no matter how attached he might be to money, Alfonso Griffo, lacking the courage or imagination, could never have resorted to blackmail. Assuming he had no scruples about it. Two million lire a month. For serving as a front man, as the inspector had first hypothesized? Usually, however, a front man gets a cut of the profits or is paid off all at once, certainly not by the month. Two million lire a month. In a sense, it was the modesty of the sum that made things more difficult. Still, the regularity of the deposits must indicate something. An idea began to form in the inspector’s mind. There was a coincidence that intrigued him.

  He stopped in front of City Hall and went upstairs to the Records Office. He knew the clerk there, a certain Crisafulli.

  “I need some information.”

  “At your service, Inspector.”

  “If someone who was born in Vigàta dies in another town, is the death reported here too?”

  “There’s a provision for such cases,” Mr. Crisafulli replied evasively.

  “Is it ever respected?”

  “Generally, yes. But it takes time, you see.You know how these things go. And I should add that if the death occurs in a foreign country, forget about it. Unless a family member takes the trouble himself to—”

  “No, the person I’m interested in died in Trapani.”

  “When?”

  “A little over two years ago.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Her name was Giuliana Di Stefano.”

  “We can look that up right away.”

  Mr. Crisafulli touched a few keys on the computer towering in one corner of the room, then looked up at Montalbano.

  “She died in Trapani on the sixth of May, 1997.”

  “Does it say where she resided?”

  “No. But if you wish, I could tell you in about five minutes.”

  Here Mr. Crisafulli did something strange. He went to his desk, opened a drawer, took out a small metal flask, unscrewed the cap, took a sip, then rescrewed the cap, leaving the flask out. Then he went back and fiddled with the computer. Seeing that the ashtray on the table was full of cigar butts whose odor had permeated the room, the inspector fired up a cigarette himself. He had just put it out when the clerk announced, in a faint voice:

  “Found it. She lived in Via Libertà 12.”

  Was the man not feeling well? Montalbano wanted to ask him, but didn’t do so in time. Mr. Crisafulli raced back to his desk, grabbed the flask, and took another gulp.

  “Cognac,” he explained. “I’m retiring in two months.”

  The inspector gave
him a questioning look. He didn’t get the connection.

  “I’m a clerk of the old school,” the man said. “It used to take me months to find a record like that. Now, whenever I do it this fast, my head starts to spin.”

  To get to Trapani, Via Libertà, it took him two and a half hours. Number 12 was a small three-story building surrounded by a well-tended garden. Davide Griffo had told him that Zia Giuliana used to own the apartment she lived in. After her death, it may have been resold to people she didn’t even know, in which case the proceeds would almost certainly have gone to some charitable institution. Next to the closed entrance gate was an intercom with only three names. The apartments must be pretty big. He pushed the button on top, next to the name “Cavallaro.” A woman’s voice answered.

  “Yes?”

  “Excuse me, ma‘am. I need some information concerning the late Miss Giuliana Di Stefano.”

  “Ring apartment two, the middle one.”

  The name tag next to the middle button read: “Baeri.”

  “Geez, what’s the hurry! Who is it?” asked the voice of another woman, this one elderly, after the inspector had rung three times without answer and given up hope.

  “Montalbano’s the name.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Miss Giuliana Di Stefano.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Right here, over the intercom?”

  “Why, will it take long?”

  “Well, it’d be better if—”

  “Okay, I’ll buzz you in,” said the elderly voice. “Now, do as I say. As soon as the gate opens, come in and stop in the middle of the path. If you don‘t, I won’t open the front door.”

  “All right,” said the inspector, resigned.

  Standing in the middle of the path, he didn’t know what to do. Then he saw some shutters open on a balcony, and out came an old lady in a wig, dressed all in black, a pair of binoculars in hand. She raised these to her eyes and looked carefully, as Montalbano began inexplicably to blush, feeling naked. The lady went back inside, reclosed the shades, and a short while later the inspector heard the metal click of the front door being opened. Naturally, there was no elevator. On the second floor, the door with the name “Baeri” on it was closed. What further test awaited him?