IM5 Excursion to Tindari (2005)

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Okay.”

  “A few hours later, the two men meet.”

  “In Vigàta?”

  “No, in Trapani. As far as Sanfilippo’s concerned, the less he’s seen with the Griffos, the better. But I would bet my balls that Sanfilippo fed the old man some line about a stormy, dangerous love affair ... where, if they’re found out, there could be a massacre ... Anyway, he needs the stable, to turn it into a pied-à-terre. But there are rules that must be respected. The inheritance tax won’t be declared; if this is discovered, Sanfilippo must pay; the Griffos are not to set foot on the property; from that day forward, if they should cross paths, they’re not even to say hello to each other; and they must not speak to the son about any of this. As fond as they are of money, the old couple accept the conditions and pocket the first two million lire.”

  “But why did Sanfilippo need a place that was so isolated?”

  “Certainly not to turn it into a slaughterhouse. Among other things, there’s no water, there’s not even a toilet. If nature calls, you have to do it outside.”

  “And what then?”

  “You’ll figure it out for yourself. See that little chapel there? Just past it, there’s a dirt road, on the left. Turn there, and go very slowly, ‘cause it’s full of holes.”

  The door was still leaning against the jamb, exactly as he had left it the previous evening. Nobody’d been inside. Mimi moved it aside, they entered, and the room immediately looked smaller than it was.

  Augello looked all around in silence.

  “They’ve cleaned it out,” he said.

  “See all those outlets?” said Montalbano. “He had electricity and a phone put in, but not a toilet. This was his office, where he came to work each day for his employer.”

  “Employer?”

  “Of course. He worked for some third party.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “The same people who told him to find a secluded place, far from everyone and everything. Shall I venture a few guesses? First, drug traffickers. Second, pedophiles. Then you have the whole gamut of weirdos who use the Internet. From here Sanfilippo could connect with the whole world. He would surf the Web, make contact, communicate, and then report back to his bosses. The setup went on without a hitch for two years. Then something serious happened, and he had to clear out, cut all ties, and cover his tracks. On the instructions of his superiors, Sanfilippo convinces the Griffos to go on a nice excursion to Tindari.”

  “But for what purpose?”

  “He probably fed the poor old folks some bullshit, like maybe the dangerous husband had found out about their affair and was going to kill them too, for being accomplices ... So he had this great idea: Why don’t they go on Malaspina’s excursion to Tindari? It would never dawn on the enraged cuckold to look for them on the bus ... They need only stay away from home for a day, and in the meantime some friends would intervene and try to pacify the jealous husband ... And he, too, would make the same excursion, but in his car. Scared out of their wits, the old couple agree to do it. Sanfilippo says he’ll keep track of the situation’s developments by cell phone. But before getting back to Vigàta, the old man must ask the bus driver to make an extra stop. That way Sanfilippo can bring them up-to-date on things. Everything unfolds as planned. Except that at the last stop before Vigàta, Sanfilippo tells the two that nothing’s been resolved yet; they’d be better off spending the night away from home. So he takes them in his car and then turns them over to their executioner. At that moment he doesn’t know yet that he, too, has been marked for death.”

  “But you still haven’t told me why it was necessary to send the Griffos away. They probably didn’t even know where their property was!”

  “Somebody had to get into their apartment and remove all documents pertaining to that same property. Their copy of the will, for instance. Or some letter from Giuliana where she says she intends to remember her sister with this bequest. That sort of thing. And the guy who goes looking for this stuff also finds the postal passbook showing a sum that looks too high for two impoverished retirees. So he snatches that, too. But it’s a mistake, because that’s what will arouse my suspicion.”

  “To be honest, Salvo, I don’t find this business of the excursion to Tindari very convincing, at least not the way you tell it. What need was there to do it? Those guys, with the slightest excuse, could’ve marched into the Griffos’ apartment and done whatever they wanted!”

  “Yes, but then they would have had to kill them right then and there in their apartment. Which would have alarmed Sanfilippo, to whom the killers would certainly have said they had no intention of killing the old folks, but only terrorizing them the right amount ... And bear in mind that it was in everybody’s interest to make us believe there was no connection between the Griffos’ disappearance and Sanfilippo’s murder. In fact, how long did it take us to realize the two cases were interrelated?”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “No maybe about it, Mimi. Then, after they clear this place out with Sanfilippo’s help, they take the kid off with them. Maybe with the excuse that they need to talk about setting up his office somewhere else. In the meantime they go into his apartment and do the same thing they did at the Griffos‘. They take the electricity and phone bills for this place, for example. Which we were unable to find, in fact. And Sanfilippo they send home late at night and—”

  “What need was there to send him home? They could have killed him wherever they took him.”

  “Three mysterious disappearances in the same building?”

  “True.”

  “Sanfilippo goes home, it’s almost morning, he gets out of his car, sticks his key in the door, and whoever was waiting for him calls to him.”

  “So how do we proceed from here?” Augello asked, after a brief pause.

  “I don’t know,” Montalbano replied. “We can leave this place, for starters. There’s no point in calling forensics for fingerprints. They probably scrubbed the joint down with lye, including the ceilings.”

  They got in the car and left.

  “You’ve certainly got a lively imagination,” Mimi commented after thinking over the inspector’s reconstruction of events. “When you retire you could start writing novels.”

  “I would definitely write mysteries. But it’s not worth the trouble.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because certain critics and professors, or would-be critics and professors, consider mystery novels a minor genre. And, in fact, in histories of literature they’re never even mentioned.”

  “What the hell do you care? Do you want to enter literary history alongside Dante and Manzoni?”

  “I’d die of shame.”

  “So just write them and be content with that.”

  After a short spell, Augello resumed talking.

  “All of which means that my whole day yesterday was a waste.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why? Have you forgotten? All I did all day was gather information on Dr. Ingrò, as we’d decided when we thought Sanfilippo was killed over an illicit love affair.”

  “Ah, yes. Tell me about him anyway.”

  “He’s truly a worldwide celebrity. He has a very exclusive clinic all his own, between Vigàta and Caltanissetta, where only a few choice VIPs go. I went and had a look at it from the outside. It’s a big house surrounded by a very high wall, with enormous grounds. They even land helicopters in there. Two armed guards are posted outside. I asked some questions, and they told me the place was temporarily closed. The doctor, in any case, can operate pretty much wherever he likes.”

  “Where is he at the moment?”

  “You know what? That friend of mine who knows him said he’s holed up at his seaside villa between Vigata and Santoli. Says it’s a bad time for him.”

  “Maybe he found out about his wife’s affair.”

  “Maybe. My friend also said that a little over two years ago the doctor went through a
nother bad period but later recovered.”

  “Obviously that time, too, his fair consort—”

  “No, Salvo, that time there was a better reason, I’m told. Nothing certain, just rumors. But apparently he over-extended himself for a vast sum, to buy a painting. He didn’t have the cash. He bounced a few checks and was threatened with legal action. Then he came up with the money and everything went back to normal.”

  “Where does he keep the paintings?”

  “In a vault. At home he only hangs reproductions.”

  After another silence, Augello asked guardedly:

  “So, what did you get out of Ingrid?”

  Montalbano bristled.

  “I don’t like that kind of talk, Mimì.”

  “I just meant did you find anything out about Vanya, Ingrò’s wife!”

  “Ingrid knew that Vanya had a lover, but didn’t know his name. In fact she hadn’t made any connection between her friend and the murdered Sanfilippo. At any rate, Vanya left; she’s gone back to Romania to visit her sick father. She left before her lover was killed.”

  They were pulling in to headquarters.

  “Just out of curiosity, did you read Sanfilippo’s novel?”

  “Believe me, I didn’t have time. I thumbed through it. It’s odd: some pages are well written, others are terrible.”

  “Would you bring it to me this afternoon?”

  On their way in, Montalbano noticed that Galluzzo was at the switchboard.

  “Where’s Catarella? I haven’t seen him since this morning.”

  “He was summoned to Montelusa, Inspector, for a follow-up computer course. He’ll be back this evening around five-thirty.”

  “So, how should we proceed?” Mimì asked again, having followed his boss inside.

  “Listen, Mimi, I was ordered by the commissioner to work only on small stuff. In your opinion, the Griffo and Sanfilippo murders, are they small stuff or big stuff?”

  “Big. Really big.”

  “So it’s not our job. I want you to write me a report, in which you’re to present only the facts, not what I think. That way, he’ll assign it to the captain of the Flying Squad. Provided that, in the meantime, the captain’s recovered from the runs or whatever his problem was.”

  “We’re gonna serve up a hot case like this to those guys?” Augello reacted. “They won’t even thank us for it!”

  “Do you care so much about being thanked? Try instead to write that report well. Then bring it to me in the morning so I can sign it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, write it well?”

  “It means you should season it with things like ‘having arrived at said premises,’ ‘in lieu of,’ ‘from which it may be surmised,’ ‘the above notwithstanding.’ That way they’ll feel like they’re on their own turf, in their own language, and they’ll take the case seriously.”

  He kicked back for an hour. Then he called Fazio.

  “Any news about Japichinu?”

  “Nothing. Officially, he’s still at large.”

  “How’s that jobless guy who set himself on fire doing?”

  “Better, but he’s still not out of danger.”

  Then Gallo came in and told him about a group of Albanians who had escaped from a concentration camp, called by some a reception camp.

  “Did you track them down?”

  “Not a single one of ‘em, Chief. And nobody’ll ever find’ ’em, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because these escapes are arranged on the sly with other Albanians who’ve put down roots here. A colleague of mine in Montelusa doesn’t agree. He says some Albanians escape and go back to Albania and that, all things considered, they discovered they were better off at home. A million lire a head to come here, and two to go back. The boatmen always make a killing.”

  “Is that some kind of joke?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Gallo.

  The telephone rang. It was Ingrid.

  “I’ve got Vanya’s number for you.”

  Montalbano wrote it down. Instead of saying good-bye, Ingrid said:

  “I talked to her.”

  “When?”

  “Just before calling you. We had a long conversation.”

  “Should we meet?”

  “Yes, I think it’s best. I even have my car back.”

  “Good, that way you can change my bandages. See you at one o‘clock, at the Trattoria San Calogero.”

  Something in Ingrid’s voice didn’t sound right. She seemed troubled.

  Among the many gifts the Good Lord had given her, Ingrid also had a knack for punctuality. They went into the restaurant, and the first thing the inspector saw was a couple sitting at a table for four: Mimì and Beba. Augello sprang to his feet. Though the proud owner of a poker face, he was blushing slightly. He gestured for the inspector and Ingrid to join them at his table. The scene from a few days earlier was repeated in reverse.

  “We don’t want to disturb you ...” said Montalbano hypocritically.

  “But it’s no disturbance at all!” countered Mimi, even more hypocritically.

  The women introduced themselves, smiling. The smiles they exchanged were open and sincere, and the inspector thanked Heaven. Eating with two women who didn’t hit it off would have been an ordeal. But Montalbano’s sharp detective’s eye noticed something that troubled him: there was some sort of tension between Mimì and Beatrice. Or was it merely that his presence made them feel awkward? They all ordered the same thing: seafood antipasto and a giant platter of grilled fish. Halfway through a grilled sole, Montalbano became convinced that his second-in-command and Beba must have been having a little spat when he and Ingrid interrupted them. Christ! He had to make sure the two made up by the time they got up from the table. He was racking his brain trying to think of a solution when he saw Beatrice place her hand lightly over Mimì’s. Augello looked at the girl, the girl looked at him. For a few seconds, they drowned in each other’s eyes. Peace! They’d made peace! The meal went down better for the inspector.

  “Let’s take separate cars to Marinella,” Ingrid said as they were leaving the trattoria. “I have to be back in Montelusa soon. I’ve got an appointment.”

  Montalbano’s shoulder was feeling much better. As she was changing the bandages, she said:

  “I’m a little confused.”

  “By the phone call?”

  “Yes. You see—”

  “Later,” said the inspector. “Let’s talk about it later.”

  He was basking in the cool sensation of the salve that Ingrid was massaging into his skin. And he liked—why not admit it?—feeling the woman’s hands practically caressing his shoulders, arms, and chest. All of a sudden he realized he was sitting there with eyes closed, about to start purring like a cat.

  “I’m done,” said Ingrid.

  “Let’s go out on the veranda. Want some whisky?”

  Ingrid consented. For a spell they sat in silence, staring at the sea. Then the inspector began:

  “How did you happen to call her up?”

  “Well, it was a sudden impulse, really, when I was looking for the postcard to give you her number.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “As soon as I said it was me, she seemed terrified. She asked me if anything had happened. I felt in an awkward position. I wondered if she knew her lover had been murdered, but in any case she’d never told me his name. So I replied, no, nothing had happened, I just wanted to know how she was doing. Then she said she would be away for a long time. And she started crying.”

  “Did she explain why she had to stay away?”

  “Yes. I’ll try to give you the facts in order, though what she told me was confused and fragmented. One evening Vanya, knowing that her husband was out of town and would be away for a few days, brought her lover to her villa near Santoli, as she’d done many times before. As they were sleeping, they were woken up by someone entering the bedroom. It was Dr. Ingrò. ‘So it’s true,’ he mutter
ed. Vanya says her husband and the boy looked at each other a long time. Then the doctor said: ‘Come with me,’ and he went into the living room. Without a word, the boy got dressed and joined the doctor. What struck my friend most was that ... well, she had the impression that the two already knew each other. And rather well.”

  “Wait a minute. Do you know how Vanya and Nenè Sanfilippo first met?”

  “Yes, she told me the time I asked her if she was in love, right before she left. They met by chance, at a bar in Montelusa.”

  “Did Sanfilippo know who your friend was married to?”

  “Yes, Vanya told him.”

  “Go on.”

  “Then the husband and Nenè—Vanya, at this point in her story, said to me: ‘His name is Nenè—the husband and Nenè went back into the bedroom and—”

  “She said ‘his name is’? She used the present tense?”

  “Yes. I noticed it myself. She still doesn’t know that her lover was murdered. So, as I was saying, the two came back and Nenè, with eyes lowered, mumbled that their relationship had been a terrible mistake, that it was his fault, and that they must never see each other again. And then he left. Ingrò did the same a short while later, without saying a word. Vanya didn’t know what to do; she felt disappointed by Nenè’s aloofness. She decided to stay at the villa. Late the following morning, the doctor returned. He told Vanya that she had to go back to Montelusa at once and pack her bags. Her flight to Bucharest had already been booked. Somebody would drive her to the Catania airport at dawn. Left alone in the house that evening, Vanya tried to call Nenè, but he was nowhere to be found. The next morning she left. To her friends, including me, she explained her departure with the excuse that her father was sick. She even told me that the time her husband came to tell her that she had to leave, he wasn’t resentful or offended or embittered, but only worried. Then, yesterday, the doctor phoned her and advised her to stay away from here as long as possible. And there you have it.”

  “But why do you feel confused?”

  “Because ... in your opinion, is that normal behavior for a husband who’s just caught his wife in bed, in his house, with another man?”