“Then bring it to me.”
“When?”
“As soon as you’ve finished your midnight news report. But don’t ring the doorbell when you get here, Livia’s asleep.”
“Hello, is this the prefect of Trapani? Please excuse me for calling so late. This is Corrado Menichelli of the Corriere della Sera. I’m calling from Milan. We recently got wind of an extremely serious development, but before publishing our report on it, we wanted to confirm a few things with you personally, since they concern you directly.”
“Extremely serious? What is this about?”
“Is it true that pressure was put on you to accommodate a certain Tunisian journalist during his recent visit to Mazàra? I advise that you think a moment before answering, in your own interest.”
“I don’t need to think for even a second!” the prefect exploded. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you remember? That’s very odd, you know, since this all happened barely three weeks ago.”
“None of this ever happened! No pressure was ever put on me! I don’t know anything about any Tunisian journalists!”
“Mr. Prefect, we have proof that—”
“You can’t have proof of something that never happened! Let me speak immediately to the editor-in-chief!”
Montalbano hung up. The prefect of Trapani was sincere; the head of his cabinet, on the other hand, was not.
“Valente? Montalbano here. I just spoke with the prefect of Trapani; I was pretending to be a reporter for the Corriere della Sera. He doesn’t know anything. The whole thing was set up by our friend, Commendator Spadaccia.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Not to worry. I’m calling from a phone booth. Now here’s what we should do next, providing that you agree.”
To tell him, he spent every last piece of change but one.
“Mimì? Montalbano here. Were you sleeping?”
“No, I was dancing. What the fuck did you expect?”
“Are you mad at me?”
“Hell, yes! After the position you put me in!”
“Me? What position?”
“Sending me to take away the kid. Livia looked at me with hatred. I had to tear him out of her arms. It made me feel sick to my stomach.”
“Where’d you take François?”
“To Calapiàno, to my sister’s.”
“Is it safe there?”
“Very safe. She and her husband have a great big house with a farm, three miles from the village, very isolated. My sister has two boys, one of them the same age as François. He’ll be fine there. It took me two and a half hours to get there, and two and a half to drive back.”
“Tired, eh?”
“Very tired. I won’t be in tomorrow morning.”
“All right, you won’t be in, but I want you at my house, in Marinella, by nine at the latest.”
“What for?”
“To pick Livia up and drive her to the Palermo airport.”
“Okay.”
“How come you’re suddenly not so tired anymore, eh, Mimì?”
Livia was now having a troubled sleep, groaning from time to time. Montalbano closed the bedroom door, sat down in the armchair, and turned on the television at very low volume. On Tele Vigàta, Galluzzo’s brother-in-law was saying that the Foreign Ministry in Tunis had issued a statement regarding some erroneous information about the unfortunate killing of a Tunisian fisherman aboard an Italian motor trawler that had entered Tunisian waters. The statement denied the wild rumors according to which the fisherman was not, in fact, a fisherman, but the rather well-known journalist Ben Dhahab. It was an obvious case of two men with the same name, since Ben Dhahab the journalist was alive and well and still working. In the city of Tunis alone, the statement went on to say, there are more than twenty men named Ben Dhahab. Montalbano turned off the television. So the tide had started to turn, and people were running for cover, raising fences, putting up smoke screens.
He heard a car pull up and stop in the clearing in front of the house. The inspector rushed to the door to open up. It was Nicolò.
“I got here as fast as I could,” he said, entering.
“Thanks.”
“Livia’s asleep?” the newsman asked, looking around.
“Yes. She’s leaving for Genoa tomorrow morning.”
“I’m so sorry I won’t have a chance to say good-bye to her.”
“Nicolò, did you bring the videocamera?”
The newsman reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a gadget no larger than four packs of cigarettes stacked two by two.
“Here you are. I’m going home to bed.”
“No you’re not. First you have to hide this somewhere it won’t be visible.”
“How am I going to do that, if Livia’s sleeping in the next room?”
“Nicolò, I don’t know why you’ve got it into your head that I want to film myself fucking. I want you to set up the camera in this room.”
“Tell me what it is you want to film.”
“A conversation between me and a man sitting exactly where you are now.”
Nicolò looked straight ahead and smiled.
“Those shelves full of books seem like they were put there for that very purpose.”
Taking a chair from the table, he set it next to the bookcase and climbed up on it. He shuffled a few books, set up the camera, sat back down where he was before, and looked up.
“From here you can’t see it,” he said, satisfied. “Come and check for yourself.”
The inspector checked.
“That seems fine.”
“Stay there,” said Nicolò.
He climbed back up on the chair, fussed about, and got back down.
“What’s it doing?” asked Montalbano.
“Filming you.”
“Really? It makes no noise at all.”
“I told you the thing’s amazing.”
Nicolò repeated his rigmarole of climbing onto the chair and stepping back down. But this time he had the camera in his hand and showed it to Montalbano.
“Here’s how you do it, Salvo. To rewind the tape, you press this button. Now bring the camera up to your eye and press this other button. Go ahead, try.”
Montalbano did as he was told and saw a very tiny image of himself ask in a microscopic voice: “What’s it doing?” Then he heard Nicolò’s voice say, “Filming you.”
“Fantastic,” the inspector said. “There’s one thing, though. Is that the only way to see what you’ve filmed?”
“Of course not,” Nicolò replied, taking out a normal-looking videocassette that was made differently inside. “Watch what I do. I remove the tape from the videocamera, which as you can see is as small as the one in your answering machine, and I slip it inside this one, which is made for this purpose and can be used in your VCR.”
“Listen, to make it record, what do I do?”
“Push this other button.”
Seeing the inspector’s expression, which looked more confused than convinced, Nicolò grew doubtful.
“Will you be able to use it?”
“Come on!” replied Montalbano, offended.
“Then why are you making that face?”
“Because I can’t very well climb onto a chair in front of the guy I want to film. It would make him suspicious.”
“See if you can reach it by standing on tiptoe.”
He could.
“Then it’s simple. Just leave a book out on the table, then casually put it back on the shelf, meanwhile pressing the button.”
Dear Livia,
Unfortunately I can’t wait for you to wake up. I have to go to Montelusa to see the commissioner. I’ve already arranged to have Mimì come and take you to the airport. Please try to be as calm and untroubled as possible. I’ll phone you this evening. Kisses,
SALVO
A traveling salesman of the lowest rank would have expressed himself with more affection and imagination. He
rewrote the note and, strangely, it came out exactly the same as the previous one. Nothing doing. It wasn’t true that he had to see the commissioner; he merely wanted to skip the good-byes. It was therefore a big fat lie, and he had never been able to tell one directly to someone he respected. Little fibs, on the other hand, he was very good at. And how.
At headquarters he found Fazio waiting for him, upset.
“I’ve been trying to call you at home for the last half hour. You must’ve unplugged the telephone.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Some guy called saying he accidentally found the dead body of an old woman in Villaseta, on Via Garibaldi, in the same house where we caught the little kid. That’s why I was looking for you.”
Montalbano felt something like an electric shock.
“Tortorella and Galluzzo have already gone there. Galluzzo just called and said it was the same old lady he took to your house.”
Aisha.
The punch Montalbano gave himself in the face wasn’t hard enough to knock out his teeth, but it made his lip bleed.
“What the hell are you doing, Chief?” said Fazio, flabbergasted.
Aisha was a witness, of course, just like François. But the inspector’s eyes and attention had all been on the kid. A fucking idiot, that’s what he was. Fazio handed him a handkerchief.
“Here, clean yourself up.”
Aisha was a twisted little bundle at the foot of the stairs that led up to Karima’s room.
“She apparently fell and broke her neck,” said Dr. Pasquano, who’d been summoned by Tortorella. “But I’ll be able to tell you more after the autopsy. Although to send an old lady like this flying, you’d only need to blow on her.”
“And where’s Galluzzo?” Montalbano asked Tortorella.
“He went to Montelusa to talk to a Tunisian woman the deceased was staying with. He wanted to ask her why the old lady came back here, to find out if anybody had called her.”
As the ambulance was leaving, the inspector went inside Aisha’s house, lifted a stone next to the fireplace, took out the bank book, blew the dust off, and put it in his pocket.
“Chief!”
It was Galluzzo. No, nobody had called Aisha. She’d simply decided to go home. She woke up one morning, took the bus, and did not miss her appointment with death.
Back in Vigàta, before going to headquarters, he stopped in at the office of a notary named Cosentino, whom he liked.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
Montalbano pulled out the bank book and handed it to the notary, who opened it, glanced at it, and asked:
“So?”
The inspector launched into an extremely complicated explanation; he wanted him to know only half the story.
“What I think you’re saying,” the notary summarized, “is that this money belongs to a woman you presume to be dead, and that her son, a minor, is her only heir.”
“Right.”
“And you’d like for this money to be tied up in some way, so that the child could only enter into possession when he comes of age.”
“Right.”
“But why don’t you simply hold on to the booklet yourself, and when the time comes, turn it over to him?”
“What makes you think I’ll still be alive in fifteen years?”
“I see,” said the notary. He continued: “Let’s do this: you take the book back with you, I’ll give the matter some thought, and let’s talk again in a week. It might be a good idea to invest that money.”
“It’s up to you,” said Montalbano, standing up.
“Take the book back.”
“You keep it. I might lose it.”
“Then wait and I’ll give you a receipt.”
“If you’d be so kind.”
“One more thing.”
“Tell me.”
“You must be absolutely certain, you know, that the mother is dead.”
From headquarters, he phoned home. Livia was about to leave. She gave him a rather chilly good-bye, or so it seemed to him. He didn’t know what to do about it.
“Is Mimì there yet?”
“Of course. He’s waiting in the car.”
“Have a good trip. I’ll call you tonight.”
He had to move on, not let Livia tie him up.
“Fazio!”
“At your command.”
“Go to the church where Lapècora’s funeral is being held. It must’ve already started by now. Bring Gallo along. When people are expressing their condolences to the widow, I want you to approach her and, with the darkest look you can muster up, say: ‘Signora, please come with us to police headquarters.’ If she starts to make a scene, starts screaming and shouting, don’t hesitate to use force to put her in the squad car. And one more thing: Lapècora’s son is sure to be there in the cemetery. If he tries to defend his mother, hand-cuff him.”
MINISTRY OF TRANSPORTATION AND AUTOMOBILE REGISTRATION:
CONCERNING THE EXTREMELY SENSITIVE INVESTIGATION OF HOMICIDE OF TWO WOMEN NAMES KARIMA AND AISHA ABSOLUTELY MUST KNOW PERSONAL PARTICULARS AND ADDRESS OF OWNER OF AUTOMOBILE LICENSE PLATE AM 237 GW STOP PLEASE REPLY PROMPTLY STOP SIGNED SALVO MONTALBANO VIGATA POLICE MONTELUSA PROVINCE.
At the Automobile Registration office, before passing the fax on to the person in charge, they were sure to have a laugh at his expense and think him some kind of idiot for the way he formulated his request. But the person in charge, for his part, would understand the gambit, the challenge hidden in the message, and be forced to make a countermove. Which was exactly what Montalbano wanted.
16
Montalbano’s office was located at the opposite end of the building from the entrance to police headquarters, and yet he still heard all the shouting that broke out when Fazio’s car arrived with the widow Lapècora inside. Though there were hardly any journalists or photographers around, dozens of idlers and rubberneckers must have joined their modest number.
“Signora, why were you arrested?”
“Look over here, signora!”
“Out of the way! Out of the way!”
Then there was relative calm and someone knocked at his door. It was Fazio.
“How’d it go?”
“She didn’t put up much resistance. But she got upset when she saw the journalists.”
“What about the son?”
“There was a man standing next to her in the cemetery, and everyone was expressing their condolences to him too, so I thought he must be the son. But when I told the widow she had to come with us, he turned his back and walked away. So I guess he wasn’t her son.”
“Ah, but he was, Fazio. Too sensitive to witness his mother’s arrest. And terrified that he might have to pay her legal fees. Bring the lady in here.”
“Like a thief, that’s how you’re treating me! Just like a thief!” the widow burst out as soon as she saw the inspector.
Montalbano made a dark face.
“Did you mistreat the lady?”
As if reading from a script, Fazio pretended to be embarrassed.
“Well, since we were arresting her—”
“Who ever said you were arresting her? Please sit down, ma’am, I apologize for the unpleasant misunderstanding. I won’t keep you but a few minutes, only as long as it takes to draw up a report of your answers to a few questions. Then you can go home and that’ll be the end of it.”
Fazio went and sat down at the typewriter, while Montalbano sat behind his desk. The widow seemed to have calmed down a little, although the inspector could see her nerves jumping under her skin like fleas on a stray dog.
“Signora, please correct me if I’m wrong. You told me, as you’ll remember, that on the morning of your husband’s murder, you got out of bed, went into the bathroom, got dressed, took your purse from the dining room, and went out. Is that right?”
“Absolutely.”
“You didn’t notice anything abnormal in your apartment?”
“What was I supposed to n
otice?”
“For example, that the door to the study, contrary to custom, was closed?”
He’d taken a wild guess, but was right on the mark. Initially red, the woman’s face blanched. But her voice remained steady.
“I think it was open, since my husband never closed it.”
“No, it was not, signora. When I entered your home with you, upon your return from Fiacca, the door was closed. I reopened it myself.”
“What does it matter if it was open or closed?”
“You’re right, it’s a meaningless detail.”
The widow couldn’t help heaving a long sigh.
“Signora, the morning your husband was murdered, you left for Fiacca to visit your ailing sister. Right?”
“That’s what I did.”
“But you forgot something, and for that reason, at the Cannatello junction, you got off the bus, waited for the next bus coming from the opposite direction, and returned to Vigàta. What did you forget?”
The widow smiled; apparently she’d prepared herself for such a question.
“I did not get off at Cannatello that morning.”
“Signora, I have statements from the two bus drivers.”
“They’re right, except for one thing. It wasn’t that morning, but two mornings before. The bus drivers got their days wrong.”
She was shrewd and quick. He would have to resort to trickery.
He opened a drawer to his desk and took out the kitchen knife in its cellophane bag.
“This, signora, is the knife that was used to murder your husband. With only one stab wound, in the back.”
The widow’s expression didn’t change. She didn’t say a word.
“Have you ever seen it before?”
“You see so many knives like that.”
Very slowly, the inspector again slipped his hand into the drawer, and this time he withdrew another cellophane bag, this one with a small cup inside.
“Do you recognize this?”
IM03 - The Snack Thief Page 16
