Angelica's Smile

by Andrea Camilleri

  Montalbano pulled up in front of number 13, which looked like the Pyramid of Menkaure, got out of the car, and went into the building. On the left was a little booth of wood and glass with the porter in it.

  “Can you tell me what floor Mr. Piritone lives on?”

  The porter, a tall, burly man of about fifty who clearly spent a lot of time at the gym, set down the newspaper he was reading, took off his glasses, stood up, opened the door of the booth, and came out.

  “No need to bother,” said Montalbano, “all I need is—”

  “All you need is for someone to bust your face,” said the porter, raising a clenched fist.

  Montalbano cringed and took a step back.

  What was this guy’s problem?

  “Wait, listen, there must be some kind of misunderstanding. I’m looking for a Signor Piritone and I am—”

  “You better make yourself scarce, and fast—I mean it.”

  Montalbano lost patience.

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano, goddammit!”

  The man looked surprised.

  “Really?”

  “Would you like to see my ID?”

  The porter turned red in the face.

  “Christ, it’s true! Now I rec’nize ya! I’m sorry, I thought you were somebody tryin’ t’ fuck wit’ me. I apologize, sir. But look, there’s nobody here named Piritone.”

  Naturally, Catarella, as usual, had given him the wrong name.

  “Is there anyone with a similar name?”

  “There’s a dottor Peritore.”

  “That could be him. What floor?”

  “Third.”

  The porter walked him to the elevator, endlessly excusing himself and bowing.

  It occurred to Montalbano that one of these days Catarella, by screwing up every name he gave him, was going to get him shot by someone who was a little on edge.

  The slender, blond, well-dressed, bespectacled man of about forty who opened the door for the inspector was not as obnoxious as the inspector had hoped.

  “Good morning, I’m Montalbano.”

  “Please come in, Inspector, just follow me. I was forewarned of your visit. Naturally the apartment is a mess; my wife and I didn’t want to touch anything before you saw it.”

  “You’re right, I should have a look around.”

  Bedroom, dining room, guest room, living room, study, kitchen, and two bathrooms, all turned upside down.

  Armoires and cabinets thrown open, contents scattered all over the floor, a bookcase completely emptied, books strewn everywhere, desks and consoles with all their drawers open.

  Policemen and burglars had one thing in common when searching somebody’s home: even an earthquake left things in slightly better order.

  In the kitchen was a young woman of about thirty, also blonde, pretty and polite.

  “This is my wife, Caterina.”

  “Would you like some coffee?” the woman asked.

  “Sure, why not?” said the inspector.

  After all, the kitchen was less topsy-turvy than any of the other rooms.

  “Maybe it’s best if we talk in here,” said Montalbano, sitting down in a chair.

  Peritore did the same.

  “The front door didn’t look forced to me,” the inspector continued. “Did they come in through the windows?”

  “No, they just used our keys,” said Peritore.

  He stuck a hand in his pocket, took out a set of keys, and set them on the table.

  “They left them in the entrance hall.”

  “I’m sorry. So you weren’t home when the burglary occurred?”

  “No. Last night we slept at our seaside house, at Punta Piccola.”

  “Ah. And how did you get in if the burglars had your keys?”

  “I always keep an extra set with the porter.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand. So where did the burglars get the keys they used to enter your apartment?”

  “From our seaside house.”

  “While you were asleep?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And they didn’t steal anything from that house?”

  “They certainly did.”

  “So in fact there were two robberies?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I beg your pardon, Inspector,” said Signora Caterina, pouring his coffee. “Maybe it’s better if I tell you. My husband is having trouble putting his thoughts in order. So. This morning we woke up around six, both of us with headaches. And we immediately realized that someone had broken in through the front door of our seaside home, knocked us out with some sort of gas, and had the run of the place.”

  “You didn’t hear anything?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Strange. Because, you see, they had to break through your front door before they could gas you. You just said so yourself. And so, you should have heard . . .”

  “Well, we were . . .”

  The woman blushed.

  “You were?”

  “Let’s say we were a bit tipsy. We were celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t think we would even have heard a cannon shot.”

  “Go on.”

  “The burglars apparently found my husband’s wallet in his jacket, along with his ID card and our address—this one, I mean—as well as the keys to this place and to the car. So they quietly got into our car, came here, opened the door, stole what they wanted to steal, and went on their way.”

  “What did they take?”

  “Well, aside from the car, they didn’t take very much from the seaside house, relatively speaking. Our wedding rings, my husband’s Rolex, my diamond-studded watch, a rather expensive necklace of mine, two thousand euros in cash, both of our computers, cell phones, and our credit cards, which we immediately had canceled.”

  Not very much? If you say so.

  “And a seascape by Carrà,” the lady concluded, cool as a cucumber.

  Montalbano gave a start.

  “A seascape by Carrà? And you had it out there, just like that?”

  “Well, we were hoping no one would know how much it was worth.”

  Whereas those guys certainly did know how much it was worth.

  “And what about here?”

  “Here they made off with a lot more. For starters, my jewel box with everything inside.”

  “Valuable stuff?”

  “About a million and a half euros.”

  “What else?”

  “My husband’s four other Rolexes. He collects them.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Fifty thousand euros in cash. And . . .”

  “And?”

  “A Guttuso, a Morandi, a Donghi, a Mafai, and a Pirandello that my husband’s father left to him in his will,” the woman said in a single breath.

  In short, a whole gallery of art worth a fortune.

  “One question,” said the inspector. “Who knew that you were going to your house at Punta Piccola to celebrate your wedding anniversary?”

  Husband and wife looked at each other for a moment.

  “Well, our friends did,” the woman replied.

  “How many friends do you mean?”

  “About fifteen.”

  “Do you have a housekeeper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she know too?”

  “No.”

  “Are you insured against burglary?”

  “No.”

  “Listen,” said Montalbano, standing up. “You have to come to the station immediately and file an official report. I would like a detailed description of the jewelry, the Rolexes, and the paintings.”

  “All right.”

 
“I would also like a complete list of those friends of yours who were informed of your movements, with their addresses and telephone numbers.”

  The woman gave a little laugh.

  “You don’t suspect them, I hope?”

  Montalbano looked at her.

  “Do you think they’ll be offended?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then don’t tell them anything. I’ll be the first. See you later, at the station.”

  2

  The moment he walked into the station he noticed that Catarella’s face looked pained and distressed.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nuttin’, Chief.”

  “You know you’re supposed to tell me everything! Out with it! What happened?”

  Catarella blew up.

  “Chief, iss not my fault if Isspector Augello ghess let go! Iss not my fault if Fazio goes tada market! ’Oo’s I asposta ax? ’Oo’s I got left? Jess youse, Chief! An’ ya treated me real bad!”

  He was crying, and to keep Montalbano from seeing, he was turned three-quarters away as he spoke.

  “I’m sorry, Cat, but this morning I was upset about something personal. You had nothing to do with it. I’m really sorry.”

  The inspector had barely sat down at his desk when Fazio came in.

  “Chief, sorry I wasn’t available this morning, but there was a big row at the market . . .”

  “Apparently this is the morning for excuses. Never mind, just sit down and let me tell you about this burglary.”

  When Montalbano had finished, Fazio nodded several times.

  “Strange,” he said.

  “Well, it was certainly a perfectly planned burglary. We’ve never seen anything so well planned in Vigàta.”

  Fazio was now shaking his head.

  “I wasn’t referring to the perfect planning, but to the perfect resemblance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Chief, just three days ago, there was another burglary exactly like this one, an exact duplicate.”

  “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

  “Because you told us you didn’t want to be bothered with things like burglaries. Inspector Augello took care of it.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Do you know a lawyer named Lojacono?”

  “Emilio? A fat guy, about fifty, with a limp?”

  “That’s him.”

  “And so?”

  “Every Saturday morning the guy’s wife goes to Ravanusa to visit her mother.”

  “A fine example of daughterly devotion. What the fuck do I care if she visits her mother? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “A lot. Just hang on a minute. Do you know a lady named Dr. Vaccaro?”

  “The pharmacist?”

  “That’s right. Her husband also goes to see his mother every Saturday morning, in Favara.”

  Montalbano was starting to feel his nerves fraying.

  “Would you please get to the point?”

  “I’m getting to that. So anyway, both Lojacono the lawyer and Dr. Vaccaro the pharmacist take advantage of the absence of their respective spouses and every Saturday spend a blissful night in Lojacono’s country house.”

  “How long have they been lovers?”

  “For a little over a year.”

  “And who knows about it?”

  “Everyone in town.”

  “We’re off to a good start. So how’d it go?”

  “The lawyer’s a man known for being precise; he always does the same things, never varies. For instance, when he goes to his country house with his mistress, he always leaves the keys on top of the television, which is only about three feet away from a window that is always left half open, night and day, winter and summer. Got that?”

  “Got it.”

  “The burglars stuck a wooden pole about ten feet long with a magnetic metal tip through the grate and through the window, attracted the keys with the magnet, and then grabbed them.”

  “How did you find out about the pole?”

  “We found it at the scene.”

  “Go on.”

  “Then they opened the gate and front door with the keys and, without making any noise, went into the bedroom and gassed the lawyer and the lady pharmacist. They grabbed all the valuables they could find, then got into both cars, since the lady had come with her own, and drove here to Vigàta to ransack both of their homes.”

  “So there were at least three burglars.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because there had to have been a third man, the one driving the burglars’ own car.”

  “True.”

  “Can you explain to me why none of the local TV stations ever mentioned this story?”

  “Because we did a great job. We wanted to avoid a scandal.”

  At that moment Catarella showed up.

  “Beckin’ yer partin’, Chief, but Misser an’ Missis Piritone juss come onna premisses juss now.”

  Montalbano gave Catarella a dirty look but decided not to say anything. The guy might start crying again.

  “Is that really their name?” Fazio asked in disbelief.

  “Gimme a break! Their name’s Peritore. Listen, take them into your office, get their report and the list they’ve drawn up, and then come back here.”

  After spending the next half hour signing papers, which were piling up on his desk out of control, the telephone rang.

  “Chief, ’at’d be yer lady frenn.”

  “Is she here?”

  “Nossir, she’s onna line.”

  “Tell her I’m not here.”

  Catarella must have balked.

  “Chief, beckin’ yer partin’ an’ all, bu’ mebbe ya din’t unnastand ’oo’s onna line. The foresaid caller in quession is yer lady frenn Livia, I dunno if ’at wuz clear t’yiz.”

  “I got that, Cat. I’m not here.”

  “Whate’er y’ say, Chief.”

  And immediately Montalbano regretted it. What kind of bullshit was this, anyway? He was acting like a little boy who’d quarreled with a little girl in the playground. How was he going to fix it? He had an idea.

  He got up and went to Catarella’s station.

  “Lemme use your cell phone for a second.”

  Catarella handed it to him, and Montalbano headed to the parking lot, got into his car, started it up, and drove off. When he was in the middle of traffic, he called Livia on the cell phone.

  “Hello, Livia? Salvo here. Catarella told me . . . I’m in the car, so make it quick.”

  “Well, hats off to your Adelina!” Livia began.

  “Why, wha’d she do?”

  “First of all, she suddenly appeared before me when I was naked! She didn’t even knock!”

  “Wait a second, why should she have knocked? She didn’t know you were there, and since she has a set of keys . . .”

  “You always defend her! And do you know what she said the moment she saw me?”

  “No.”

  “She said—or at least this is what it sounded like she said, since she speaks that African dialect of yours (Livia loved to slam his native Sicilian tongue): ‘Oh, you’re here? Then I’m leaving. Good-bye.’ And she turned on her heel and left!”

  Montalbano decided to let the business of the “African dialect” slide.

  “Livia, you know perfectly well that Adelina has trouble with you. It’s an old story. Is it possible that every time—”

  “It certainly is possible! And I have trouble with her too!”

  “Then can’t you see she was right to leave?”

  “Let’s just drop it, okay? I’m going to take the bus into Vigàta.”

  “What for?”

  “To go shopping. Do you want lunch or n
ot?”

  “Of course I want lunch! But why do you want to go to all the trouble? You came here to have a couple of days off, no?”

  What a stinking hypocrite. The truth of the matter was that Livia didn’t know how to cook, and every time he ate something she’d made, he felt poisoned.

  “So what should we do?”

  “I’ll come by with the car around one and we’ll go to Enzo’s. And in the meantime enjoy the sunshine.”

  “I’ve got all the sun I need at home in Boccadasse.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a minute. But I’ve got a possible solution. Here you could take the sunlight from the front, on your face and tummy, let’s say, and in Boccadasse you could take it from behind, on your back, that is.”

  It had slipped out. He bit his tongue.

  “What’s this nonsense you’re saying?” asked Livia.

  “Nothing. Sorry, I was just trying to be funny. See you later.”

  He went back to his office.

  Fazio came back after about an hour.

  “All taken care of. It took a while. I must say the burglars certainly made out well on this one!”

  “And the one before?”

  “There were fewer valuables there, but totaling up the things they found in both houses, I’d say things went pretty well there, too.”

  “They must have a coordinator who knows what he’s doing.”

  “The brains of the gang isn’t too bad, either.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be hearing from them again. Did you get the list of their friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “This afternoon I want you to start checking them out, one by one.”

  “All right. Oh, and I made a copy for you.”

  He laid a sheet of paper down on the desk.

  “A copy of what?”

  “The list of the Peritores’ friends.”

  After Fazio went out, the inspector decided to ring Adelina.

  “Why dinna you tella me ’atta you girlfrenn was acomin?” the housekeeper attacked him.

  “Because I didn’t know she was coming, either. It was a surprise.”

  “Well, she mekka me a bigga sahprize too! Alla nekkid like a she was!”

  “Listen, Adelì . . .”

  “An’ whenna she gonna go?”

  “Probably in two or three days. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know. Listen, is your son free?”