Angelica's Smile

by Andrea Camilleri

  Specialists in telescoping poles, first with a magnet, and now with a hook . . .

  “Excuse me, but this business of the pole with the hook . . . How do you know this? Was this your surmise?”

  “No, no, I saw it; I saw the pole. They left it there.”

  Montalbano closed his eyes for a moment. Now came the most painful part for him. He took a deep breath and dived in.

  “I have to ask you a couple of personal questions,” he said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Have you ever brought the same man more than once to your room?”

  “Never. I don’t like reheated soup.”

  “How often do you use it?”

  “Definitely once every couple of weeks. Of course there are exceptions, sometimes.”

  I am not, am not what I seem to be . . .

  “Of course,” said Montalbano, with seeming indifference.

  Then he asked:

  “Have you ever had, I dunno, have you ever quarreled with any of them?”

  “Once.”

  “When?”

  “About a month ago.”

  “May I ask what it was about?”

  “He wanted more.”

  “How much had you agreed on?”

  “Two thousand.”

  “And how much did he want?”

  “Four.”

  “Did you give it to him?”

  “No.”

  “How did you get out of it?”

  “I threatened him.”

  “How?”

  “With a gun.”

  She said it as though aiming a gun at someone was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Absolutely not. When I go there with someone, I feel a lot safer if I have my gun with me. I have a license for it.”

  Unlike the Angelica of his youth, this one didn’t flee from danger.

  Montalbano recovered from a light swoon.

  “And did you have your gun with you last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did they steal that too?”

  “Of course.”

  “Listen, this is very serious. When you come to headquarters, be sure to bring all the relevant documents concerning this weapon.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m sorry, but do you have a job?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of a job?”

  “I’m chief teller at the Banca Siculo-Americana. I’ve been working there for the last six months or so.”

  Maybe I should have my account transferred there, he thought.

  But he asked instead:

  “Can you explain to me how you find the men you go with?”

  “Well, I dunno, chance encounters, bank clients . . . You know, sometimes there’s not even any need to talk; there’s an immediate understanding.”

  “Listen, the keys to this place . . .”

  “I left them in the entranceway.”

  “One more question. Where are you from?”

  “I was born in Trieste. But my mother was from Vigàta.”

  “She’s no longer around?”

  “No. Nor is my father. There was a terrible . . . accident here. I was only five at the time. I wasn’t around when it happened; my parents had sent me to my grandparents’ place, in Trieste.”

  Her blue eyes had turned darker. Apparently the death of her parents was still a painful subject for her.

  Montalbano stood up.

  She did likewise.

  “I need to ask you a very big favor,” Angelica said, letting her hair cover her face.

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Could we leave out the first part?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand.”

  She took a step forward and put her hands on his jacket lapels. She was standing very close to him, and Montalbano could smell the scent of her skin. It made him dizzy.

  It felt as if her hands were on fire. Surely they would leave burned handprints on his jacket when she removed them.

  “Could you . . . find a way not to bring up this business of the room, and say that only this place was robbed?”

  Montalbano felt in danger of melting like a gelato in the sun.

  “Well, it would be possible . . . but illegal.”

  “So you really can’t?”

  “I could, but . . . what’s to prevent the guy you spent the night with from going around telling everyone what really happened?”

  “You would have to take care of that yourself.”

  She removed her hands from his lapels, let them wander up to his shoulders, then folded them behind his neck.

  From this position, her lips were dangerously close to his.

  The more he seeks to find a lasting peace,

  The more he finds just suffering and pain.

  “If anyone found out about this room, you see, I would be ruined, you understand. I’ve been sincere with you. I realized at once that I could trust you . . . But if word were ever to get out, there would certainly be repercussions at the office. I might even get fired . . . Oh, please! I would be so grateful!”

  Montalbano quickly freed himself, unlinking her hands and taking a step back.

  “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll see you later.”

  He practically ran away.

  He was all sweaty and felt as numb as if he had drunk half a bottle of whisky.

  He told the whole story to Fazio. Naturally, he said nothing about how he himself had felt about Angelica.

  “Let’s take one thing at a time, Chief. Let’s start with the burglary of the love nest.”

  For whatever reason, Fazio’s choice of terms bothered him.

  “Do you have any idea why they leave behind the special tools they use to break into people’s apartments?” Fazio continued.

  “The telescoping poles? I’ve been thinking a lot about that. These guys don’t do anything without a reason. First of all, it’s a sort of bank shot that keeps being repeated in exactly the same way.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll explain. The robbery always takes place in two phases. First they go into a house, a bedroom, wherever you like, when the owner is asleep inside. And they do this because they need the keys to the other residence, the apartment in town. And so they bank the shot off rail A so that the ball will come back and hit rail B. Is that any clearer?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “This is how I realized that the burglary of Incardona’s country house was a red herring. It didn’t correspond with their modus operandi.”

  “And what about the tools?”

  “I was getting to that. Leaving them at the scene of the crime means two things. It must be an idea of the mastermind’s. One the one hand, it means that they won’t be returning to that place, and on the other, it’s a way for the leader to tell us that he’s got other tricks up his sleeve. That he can always come up with other ways of getting his hands on a set of keys. The same as leaving the keys in the entrance hall of the burgled apartments. He’s saying: ‘We don’t need these any more.’ Make sense to you?”

  “Makes sense to me. But what do you think about the fact that Signora Cosulich doesn’t want us to say anything about her love nest?”

  “I’m of two minds about that. On the one hand, I’d like to do her that favor, and other hand, I’m afraid the guy she was with . . .”

  “There’s a remedy for that,” said Fazio. “When Signora Cosulich comes in to file her report, I’ll ask her what the guy’s name was, and then I’ll go and talk to him. I’ll convince him to be as quiet as a fish.”

  “But he’s not the only problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I
mean that the fact that we’ve filed a report that doesn’t correspond with reality will also be known by the brains of the gang, whom we’ll call Mr. Z. And he could use this illegal omission against us at any time.”

  “That’s to be expected,” said Fazio. “But as you yourself pointed out, Mr. Z is a pretentious man.”

  “So?”

  “Maybe such an omission will bother him and he’ll make a false move. What do you think?”

  Montalbano didn’t answer.

  “Chief, did you hear me?”

  Montalbano was staring at the wall in front of him. Fazio got worried.

  “You feeling all right, Chief?”

  7

  Montalbano shot to his feet and slapped himself in the forehead.

  “What an idiot I am! You’re right. We’ll write up the report the way La Cosulich wants. But you must do something for me right away.”

  “What?”

  “Take the list of the Peritores’ friends and check to see which have second homes where they spend weekends or go and sleep every so often. We’ll meet back up in an hour or so.”

  “But where are you going?”

  “I’m gonna go see Zito.”

  Going to Montelusa meant he might miss his chance to see Angelica again, but such was life.

  He pulled up outside the Free Channel studios, got out of the car, and went in. The secretary flashed him a big smile.

  “What a lovely surprise! Long time no see! You’re looking good, Inspector.”

  “And you’re more beautiful every time I see you.”

  “The boss is in his office. You can go right in.”

  He and Zito were friends from way back.

  The door to the newsman’s office was open, and Zito, upon seeing him, got up and came forward to embrace him.

  “How’s the wife and kid?” Montalbano asked.

  “Everyone’s fine. You need something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “At your service.”

  “Did you hear Ragonese’s report on the two burglaries?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there’s been a third. But nobody knows about it yet.”

  “So you’re giving me the scoop exclusively?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks. What do you want me to say?”

  “That there was a robbery at the apartment of Signora Angelica Cosulich, who lives in Vigàta at 15, Via Cavour. You should point out that there’d already been a burglary at number 13 on the same street, at the home of the Peritores. Also mention that Signora Cosulich was at home asleep at the time of the robbery, but was rendered unconscious by knockout gas. And there you have it.”

  “What are you hoping to gain by this?”

  “A reaction.”

  “On whose part?”

  “I don’t know, to be honest. But if you receive an anonymous phone call or letter concerning the story, let me know at once. I mean it.”

  “I’ll feature it on the one P.M. report,” said Zito. “Then I’ll run it again on the evening news.”

  Montalbano drove back to headquarters at forty-five miles an hour, which for him was Formula 1–level speed.

  “Get me Fazio,” he said to Catarella.

  “Chief,” Fazio said after he came in, “I did what you wanted with just a few phone calls. Of the people on the list, there are two couples and one single who have a house outside of town: the Sciortinos, the Pintacudas, and Signor Maniace, who’s a widower.”

  “Did you find out where these houses are located?”

  “Yes, I got the addresses.”

  “All right, now we need for these people to tell us when they plan to—”

  “Already taken care of,” said Fazio. “I figured out where you were going with this, so I took the liberty of—”

  “You were absolutely right. Clearly the final break-in will be in one of these three houses.”

  “Signor Sciortino told me that a couple of friends from Rome may be arriving today. And they’ll all go to their seaside house. They agreed to let me know if and when they go.”

  “And has Signora Cosulich shown up?”

  “Not yet.”

  “By the way, the widow Cannavò, the busybody—did she tell you anything about La Cosulich?”

  “Are you kidding? She built her a monument! A statue to put on the altar! She told me the girl is faithful to the end to her boyfriend, who comes to see her only once a year, and that she’s always got a pack of men running around her, but she stands fast! A fortress, she is.”

  Montalbano smiled.

  “I guess La Cosulich has successfully kept her love nest a secret! Which is why she doesn’t want anyone finding out now.”

  Montalbano glanced at his watch. It was almost one. The telephone rang.

  It was Angelica.

  “Sorry I’m late. I’m on my way now.”

  “When you get here, ask for Inspector Fazio. He’ll take your statement.”

  “Oh.”

  Her tone seemed slightly disappointed.

  Or was he wrong?

  “So I won’t be seeing you? I’d thought . . . that, well, if you weren’t already engaged, we could have lunch together.”

  A wound far deeper and broader is made

  In the heart by a sharp arrow unseen.

  “Just come to my office after you’re finished with Fazio,” Montalbano said in a tone halfway between bureaucratic and indifferent.

  Whereas if Fazio hadn’t been still there in his room, he would have started jumping for joy.

  How was he going to make the time pass while Angelica was filing her report with Fazio?

  The question called to mind an episode when he was deputy inspector. The thought of it slightly lessened the agitation that had come over him and was making him tingle inside.

  One night he was sent on a stakeout with two other men in a dark alley in a village he didn’t know, some thirty-odd houses lost in the mountains.

  They were hoping to catch a fugitive.

  They waited all night, and then the sun rose.

  There was nothing more for them to do. The operation had been a bust.

  And so he went with his men to have some coffee and noticed, in the distance, a little shop with newspapers on display.

  He walked over to it, but when he reached that strange sort of kiosk, he noticed that the newspapers on display were old, dating back to 1940.

  There was even a copy of Il Popolo d’Italia, the preeminent Fascist newspaper, with Mussolini’s speech declaring war on the front page.

  Puzzled and curious, he went into the shop.

  On the dust-covered shelves inside there were bars of soap, tubes of toothpaste, razor blades, boxes of brilliantine, all from the same period as the newspapers.

  Behind the counter was a very thin man of about seventy, with a goatee and thick glasses.

  “I’d like some toothpaste, please,” said Montalbano.

  The old man handed him a tube.

  “You’d better try it first,” he advised. “It might not be good anymore.”

  Montalbano unscrewed the cap, squeezed it, and instead of the usual little worm of paste, what came out was a sort of pink dust.

  “It’s all dried up,” the old man said disconsolately.

  But Montalbano’s eyes lit up with a flash of amusement.

  “Let’s try another,” he said, curious to get to the bottom of this mystery.

  The second tube likewise contained only dust.

  “Forgive me for asking,” said Montalbano, “but can you tell me what you get out of keeping a shop like this?”

  “What I get, sir? I get to pass the time with outsiders like you.”

  And making the time pass meant surviving.

&nb
sp; Like the time he competed with a lizard in resisting the sun . . .

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in.”

  It was Fazio and Angelica.

  “It didn’t take long because the young lady was very thorough. She brought us a very detailed list of everything that was stolen,” said Fazio.

  “So we can go now?” Montalbano asked Angelica.

  “The sooner the better,” she replied, smiling.

  “Do you have a car?”

  “Have you forgotten they stole it?”

  With her walking so close beside him, he was no longer all there in the head.

  “Then we’ll go in mine.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Where I usually go. Da Enzo. Have you ever eaten there?”

  “No. We have an arrangement with a little restaurant behind the bank. It’s only so-so. Is Enzo’s good?”

  “Excellent. Otherwise I wouldn’t go there.”

  “I like good food too. Nothing fancy, just simple, good stuff.”

  A point in her favor.

  Actually the thousand and first point in her favor, considering the first thousand she’d already won just by her presence.

  Enzo, too, was struck by the young woman’s beauty, and he didn’t hide it. He stood there mildly spellbound, looking at her slack-jawed. Then, when he noticed an imperceptible little spot on the tablecloth, he insisted on changing it.

  “What’ll you have?”

  “I’ll have whatever the gentleman is having,” said Angelica.

  She felt her heart invaded bit by bit

  Till burning passion had encompassed it.

  Montalbano began the litany.

  “Seafood antipasto?”

  “Good!”

  “Spaghetti with sea-urchin sauce?”

  “Excellent!”

  “Fried surmullet?”

  “Perfect!”

  “The house white?”

  “All right.”

  Enzo walked away happy.

  Now came the hard thing to talk about.

  “You’ll probably think me rude, and rightly so, but I have to warn you. I really don’t like to talk when I’m eating. But since it’s you, I will gladly listen if you want to speak.”