Angelica's Smile

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’ve had him under strict surveillance for the past month and a half.”

  “Drugs?”

  “We’re almost certain that after the death of Savino Imperatore, who was the biggest importer in the province, he was replaced by none other than Pennino. I can assure you Salvo—I can guarantee it, in fact, with a twist of lemon on top, that Pennino is not the man you’re looking for.”

  “Okay, thanks,” said the inspector.

  And he left.

  “Ah Chief, Chief! Ahh Chief!”

  This was the heartrending lament that Catarella typically voiced when hizzoner Mr. C’mishner called.

  “Wha’d he want?”

  “’E said, ’e bein’ ’im, the beforementioned Mr. C’mish’ner, ’e said ’e wants ’a see yiz immidiotwise straightaways an’ oigently oigentwise wittout a minnit’s dillay!”

  But he’d just got back from Montelusa!

  Spouting a litany of curses, he got back in his car.

  He had to wait forty-five minutes in the waiting room before the commissioner would see him.

  “Please come in and sit down.”

  Montalbano gave a start.

  The commissioner asked him to sit down? What was happening? Was the world coming to an end?

  Then there was a light knock at the door.

  “Come in,” said the commissioner.

  The door opened and Deputy Commissioner Ermanno Macannuco appeared.

  He was almost six and a half feet tall, conceited and off-putting, and carried his head the way priests carry the Sacrament in processions.

  He’d been at the job in Montelusa for barely four months, but that had been more than long enough for Montalbano to grasp that the man was a certified cretin.

  The commissioner asked him to sit down.

  Macannuco didn’t say hello to Montalbano, and the inspector likewise pretended he hadn’t seen him.

  “You do the talking,” said Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi.

  Macannuco talked, but looked only at the commissioner the whole time, and never at Montalbano.

  “. . . I raised the point that any eventual investigation on the part of the Vigàta police must be halted because it interferes.”

  “Interferes with what?” Montalbano asked the commissioner, who didn’t reply but only looked at Macannuco. Who said:

  “With a preceding investigation.”

  Montalbano decided he would have some fun. He made a bewildered face.

  “And what is a receding investigation?”

  “He didn’t say ‘receding’ but ‘preceding,’” the commissioner clarified.

  “I beg your pardon, but according to the Rigattini-Fanfani dictionary, not to mention the Devoto-Oli, ‘preceding’ means something that’s already happened. Now, if the investigation of Parisi was conducted in the past by Commissioner Macannuco, I don’t see how a new investigation on my part could possibly—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Montalbano, let’s not start splitting hairs!” the commissioner chided him.

  “I used ‘preceding’ in the sense of ‘prior,’” Macannuco specified with a sneer.

  “But prior to now, I have not conducted any investigations whatsoever of Parisi!” the inspector protested.

  “It’s what we’re doing!” Macannuco exclaimed.

  “For what reason?”

  “Pietro Parisi is a known pedophile at the head of a network extending all across Italy.”

  “But wasn’t his name Eugenio? Precedingly, I mean,” Montalbano asked, with a cherubic face.

  “What kind of idiocies is he saying?” an irritated Macannuco asked the commissioner in turn. “The man I’m investigating is called Pietro.”

  “And mine is Eugenio.”

  “That’s not possible!” yelled Macannuco.

  “I swear to you it is!” said Montalbano, standing up and holding up his right hand as if in court.

  “Perhaps a little check is in order?” the commissioner suggested paternally to Macannuco.

  The deputy commissioner stuck a hand in his pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper, unfolded it, read it, turned pale, stood up, and bowed to the commissioner.

  “My apologies, I’ve made a mistake.”

  And he walked out strutting like a turkey-cock.

  “I’m sorry we wasted your time,” the commissioner said to Montalbano.

  “Not at all!” Montalbano said magnanimously. “It’s always a pleasure to see you!”

  On his way back to Vigàta, he decided to go and talk to Parisi at once.

  He invented an excuse. He would tell him that Angelica Cosulich had reported him, and that they’d done an analysis of the anonymous letter, and his handwriting had appeared to match it.

  In short, he would fire a shot in the dark in the hope of hitting something.

  He remembered that Via del Gambero was in the neighborhood of the port. He was right.

  Number 21 was a huge apartment building with a doorman.

  “Eugenio Parisi?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “What do you mean ‘he’s not here’?”

  “I mean exactly what I said.”

  What was happening to all the doormen in Vigàta?

  “But does he live here?”

  “As for living here, he lives here.”

  Montalbano lost his patience.

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano!”

  “And I’m the doorman Sciabica.”

  “Tell me what floor he lives on.”

  “Top floor, eighth floor.”

  Montalbano headed toward the elevator.

  “Elevator’s out of order,” the doorman shouted.

  Montalbano did an immediate about-face.

  “And why did you say he’s not here?”

  “’Cause he’s in Palermo, in the hospital. His wife’s there too.”

  “Since when.”

  “About two months.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Another dead end.

  He was parking the car in the station’s lot when he saw Catarella shoot out of the building like a rocket and come running toward him. He was waving his arms in the air as if to signal that he had big news.

  “Ahh Chief Chief Chief!”

  This meant something even bigger than a phone call from the commissioner.

  “What’s up?”

  “Anutter buggery!”

  “Where?

  “Onna street called Mazzini, nummer 41.”

  In the same neighborhood as the Peritores and Cosulich.

  “Who called to report it?”

  “Summon sez ’is name is Pirretta.”

  Antonino Pirrera! Number nine on the list!

  “When did he call?”

  “’Roun’ five-toity.”

  “Where’s Fazio?”

  “’E’s awreddy onna scene.”

  Fazio was standing outside the main door of 42, Via Mazzini and talking to someone.

  In this case the architect had designed a two-family house, though in the style of a chalet in the Bavarian Alps.

  With steeply pitched roofs to avoid the accumulation of snow which had never, in human memory, fallen in Vigàta.

  “How did they do it?” Montalbano asked Fazio.

  “This gentleman is the doorman of the building next door.”

  The doorman held out his hand.

  “Ugo Foscolo,” the man said, introducing himself.

  “I’m sorry, but were you by any chance born in Zakynthos?” Montalbano asked him.

  “Tell the inspector what happened,” Fazio said to the man.

  14

  “Ar
ound four o’clock this afternoon, a small truck pulled up in front of my building and the driver called out to me. He said they had to adjust the Pirreras’ satellite dish, which is on the roof of number 41.”

  “Tell me exactly what they wanted from you.”

  “Well, since they knew I had the keys to number 41 . . .”

  “Why do you have them?”

  “It’s just a two-story house, right? On the ground floor you’ve got Mr. and Mrs. Tallarita, who go out every day at seven in the morning and come back at five-thirty in the evening. The Pirreras, who live upstairs from them, go out at eight, come back for lunch, then go back out, then the wife comes back around five-thirty, while the husband doesn’t usually come home until after eight. An’ that’s why they leave me the keys to the front door, just in case.”

  “And what did those people want?”

  “They wanted me to open the front door and then the little door to the staircase leading to the roof.”

  “And did you do it?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Did you wait around until they’d finished their work?”

  “No, sir, I went back to my porter’s lodge.”

  “And what happened next?”

  “About three hours later, they came back down, thanked me, and told me they’d finished. And I went and locked things up again.”

  “How many of them were there?”

  “Three.”

  “Did you get a good look at their faces?”

  “I got a good look at two of them, but not the other one.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was wearing a cap and a scarf that covered his face up to his nose. He had a cold and was coughing.”

  “Thank you. You can go now.”

  “Now tell me the rest,” Montalbano said to Fazio.

  “Well, the three guys went up on the roof, broke through the skylight, went into the Pirreras’ apartment, and headed straight for the safe. Which they opened, and that was that. Which is why I called Forensics.”

  “You did the right thing. What does Mr. Pirrera do?”

  “He has a jewelry shop, which he runs with his wife. The man is desperate.”

  “And did they rob anything else from the apartment?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Did Arquà come along with his men?”

  “Yessir.”

  Arquà was chief of the Forensics lab, and Montalbano couldn’t stand him. The feeling was mutual.

  “Listen, I’m gonna go home. Call me later with the whole story.”

  “All right.”

  “Oh, and I wanted to tell you I found out about Pennino and Parisi. Pennino is being watched by the Narcotics unit, and Parisi’s been in a hospital in Palermo for the last two months.”

  “So La Cosulich was wrong?”

  “So it seems. And you can lift the nighttime surveillance of the residences. By this point we’ve lost the game.”

  He turned around, took three steps, then came back.

  “Have the doorman come in to the station tomorrow morning. He got a good look at two of the men’s faces. Show him the picture files. I’m not expecting him to recognize anybody, but it has to be done.”

  Back at home he undressed and got into the shower, hoping it would have a calming effect. All this going back and forth to Montelusa, and now the burglary and the sense of having lost the game, had put him in an agitated state.

  So Mr. Z had done it!

  He’d changed his method completely, and it had worked!

  He’d kept his word. One had to grant him that.

  And he’d made Montalbano look like a dickhead.

  The inspector didn’t even feel like going to see what Adelina had made him for dinner.

  He just sat out on the veranda feeling powerless and angry.

  By now it was clear. He had to look reality in the face. It was time to retire.

  Fazio’s phone call came half an hour later.

  “Chief, Pirrera’s on his way to the station to file a report. But what I really wanted to tell you is that Forensics may have discovered something important.”

  “Namely?”

  “They found a key up on the roof, a car key. They think one of the burglars dropped it. They rule out any possibility that it was there before.”

  “Are there any fingerprints on it?”

  “No. And there weren’t any on the safe, either. I also wanted to tell you a rumor I heard.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Actually it wasn’t so much a rumor as a chorus of rumors. Apparently Pirrera is a loan shark.”

  “A good thing to know. Who’s got the key?”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “What for?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  That key, for him, was like a raft in a shipwreck.

  “Has Signor Pirrera left?”

  “Just left now.”

  “You guys worked fast.”

  “He came with the list already drawn up. A jeweler knows what he’s got in his safe.”

  “Good. Have you got all the telephone numbers of the people on the list?”

  “Yessir.”

  “How many men have you got here at the station right now?”

  “Five.”

  “Keep ’em here. Now call all those people. Get Catarella and a few others to help you.”

  “What should I say?”

  “That I want them all there, at the station, in an hour, with every car they own.”

  “Chief, in an hour it’ll be eleven P.M.”

  “So what?”

  “Maybe some of them have already gone to bed . . .”

  “If they’ve gone to bed, they’ll have to get up.”

  “And what if somebody refuses?”

  “You’ll tell them you have orders to haul them in in handcuffs if they refuse.”

  “Chief, be careful what you do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “These are rich people, Chief. They’ve got powerful friends they can complain to, and they can do you harm . . .”

  “I don’t give a fuck.”

  He’d suddenly become the Montalbano of old again.

  “We’ll proceed as follows. As the people arrive, they must leave their cars in the parking lot, unlocked, with the keys inside, and come into the waiting room. I don’t want them to see what we’re doing in the parking lot. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  He stayed for more than an hour at the window, smoking one cigarette after another.

  Then Fazio came in.

  “They’re all here, except for Mr. and Mrs. Camera, whom I was totally unable to get in touch with. And you know what? We’ve had a stroke of luck.”

  “How?”

  “Ten of them had gotten together for a game of bridge. They’re all in a bad mood and demanding an explanation.”

  “And we’ll give them one. You got the key from Forensics?”

  “In my pocket.”

  “How many cars are there?”

  “Twenty-four. Some of them own more than one.”

  “Start checking.”

  When he got to his sixteenth cigarette, his throat was parched and the tip of his tongue burned.

  Fazio burst in with a triumphant air.

  “The key belongs to Ragionier Tavella’s car, no doubt about it!”

  “I would have bet the family jewels on it,” said Montalbano.

  Fazio gave him a puzzled look.

  “You mean you already knew?”

  “Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking.”

  “And what do we do now?”

  “Send them all home wi
th our heartfelt apologies. Except for La Cosulich, Tavella, and Maniace.”

  “And why not just Tavella?”

  “Because it’s better to blow a little smoke in their eyes. After they’re all gone, come back here with Cosulich. But be careful. Post a guard in the waiting room. Neither Tavella nor Maniace must be allowed to leave. For any reason.”

  Five minutes later Angelica stood before him, accompanied by Fazio.

  “Have a seat, both of you.”

  They both sat down in the chairs in front of the desk.

  The first thing Montalbano noticed was that Angelica’s wonderful sky-blue eyes seemed to have lost their color.

  “I apologize for having detained you, Miss. But it was just to tell you that we’ve thoroughly investigated the two names you were so kind to give us. Unfortunately neither of the two could have written the anonymous letter.”

  Angelica shrugged, indifferent.

  “It was just conjecture on my part.”

  Montalbano stood up, and she did likewise. He held out his hand to her.

  Angelica’s hand felt cold.

  “Good-bye. Fazio, please see the young lady out and then have Mr. Maniace come in.”

  “Good-bye,” Angelica said without looking at him.

  With Maniace he would have to invent the first thing that came into his head.

  “Good evening,” said Maniace, coming in.

  “Good evening.” Montalbano replied, getting up and extending his hand. “Please sit down. This shouldn’t take but a few seconds.”

  “I’m glad to be of help.”

  “A certain Davide Marcantonio claims to have been a business associate of yours ten years ago in a funeral home venture. Now, since Marcantonio is accused of—”

  “Just a minute,” Maniace interrupted him. “I don’t know anyone by the name of Marcantonio and I’ve never had a funeral home.”

  “Really? Were you born in Pietraperzia?”

  “No, in Vigàta.”

  “Then this must be a case of mistaken identity. I’m terribly sorry. Have a good evening. Fazio, please show the gentleman out.”

  Fazio came back like a rocket.