It was well known that Prosecutor Tommaseo drove worse than a hippie on LSD.
“Have a look at the body in the meantime,” Montalbano suggested.
“Go look at it yourself. I’m gonna go and catch up on my sleep for a couple of hours,” said the doctor.
And he climbed into the hearse, throwing out the two stretcher bearers.
“Just take my car,” said Fazio. “I can ride back with one of them.”
“See you later.”
“Ahh Chief! I wannit a tell yiz ’at ’ere’s summon inna waitin’ room waitin’ f’yiz poissonally.”
“Tavella.”
“Nossir, iss Trivella.”
“Okay, send him in to me.”
Tavella was considerably less agitated than the day before. In fact, he touched his ear only once. Apparently he’d recovered from the terrible blow of the unexpected false accusation.
“I wanted first to thank you for being so understanding . . .”
Montalbano cut him off.
“Did you call your lawyer? Did you speak to him?”
“Yes, but he can’t come for another half hour.”
“Then go back to the waiting room, and let me know when he gets here.”
The inspector rang Prosecutor Catanzaro on the direct line. He was the one in charge of burglaries and robberies.
They were fond of each other and addressed each other informally.
“Montalbano here. Have you got fifteen minutes to spend on the phone?”
“Let’s make that ten.”
He told him all about the burglaries and Tavella.
“Write me up a report, and in the meantime send Tavella and his lawyer to me,” Catanzaro said in the end.
With saintly patience, Montalbano started to write the report, which he would have Catarella copy afterwards.
Half an hour later, Catarella called to say the lawyer had arrived.
“Send him in.”
He dispensed with him in five minutes, sending them both to Catanzaro’s office.
It took him another half hour to finish the report, which he handed over to Catarella to type into the computer.
Then he rang Fazio.
“How are things going?”
“Chief, Prosecutor Tommaseo ran into a cow.”
Now that was something new. Tommaseo had already crashed into just about everything—trees, mailboxes, poles, milestones, trucks, flocks of sheep, and tanks—but never into a cow.
“Did Foscolo come?”
“Yeah, but he didn’t recognize the body.”
Too bad. The inspiration hadn’t been very inspired.
“So you’ve got enough to keep you busy all morning?”
“So it seems.”
“And what’s Pasquano doing?”
“Luckily he’s asleep.”
Around one o’clock, as he was about to go out to eat, he rang Tavella.
“The prosecutor put me under house arrest for now. But I swear, Inspector, I nev—”
“You don’t have to swear to anything, I believe you. You’ll see, it’ll all turn out all right.”
He went out of the office to Enzo’s trattoria, but ate lightly.
After his usual walk along the jetty, he returned to the station.
Fazio was there waiting for him.
“What did Pasquano say?”
“He wouldn’t let anyone get near him, let alone ask him anything. The guy was so infuriated it was frightening . . .”
“I’ll give him a ring this evening. But I already know what he’s going to say.”
“And what’s that?”
“That the first wound, the one in the shoulder, was inflicted some forty-eight hours before the shot to the neck that killed him.”
“And who shot him?”
“The first shot? Can’t you guess?”
“No, sir.”
“Our very own Loschiavo.”
“Holy shit!”
“Calm down. He only wounded him, in self-defense. I’ll write the report for the commissioner myself.”
“So how did it happen, in your opinion?”
“Well, during the shootout at the Sciortinos’ beach house, Loschiavo wounds one of the burglars. The bullet remains inside his shoulder, but his accomplices don’t know how to treat him, and they can hardly take him to the hospital. Then the wound gets infected, and his buddies, to avoid complications, decide to kill him. We’ll know whether I’m right or not when Pasquano extracts the bullet.”
“I think you’re right,” said Fazio.
“Therefore this man died before the Pirrera house was burgled,” the inspector continued.
“That’s clear.”
“But there were still three burglars. That’s what Foscolo said.”
“Right.”
“Which can mean only one thing. That Mr. Z decided to take part in the burglary in person, taking the dead man’s place. He must be the guy in the cap and scarf who was pretending he had a cold.”
“That seems likely. But in so doing he took a huge risk.”
“It was worth it.”
“In what sense?”
“I’ve come to the conclusion that the only burglary Mr. Z was really interested in was this last one. The previous ones served only to pay the members of the ring and also to muddy the waters. There was definitely something in Pirrera’s safe other than jewelry. This thing is now in Mr. Z’s hands, and you can be sure we won’t be hearing about this burglary ring anymore. But I’m convinced there will soon be consequences. I’m expecting some sort of fireworks.”
“Really? But that leaves us empty-handed.”
“There may still be a way . . .”
“Then tell me what it is.”
“You should keep digging for information on those three names from the list I gave you the other day, but while you’re digging, I want you to find whatever excuse you can and go see the widow Cannavaro again, the busybody.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Look, Fazio, my hunch is flimsier than a spider’s thread, but we can’t ignore it. You have to try and find out if anything new or unusual happened within the Peritores’ circle of friends about three or four months ago.”
“What sort of new or unusual thing?”
“I have no idea. But just have her tell you everything she knows. Squeeze her dry.”
“All right, I’ll get on it right away.”
Less than twenty minutes later, Fazio rang.
“The widow’s gone to see her son in Palermo.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“The doorman says late tomorrow morning.”
Just before eight o’clock, he picked up the receiver and called Dr. Pasquano.
“What’s the story, Doctor?”
“You decide. Will it be Little Red Riding Hood? The Fable of the Transformed Son? Or just a little joke? Do you know the one about the doctor and the nurse?”
“Please, Doctor, it’s late, and I’m tired.”
“Ah, I see. And I’m not?”
“Doctor, I merely wanted to know—”
“I know exactly what you wanted to know. And I’m not going to tell you, okay? You can wait for the report.”
“But why are you so ornery today?”
“Because I’ve had it.”
“Can I ask just one question?”
“Only one?”
“Only one. Word of honor.”
“Ha ha ha! Don’t make me laugh! Only men give their word of honor. And you’re not a man, but a wreck! Why don’t you resign? Don’t you realize how decrepit you are?”
“Got it all out of your system, Doctor?”
“Yes. Now ask me your goddamn question an
d then go and retire to some old folks’ home.”
“Aside from the fact that you’re older than I am and could never retire to an old folks’ home because you couldn’t pay the rent, since you lost all your money playing poker, the question is as follows: Did you remove the bullet from the man’s shoulder?”
“Now I’ve got you! Got a guilty conscience, have we?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you cops shoot at people without a second thought!”
That was what he wanted to know.
“Thank you for your exquisite courtesy, Doctor. And I wish you the very best of luck at the club tonight.”
“Ah, go fuck yourself!”
16
He didn’t feel like going home.
Because it would have meant being alone.
And being alone would have meant starting to think again about the idea he’d had the previous night.
Which had made him feel really bad.
So, dear Montalbano, are you a coward? Don’t have the courage to face the situation?
I never said I was a hero, he answered himself. Anyway, nobody likes performing hara-kiri.
He decided to go and eat at Enzo’s.
“What’s wrong, is Adelina on strike?”
“No, I left the stuff she made for me too long in the oven and it burned.”
Lies, as usual. Whatever the circumstance. Lies. He told them, and they were told to him.
“Ah, Inspector, I almost forgot. I wanted to tell you that the young lady still hasn’t come by to pick up that packet you left.”
And why was that? Had she forgotten? Or had she far more serious things to think about?
“Let me have it.”
“I’ll go get it right away.”
He didn’t know where that command had come from. Certainly not from his brain.
Enzo brought the packet, and Montalbano put it in his jacket pocket.
What was he going to do with it? He didn’t know.
“So, what’ll you have?” Enzo asked.
He ate a lot, and slowly, to make the time pass.
Afterwards, he went to the movies.
“But the last show began ten minutes ago, Inspector.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Those ten minutes lost at the beginning of the movie, which was about espionage, were probably crucial, since he didn’t understand a goddamn thing about the rest.
When he came out it was twelve-thirty.
He got in his car, and his hand on the steering wheel took him in the direction of Via Costantino Nigra.
Like the last time, he parked outside the service entrance at the back of the ice-cream-cone-shaped building.
What was he doing there? He didn’t know. He was just following his instincts. Reason had nothing to do with it.
There wasn’t anyone around. He got out, crossed the lot, opened the door, and closed it behind him.
Inside, everything was exactly the same as before. He got into the elevator and pressed the button for the last floor from the top.
He climbed the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible.
He pressed his ear to the door.
At first he didn’t hear anything, only his racing heart.
Then, as though far away, he heard Angelica speaking loudly.
Moments later he realized there was nobody there with her, and she was talking on the phone.
And since her voice sounded at times closer and other times farther away, he figured she was talking on her cell phone and walking from room to room.
Then he heard her very close by.
Angelica was upset, almost hysterical.
“No! No! I’ve always told you everything! I haven’t hidden anything from you! What reason would I have for keeping something so important from you? Do you believe me or don’t you? Well, then I think I’ll just hang up! Good night!”
She must have done so, since Montalbano now heard her crying disconsolately.
For a moment he was tempted to unlock the door, rush in, and comfort her.
But he had the strength to turn tail and head for the staircase.
When he got back to Marinella, it was past one o’clock.
He got undressed, put on his bathing suit, went down to the beach, and started running along the water’s edge.
An hour and a half later he fell facedown on the sand and remained there.
After a short spell he summoned the energy to return home at the same running pace.
When he lay down in bed, exhausted, it was four o’clock in the morning.
He was dead tired and utterly incapable of thought.
He’d achieved his purpose.
“You wanna som’ caffee, sir?”
“What time is it?”
“Almos’ nine.”
“Bring me one later.”
No! No! I’ve always told you everything! I haven’t hidden anything from you! What reason would I have for keeping something so important from you?
It might mean everything, or it might mean nothing.
After drinking his coffee, he went and took a shower.
Then he heard Adelina outside the bathroom door.
“Tiliphone for you, sir.”
“Who is it?”
“Catarella.”
“Tell him I’ll call back in five minutes.”
He got ready in a hurry, driven by the premonition that after the death of the burglar something had changed, and that there would be consequences, even if he didn’t know what kind.
“Cat, Montalbano here.”
“Ahh Chief! Signor Pirrera committed sluicide!”
“Who reported it?”
“’Is wife.”
“Has Fazio been informed?”
“Yessir. Since ’e did it at ’is jewry shop in Via De Carlis, ’ass where Fazio is.”
He must mean Via De Carolis.
“I’m on my way.”
Fazio was waiting for him outside the half-lowered metal shutter.
Four busybodies were talking softly a short distance away.
News of the suicide hadn’t spread yet. The local TV news reporters and cameramen didn’t know anything about it.
“Did he shoot himself?”
Normally jewelers always have a firearm within reach.
And they end up creating havoc by shooting at would-be robbers.
“No, Chief, he hung himself in the back room.”
“Who found him?”
“His wife, poor thing. But she summoned the strength to tell me Pirrera got here two hours earlier than usual this morning. Said he had to put his registers in order. The wife came in around quarter to nine as usual, only to find him in the back room.”
“Is she inside now?”
“The wife? No, Chief. She was in a pretty bad way, so I had her taken in an ambulance to Montelusa Hospital.”
“Did he leave any kind of written statement?”
“Yes, a piece of paper with one line on it: I am paying for what I’ve done. And his signature. Want to have a look at it?”
“No. Have you called the circus?”
“Yes, I have, Chief.”
What was he still doing there?
“I’m gonna go to the office.”
All in all, he could consider himself satisfied, even though having his hunch confirmed by a suicide wasn’t actually cause for great satisfaction.
Mr. Z had most certainly found what he was looking for in Pirrera’s safe.
That is, the proof of what Pirrera had done.
But what had Pirrera done?
Or: Why did Mr. Z want what he was looking for?
Knowing this would solve everything.
“Are you sure it was a suicide?” Montalbano asked Fazio when the latter returned to headquarters.
“Absolutely. Forensics took the suicide note anyway, for a handwriting analysis. But I wanna say something. Do you remember I put Caruana on engineer De Martino’s tail?”
“Yes.”
“I told Caruana not to bother anymore. By now it seems pretty clear to me that De Martino’s got nothing to do with the burglaries.”
“You’re right. So where do things stand with the other names?”
“Chief, between burglaries and deaths it’s not like I’ve had a lot of time on my hands. But we can cross another name off the list.”
“Which one?”
“Francesco Costa.”
The ignorant one with no professional titles.
“The guy’s practically a midget, and so—”
“So what? Are you saying a midget can’t—”
“Let me finish. Ugo Foscolo gave me a thorough description of the burglars, and none of them was particularly short.”
“Okay, you’re right.”
“And he can’t be Mr. Z, either, because you pointed out, correctly, that Mr. Z took part in the last burglary.”
“Right again. So that leaves two names, for now. Schirò and Schisa. Get back to work.”
It took him over an hour to write his report on the exchange of fire outside the Sciortinos’ house. He wanted to make sure that Loschiavo’s actions appeared unimpeachable.
When he was done, he brought it to Catarella.
Then he went back into his office, and before he had even sat down, the phone rang.
“Ah Chief! ’At’d be a jinnelman onna line ’at I can’t unnastan’ ’ow ’e talks!”
“So why do you want to put him through to me?”
“Cuz th’only woid I c’d unnastan’ f’sher was yer name annatt’d mean yiz.”
“But did he tell you what his name was?”
“Nah, Chief, ’e din’t.”
It wasn’t as if he had a lot to do, so he might as well.
“Okay, put him through.”
“Inspector Montalbano?” The voice sounded muffled, strange.
“Yes, who’s this?”
He distinctly heard the man take a deep breath before speaking.
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