All at once Cipolla shot to his feet, red in the face and trembling.
“Leave my wife out of this!”
Fazio grabbed him by the arm, put the other hand on his shoulder, and forced him to sit back down.
“It’s all lies! Malicious gossip based on nothing!” a very upset Cipolla said through clenched teeth.
“Try to calm down and, for your own good, think carefully before you answer my questions. Were you a friend of Franco Arnone?”
Cipolla took a deep breath before answering.
“Friend, no. An acquaintance.”
“Now try to answer me without making a scene, otherwise I’ll have you thrown in a holding cell. Did Arnone and your wife know each other?”
“Of course. Franco knew Lella before she became my wife.”
“Tell me more.”
“Franco was head over heels in love with Lalla, my wife’s twin sister. Lalla went along at first, but then she left him.”
“I’m beginning to understand,” said the inspector.
And he cast a quick glance over at Fazio, which meant for him to be ready to intervene. Fazio nudged himself to the edge of his seat.
3
“I understand,” Montalbano repeated pensively.
And he said no more. The silence grew heavy. Cipolla started to get nervous, then couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Could you tell me . . .”
“Absolutely. I’m convinced that Arnone wanted compensation from your wife for Lalla’s rejection, and that he got it.”
At first Cipolla didn’t understand. Then the meaning of the inspector’s words began to sink in. With a kind of roar he shot to his feet and flew over the top of the desk at Montalbano before Fazio could restrain him. But the inspector had stood up and stepped aside, so that Cipolla ended his flight by crashing his head against the wall and collapsing to the floor, stunned. Fazio helped him back up, sat him down again, and brought him a glass of water.
“Sorry about that,” Cipolla said moments later, still breathing heavily.
A change had come over him. Maybe he’d realized that it was best to keep his nerves in check.
“Can I continue?”
“Yessir.”
“You know what led me to make that conjecture? The fact that you, before boarding the Carlo III, had a friend give you a revolver and—”
“But I’d had the gun already for a while!”
“But you can’t prove that.”
Cipolla closed his eyes and threw his head back. He was starting to feel lost.
“Then, if you’d already had it for a while, my question is: Were you also armed when you worked aboard the Carlo I?”
“Yessir, I was.”
“Can you explain to me why?”
“I can explain, but I wouldn’t want the others to know that I explained it to you.”
“What have the others got to do with it?”
“Well, they . . . Okay, I’ll tell you the whole story and get it over with . . . It’s because sometimes, while we’re fishing, some patrol boats from Libya, Tunisia, an’ who knows where the hell else, arrive out of nowhere and hijack some of our boats. An’ I don’t feel like ending up in one of Gaddafi’s prisons.”
“Has that already happened to you?”
“Not to me personally, but to a friend o’ mine, yes. And he told me they did shameful things to him.”
“So your gun was for self-defense?”
“Of course.”
“But what could you have done all alone against the machine guns of a patrol boat?”
Cipolla said nothing.
“As you can see, your explanation doesn’t hold water. And, I must warn you, your situation is looking worse and worse. We’re actually moving towards a charge of premeditated murder, so you’d better forget about your ‘accident’ claim. Anyway, now I’m going to call the investigating judge and—”
“Wait a second,” Cipolla said softly.
He was wringing his hands and rocking his upper body back and forth in his chair. Montalbano prodded him a little.
“Okay, that’s enough.”
“Whoever said I was the only one with a weapon?” Cipolla cried out.
“Just a minute, let me get this straight. Are you telling me your fellow crewmen were also armed?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Do you think your mates are ready to confirm that for me?”
“Not in my wildest dreams.”
“Why not?”
“First of all because they don’t have gun permits, and secondly because I’m the one who screwed up, and so I have to pay.”
Suddenly, upon hearing these last replies, a little light came on inside the inspector’s brain.
“So, maybe, aboard the boat, there was something bigger than a revolver?”
“I ain’t no snitch.”
The little light grew brighter.
“Is Signor Cosentino aware of this?”
Cipolla shrugged.
“Maybe, maybe not. He’s got his own reasons for not wanting his boat hijacked.”
Silence fell. Then Montalbano asked:
“You realize that, as things stand now, you’re fucked?”
Cipolla hung his head down to his chest and started silently weeping.
“I swear I didn’t wanna kill him! It was an accident!”
“Unfortunately for you, however . . .”
A kind of wail began to come out of Cipolla’s mouth. Montalbano decided the moment had come to deliver the decisive blow. He’d given him the bitter part; now he would give him the sweet. He spoke in a soft voice.
“. . . Though I, personally, am beginning to have serious doubts as to the premeditation.”
As Cipolla’s body shook as if from a jolt of electricity, Fazio smiled. He’d grasped the inspector’s game.
“So you believe me?” a disoriented Cipolla asked, incredulous.
“I might. But I need to ask a few more questions.”
“Whatever you like.”
“And you must answer me with the utmost sincerity.”
“I swear I will.”
“So you confirm for me that your mates were also armed?”
“Yessir.”
“And the engine man likewise?”
“Yessir.”
“Where’d he keep his weapon?”
“In his waistband.”
“You threw your own weapon into the sea after the accident, but when did your mates get rid of theirs?”
“After Sidoti told them to.”
“And was Sidoti acting under orders from Cosentino?”
“I don’t know whether or not Cosentino gave the order, but in any case Sidoti told us after talking to him.”
“What else did Sidoti throw into the sea?”
Cipolla hesitated slightly for a moment. Montalbano decided to intervene.
“Signor Cipolla, you have two roads before you: on the one hand, thirty years for premeditated murder, and on the other, a few short years for manslaughter and illegal possession of a handgun. The decision is yours. I repeat: What else did Sidoti throw into the sea?”
“A . . . a Kalashnikov.”
Montalbano immediately realized that Cipolla was hiding something else.
“And in addition to the Kalashnikov?”
“Two wet suits, two diving masks, and four oxygen tanks,” Cipolla said under his breath.
“What were they used for?”
Before answering, Cipolla furrowed his brow as though it cost him great effort.
“To . . . to disentangle the net, if necess—”
“I’m sorry, but then what need was there to get rid of them?”
“I don’t know.”
It was clear the gu
y was lying, but the inspector chose not to press the point.
“Are the crews of the other trawlers also armed?”
“Yessir.”
Then Fazio spoke.
“When they pulled the mechanic’s body out, there was no weapon.”
“Sidoti had gone down into the engine room and taken it,” said Cipolla.
“That’ll be all for now,” said the inspector. “Fazio, take him to a holding cell. You’re under arrest, Signor Cipolla.”
Cipolla, who hadn’t expected this outcome, sat there in shock, mouth open, lacking even the strength to stand up. Fazio helped him to his feet and dragged him along. Five minutes later he hurried back and sat down.
“But what do you really think about Cipolla?” he asked the inspector.
“I’m beginning to become convinced that it actually was an accident, but one that produced undesirable results.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that this little killing is endangering some shady activity the nature of which I have yet to discover. We need to find out more about Cosentino.”
“Already taken care of,” said Fazio.
Every time Fazio said “already taken care of,” which he did often, it meant he was one step ahead of him, something that made the inspector feel tremendously annoyed. But he controlled himself.
“Who’d you talk to?”
“To my dad. I went to see him after lunch, before coming here.”
“And what did he tell you?”
Fazio beamed, as if on a grand occasion.
“My father told me some interesting things. Many years ago, Cosentino was a poor wretch of a fisherman whom Don Ramunno Cuffaro—”
“Ay-yai-yai . . .” said Montalbano.
“. . . whom Don Ramunno Cuffaro took under his wing, to the point that he made him crew chief of a special fishing boat.”
“What was so special about it?”
“Aside from fishing for fish, it also fished for contraband cigarettes.”
“I get it. So he made his career with the Cuffaros?”
“Exactly. My father is convinced that he’s not the real owner of those trawlers, but just a front man for the Cuffaros.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. They say his son Carlo, who officially drowned at sea six years ago and whose body was never recovered, was actually killed in a shoot-out with the Sinagras, who’d sent out two trawlers to steal the Cuffaros’ cigarettes. At that point, apparently, Cosentino got the Cuffaros to allow him to work solely as an honest fisherman, whereas now—”
“Whereas now he’s been called back into service. But what kind of service? That’s the question. Listen, do you know any trawler owners who are honest and discreet?”
“Yes. Calogero Lorusso.”
“Turn on the speakerphone, give him a ring, and then put me on.”
Five minutes later he had Lorusso on the phone.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“I would ask you to keep our conversation to yourself.”
“I’m as silent as the grave.”
“Thank you. I’d like to know what sort of instructions you give your crews in the event a foreign patrol boat should attempt to sequester them.”
“Well, Inspector, the instructions aren’t mine. All Italian fishing boats are supposed to abide by the rules issued by the Harbormasters’ Central Command.”
“And what would they be?”
“First of all, to try to avoid sequester by moving away at maximum speed, even if it means abandoning our nets. Second, not to put up any resistance, not even in the face of serious provocation. Third, not to carry any weapons whatsoever on board. Fourth—”
“That’s enough, thanks. But tell me something. If your nets get stuck, do you send a diver down?”
“A diver? At night? Are you kidding? We just try and try with the capstan, hoping that with the right maneuver and a little luck . . .”
“One last question, then I’ll let you go. How are the fisheries divided up between you and your colleagues?”
“There’s nothing in writing. It’s just the traditional fisheries. If we were on land, you could call it acquisitive prescription. I’ve had my own area for decades, Filipoti’s got his, Cosentino likewise, and so on.”
“Thank you for your help.”
Montalbano hung up and dialed another number with his eyes on a piece of paper in front of him.
“Signor Cosentino, Montalbano here. I wanted to inform you that Cipolla’s under arrest, so you could let his wife know. Tomorrow morning he’ll be transferred to Montelusa prison. I’ll be reporting to the judge that in my opinion we’re dealing with premeditated murder.”
“So when can I have my trawler back?”
“I’ll ask the judge to lift the restraining order, first thing tomorrow morning. Have a good evening.”
He hung up and looked over at Fazio.
“That way, Cosentino will feel safe to keep doing what he does. Because there’s no doubt he’s doing something shady, considering that he’s breaking the Harbormasters’ rules.”
“His trawlers are so heavily armed they might as well be a naval squadron,” said Fazio.
“Exactly. My dear Fazio, I’m under the impression we’re looking at something big. But it’s getting late now, so I’m going to head on home. One thing, however: I want you to find out where Cosentino’s fishing area is located. See you in the morning.”
* * *
When he got home he realized he didn’t feel like doing anything, not even eating.
There was a question swirling about in his head: What was Cosentino’s secret?
And the fact that he couldn’t answer it weighed heavily on him.
He decided to have a little snack, just so he wouldn’t go to bed on an empty stomach.
4
He prepared a platter of salami, caciocavallo cheese, prosciutto, and ten or so passuluna olives, then grabbed a bottle of wine and brought everything out onto the veranda. This kept him busy for about an hour, after which he went back inside and turned on the television. They were broadcasting the third installment of La Piovra, a TV series on the Mafia that was enjoying tremendous success. He watched it for a bit. It was as though the Italians had only just discovered Sicily, but only for its worst side, and so he changed the channel. And he found Toto Cutugno singing “Con la chitarra in mano,” from “L’ Italiano,” which he’d presented at the San Remo festival the year before. He turned off the set and went back out to the veranda to smoke and rack his brain. At that hour the fishing boats of Vigàta were heading out towards their respective fishing zones.
But what did Cosentino’s boats fish?
Finally, around midnight, it was time to phone Livia.
She said she’d just got back from the movies.
“What did you see?”
“A double-oh-seven movie with James Bond.”
“But those are spy fables!”
“And in fact I saw it as a fable. Totally unreal. Just think, at a certain point they hide an airplane at the bottom of the sea, covering it with a tarp, then they send some frogmen down to the plane to recover some . . .”
But Montalbano, following his own thoughts, was no longer listening . . .
“Thanks,” he blurted out at one point.
“Thanks for what?” asked Livia, confused.
Montalbano set her straight.
“Thanks for telling me the plot of the film. That way I don’t have to go and see it.”
“But I wasn’t talking about the film anymore! I was telling you I really feel like being with you, and you come out and say ‘thanks’ like I was offering you a cigarette! Go to hell!”
And she hung up angrily. Montalbano called back and needed a good ten minutes to make pea
ce.
But when he lay down in bed, he didn’t fall asleep right away. Livia’s words had been like a ray of light that illuminates a dark corner for a few seconds, allowing you a momentary glimpse of what’s there . . .
And thus he was able, after jumping from hypothesis to hypothesis, to arrive at a possible conclusion. One truly worthy of a James Bond movie.
* * *
“I’ve got some good information,” Fazio said cheerfully the following morning, when entering the office. “I had a long talk with Calogero Lorusso. Cosentino’s fishery is just opposite the Gulf of Sirte, but still in our territorial waters, a seven-hour sail from Vigàta. The area is called the ‘shallows of Ghabuz’ because the water’s not very deep around there.”
“Shallow water? Just the words I wanted to hear.”
“Lorusso also told me about something strange he’d noticed.”
“What?”
“That Cosentino’s five boats always put out together, but every fifteenth day one of the boats returns some three or four hours later than the others. And this has been going on for the past few years. He also said that if I wanted to check, all I have to do is go to the harbor tomorrow, because tomorrow’s the fifteenth day.”
“All right, then. I’m going now to see the judge in Montelusa about Cipolla’s arrest and to lift the restraining order on Cosentino’s boat. I’ll be back in two hours at the most. You, in the meantime, should try to find out where the radio that Cosentino uses to communicate with his boats is located. Look carefully as to where the doors and windows are.”
“What have you got in mind?” Fazio asked suspiciously.
“I’ll tell you later.”
* * *
He convinced the judge that Cipolla should remain in detention despite the fact that he himself was almost certain that the killing was a case of involuntary manslaughter; he obtained a signed order lifting the sequestration; and from the phone in the courthouse he informed Cosentino of the news, telling him he could drop by to pick up the document around one p.m., but in the meantime he could remove the seals and get the boat ready to sail. Cosentino thanked him endlessly.
Death at Sea: Montalbano's Early Cases Page 8
