Death at Sea: Montalbano's Early Cases

by Andrea Camilleri

  Cascino knocked on the manager’s door.

  “Come in!” said a voice inside.

  Ragioniere Cascino opened the door, poked his head inside, announced the arrival of the inspector, then ceremoniously withdrew.

  “Please come in.”

  Damn, did they ever have a lot of frills and froufrous at this bank! It probably wasn’t even this bad at the office of the president of the Bank of Italy!

  Montalbano went in. Cascino closed the door behind him ever so quietly.

  Fazio, who was sitting in front of the desk of a well-dressed fortyish man with a salon tan, stood up. The man did the same, adjusting his tie.

  “Good morning,” said Montalbano.

  Was it just him, or could he still smell, ever so slightly, the sickly-sweet scent of the barbershop in the air?

  “Where’s Inspector Augello?” he asked Fazio.

  “When he learned you were coming he left, saying he had some urgent business to attend to.”

  The little shit! He’d snuck off! The rotational spin of Montalbano’s cojones, set in motion by the flap with Adelina, picked up considerable speed. Meanwhile, the tanned forty-year-old had come up to the inspector and held out his hand.

  “My name is Vittorio Barracuda,” he said. “I’ve heard so much about you, and I’m sorry to have to meet you in such unpleasant circumstances.”

  And he smiled, displaying two rows of teeth much like those of the dangerous carnivorous fish of the same name.

  Montalbano was immediately convinced that the man before him would have a brilliant career in banking. A hungry wolf had more scruples than this guy. But wasn’t he wasting his talent on a rinky-dink bank like this?

  “How long has your bank been in Vigàta?”

  “Six months.”

  “Have you established a good client base?”

  “We can’t complain.”

  “How many branches do you have in the province?”

  “Just one. This one.”

  But didn’t the bank call itself a “farmers’ bank”? So why, then, hadn’t they opened up branches in Cianciana or Canicattì, which were farming towns, instead of Vigàta, which was a fishing town?

  Unable to stand Barracuda’s toothy smile any longer, Montalbano turned to Fazio.

  “Got anything to tell me?” he asked.

  “The burglary occurred last night, Chief—”

  “It would have been harder during the day,” the inspector interrupted him gruffly.

  Fazio realized the inspector was in a funk, pretended not to notice, and continued:

  “—in the room next door, where the safety-deposit boxes are. If you want to go and have a look . . .”

  “No, if anything we can do it later,” Montalbano said curtly. “Can you tell me how many deposit boxes there are?”

  “A hundred, but of varying sizes, of course.”

  “And were they all rented out?”

  This time Barracuda answered.

  “Yes, all of them.”

  Montalbano felt a little bewildered but didn’t know why. There was something here that didn’t add up, but he couldn’t say what.

  He’d remained standing ever since entering the room. He looked around. Barracuda intercepted his gaze.

  “Please sit down,” he said, freeing a chair by removing two binder files. Montalbano sat down.

  “How did they get in?” he asked.

  Fazio answered.

  “They had the keys to the shutter and knew the combinations to the two armored doors, the one at the entrance and the one to the room with the deposit boxes.”

  “Wasn’t there any kind of night guard?”

  This time the manager answered.

  “We use the services of the Securitas firm, which is very reliable.”

  “Did you give them a ring?” the inspector asked Fazio.

  “Yeah, Chief. The watchman, whose name is Vincenzo Larota, rides past every hour on his bike and didn’t see anything.”

  “Apparently the burglars were aware of his schedule,” the manager commented.

  “Right,” said the inspector.

  But he said nothing else. He’d leaned forward and seemed engrossed in staring at the tips of his shoes.

  To break the silence Barracuda tried to explain.

  “You see, Inspector, we’re a small bank, and so, together with management, we didn’t think it necessary to resort to any kind of special surveillance . . .”

  These words actually helped the inspector bring into focus the reason why he’d felt uneasy.

  “What kind of customers do you have?” he asked.

  Barracuda shrugged.

  “We call ourselves a farmers’ bank because our goal, so to speak, is indeed to help wine producers, citrus farmers, and the like, and to lend support to small farmers and local agricultural concerns . . .”

  But where were all these agricultural concerns in the province of Montelusa? At any rate, in Vigàta you’d never find a single one even if you paid for their advertising.

  “Naturally,” Barracuda continued, “this branch is also seeking clients among the owners of fishing boats and the fishermen themselves . . .” He made a sly face and then added: “If the chief inspector of Vigàta Police would also like to become a customer of ours . . .”

  And he laughed. Alone.

  Montalbano, meanwhile, was asking himself some questions. If these clients were all, when you came right down to it, poor bastards having trouble making ends meet, what need was there for a bank like this to have safety-deposit boxes? And not ten, mind you, but a hundred! Of varying size! And they’d all been rented! No, the whole thing made no sense at all.

  Montalbano decided to aim straight for the bull’s-eye.

  “Could you please provide me with a complete list of the people renting the safety-deposit boxes?”

  Barracuda immediately became as stiff as another kind of fish: salted cod.

  “I don’t see what use that would be.”

  “I’ll determine that myself.”

  “Let me clarify.”

  “Yes, please clarify.”

  “The deposit boxes were all—I repeat, all—robbed without distinction. No specific boxes were targeted. Therefore—”

  “Therefore you’ll provide me with that list just the same,” the inspector said, hardening his face.

  Barracuda now turned from salted cod into frozen stockfish.

  “But that, as I’m sure you know, would go against the rules of client confidentiality . . .”

  “Signor Barracuda, I am not asking you to tell me the contents of the deposit boxes, which at any rate you don’t even know yourself; I am only asking you for the list of the clients’ names.”

  “I know, but I’ll have to request authorization from senior management, and I’m not sure they’ll—”

  “How many of you know the combinations?” the inspector interrupted him, irritated.

  “We all do. The three cashiers and myself.”

  “Do you change them often?”

  “Every three days.”

  “Who’s in charge of it?”

  “I am. And I give the new combinations to those involved. I’ll be changing them again this evening.”

  He gave the inspector a doubtful look.

  “You’re not thinking it was one of my employees who gave the combinations . . .”

  Montalbano looked at him without saying anything. The manager continued.

  “You know, there are devices that can—”

  The inspector stopped him by raising his hand.

  “I’m fully aware of that. I’ve seen some movies myself. I would appreciate it if, once I walk out of here, you would draw up a list of the bank personnel with names and telephone numbers and give it to my
colleague here. I don’t think there’s any confidentiality restrictions in that regard.”

  He then asked Fazio:

  “Have you called Forensics?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do it. I’ll see you back at the station.”

  He stood up, and Barracuda held out his hand. Montalbano shook it and, while still holding it, wrinkled his nose.

  “Can you smell it, too?” he asked.

  “Smell what?” asked Barracuda, confused.

  “There used to be a barber’s salon here. I guess the walls have remained imbued with the scent. It’s pretty unpleasant.”

  He had the impression that the bank manager’s hand had become a little sweaty.

  * * *

  Stepping outside, he noticed that the morning was keeping its promise to be sensitive to his less-than-happy mood. He decided to go for a walk to the bank into which his salary was regularly deposited. Macaluso, the manager, received him immediately.

  “What can I do for you, Inspector?”

  “I need some information. How many safety-deposit boxes do you have at this bank?”

  “Thirty.”

  “Could you tell me, at least roughly, how many deposit boxes the other banks in Vigàta have?”

  “May I ask you the reason for these questions?” asked Macaluso.

  News of the bank robbery hadn’t spread. And it was better that way.

  “It’s for a survey the commissioner’s office requested.”

  It took Macaluso only five minutes. It turned out that only the Montelusa Farmers’ Bank had such a disproportionate number of boxes.

  The bank manager looked at Montalbano in surprise.

  “How strange! What do they do with all those safety-deposit boxes?”

  “No idea,” said the inspector, face as innocent as that of a cherub just then descended from heaven.

  When he left the bank he retraced his steps, got in his car, and went to the office.

  During the drive, something occurred to him. So that, once he got there, he gave his father a ring.

  “What a wonderful surprise, Salvo! You have no idea how pleased I am to hear from you!”

  “Papa, would you mind if I invited you to meet me for lunch at one?”

  “Would I mind? What are you saying?!”

  “All right, then, I’ll see you at Calogero’s at one.”

  3

  When he got to the trattoria, his father was already seated at a small table set for two, waiting for him and watching the television, which was saying that while the prognosis for the pope was still guarded, his life was no longer in danger.

  Seeing him come in, his father shot to his feet and went up to him with open arms.

  Montalbano instinctively warded him off, extending his hand instead. His father pretended not to notice and shook it, smiling.

  They both ordered the same first course, spaghetti with clam sauce. They’d always had the same tastes. His father was clearly dying of curiosity to know the reason for the unexpected invitation, but didn’t venture to ask any questions.

  They sat there in silence for a few moments, without even looking at each other. Then Montalbano made up his mind to speak.

  “How’s business?”

  His father, who had a small wine-producing business between Montelusa and Favara, looked at him with surprise.

  The last thing he’d expected to hear from his son, with whom he had a difficult relationship, was a question like that. He sighed deeply, looked Montalbano in the eye, and shrugged.

  “Not so great?”

  “Not good at all. It’s too small. We can’t keep up with the competition. I’d have to expand it to give it any chance to survive, but I haven’t got the money.”

  “Can’t you ask for a loan at the bank?”

  “Do you think that’s so easy? One of them offered me an interest rate to make your hair stand on end; another refused me because my business partner had once contested a bill . . .”

  The spaghetti arrived, and they spoke no more. Montalbano’s father knew that his son didn’t like to converse while eating. When they were done, they ordered a second course of fried mullet.

  “So you’re sailing on rough seas,” Montalbano resumed.

  “Yes.”

  “And what can you do to set things right?”

  “A friend of mine from the Catania area suggested I become partners with him. His business does very well. I would sell mine to my partner, and that way—”

  “Did you also try asking for a loan at the Montelusa Farmers’ Bank?” Montalbano asked in an apparently indifferent tone.

  The firm answer came at once.

  “I never even went near the place.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’ve been nasty rumors.”

  “Such as?”

  His father twisted up his mouth.

  “They’re sharks pretending to be bighearted folks. I’ll cite one example, which should be enough. A guy I know, by the name of Divella, had signed some paper without really understanding what it said, and at some point found himself unable to pay the interest rates, because they’d gone straight through the roof. They ended up taking everything of his, even his house.”

  “Common criminals, in other words.”

  “Worse. Bloodthirsty animals.”

  “Have you ever heard mention of a certain Barracuda?”

  “Sure! He’s now the manager of the Vigàta branch. He’s the kind of guy who’s capable of stabbing you in the back just to stay in shape.”

  He heaved another sigh and then continued.

  “But now let’s change the subject, or I’m gonna lose my appetite. Let’s talk about you. Working a lot?”

  The inspector didn’t feel the least bit like talking about himself. He started saying the standard things when he was luckily interrupted by the arrival of the mullet.

  After they’d finished eating, at the moment of saying good-bye his father said, with a bitter smile:

  “Well, even if you invited me because you needed some information, I’ve really enjoyed seeing you just the same.”

  Montalbano felt like a worm.

  * * *

  He got into his car, but instead of going to the office, he took the road to Montelusa. Pulling up outside the provincial headquarters of the Guardia di Finanza, the Finance Police, he went inside, identified himself, and asked to speak with Marshal Antoci, whom he’d first met during the course of an investigation, and they’d instantly hit it off.

  He told him about the burglary and what his father had said to him about the Farmers’ Bank. He was seeking confirmation.

  “Well, I can certainly tell you about the Divella case, where the guy got skinned alive by that bank. We handled it. And we conducted an investigation. But, you see, it turns out they were very clever, and Divella was careless. We were unable to come up with any evidence that they used loan-sharking methods, even though we were certain they had. Also, there’s another important thing to bear in mind, which is that we were working on our own initiative, because Divella didn’t want to press charges.”

  “Did he fear reprisals?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Montalbano smiled.

  “Your ‘perhaps’ has got me walking in a minefield now.”

  Now it was Antoci who smiled, but he said nothing.

  “Is there a whiff of the Mafia about that bank?” Montalbano asked out of the blue.

  Antoci made a serious face.

  “Let’s say a faint whiff—or rather, the ever-so-slightest, barely perceptible whiff.”

  A bit like the barber’s-salon aroma still wafting about inside the bank’s walls.

  “Care to explain a little better?”

  “The president, the managing director, and the advise
rs all have clean records and no known connections to the Mafia. They’re businessmen, yes, and unscrupulous. But if they’re violating the criminal code, as might have been the case with Divella, then . . .”

  “And where is this ever-so-slight whiff?”

  “It’s coming from the office of the general manager, a certain Cesare Gigante, attorney-at-law, who ten years ago married the sister of Memè Laurentano, a Mafia capo with the Sinagra clan. Laurentano’s daughter is married to another employee of the same bank, Vittorio Barracuda, who is presently manager of the Vigàta branch.”

  Montalbano’s eyes opened wide.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious. But don’t get your hopes up. We’ve been keeping an eye on both Gigante and Barracuda for a good while, and we’re not the only ones. Nothing’s come up that we could use against them. Stellar conduct, aside from their unfortunate tendency to loan-sharking. But here’s an extra detail: The two women have broken off their relationships with their respective brother and father.”

  * * *

  When Montalbano got back to the station, Fazio told him that Forensics hadn’t found anything, not even the fingerprints of the bank’s own employees. Clearly the burglars had used gloves and, just to be safe, had carefully wiped everything down.

  The inspector told him about his meeting with Marshal Antoci. Fazio became pensive.

  “What is it?”

  “I was just wondering who would ever be crazy enough to go and rob a bank managed by Laurentano’s son-in-law.”

  “Couldn’t it be some kind of vendetta?” asked the inspector.

  “By whom?”

  “By someone who was taken to the cleaners by the bank.”

  “First of all, that wouldn’t be vendetta but suicide. And secondly, that burglary was the work of professionals!”

  They fell silent. Then Fazio said:

  “Oh! I was forgetting something. I scratched around for information and found out something strange.”

  “And what was that?”