Death at Sea: Montalbano's Early Cases
Page 14
“The bank’s central office, in Montelusa, has fifty safety-deposit boxes. Now my question is: Why would the bank’s central office have fifty, and the Vigàta branch one hundred?”
“Maybe they wanted to decentralize.”
“Okay, but decentralize what?”
“Who knows. You think the DA will get me an injunction to force Barracuda to give me the list of people renting safety-deposit boxes?”
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”
“I’m not. So we need to find some other way.”
“How?”
“At the moment I have no idea. But I’ll think of something.”
* * *
Five minutes after Fazio had left, Catarella came in.
“Chief, ’ere’d be a jinnelman onna premisses ’at wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”
“What’s his name?”
“’E says ’is name is Provisorio.”
How could anyone have a surname like that?
“Are you sure, Cat?”
“Sure ’bout wha’, Chief?”
“That the gentleman’s name is Provisorio?”
“Swear to Gad, Chief.”
The well-dressed man of about sixty who appeared at the door seemed gentle and well-bred.
“May I? My name is Carmelo Provvisorio.”
Montalbano did a double take. How did Catarella finally get somebody’s surname right? Was it because it was a very strange name?
“Please come in. What can I do for you?”
“It’s about the burglary at the Farmers’ Bank.”
Montalbano pricked up his ears.
“Who told you there’d been a burglary?”
“Signor Barracuda, the manager, called me to tell me the safety-deposit boxes had been broken into and advised me not to say anything to anyone about it.”
“Did you have a box there?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a farmer or—”
“No, I’m a pensioner. You see, after they hired my nephew Angelo, who I brought up after he was orphaned at the age of three, as a cashier, at that bank . . . I thought it was my duty to transfer my account there. And I also rented a safety-deposit box to securely store the jewels of my poor wife, Ernestina, who died four years ago.”
“So why did you come to us?”
“I brought a list and some photographs of her jewelry, so if you did happen to find them . . .”
“I see. Please wait just one minute.”
He rang Fazio, summoned him, and told him who Provvisorio was and what he wanted. The inspector took his leave of the gentleman, who followed Fazio into his office.
Barely five minutes had gone by when an idea flashed in the inspector’s brain. He shot to his feet and ran to Fazio’s room, throwing the door open wide. The two looked at him in shock.
“Listen, Signor Provvisorio, is your nephew’s name also Provvisorio?”
“No, it’s Curreli. He’s my sister’s son.”
“What are his working hours at the bank?”
“He’s there till seven p.m.”
“Could you please do me a favor and call him and ask if he could drop by the station after he gets off work?”
“But Barracuda, the manager, has sent them all home already.”
“Why?”
“I really don’t know; that’s all my nephew told me.”
“Well, please call him anyway.”
“If I could use your phone . . .”
“Go ahead,” said Fazio.
Provvisorio dialed a number.
“’Ngilì? Inspector Montalbano would like to speak with you. Could you come to the police station?”
After hearing the answer, he hung up the phone.
“He’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”
“Thank you,” said Montalbano, returning to his office.
If the nephew was an honest man like his uncle, he may have noticed some things at the bank that didn’t quite add up.
Angelo Curreli was the only key they had that might open the armored door hiding the secrets of the hundred deposit boxes.
At least, that was what the inspector was hoping.
4
Angelo Curreli was a shy, polite, and slightly awkward young man of twenty-five, the same one the inspector had seen at the bank staring at a fly in the air. Montalbano sat him down opposite his desk. Fazio was sitting in the other chair.
“Signor Curreli, thank you for coming. Let me start by saying that you should consider this a conversation among friends and feel free not to answer any of my questions if you so decide. All right?”
“All right.”
“How is it working at the bank?”
Curreli visibly gave a start.
“How did you know?”
“Signor Curreli, I assure you that I know nothing whatsoever about you.”
“I’m sorry, I misunderstood. Since I’d secretly sent my résumé to three different Palermo banks, I thought maybe that . . .”
“So, you’re not so happy at the Farmers’ Bank? Or am I mistaken?”
“Well, it’s not that I’m unhappy. It’s just that . . .”
“You want to quit to pursue a career?”
“I want to quit, but not to pursue a career.”
“Why, then?”
Angelo squirmed in his chair. It was hard for him to say what he was thinking.
“When a customer with a safety-deposit box comes in, which of you three clerks goes with him into the secure room?” asked Montalbano, to prod him.
“None of us. The manager takes care of it himself.”
“And what if the manager isn’t there?”
“That’s never happened.”
“Maybe the customers let him know in advance,” Fazio ventured.
“I doubt it,” said Curreli.
“Well, you must admit it’s a bit frustrating for a client to go to the bank and come out empty-handed,” said Montalbano.
Curreli heaved a long sigh and then spoke.
“It was exactly this way of doing things that started arousing my suspicions. So I began to pay attention to what was up with the deposit boxes and I discovered something disturbing. And that’s why I want to quit.”
“Please tell me what you discovered.”
“There are a hundred safety-deposit boxes. Aside from my uncle’s box, the other ninety-nine are rented out to ninety-nine different people.”
Montalbano felt disappointed. But the young man went on:
“But there are only two people who ever come to open them, always the same two, equipped with power of attorney and keys for all the boxes.”
“Always the same two people?”
“Always the same.”
“Do you know their names?”
“Yes. Michele Gammacurta and Pasquale Aricò.”
Montalbano and Fazio exchanged a quick glance.
“One last favor. When you go into work tomorrow—”
“But I’m not going in tomorrow!”
“Why not?”
“Because the manager told us the branch office will remain closed for at least a week. The accounts have all been transferred temporarily to the Montelusa office.”
“Could you give me the home phone numbers of Barracuda, the manager, and the managing director, Gigante?”
“Sure.”
He dictated them to Fazio, who wrote them down.
* * *
Fazio returned after showing the young man out. By now it was almost six o’clock. Montalbano put on the speakerphone and dialed the number of the Montelusa headquarters of the Farmers’ Bank.
“Hello? This is the Honorable Giovanni Saraceno speaking. Could I speak to Signor Gigante, please?”
“No, thank you.”
He hung up, then dialed Barracuda’s home number. The phone rang a long time, but nobody answered.
“How much you want to bet that he’s gone on vacation with his family?”
“I never bet when I’m sure to lose. Since Gammacurta and Aricò are trusted men of the Sinagras, what do you think was in those deposit boxes?”
“Cold cash. Instead of taking it out of the country, which is always risky, they were keeping it here, in a small bank of no importance.”
“So the Cuffaros, the Sinagras’ sworn enemies, found out and screwed them?”
Montalbano shook his head no.
“And why not?” Fazio insisted.
“Look, if it had been the Cuffaros, Barracuda would have been scared out of his wits, because he would have to account for the mishap to the Sinagras. Whereas he was perfectly calm and all smiles.”
“So who was it, then?”
“Gammacurta and Aricò.”
Fazio very nearly fell out of his chair.
“With Barracuda’s complicity, of course, as well as that of the entire Sinagra clan,” Montalbano concluded.
“I don’t understand anything anymore,” said Fazio.
“I’ll explain. That money, or at least ninety-nine percent of it, did not belong to the Sinagras, but had been entrusted to them to speculate on. By people with closets full of skeletons—criminals, if not outright mafiosi. But apparently at a certain moment the Sinagras needed the cash and so they set up a burglary, which allowed them to steal the money and still look like victims.”
“You may even be right, Chief, but how on earth will we ever prove it?”
“I can’t work miracles. We’ll wait and see. Listen, I have to go to Montelusa to pick up Livia, who’s coming in at six-thirty. I want you to go by Barracuda’s house and see if they’ve gone away. I’ll call you later to find out.”
* * *
The bus was going to be an hour late because the flight had landed an hour late. Montalbano went and sat in a bar and, after letting forty-five minutes go by, rang Fazio.
“What’ve you got to tell me?”
“You were right on target. A neighbor lady told me the Barracuda family left in their car around five o’clock, with some suitcases on the roof.”
“So it’s going to be a long vacation.”
“So it would seem. But why, in your opinion?”
“Don’t you know Leopardi? They waiting for the calm after the storm.”
“You think the people who entrusted their money to the Sinagras are going to remain calm?”
A short while later, the bus finally arrived.
* * *
At seven o’clock the following morning, the phone rang, waking up Montalbano, who was sleeping in Livia’s arms.
“Mmm,” said the young woman, disturbed by the ringing and by Salvo’s movements. It was Fazio.
“Chief, can you come to Vicolo Cannarozzo, which is the first side street on the left off Via Cristoforo Colombo? Somebody got shot and killed there.”
He didn’t bother to inform Livia that he was going out. He would call her later.
In Vicolo Cannarozzo there were two squad cars. Four uniformed cops were keeping the rubberneckers away.
The dead man lay on the sidewalk right in front of the door from which he had apparently just emerged.
“Shot seven times, no less,” said Fazio. “By two guys on a motorcycle.”
“Did you know this guy?”
“Yeah. His name was Filippo Portera, a small-time mafioso with the Cuffaro family.”
And he gave the inspector a meaningful look.
“Are you telling me I was wrong?” Montalbano asked.
“It does look that way.”
“So this murder supposedly means that it was the Cuffaros who robbed the bank and the Sinagras are starting to avenge themselves?”
“C’mon, Chief, what’s two plus two? And now I’m worried another war between the two families’ll break out. We’d better get ready for the worst.”
At that moment two cars pulled up. In the first one was Augello; in the second, Zito the newsman from the Free Channel and a cameraman.
“Salvo, would you do an interview for me?” Zito asked.
“Sure, if you keep it brief.”
* * *
“Inspector Montalbano, do you think this killing marks the beginning of a new war between the Mafias of our town?”
“Every war has a motive that triggers it, usually stemming from the desire on the part of one of the two adversaries to increase their power. In the present case, in my opinion, there is no triggering motive. This killing is supposed to make us believe that a war is about to break out.”
“Could you be a little clearer?”
“This is Pirandello’s home turf, isn’t it? Appearance and reality. In the present case—only in my opinion, mind you—somebody wants to make something appear a certain way, whereas the reality of that thing is completely different.”
“Inspector Montalbano—”
“That’ll be enough, thanks.”
“But I can’t broadcast that!” Zito protested.
“Well, you’re gonna broadcast it anyway, and right away. Somebody will understand it.”
Montalbano then hurried over to Augello.
“Mimì, you wait here for the prosecutor, Forensics, and everyone else. I’ll see you at the office after lunch.”
And he raced away, back to Marinella. Livia was still asleep. He got undressed and lay down beside her.
At one o’clock, as Livia was getting dressed to go out with him for lunch at Calogero’s, he turned on the television to watch the TeleVigàta news report. Pippo Ragonese, the station’s chief reporter and often a willing spokesman for the Mafia, was speaking.
. . . and we who have so often criticized the overly nonchalant modus operandi of Inspector Montalbano, this time we cannot help but appreciate his caution and old-fashioned good sense, which—
He turned it off. The message had been received.
* * *
As soon as he got to the office, Fazio assailed him.
“Chief, you have to explain the meaning of that interview to me.”
“Did you watch Ragonese?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t understand a thing.”
“It’s quite simple. I let it be known that I’d understood everything. That is, that it was the Sinagras themselves who organized the burglary at their bank and killed Portera to make it look like it had been the Cuffaros. I defused the bomb that was about to explode.”
Around four o’clock Fazio came back into Montalbano’s office. He looked bewildered.
“Provvisorio called just now—remember him? He says he found a parcel outside his front door with the stolen jewelry in it. What does it mean?”
“That a transaction between the Cuffaros and Sinagras has begun. Part of the stolen money will be returned, and the remainder will be divvied up between the Cuffaros and Sinagras. But I think the transaction contains a few other stipulations.”
It was an easy prophecy. Half an hour later, Fazio returned, more bewildered than ever.
“Chief, Michele Gammacurta is dead.”
“Shot?”
“No, he was driving his car while drunk and fell into a gully. The strange thing is that Gammacurta didn’t drink.”
“Nothing strange about that. Apparently the transaction included the stipulation that the person who killed Portera must die. And this is just the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. Quick, grab a couple of officers and bring me Pasquale Aricò, immediately.”
“And if he asks me t
he reason, what should I tell him?”
“Tell him I want to save his life.”
* * *
It took him two hours to convince Aricò that he was going to be the next victim, and that this would close out the transaction between the Cuffaros and Sinagras. The stipulation according to which the Cuffaros demanded the death of the two who’d killed Portera had been respected by the Sinagras by arranging the death of Gammacurta. It would be his turn next. Didn’t he realize this?
When he finally did realize this, Aricò opened up. And spilled the beans. All of them: about the Farmers’ Bank, the safety-deposit boxes, Barracuda, Gigante . . .
The inspector rang Livia and told her he’d be a little late. Then, with Fazio at the wheel, he took Aricò to the prosecutor’s office in Montelusa.
He wanted to get things over with quickly, so he could race back home, where Livia was waiting for him.
STANDARD PROCEDURE
1
Even though Montalbano’s face was known to everyone and his dog, he had managed, at long last, with a word here and a word there, to weasel his way into an auction. Two people had come to fetch him at home at midnight, and by one o’clock they arrived at a farm estate way out in the country that would have looked uninhabited if not for the thirty-odd cars and two vans parked in the general area. He was led into a large warehouse. There were some forty chairs already almost completely occupied in front of a dais lit up by large floodlights. Behind the podium was a small, closed door.
For Montalbano they’d reserved a front-row seat between a gaunt man of about forty and a fiftyish man as fat as a barrel. The skinny man, a big-time businessman by the name of Giliberto who knew the inspector, reacted with surprise.
“You, here?”
“Well!” said Montalbano, throwing up his hands in resignation, as if to say that he, too, suffered from the weakness of the flesh.
The door behind the podium opened and a man appeared, dressed exactly the way the guardians of harems used to dress, with a turban and pointy babouches.