* * *
It all went as the inspector had foreseen. The girl was freed the following day and the whole gang was arrested. At the press conference Vice Commissioner Martorana said a good deal of the credit must go to his colleague Montalbano. But he didn’t say why.
The commissioner, on the other hand, wanted to know.
“Really, Montalbano, you’re not going to tell me the knowledge that the letter was in the pocket of the unsuspected lawyer Mascolo’s overcoat came to you in a revelation from the Holy Spirit!”
“No, not the Holy Spirit, but—”
“Listen, at the very least we need to get our story straight to tell to the judge!”
“Mr. Commissioner, it was a burglar who broke into the lawyer’s house who—”
“Come on, Montalbano! Don’t give me such rot! Do you think I’m stupid or something? Find a better story.”
All at once Montalbano realized that no one would ever believe what had really happened.
“Okay, it was an informant of mine. But I don’t want to burn him. He’s too valuable.”
“Good God! Did you have to go that far? We’ll only tell his name to the judge, and we’ll arrange it so he won’t even be questioned. What’s his name?”
“Agostino Lobue,” the inspector said, poker-faced.
* * *
But the game with Gangitano wasn’t over yet, and the inspector wanted to end it. He got his chance when, five days after the girl was freed, her father, the engineer Di Bartolo, went to the station to thank him. Montalbano found the man quite likable.
“Clearly, if not for your informant and your immediate intervention . . .”
Montalbano at this moment had an inspiration.
“Do you really want to know how it happened? It actually wasn’t an informant who told me, but . . .”
And he told him everything.
Signor Di Bartolo remained silent for a moment, then said:
“Listen, tell Signor Gangitano that if he wants to earn an honest living, all he has to do is come to my office.”
* * *
That very same evening, at eleven o’clock, Montalbano left his house, got in his car, and headed for Via Lampedusa, pulling up a short distance away from Gangitano’s garage. Shortly after midnight, the rolling door was opened. Gangitano came out, reclosed the door, got on his bicycle, and pedaled quickly away. Montalbano followed him in his car. When he got to a street not far from police headquarters, Gangitano stopped, got off his bike, leaned it against a tree, headed for the front door of a three-story building, opened it, went inside, and closed the door behind him. Montalbano sat tight in his car, then at a certain point got out, fired up a cigarette, and headed for the same door. He hadn’t had time to finish smoking it when the door opened, and out came Gangitano, who, upon seeing the inspector, stopped dead in his tracks.
“Goo—good evening,” he managed to say.
“If you say so . . .” said Montalbano. “How much did you steal this time?”
“Two thousand lire.”
“Put the money back where you found it. I’ll be waiting for you here.”
“What for?”
“To arrest you and take you to the station.”
“Okay,” said Gangitano.
He returned five minutes later.
“Get in the car.”
Gangitano obeyed. When they arrived outside the station house, Montalbano stopped the car.
“And you know what? In the report I’m going to write that you resisted arrest and struck me with your fist.”
Gangitano looked at him in shock.
“I certainly wasn’t expecting that, not from you. Why do you want to send me to jail?”
“I don’t want to send you to jail. I want to present you with a choice. Either I arrest you now and you spend a few more years in jail, or tomorrow you call up, on my behalf, Engineer Di Bartolo, who’s the father of the kidnapped girl.”
“And what’s Di Bartolo going to do?”
“He’s going to give you an honest job.”
Gangitano sat there for a long time, staring at Montalbano. Then he took the ring with the keys out of his pocket and set it down in the inspector’s lap.
“You can keep these as a souvenir. Tomorrow morning I’ll do as you say and give him a call. Good night.”
“Good night,” replied Montalbano, opening the door to let him out.
Notes
“A pittance. About twenty million lire”: As this story is supposed to be taking place in the early 1980s, twenty million lire at the time was worth a little under twenty thousand dollars.
As he was heading for Vigàta he wondered what mysterious reason Cosentino could have had for naming his fishing boat after a Spanish king: To Sicilians, long under Spanish dominion, the name Carlo III might naturally call to mind Carlos Tercero (1716–1788), king of Spain, and ruler of Sicily and Naples as well.
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: In 1983, that is. Thus the present story is supposed to be taking place in 1984, when Montalbano is thirty-four years old. Cutugno’s song is generally known by its title “L’Italiano.”
“You been talking to crows or something?”: “To talk to crows” (parlare con le ciavole) is a Sicilian expression indicating being privy to information as if by supernatural means.
“. . . only a thousand lire?”: That is, a little under a dollar at the time.
Notes by Stephen Sartarelli
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Death at Sea: Montalbano's Early Cases Page 23
