“Have a seat and let’s talk a little,” said the inspector. “Just now, Fazio told me there’s no news of Di Carlo. And since the girl he’s in love with has not come forward to report his disappearance to me, this means either that she knows where he is or that she is in no condition to move about freely. Are you guys in agreement?”
“We agree,” said Fazio and Augello.
“Therefore we absolutely need to find out who this girl is; we have to be able to give her a first and last name.”
“It won’t be easy,” said Fazio.
“But we do have a precise starting point,” said the inspector. “We know for certain where the girl spent her vacation. She was in Tenerife in July and in Lanzarote in August. How many travel agencies are there in Vigàta?”
“Four,” replied Fazio.
“I’d try my luck with them.”
“I’ll drop in on them this afternoon.”
“I have the feeling we’re not going to find out anything from these agencies,” Augello cut in.
“Why?”
“Because, Salvo, you’re a little too o—I mean, you’re behind the times, dear Salvo. Nowadays everybody does everything through the internet.”
It was clear he was about to say he was too old but managed to correct himself in time. Montalbano absorbed the blow but didn’t let anything show.
“Well, Fazio’s going to give it a try just the same. Now, to the overnight kidnappings. This morning I went to the hospital to talk to Luigia Jacono. Mimì, do you remember what Roscitano said to us about when they were carrying Luigia half-conscious into their house, when he said Luigia had said ‘call,’ but his wife said the word she’d said was ‘car’?”
“Yes, I remember perfectly.”
“When I told Luigia about it, she said she couldn’t remember a thing about the car. But I was under the impression she wasn’t being sincere.”
“What reason would she have for that?” asked Augello.
“I don’t know. And there’s more. When she learned from me that hers was the third recent case of abduction, she had a strange reaction. She was surprised, as if she’d expected to be the only one.”
“What’s that mean?” asked Augello.
“I’ll try to explain. In my opinion, Luigia was convinced that the kidnapping, as well as the thirty superficial knife wounds, was something that concerned her and only her.”
“Are you trying to tell me that she was more or less expecting what happened to her?” Augello pressed him.
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you. And this means that the girl’s hiding something.”
“Wait a second,” said Augello. “In plain language, you’re saying that Luigia must have done something to someone that made her expect or fear some sort of revenge?”
“I could be wrong, but I think that if that’s not the way it is, then the truth isn’t too far off. But Luigia won’t talk, of that I am sure. Therefore it’s up to you, Mimì, to get close to her.”
“With pleasure,” Augello consented.
“But don’t take your time about it. The sooner we can stop this kidnapper, the better. After what he did to Luigia Jacono, I’m starting to get seriously worried. Now that he’s tasted blood, the next victim he deposits in the countryside for us might well be dead.”
A heavy silence descended on them, then was shattered by the telephone.
“Ahh, Chief, ’ere’d be a soitain Signor Lo Curto onna line ’at oigently wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson . . .”
“Okay.”
“Inspector Montalbano?”
“What can I do for you, Signor Lo Curto?”
“Lo Curzio’s the name. Alessandro Lo Curzio.”
Montalbano cursed the saints in his mind and sent another powerful curse in Catarella’s direction.
“I’m sorry, please go ahead.”
“I’m manager of the Vigàta branch of the Banca di Trinacria, and I need to meet with you as soon as possible.”
“Is it something urgent?”
“Extremely urgent.”
The inspector glanced at his watch. He had an hour at his disposal.
“If you like you can come here right now.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
Montalbano adjourned the meeting.
“Okay, boys, time to get down to work. We’ll meet back up as soon as we have something to report.”
* * *
Alessandro Lo Curzio looked to be in his early forties. Tall, elegant, in good physical condition, cologne-scented, tanned, and with a smile that one needed sunglasses to look at.
It was clear he was destined for the sort of brilliant career common to so many of today’s executives: a rapid ascent (perhaps from selling his own mother to the highest bidder), arrival at the top, immediate crash of the stock value of the company, bank, or whatever it was, disappearance of said executive, and reappearance, one year later, of same executive in a position of even greater importance.
“I’m also here on behalf of my colleague dottor Federico Molisano, manager of the local branch of Credito Marittimo.”
“What have you got to tell me?”
“That both Molisano and I have a problem. A big problem that risks becoming a nuisance.”
“Please explain.”
“There are three women working at my branch; there’s just one at Molisano’s. They’ve probably all spoken to each other and are operating together; whatever the case, their intention is to stop working in banks.”
Montalbano understood.
“Are they afraid of being abducted?”
“Well, yes. They said to themselves: So far we’ve seen a woman from the Banco Siculo, another from the Banca di Credito, and another from the Banca Cooperativa abducted, and soon we’ll be next.”
Man, were there ever a lot of banks in Vigàta! The most amazing thing was that the more the town sank into poverty and misery—with factories shut down, shops declaring bankruptcy, unemployment rates through the roof—the more banks sprang up. How did one explain such a mystery?
“So what is it, exactly, you would like me to do?”
“Provide the four women with an armed escort.”
“I’m terribly sorry, but I think you’ve got the wrong address.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a mere inspector. That’s not the sort of thing I can decide for myself. It’s beyond my jurisdiction.”
“So who should I turn to, then?”
“Go and talk to Prosecutor Tommaseo. He’s the one in charge of the kidnappings. You’ll find him at the courthouse of Montelusa.”
Lo Curzio stood up; Montalbano did likewise.
“Tell me something—I’m curious,” said the inspector. “How old are these women who work for you?”
“One is twenty-four, and the other two are in their forties. Signora Eugenia Speciale, who works for Molisano, is close to retiring. Why do you ask?”
“Because the kidnapper’s victims have all been in their thirties. Therefore, of the four women you mention, one is too young, and the other three are too old. So they should be safe. But who’s gonna go and tell a woman she has nothing to fear because she’s no longer in her prime?”
Lo Curzio went out and the telephone rang.
“Ahh, Chief, ’ere’d a happen a be a Signor Urinale onna line ’oo wants a talk oigently wit’—”
“What did you say his name was?”
“Urinale.”
Montalbano was damned if he was going to fall into Catarella’s usual trap of mangling people’s names.
“Lemme talk to him.”
“Inspector Montalbano? This is Giulio Uriale, and I’m manager of the Vigàta branch of the Banco Siculo. I urgently need to confer with you.”
; The inspector liked this use of the word “confer.” He replied in kind.
“Presuming you’re available, would it work for you to come here and confer with me at three-thirty this afternoon?”
“I thank you for your courtesy and concern.”
What could the guy want?
The Banco Siculo had already been through one abduction and therefore probably had nothing more to worry about, relatively speaking, since the kidnapper seemed to change banks with each new abduction.
On the other hand, he thought, man’s imagination in always thinking up new ways to be a pain in the ass seemed to know no limits.
* * *
When the inspector settled in at his usual table, Enzo bent down to say something in confidence.
“When you finally catch that son of a bitch who gets off on kidnapping women, will you promise me something?”
“What, Enzo?”
“Will you let me have five minutes with him?”
“Don’t be silly,” Montalbano chided him.
“Do you know that my niece can no longer sleep at night?”
“We’ll catch him, and he’ll pay for his crimes, don’t you worry about that.”
He ate lightly, skipping the antipasti and ordering only a first and second course.
“You feeling okay?” Enzo asked, concerned.
“I’m fine, thanks, but since I have to be back at the office shortly . . .”
In the end he did take his customary stroll along the jetty, but, once he reached the lighthouse at the end, rather than sit down on the flat rock, he turned on his heels and headed reluctantly back to land.
The bank manager Uriale came right on time.
He was the exact opposite of his professional counterpart Lo Curzio. Uriale was about sixty, nicely dressed and polite in manner and speech, and gave the impression of being a man you could trust.
“I should preface, Inspector, by saying that I’m also here on behalf of Guido Sammartino of the Banca di Credito and Mario Zecchi of the Banca Cooperativa. They’ve assigned me the task of explaining our common problem to you.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Ever since a local television station named our three banks as the workplaces of the three women who were abducted, we have begun to notice a phenomenon that causes us great concern.”
“And what would that be?”
“A great many clients have closed the accounts they had with us. And we have discovered that, unfortunately, other account holders are getting ready to follow their example.”
“For what reason?”
“Because there’s been a wild rumor circulating, according to which these abductions will be followed by far more violent actions aimed at causing grave inconveniences to our banking institutions.”
“I see.”
“For the moment, at least, that’s how things stand. But we fear they will get worse, despite our reassurances.”
“And what would you like from me?”
“Before answering you, I must ask you a question myself, if you don’t mind.”
“Go right ahead.”
“In what direction is your investigation heading?”
If only I knew! thought Montalbano.
But he said in a firm voice:
“In every direction possible.”
Uriale seemed disappointed.
“So you’re not ruling out that we may actually be looking at a series of actions intended to harm the banks?”
“At the current stage of our investigation, I can’t rule that out. Even though, if we were to theorize a ranking of the different hypotheses, the ‘banking lead’ would not be among the top candidates.”
“May I ask why?”
“First you must tell me the names of five towns or cities in the province with branches of the Banco Siculo.”
“Montelusa, Fiacca, Sicudiana, Montereale, and Rivera.”
“Have any of them had women employees abducted?”
“No, none.”
“Now, please tell me, if this were really an attack on the banks, don’t you think that all the branches should have been in some way affected?”
“Absolutely, yes.”
“Then please listen to me. Repeat to your customers what I’ve just said to you. And advise them, if they’re really set on leaving, to transfer their accounts to the Montelusa branch, which is barely four miles away.”
The bank manager could barely refrain from kneeling down, tears in his eyes, and kissing the inspector’s hand.
* * *
Fazio straggled back in around six. He looked fed up and discouraged.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. A total waste of time. No travel agency booked any trips to the Canary Islands. One agent told me the Canaries nowadays are out of the loop. They’re no longer fashionable.”
“So what’s the new fashion?”
“The latest fashion, especially for people without much money, is to go to one of the many Greek islands, because it’s really nice there and not at all expensive.”
“Then Augello was right, I’m afraid. Apparently they did it all by computer.”
But Fazio had something else to say.
“Chief, do you remember telling me to try to find out as much as I could about Di Carlo?”
“Of course.”
“Everyone in town says the same things.”
“Namely?”
“First, that he’s a real womanizer, picks one up before he’s dropped the last; and, second, that he’s riddled with debts. He’s always asking everyone for money, and gets along by creating new debts to pay off the old debts. Apparently he even asks the girls he has affairs with to lend him money. We should of course take these rumors with a grain of salt, but what’s certain is that Di Carlo has debts, and big ones at that.”
“And naturally this information reinforces your idea that he himself set fire to his store.”
“Well, two and two equals four, doesn’t it, Chief?”
“Not always. To cite just one example, it could have been some loan shark who torched his store.”
“That’s true, too,” Fazio admitted.
The telephone rang.
“Ahh, Chief, ’ere’d be summon says ’is name’s Carovania ’at wants a talk—”
“But is he on the line or is he here in person?”
“’E’s ’ere poisonally in poisson, Chief.”
“You know anyone named Carovania?” the inspector asked Fazio.
“No.”
They had time to kill, so might as well . . .
“Bring him in.”
As soon as the man came in, Montalbano and Fazio immediately recognized Filippo Caruana, the salesman at Di Carlo’s store. He seemed rather upset.
“I’m sorry if I . . . but . . .”
“What’s going on?”
“Barely twenty minutes ago I saw Signor Di Carlo’s car, the Porsche . . .”
“Are you sure it was his?”
“Absolutely certain.”
“Where did you see it?”
“I was coming from Montelusa, and at Villaseta I turned inland to pay a visit to a girlfriend of mine, and along that road I saw the Porsche, along a secluded stretch with no houses. So I stopped and got out. It was locked, and there was nobody inside. Since the battery on my cell phone was dead, I figured I should come here to tell you in person.”
“Let’s not waste any time,” Montalbano said.
* * *
Caruana was driving so fast that Fazio had trouble keeping up with him.
When they got to Villaseta, they took a road that led into the countryside. At a certain point Caruana’s car stopped and he got out. Montalbano and Fazio did the same.
“It was right here,” said Caruana,
practically speechless.
But there wasn’t hide or hair of the Porsche.
“We got here too late,” said Fazio.
“When you went up to the car, were you able to tell whether it had just got there or had been there for a while?” Montalbano asked the youth.
Caruana answered at once.
“The engine was cold. I touched the hood to see.”
The nearest house was about three hundred yards away. Just to be thorough, they went to it.
But the peasant living there, a surly character who stank of stables, swore up and down that he hadn’t seen any car corresponding to the description Caruana gave him.
“I’m sorry I made you waste so much time,” Caruana said to Montalbano and Fazio, as he was leaving.
“No, you did exactly the right thing,” the inspector replied. “And if you happen to see that car again, call us immediately. Don’t worry about wasting our time.”
During the drive home, Fazio said:
“Di Carlo’s probably hiding out somewhere in the area.”
“And we can’t do anything about it,” Montalbano retorted. “There are no charges pending against him, and on top of that, his sister didn’t want to file a missing persons’ report. So set your heart at rest.”
* * *
When they got back to the station, Montalbano was assailed by Catarella.
“Ahh, Chief! Signor Pitruzzo call’ wantin’ a know if you was onna premisses an’ so I said you wasn’t. Then ’e wannit a know if I knew when you’s comin’ back an’ so I said I din’t know, insomuch as I din’t know.”
“And what did he say?”
“’E said ’at seein’ as how an’ considerin’ ’e cou’n’t talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson, he’s gonna write yiz a litter.”
Seeing as how and considering that he had nothing else left to do and it was late, Montalbano went home.
The first thing he did was to check and see what Adelina had made for him. Apparently his housekeeper had had a wave of inspiration.
There was a platter of seafood antipasti, enough for three people, and a big trayful of boiled jumbo shrimp, sheer essence of the sea, to be dressed with just olive oil, lemon, and salt.
The Overnight Kidnapper Page 9