A Beam of Light

by Andrea Camilleri

  “And what’s that?”

  “Did you hear the news about a firefight between police and three foreigners?”

  “Yes. And I thought the same thing as you, that it might be the three men in Spiritu Santo.”

  “If I dare to ask Sposìto for a few details, the guy’s sure to cuss me out or refuse to answer. If, however, you could talk to a few of your colleagues . . .”

  “Got it. I’m on my way.”

  But he didn’t get out in time, because at that moment Mimì Augello walked in.

  13

  “I didn’t come in earlier because Catarella told me di Marta was with you. Not knowing whether I should enter or not, I figured it was best to stay away.”

  “You were right, Mimì.”

  “Want to hear how my dinner with La Bonifacio went?”

  “If it’s not a long story . . .”

  “It’s rather short, actually.”

  “Then have a seat and tell us,” said Montalbano.

  “For the first part of the evening, Valeria played the saint. She acted like she’d just come down from heaven, believe me. Demure, eyes lowered, high-necked blouse, skirt below the knee. She told me the story of her life, starting with elementary school. She told me how unhappy she was as a little girl because her father had a mistress who had a son from him. And so family life was one big quarrel. As she was recalling all this, she wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. She wanted me to believe that her husband had been, and continues to be, the only man in her life. That the months and months he’s away weigh heavy on her, yes, since she’s a girl with a healthy, indeed remarkable constitution, but her privations are compensated by the great love that holds them together like ivy—her exact words. In short, a crashing bore that continued until eleven o’clock.”

  “And what happened at eleven o’clock?”

  “Well, the television was on, and you, Salvo, appeared on the screen. Upon hearing the news of Savastano’s death, she changed completely, turned into a madwoman, screaming that the killer was surely Loredana’s husband. I tried to calm her down, but it only made things worse. She had a hysterical fit, broke a dish, tried to head-butt the wall, and so I had to take her by force into the bathroom, wash her face, and put her head under the shower. So she got all wet. She wanted to change clothes but was unable. Her hands were trembling too much and she couldn’t stand on her own two feet, so she was leaning against me. I was the one who had to take off her blouse and bra and put some dry clothes on her. And her skirt, too.”

  “But not her panties?”

  “No, those were dry.”

  “And then?” asked Montalbano and Fazio in unison.

  “Sorry, but I have to disappoint your piggish male expectations. She showed me the merchandise, real top-notch stuff, but I realized that it wasn’t for sale that evening. She told me she needed to go to bed, and so I kissed her hand like a true gentleman and left. I’m going to see her again this evening, and we’re having dinner together.”

  “And in conclusion?”

  “In conclusion, she’s a terrific actress. And a bitch on wheels. Cunning and dangerous. She put on a tragic scene with mastery. I’m sure she was intending to say something to me against di Marta, but your TV appearance fell out of the sky and she grabbed it on the fly and ran with it. She’s taking things step by step with me. Tonight we’ll see how far she goes. Speaking of which, Beba’s been grumbling that I’m never at home anymore. Don’t be an asshole this time: please tell her I’m on a job. How’d things go with di Marta?”

  “Badly, at least for him.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He doesn’t have a verifiable alibi for the night of the murder. And he’s got the motive. I’m going to talk with Tommaseo now, but the guy’s sure to issue a notice of investigation to di Marta. In fact, we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t have him arrested.”

  Arriving at the courthouse, he was told that Tommaseo was busy in court and would be tied up until one o’clock.

  He’d been stupid not to phone ahead and find out whether the prosecutor could see him.

  Since he had the time, he went to Montelusa Central to see how the phone taps were coming along. When he got to the basement he was told that for the case concerning him, he should go to booth 12B.

  Inside was a uniformed officer wearing headphones and doing a crossword puzzle. Two people could barely fit in the booth.

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

  “Officer De Nicola,” said the other, standing up.

  “At ease. At what time did you start the intercepts?”

  “Seven o’clock this morning.”

  They’d been quick about it, he couldn’t complain.

  “Have any calls been made?”

  “Yes. If you’d like to listen . . .”

  “Of course.”

  De Nicola sat him down beside him, gave him another headset, and pushed a button on a sort of computer. The policeman then listened to the recording again with him.

  “Hello?” said a woman’s voice.

  “Hey, Valè, how are you doing?”

  “Loredà, my angel, my darling, any news as to when they’ll decide to discharge you?”

  “Tomorrow for sure. My husband got called in to the police for questioning.”

  “Think they’ll arrest him?”

  “I don’t know how it’ll turn out, but it certainly doesn’t look good for him. Listen . . .”

  “I want to ask you . . . Everything okay?”

  “Are you referring to . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry, everything’s fine.”

  “Swear?”

  “I swear.”

  “Valè, I can’t take it anymore, I’m going crazy in this place, not being able to—”

  “Calm down, please. Don’t do anything stupid. Just be patient. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to make up for time lost.”

  “I have to go now. The doctor’s coming in.”

  Then there was another call to Valeria. A man’s voice, rather young-sounding.

  “Valè, iss me.”

  “You must be insane!”

  “Valè, just lissen to—”

  “No. And don’t call back unless I tell you to beforehand.”

  And Valeria hung up.

  “Can you tell me where that second call came from?”

  “From a cell phone connected to the Montereale network. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “Could I have a copy of that recording?”

  “What kind of recorder have you got?”

  Too complicated.

  “Actually, just get me a sheet of paper and I’ll write it all down. They’re not long conversations, after all.”

  “Technically any transcription is supposed to be authorized by the prosecutor,” said Officer De Nicola. “But I think I know a solution. Will you grant me permission to take a coffee break?”

  “By all means.”

  “Thanks. Here, use my headset. If you happen to hear a telephone ringing, first press this button, then this one. And you’ll find all the paper you need here, in this drawer.”

  Luckily there were no phone calls. Otherwise God only knows what kind of mayhem he would have unleashed.

  He went back to the courthouse, waited awhile, and was finally able to meet with the prosecutor.

  “But it’s ten past one! It’s time for—”

  “Sir, this is about that case with the two girls, remember?”

  Montalbano had touched his weak spot.

  “Of course I remember! Look, I’ll invite you to lunch. That way we can talk it over calmly.”

  Montalbano broke out in a cold sweat. God only knew what sucky sort of restaurant Tommaseo would take him to. The prosecutor was the kind of person capable of dining on wild
berries and dog meat.

  “All right,” said the inspector, resigned.

  Instead he ate a decent meal. He had no complaints, even though he was forced to talk while eating, contrary to habit.

  When they’d finished, they went back to Tommaseo’s office.

  “How do you intend to proceed?” asked Montalbano.

  “Given this di Marta’s hours, I’ll send two carabinieri to pick him up at the supermarket at four p.m. That way we can be sure to find him there. The carabinieri will give him time to find his lawyer, and then escort him, with his counsel, to my office.”

  Montalbano made a rather doubtful face, and Tommaseo noticed.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “If you send the carabinieri to the supermarket, someone will inform the press, the TV stations, and . . .”

  “So what?”

  “As you wish, sir. I simply wanted to warn you that the store will be under siege. Is my presence needed?”

  “If you’ve got other things to do . . .”

  “Then, with your permission, I won’t be there.”

  “Oh. Listen, Montalbano, when did you say di Marta’s beautiful wife will be discharged?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Then I’ll nab her tomorrow,” said Tommaseo, licking his lips like a cat at the thought of a mouse.

  It was three-thirty when he got back to headquarters. Fazio immediately joined him in his office.

  “I left the pistol with Forensics. They’re gonna call me later with their answer.”

  “Did you talk to anyone in Counterterrorism?”

  “Yes. The team had been on the trail of our friends from Spiritu Santo for two days.”

  “So it was them?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And they were the ones who’d turned the ruined house into an arms depot? Was this confirmed?”

  “Yessir. Apparently they’d been involved in arms shipments to Tunisia for some time. They weren’t doing it for money, but because they oppose the current government and are planning a revolution. Sposìto’s orders were to arrest them but to avoid as much as possible any gunfire.”

  “So how did it turn into a shootout?”

  “The three men were hiding in a grotto, which the team had just passed in front of without noticing anything, when they heard a burst of machine-gun fire right behind them. They blindly fired back, but the three managed to escape.”

  “Are you telling me they only heard the machine-gun fire?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s possible it went off accidentally?”

  “That’s what they thought, too. They also told me that one of the three was definitely wounded. They found quite a lot of blood.”

  After Fazio left, the inspector started signing papers. He was planning to leave the office early and be back home in Marinella by eight at the latest. He wanted to avoid doing a replay of the previous evening. By now he was convinced that Marian had tried to call but he hadn’t been home.

  Fazio reappeared around six-thirty.

  “It doesn’t match.”

  “What doesn’t match?”

  “The rifling on the barrel of di Marta’s pistol doesn’t match the marks on the bullet extracted from Savastano’s head. He was shot with a pistol of the same caliber, a seven-sixty-five, just not di Marta’s.”

  This was a point in di Marta’s favor.

  “Does Tommaseo know this?”

  Fazio shrugged.

  “Dunno.”

  A little while later Augello came in to say good-bye.

  “Isn’t it a little early for dinner?”

  “First I have to go home and change.”

  “You gonna get all spiffed up?”

  “Of course. And douse myself in cologne.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “The cologne? Virilité.”

  “And are you still up to the promise of this cologne?”

  “I can’t complain.”

  He was about to get up and go out when the outside line rang. It was Zito.

  “Can I come by in about twenty minutes?”

  “What for?”

  “Will you grant me an interview?”

  “What about?”

  “Come on, you mean you don’t know?”

  “No. What happened?”

  “Tommaseo arrested di Marta.”

  Montalbano cursed, not about the arrest but because of the interview request.

  How could he say no to Zito, who had done him so many favors in the past? But that might very well cause him to get home late, and Marian . . .

  “All right, but try to get here as soon as you can.”

  He immediately called the prosecutor.

  “Dr. Tommaseo? Montalbano here. I heard that—”

  “Yes, the evidence is there, and it’s quite damning. If we let him run free, we risk tainting the evidence. And he might even harm his wife again.”

  “You should know that Forensics checked the pistol I confiscated from di Marta and they didn’t—”

  “Yes, I know, they let me know during the interrogation. But that doesn’t change the overall picture.”

  “Let’s make this snappy, so I can air it on the nine-thirty news broadcast,” said Zito, coming in with a cameraman.

  “And if you can manage to be out of here in fifteen minutes I’ll kiss you on the forehead.”

  Five minutes later they were ready.

  “Inspector Montalbano, thank you for being so kind as to talk with us. So now we have Carmelo Savastano’s killer. My compliments to Prosecutor Tommaseo and yourself. You moved quickly.”

  “First of all, I’d like to make clear that neither I nor Prosecutor Tommaseo believe that it was di Marta who physically carried out the killing. If anything, he was the instigator.”

  “Prosecutor Tommaseo told us that revenge was the motive. But he wouldn’t say any more than that.”

  “If Prosecutor Tommaseo limited himself to saying only that, then it’s certainly not up to me to add anything.”

  “But was that the only motive?”

  “If that’s what the prosecutor said . . .”

  “People are whispering that di Marta had Savastano killed out of jealousy.”

  “I have no comment on that.”

  “Have you questioned Salvatore di Marta’s wife, who is presently in the hospital due to a fall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell us whether Signora di Marta—”

  “No.”

  “But do you have material evidence against her husband?”

  “Not yet, but we have strong circumstantial evidence.”

  “Is it true that you confiscated a handgun belonging to di Marta?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s been said that your Forensics department, after examining it, has ruled it out as the murder weapon. Can you confirm or deny this?”

  “I can confirm it. It was not the murder weapon. Just the same, I would like to point out that we consider di Marta the instigator of the crime, and therefore the fact that his pistol was not the one used in the killing is irrelevant.”

  “So the investigation to find the material executor of the crime is still ongoing?”

  “Of course. But it involves two persons.”

  “Thank you, Inspector Montalbano.”

  When Zito and his cameraman left the office, Montalbano looked at his watch. Past eight-thirty. But there was one more thing he had to do, and he thought it was important.

  He called Augello on the cell.

  “Where are you?”

  “In my car. I’m on my way to Valeria’s.”

  “Did you know that Tommaseo had di Marta arrested?”

  “Yes. I heard it on the eight
o’clock news.”

  “I wanted to let you know that at nine-thirty there’s an interview with me on the Free Channel. I want you to observe how Valeria reacts this time.”

  “No problem. She always has the TV on.”

  He dashed to the car and sped home.

  As he was opening the door he heard the phone ringing. But he managed to pick up the receiver in time.

  “Hello?” he said, out of breath.

  “Ciao, Inspector. Been running?”

  He heard bells chiming, birds singing, guitars playing, fireworks popping in his head.

  A deafening uproar.

  “Yeah. I just got in. I want . . . I want everything from you, immediately.”

  Marian giggled.

  “Gladly, but how?”

  “No, I’m sorry, what were you thinking? I meant I want you to give me all your telephone numbers.”

  “Don’t you already have them?”

  “No, and I keep forgetting every time to . . .”

  “Okay. Let me give you my cell phone and my parents’ number.”

  He jotted these down on a piece of paper.

  “Why didn’t you call me last night?”

  “I’ll tell you later. It was a stupid idea I had that turned out to be wrong.”

  “Could you be a little clearer?”

  “I was just on my way out. Can I call you around midnight?”

  “Of course.”

  “Until then, Inspector.”

  He suddenly felt hungrier than a wolf on the Siberian steppes.

  With a kind of inner howl, he set out in search of his quarry—that is, whatever it was that Adelina had cooked for him. He yanked the refrigerator open with such force that the door nearly came off in his hand.

  Hymns of thanksgiving were the only fitting tribute that could be paid to what he found—two dishes like two Van Gogh suns shining with their own light: risotto with artichokes and peas for the first course, and fresh young tuna in tomato sauce as the second.

  As the dishes were warming up, he went and opened the French door to the veranda. He was surprised to see that it had started raining lightly, in what Sicilians call a peasant-drenching drizzle. But it wasn’t at all cold, so he could eat outside.