“Why not?” Augello cut in. “Just because Guttadauro said it wasn’t? He was probably just pulling your leg.”
Montalbano shook his head pensively.
“No,” he said at last. “I’m convinced Guttadauro was sincere.”
“And so?”
The inspector remained silent. Then he stood up and, with his eyes looking past everyone in the room at some faraway point in space, he went over to the window, came back, sat down, and finally declared in a calm voice to the two men looking at him in puzzlement:
“Guys, I’ve figured it all out.”
“Well, if you feel like letting us in on it too . . .” said Mimì.
“Let me start with a disclaimer. The reconstruction I am about to present has no evidence whatsoever to back it up, only logic. And it begins with my sincere belief that after Loredana married di Marta, Carmelo Savastano kept on bothering the girl, but she said nothing to her husband, fearing his reaction.”
“You mean he wanted to sleep with her?” Mimì asked.
“Maybe. Or, more precisely, he wished. But I’m convinced that he mostly blackmailed her into giving him money. In all likelihood he never turned over all the footage he’d filmed. Remember when di Marta told us that at one point he wanted her to prostitute herself with somebody? Maybe it really happened, and Savastano caught it on film. And naturally Valeria, her bosom friend, would know all about this. Every so often, Rosario Lauricella, Valeria’s half-brother, comes to see her, and sometimes Loredana’s there. And Rosario and the girl end up falling in love and become lovers. Valeria makes a room available to them, and the two get together on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. At a certain point, however, Rosario finds out about Loredana’s situation with Savastano. And I think it was Valeria who told him.”
“Why Valeria?” asked Fazio.
“Because I consider her the smartest of them all, and I think that she already had her plan in mind when she spoke with her brother. Which was to free herself, in one fell swoop, of both Savastano and di Marta. Before putting her plan into effect, Valeria takes the precaution of making it look like she’s had a falling-out with Rosario. She appears to have broken off all relations with him. And she’s so careful that, knowing he works for the Cuffaros, she uses her cleaning lady’s cell phone when she needs to talk to him.”
“Didn’t I tell you the girl was a master?” said Mimì.
“So, to come to the point, on the evening when Loredana goes to Valeria’s house and tells her she has sixteen thousand euros in her purse, Valeria calls her cleaning lady and tells her to call Rosario and tell him to go to Via Palermo at once. Rosario drives off from Montereale, leaves the car nearby, and goes a short distance on foot, making sure nobody sees him. At that moment his only assignment is to grab the money and have rough sex with Loredana, leaving visible marks on her body. You know the rest. The upshot is that we all end up thinking that Savastano was somehow involved, especially di Marta, who will thus become the prime suspect in a murder that has yet to happen.”
“Okay, now to part two,” said Mimì.
“When Loredana informs Valeria that she’s told her husband her attacker was Savastano, Valeria contacts Rosario, who’s surely been having Savastano followed for some time. Rosario, together with an accomplice, lies in wait for Savastano outside the gambling joint he often frequents, they kidnap him, take him out to the country, shoot him, and set the car on fire. They want to make it look like a Mafia hit, but this proves to be a miscalculation, since the Mafia make it clear they’re on the sidelines.”
“And what about the famous package?” Augello asked.
“I’ll explain. Valeria realizes there’s no proof that di Marta did it. She needs to give us some, but it has to be bomb-proof proof. So she thinks of asking Rosario for the gun he used to kill Savastano, so she can wipe away the fingerprints, put it in a box, and give it to you, Mimì.”
“And what was I supposed to do with it?”
“Hide it somewhere in di Marta’s office in the supermarket and then send us an anonymous letter. Whereupon we would search the office and find it. Which would have screwed di Marta forever. But Rosario isn’t convinced, and on top of that, he says he threw the gun into the sea. Which I think is true. I don’t think he’s stupid enough to keep the gun.”
“Well, that’s a very fine novel you just recounted to us,” said Augello. “But how are we going to make it become a reality?”
“That is the question,” said Montalbano. “For the moment, at least, I haven’t the slightest idea. Let’s meet again later, because now, if you’ll allow me, I have a personal phone call to make.”
With Fazio and Mimì out of the office, he rang the central police headquarters of Milan and, after identifying himself, asked to speak with Deputy Commissioner Attilio Strazzeri. He and Strazzeri had long remained friends after their time at the academy together, and the inspector had once done him a big favor. He was now hoping Strazzeri still remembered.
“Hey, Salvo, what a pleasure! Long time no see! How are you?”
“Not too bad. And yourself?”
“Pretty good, thanks. You need something?”
“Attì, are you by any chance friends with the person in charge there of art theft, art forgeries, and stuff like that?”
“Very good friends, actually. More than a brother. I am he in the flesh.”
Montalbano heaved a sigh of relief. With Strazzeri he could speak openly.
17
“I want to know something about an art dealer, assuming you’ve heard of him. His name is Gianfranco Lariani.”
There was no answer.
“Hello?” said the inspector.
Not a breath at the other end. Overcome by a fit of separation anxiety, Montalbano started to panic and began yelling like a madman.
“Hello? Is anyone there? Hello!”
“What’s got into you?” said Strazzeri. “I’m right here.”
“Then why don’t you answer?”
“Because your question caught me by surprise.”
And what was so surprising about it?
“But do you know the man? Yes or no?”
“Listen, Salvo, write down this number. It’s my cell phone number. And call me back in five minutes.”
He wrote down the number. He felt a bit unsettled by Strazzeri’s strange reaction. Then he dialed the number.
“Montalbano here.”
“Sorry, Salvo, but there were some people in the room. Now I’m alone and can talk. Yes, I know Lariani. What did you want to know?”
“If he can be counted on.”
Strazzeri started laughing.
“Hell, yes! Absolutely! He was arrested some years ago and convicted. And he’s a repeat offender. His specialty is exporting stolen artworks.”
The entire world, with all its oceans and continents, and the men and beasts inhabiting them, came crashing down on Montalbano’s head. An ice-cold sweat covered him from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes. He wanted to speak but couldn’t.
“Hello? Are you there?” asked Strazzeri this time.
“Yes,” the inspector struggled to say. “And how . . . how does he do it?”
“How does he export them? By a variety of methods. The most brilliant one is using a double canvas. A canvas of decent, exportable value is used to cover the stolen canvas that is classified as part of the national cultural heritage.”
It was ninety-nine percent certain that the painting Lariani was going to turn over to Marian was rigged in this way. She, poor thing, completely unaware, would pay for it and take it to Pedicini, who would then load it on his boat, and that would be the last she’d ever see of him.
“We’ve been keeping an eye on him for a while,” Strazzeri continued. “We think he’s planning a major coup. He’s usually in cahoots with an accomplice whose job i
s to win the trust of a dealer, collector, or small-town gallerist, and then—”
“Pedicini?”
Dead silence. Menaced again by a fear of abandonment, the inspector started yelling desperately before Strazzeri spoke up.
“Oh, no you don’t! You’re not playing straight with me! My dear friend and colleague, you call me up after years of silence, and just like that you come out with the names of Lariani and Pedicini? I think you must have something important to tell me. I told you what you wanted to know, and now it’s your turn to speak.”
Montalbano weighed his options. In a flash he became convinced that the only way to get Marian out of this pickle was to have her collaborate with Strazzeri. In exchange he could ask his friend to keep her name out of this.
“And what if I bring you Lariani’s head on a platter?” he asked. “Think we can make a deal?”
“Speak,” replied Strazzeri.
He told him the whole story. They made an agreement. And in the end Strazzeri told him what he had to do.
He immediately rang Marian.
“Salvo, what’s wrong?” she asked in alarm.
“What’s wrong is that you were about to get mixed up in a great big scam. Lariani is a crook, he’s already done jail time.”
“Oh my God!”
“Now listen to me. I’m going to give you a telephone number. It’s for the office of Attilio Strazzeri, deputy police commissioner of the City of Milan, a trusted friend of mine. You must call him the minute you get off the phone with me and make yourself available to him. Got that?”
“But what will they do with me?”
Her voice was quavering; she was starting to cry.
“They won’t do anything with you. They’re not going to arrest you, and your name will be kept out of the whole thing, don’t worry. All you need to do is meet with Strazzeri and do what he asks you to do. I send you a kiss. Call him right now. And ring me tonight. Take down this number.”
He dictated it to her, had her repeat it back to him, then hung up. He felt a little better now.
He felt an overwhelming need to go outside and walk, to get over the fright he’d just had. But first he dropped into Fazio’s office.
“Summon Valeria Bonifacio for four-thirty this afternoon. And inform Augello. We’ll all meet back up in my office at four.”
He left his car in the parking lot and started walking randomly, with no precise destination. It occurred to him he’d never wandered about the streets in town like this at that hour of the morning. He stopped in front of the most elegant men’s clothing store in Vigàta. He needed a few shirts, but the prices on the ones displayed in the window chased him away.
All at once he found himself in front of the metal shutter of the gallery with the word “THIEVES!” written on it. He stared at it.
If not for that graffiti . . .
A municipal cop he knew pulled up beside him.
“You know what, Inspector? This morning we nabbed the guy who was going around mucking everything up with green spray paint.”
“Oh, yeah? And who was it?”
“Some poor bastard half out of his mind. His name is Ernesto Lo Vullo. He mucked up half the buildings in town, the façade of the church, the monument to the fallen . . .”
“And what are you going to do with him?”
“He’ll either have to pay a fine of three hundred and fifty euros or we’ll press charges and he’ll do a few days in the slammer. Where’s he going to find that kind of money? The guy’s a down-and-outer who’s panhandling half the time.”
Montalbano said good-bye to the beat cop and dashed into the town hall, asking directions for the office he wanted. Then, before the astonished, spellbound eyes of the clerk, he paid Ernesto Lo Vullo’s fine with a check, and then resumed his walk.
He stopped to look into the window of a store called Vigàta Elettronica. On display were various computers and things called iPods, iPads, and iPuds, as well as recorders that looked like cell phones.
As he was looking at the latter, he thought of a way to corner Valeria Bonifacio.
He went inside and bought one of the gadgets. The salesman wanted to explain how it worked, but Montalbano told him not to bother, since at any rate he wouldn’t have understood a thing even if the inventor himself explained it to him. He also told him he didn’t need the box, and he slipped the thing into his coat pocket along with the instruction booklet. He paid and decided it was time to go to the trattoria.
At Enzo’s he was sure he’d done the right thing, but until the whole case was wrapped up he couldn’t be sure of anything. He wanted to call Marian, but was afraid that his phone call would interrupt her at the wrong moment. He would have given the world to be beside her just then.
He came out of the restaurant at three, but didn’t feel like taking his usual walk along the jetty. He’d already walked enough, so he went back to the station.
Stopping in front of Catarella, he pulled out the recorder he’d bought.
“Do you know how to make this thing work?”
“Assolutely, Chief.”
“And what do you do to listen to the recording?”
“Y’either load it onna yer kapewter or eltz ya need ’eadphones, Chief.”
The salesman hadn’t said anything about headphones.
“Could you go and buy me a pair at the store called Vigàta Elettronica?”
Catarella looked at his watch.
“It’ll reopen in half a hour.”
“How much do they cost?”
“Toity euros oughter be anuff. I’ll get the best.”
“I want them by four-fifteen at the latest,” said Montalbano, giving him the money.
The meeting with Augello and Fazio started at four o’clock sharp. It was up to Montalbano to do the talking.
“Listen to me carefully. I’ve decided to set a trap for La Bonifacio. It’s our only chance to get her to betray herself. The trap will unfold in three separate moves. First move: Valeria gets here and finds me here with Fazio. I talk to her, and five minutes later we make the second move. Which is that you, Mimì, will knock and come in. And I’ll introduce you as Deputy Inspector Augello. We’ll talk about the package. She’ll say she wanted to surprise you and that the package was only to contain a little present. And at this point I’ll make the third move.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because in my opinion it’s better if you both react spontaneously.”
The office door flew open, striking the wall with a bomblike crash.
“My ’and slipped,” said an embarrassed Catarella, frozen in the doorway.
Fazio gave him a dirty look, while Montalbano glared at him in anger and Augello’s eyes shot lightning bolts at him.
Paralyzed by all these eyes, Catarella, who had a box in his hand, didn’t move.
“Come on in.”
“The he . . . he . . . he . . .”
“Put ’em on the desk and get out of here.”
Montalbano opened the box, pulled out the headset, tore off the cellophane wrapping, stuck the set in a drawer, and tossed the box into the wastebasket.
“It’s for the trap,” he explained.
“I want to know exactly when I’m supposed to enter,” said Augello.
“Mimì, as soon as Catarella tells us Valeria is here, you’re going to go into your office, count up to five hundred, and then come and knock at my door.”
The telephone rang.
“Chief, ’ere’d be a Signura Benefaccio onna premisses.”
“It’s her, she’s early,” said Montalbano.
Mimì got up and disappeared.
“Show her in.”
Valeria was in fine form. She was all spiffe
d up and made up and decked out, with a big smile on her face. But despite her efforts not to let it show, the anxiety over having been called in must have been eating away at her.
“Please sit down, signora,” said the inspector.
Valeria sat down at the edge of the chair, and smiled even at Fazio. Then she gave Montalbano a questioning glance, tilting her head slightly to one side. She was a picture of innocence personified.
“As perhaps you already know, since the investigating magistrate has failed to confirm the arrest of Salvatore di Marta, the public prosecutor has requested further investigation. Personally I don’t think there’s anything more to discover; it’s all pretty clear by now, but we still have to carry out our orders.”
Valeria visibly relaxed and settled more comfortably into her chair.
“I’ve already told you everything I had to say,” she said.
“I don’t doubt it. You’ve been honest and straightforward with me, and I shall do the same for you. You can answer my questions without fear.”
“Okay.”
“Do you know a lawyer by the name of Diego Croma?”
Valeria’s entire body shook, as if from an electric shock, but she quickly recovered.
“Yes, but I don’t see what that—”
With perfect timing, as if they’d rehearsed the scene all afternoon, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said the inspector.
Mimì Augello entered smiling. It was impressive to see just how much the expression on Valeria’s face changed. In an instant she became surly, dark, and suspicious, as she struggled to understand what the lawyer’s presence there might mean.
“Allow me to introduce Inspector Augello,” said Montalbano.
Valeria’s reaction took them all by surprise. She started smiling again.
“Hi. What need was there to present yourself under a false name? I would have liked you even if you were a cop.”
Mimì, confused, said nothing. Montalbano, in his head, couldn’t help but tip his hat to her. What a woman! What exceptional self-control! You really had to watch your step with someone like her.
“Could you please tell me what was supposed to be in the package you intended to give to Inspector Augello, and which he was supposed to hide in an unspecified place in turn?”
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