A Beam of Light

by Andrea Camilleri

  Valeria laughed.

  “But what are you thinking! It was supposed to contain a small necklace. I wanted to surprise Loredana and have her discover it in the manager’s office at the supermarket.”

  “Why did you change your mind?”

  “Because I wanted nothing more to do with this Diego Croma, or Inspector Augello—I don’t even know what to call him anymore. Our friendship had taken an overly . . . well, intimate turn, and I decided to break things off.”

  Montalbano had been expecting this explanation. All that was left now was to make the third move, the decisive one.

  “Signora, we have information that the other evening, after midnight, you met with a man.”

  “I haven’t gone out at night for months.”

  “Signora, you should know that your telephones have been under surveillance for several days, and that—”

  Valeria swallowed this like a piece of candy.

  “Then I challenge you to let me hear the phone call in which I supposedly made an appointment with this hypothetical—”

  “I can’t let you hear it because you used your cleaning woman’s cell phone to make that call.”

  The shot was on the mark, but Valeria could take her hits like a pro and return fire at once.

  “You dreamed that up, it’s not true. Anyway, my cleaning woman would never admit it, not even under torture, even if it were true.”

  “I’m telling you we know with absolute certainty that you met with a man.”

  “Well, even if I did, I don’t think that’s a crime. I also met with the man who called himself Diego Croma. Isn’t that right, counsel?”

  “No, it’s not a crime. Not at all. But I’d like to ask you a question. Do you remember why you and the man you met were suddenly forced to interrupt your conversation at the rock quarry and hurry back to your respective cars?”

  “How could I possibly remember if I wasn’t there?”

  “Then allow me to refresh your memory. Someone nearby sneezed.”

  Valeria blanched. Fazio and Augello looked at each other in confusion. Montalbano continued.

  “That someone was me. I sneezed fourteen times in a row. Would you like to hear me?”

  He pulled the recorder out of his pocket and set it on the desk, then opened a drawer and withdrew the headset, which he offered to Valeria.

  “Before the series of sneezes you’ll also be able to hear, in this recording, your entire conversation with the man. You wanted the pistol with which the man murdered Carmelo Savastano, in accordance with the plan you devised, so you could put it in a box and have the here-present Inspector Augello hide it in the management office of the supermarket. Once it was found, Signor di Marta would most certainly have been convicted.”

  Valeria didn’t move. She’d become a statue of white plaster. A mildly quaking statue, that is.

  “Naturally,” the inspector continued, “we’ve identified the man. His name is Rosario Lauricella, your half-brother and Loredana di Marta’s lover. You generously lent them the use of a room in your house for their thrice-weekly appointments. And it was in this room that the phony rape of Loredana was performed.”

  Valeria was like a bowstring tensed to the point of spasm. The inspector decided to let her spring.

  “But you know what? Rosario lied to you. He told you he’d got rid of the gun by throwing it into the sea, but in fact this wasn’t true. We found it at his home a couple of hours ago, when we went to arrest him. In the face of such obvious and overwhelming proof, he broke down and confessed. He said it was you who organized everything. And therefore I here—”

  He was unable to finish his sentence.

  Valeria leapt up from her chair and tried to scratch his face, wielding her fingers like claws. Montalbano stepped aside as Fazio and Augello grabbed her on the fly.

  “That stupid asshole! That imbecile! I told him to give me the pistol! But all the guy knows how to do is kill and fuck! And now he’s screwed us all!”

  She was blindly kicking the air like a mule.

  Mimì was put out of commission by a kick in the giggleberries.

  Hearing all the racket, Gallo and another cop came running and finally managed to restrain the young woman.

  They took her into a holding cell foaming at the mouth, cursing like a demon in hell and accusing Loredana of having organized the whole plot.

  Fazio, Augello, and Montalbano himself took a good fifteen minutes to put his office back in order after it had been turned upside down by Valeria’s fury.

  “Congratulations,” said Augello.

  “All the same,” said Fazio, “I can understand Loredana’s interests in this affair, and I can understand Rosario’s interests. What I can’t understand is what interest Valeria could have had in what they did.”

  “Me neither, as far as that goes,” said Augello.

  “Well, for one thing,” said Montalbano, “there’s a financial interest. With di Marta convicted, Loredana would have become practically the sole heir of his wealth. And she would have richly rewarded her bosom friend for organizing the brilliant scheme to liberate her from her husband, making her rich and freeing her up for a life of bliss with her lover. And I’m convinced that Valeria’s feeling of friendship for Loredana bordered on passionate love. She only hated di Marta because he’d nabbed Loredana by buying her. She knew that Loredana was suffering with a husband so much older than her. She was ready to do anything just to make her happy. But I don’t think she’ll ever confess to these things.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Fazio, “when should we put the confession down on record?”

  “Go and talk to her right now,” said Montalbano. “You go, too, Mimì. If we leave her too much time to calm down and start thinking, she’s likely to deal from a different deck. Then you, Mimì, go to Tommaseo, give him the written confession, and get him to give you an arrest warrant for Loredana and another for Rosario Lauricella.”

  “Montereale’s not in our jurisdiction,” Augello pointed out.

  “Then pass it on to the Flying Squad or the Catturandi. See what Tommaseo tells you.”

  Fazio and Augello left. The inspector looked at his watch. Five-thirty. A record.

  What was Marian doing at that moment?

  He waited until nine o’clock, feeling more and more agitated. Why was there no word from Mimì or Fazio? And what if in the meanwhile Marian had tried to call him at home and hadn’t found him?

  Had Tommaseo perhaps put up some obstacle?

  The first to return was Augello.

  “Tommaseo was great. He didn’t waste a single minute. He issued the two arrest warrants immediately, and Fazio said he’d go and arrest Loredana himself. I lent the Flying Squad a hand.”

  “Did you catch Rosario?”

  “No. The general impression is that he’s gone into hiding.”

  “One possible explanation is that Valeria tipped him off with her cleaning lady’s cell phone, telling him she’d been called in to the station. The guy weighed his options and decided to take to his heels.”

  “He won’t be easy to catch,” said Augello. “As one of the Cuffaro gang, he’ll be protected.”

  “You really think so?”

  Fazio came in.

  “How’d it go with Loredana?”

  “I got her at the supermarket.”

  “Did she make a scene?”

  “Nah, among other reasons because I didn’t tell her I had a warrant for her arrest. All I said was that Prosecutor Tommaseo wanted to see her at once. She called the chief clerk, told her to close up when it was time, and then came quietly with me. I don’t think any of the customers noticed anything. But I had the impression that she herself was expecting it.”

  “Maybe Valeria told not only Rosario but her too about being called in by the police.”


  “It’s been a good day,” said Fazio.

  “Yes. And I thank you both. But now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna head home. It’s late.”

  18

  As he arrived in a flash outside his front door, he could hear the goddamned telephone ringing. He reached for the keys he usually kept in his left jacket pocket, but didn’t find them.

  The telephone stopped ringing.

  Cursing and sweating, he searched every pocket. Nothing.

  The telephone started ringing again.

  He opened the car door and looked inside. No keys. They must have fallen out of his pocket at the office, when he took out the audio recorder.

  He had an idea. He went down to the beach, circled round behind the house, climbed up onto the veranda, and pushed the French door. It was locked from the inside.

  The phone, as if to spite him, started ringing again.

  He raced back to the car, got inside, and headed back to Vigàta, driving as if he’d drunk a whole cask of wine. He very nearly had an accident and dodged four potentially violent encounters with enraged motorists before he pulled into the police parking lot. He got out, went in, and was blocked by Catarella.

  “Ah, Chief! Iss a good ting yer ’ere! Matre santa, I been tryin’ a ring yiz f’rever onna tiliphone!”

  “That was you who was calling?”

  “Yessir.”

  He heaved a sigh of relief. It hadn’t been Marian.

  “Why?”

  “Cuz I wannit t’inform yiz o’ the fack that ya forgat yer keys inni office.”

  “Wait a second, Cat. If you knew I forgot my keys, how could I have answered my phone?”

  “Sorry, Chief, bu’ how’z I asposta know ’at you wuz previnnit from ans’rin’ yer phone?”

  Montalbano gave up.

  “Okay, okay, just gimme the keys,” he said.

  Once inside, he promised himself that he wouldn’t go and see what Adelina had prepared for him before he had news from Marian.

  He went out on the veranda and sat down. It was already five minutes to ten. He decided to wait until ten, and if Marian hadn’t called by then, he would call her himself.

  At that very moment the phone rang. It was Livia. He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked her straight off.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Salvo, as I told you, I was in the grip of an oppressive, obscure anguish, an unbearable weight. Then, around six o’clock this evening, the anguish suddenly vanished.”

  “Finally!”

  “Wait. Then, immediately afterwards, a sort of resignation took its place, as if there was nothing more to be done about anything, as if what I’d been fearing had actually and irreversibly occurred. The whole thing was accompanied by a feeling of very painful emptiness that can never be filled. The same as when you’re in mourning. All I could do was cry. And I did nothing else. But crying gave me a kind of comfort.”

  “Naturally you didn’t go to the doctor’s, even though you promised me.”

  “I really don’t think there’s any need.”

  “Come on! With the condition you’re in and—”

  “Believe me, Salvo, I’ll get over this, I can feel it. With effort and pain, yes, but I will get over it. Now I have to go. I don’t feel like talking, it tires me out. All I want is to lie in bed. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

  In spite of everything, he felt reassured. There was a new note in Livia’s voice that lent hope.

  Now it was ten after ten. He was trembling with anticipation. Unable to wait any longer, he called Marian up on her cell phone.

  He was agitated and twice dialed the wrong number. On the third try he finally got it right.

  “My dear Inspector, I was about to call you myself.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  He realized he’d used the same words he had with Livia.

  “Pretty well, now. Really well. After the fright you gave me this morning . . .”

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “I’m not reproaching you, Salvo. On the contrary . . .”

  “Come on, tell me a little.”

  “Strazzeri is truly a lovely person. He made me feel reassured.”

  “Tell me everything in detail.”

  “After I called him up he was kind enough to come to my place. I told him the whole story, down to the last detail. He thought it over briefly and then said I should call Lariani and give him an ultimatum: Either he tells me something definitive by six p.m., or I drop everything.”

  “And what did Lariani say?”

  “He joked around a little, reproached me for being impatient, but then said he’d call me back at six.”

  “And did he?”

  “Yes. He gave me an appointment for tomorrow morning at eleven, at his place. He will show me the painting he says he’s found, but which according to Strazzeri he must have retrieved from whoever was secretly holding it.”

  “Did you inform Strazzeri?”

  “He was with me the whole time I was on the phone!”

  “So how did you leave things?”

  “Tomorrow morning at eleven I’m going alone to Lariani’s. If he shows me the right painting, that is, the doctored one, Strazzeri showed me what to do without arousing any suspicion: All I have to do is press the button on a paging device I’ll have in my pocket. And at that point the police will burst in. One of the officers’ jobs is to get me out of there.”

  “But how will they explain your presence there when the case comes to trial?”

  “In his report Strazzeri will write that I’m an undercover agent whose identity he’s not at liberty to reveal.”

  “Well, that’s excellent, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I think so too.”

  A second later, Montalbano was overcome by doubt.

  “Are you sure you’ll be able to deal with Lariani all by yourself?”

  “Of course I’ll be able, don’t worry.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little risky?”

  “Strazzeri and his men will be very close by. At the first sign of danger, all I have to do is press the button.”

  “Listen, as soon as they take you away, please send me a message on my cell phone.”

  “Okay, Salvo, but please don’t worry. I’ll be brave and determined, if only so I can get out of there. And thank you, dear Inspector, for saving me. But how did you come to realize that Lariani wasn’t what he appeared to be?”

  He told her about seeing the graffiti on the metal shutter.

  “And that Pedicini!” said Marian. “He seemed so respectable! And he was so clever in winning my trust! He must have spent a fortune!”

  “Apparently the painting you were supposed to bring him from Milan is worth a great deal more.”

  Marian, however, was already thinking of other things.

  “There’s a flight for Palermo tomorrow afternoon at five. Shall we have dinner together tomorrow night? Are you free?”

  “As a matter of fact, I think I am.”

  “I’m counting the hours, my dear Inspector. I’m so happy. And tomorrow evening I’ll be even happier. Does nine o’clock at your place sound okay?”

  “It sounds perfect.”

  “Promise to wait for me if I’m a little late?”

  “I promise.”

  When the phone call was over, he headed for the kitchen, singing the triumphal march from Aida. He decided to play a game. He would close his eyes and try to guess from the aroma what Adelina had made for him. The refrigerator smelled empty. When he opened the oven, his nostrils immediately filled with a breathtaking, twofold aroma. It didn’t take him long to tell the one from the other: tagliatelle al ragù and eg
gplant Parmesan. Could one really expect any more out of life?

  He ate on the veranda, taking his time because he wanted to watch the midnight news report. When he’d finished eating, he cleared the table, turned on the television, and sat down in the armchair with his cigarettes within reach. He watched a string of ads, after which the Free Channel’s news report logo came on the screen, and then Zito appeared.

  “We begin our report tonight with an item that came in right at the end of our ten o’clock report and which we were unable to present for lack of time. In the Savastano murder case, the investigating magistrate Antonio Grasso has failed to confirm the arrest of Salvatore di Marta, until now the prime suspect. We have also learned that Public Prosecutor Tommaseo will not appeal the decision, and as a result, di Marta was immediately released. The prosecutor, however, was keen to point out that di Marta remains nevertheless under investigation. But it’s clear at this point that if subsequent investigation does not yield any solid evidence of di Marta’s guilt, all charges will be dropped and the case will once again be in no-man’s-land.

  “We also have another important development to report, for which, however, we have not yet received any official confirmation. The word is that the hunt for the three immigrants that has gone on for several days has come to an at least partial conclusion. Apparently two of the three men have been arrested. They have thus far refused to answer any of the investigators’ questions, shutting themselves up behind a wall of silence. As to the fate of the third man, the one armed with a machine gun and believed to be wounded, we know nothing at this time. As soon as we have more verifiable information on this case, which thus far has seemed fairly murky to us, we will bring it at once to the attention of our viewing audience.

  “A fatal accident occurred this afternoon around four o’clock on the provincial road to . . .”

  He turned it off. So nobody knew yet that the Savastano murder investigation was over. Tommaseo had been shrewd to say that di Marta was still a suspect. It was clearly a move intended to let the fugitive Rosario relax a little, in the hope that he would make a false move.