Montalbano's First Case

by Andrea Camilleri

  “My wife called me to tell me that—”

  “Yeah, I had a long chat with Rosanna and she finally decided to come clean. She’s been stringing us along the whole time, that girl, and we played right into her hand.”

  For a moment he thought about his father, who had seen her for what she was: Don’t trust that woman.

  “But,” he continued, “I finally figured out how to get it out of her, and she couldn’t keep up the lies any longer.”

  Fazio was eager to know what had happened.

  “I’ll just give you the short version since we don’t have much time.”

  At the end of the inspector’s story, Fazio turned pale and looked confused. There were many questions he wanted to ask, but he decided to go with the one that interested him the most.

  “Are we sure Rosanna will make good on her promise to testify against Cusumano?”

  “She gave me her word.”

  Montalbano stepped outside the station and stood by the door. He immediately saw Representative Torrisi’s car pulling up. He rushed to open the door for him, sporting a joyful smile that almost split his face in two.

  “Representative Torrisi! How wonderful to see you again!”

  As he got out, Torrisi looked at him, perplexed by Montalbano’s joy. After all, he was a politician and a keen observer of human nature. However, this time he couldn’t tell whether Montalbano was just putting on a show or really meant what he was saying. He didn’t respond; better to see how the situation was going to evolve. The inspector, on the other hand, continued with his performance.

  “You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble, Your Honor! Honestly, it would have been a pleasure for me to come by your office!”

  As they walked inside, Montalbano, addressing nobody in particular, called out as loudly as he could, “Hold all my calls! I don’t want to be disturbed! I’m in a meeting with Representative Torrisi!”

  It was only when Montalbano insisted that Torrisi take his chair behind the desk—and he wouldn’t take no for an answer—that the representative was finally convinced that the inspector was not only a very friendly person, but also one that could easily be bought, and perhaps even at a very low price. So he decided to get right to the point. With a man like that, there was no sense in wasting any breath.

  “I came to talk to you about a regrettable matter, that I think we can solve with a little cooperation.”

  “With whose cooperation?”

  “With everyone’s cooperation,” Torrisi answered, feeling ecumenical, making a sweeping gesture with his right arm as if to include the entire world.

  “My dear Representative Torrisi, I’m all ears.”

  “I’ll get right to it then. I was told that the other night your men raided the home of a certain Antonio, better known as Ninì, Brucculeri. His house was searched, a weapon was found, and the man was brought here to the station. All of this, as far as I know, was done without any authorization, without a warrant.”

  “That’s true. But you see, he has a rap sheet as long as my arm and …”

  “But even criminals have rights. Someone with a rap sheet is still a human being like everyone else; he might have made some mistakes, but that doesn’t mean that anyone, including you, can treat him as if he were forever branded a criminal, devoid of dignity and without rights. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Perfectly,” the inspector said, clearly embarrassed, fiddling with his hands. “Do you have any idea how I can get out of this quagmire in which I find myself due to my … to my lack of experience?”

  Montalbano patted himself on the back. Quagmire! Where the hell did he pull that word from? And Torrisi also patted himself on the back; by now he was convinced he had the inspector in the palm of his hand.

  “I’m pleased to see that you’re an extremely reasonable man. Seeing as the search, the confiscation of the weapon, and Brucculeri’s arrest are not recorded anywhere—that is, there’s no paperwork—you can easily release him. In doing so, you will enjoy the tangible, I repeat, tangible, gratitude of people who are very influential in these parts. After all, you seem to have already realized that you acted outside of the law.”

  “Yes, I take full responsibility for that, you’re perfectly right. However, there’s still one thing I’m unclear on and maybe, since you’re a lawyer, you can help me with it.”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  “Should shooting at me, as Brucculeri did the other night, be considered attempted murder, or a simple message?”

  Representative Torrisi shook his head, still smiling.

  “Such harsh words! Attempted murder! Come on! You were in a car and you were …”

  “Stop right there, Your Honor. Who told you I was in a car? Maybe the other man who had dinner with Brucculeri at the restaurant?”

  Torrisi was confused. His smile was gone. That son of a bitch—first he acted like he wanted to help and then he led him into a trap!

  “Car or no car, it’s just a minor detail.”

  “That’s true.”

  Montalbano got up from his seat, walked over to the window, and started to look outside.

  “Well?” the representative said after a while.

  “I was thinking about how to settle this whole affair. You said there’s no paperwork, but that’s actually not true.”

  “What’s been written down?”

  “I sent the weapon we confiscated from Brucculeri and the bullet we found in my tire to Montelusa, to headquarters. There’s a written request with the name of the gun’s owner.”

  “That’s not good,” Torrisi commented.

  “There is a solution, though. You could convince Brucculeri to face the charges. You can defend him, saying he was drunk, that he was out of his mind, that it was a practical joke that got out of hand … That way, things end there without going any further.”

  Torrisi’s eyes suddenly became two narrow slits. His ears perked up like those of a cat that has heard a slight noise.

  “What do you mean, any further?”

  Embarrassed, the inspector, still standing next to the window, looked down at his shoes.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “Did you know that the telephone at the restaurant in Racalmuto, for a whole different reason, had been tapped a few months ago?”

  It was a colossal lie he made up on the spot, but Torrisi fell for it.

  “Shit!”

  He jumped out of his seat, red in the face, moments away from a heart attack.

  “So,” Montalbano continued, “the phone call Ninì Brucculeri made to Pino when he saw me at the restaurant—the one where Pino told him to kill me—was—”

  “Recorded!” the representative gasped, taken by an asthma attack.

  “This young man of yours is way too impulsive,” the inspector said, in an understanding tone. “He should be kept under strict surveillance by his father and grandfather, or he’ll wind up getting himself into trouble … Like what happened three years ago with that underage girl he raped. Some things can be fixed, but the story would be shameful and unbecoming of a family such as the Cuffaros.”

  A sudden gunshot in the room would have startled the representative less.

  “What did he do?” Representative Torrisi asked, loosening his tie and undoing his collar, his head turning into a red-and-purple bell pepper.

  “Didn’t you know?”

  “We … we didn’t know!”

  He had used the plural. Not even the family knew about their beloved Pino’s valiant deed, then.

  “The girl waited to tell anybody until she was of legal age,” Montalbano said. “The other day, she came to the station and told me she had been taken, kidnapped, brutally beaten, and raped repeatedly by Pino Cusumano exactly three days before he got married.”

  “Can he still be prosecuted for it?” Torrisi managed to articulate.

  “Aren’t you a lawyer? Of course he can still be prosecuted. Even if sh
e decides not to press charges, he’s still liable because she was a minor at the time.”

  “Did she file any charges?”

  “Not yet. It’s up to me. I’m trying to avoid publicly shaming the Cuffaros, but a member of such an honorable and respected family shouldn’t behave like a petty street thug! And the family’s enemies, and there are a lot of them, will certainly exploit this to their advantage. And then I was also thinking about the poor missus …”

  “What missus?” Torrisi said, completely bewildered.

  “What do you mean, what missus? The missus, Cusumano’s wife! The one who, for the last three years, hasn’t been able to reap the joys of the marital bed because her husband was arrested on the church steps! You said it yourself at the trial I witnessed, don’t you remember? You argued that Cusumano was speeding because, as soon as he was released from prison, he was rushing home to his young bride with whom he hadn’t been able to consummate …”

  “Yes, yes, I remember,” Torrisi interrupted.

  “That’s it, then! I told myself that if that poor woman were to learn that her husband, just three days before their wedding, had decided to celebrate his bachelor party by raping a fifteen-year-old … She might not take it so well; she might run off, she might cause a scene … It would be the end of a family! How could I? How could I?” the inspector said aggrievedly, pressing his fists against his forehead.

  The act he was putting on came easily to him.

  “What do you mean, how could you?” the representative asked.

  “Don’t you understand? When the girl came here to tell me what she went through, I asked one of my men to discreetly find Cusumano and arrange a meeting. I wanted to hear his side of the story, you know? But in return for my respectful actions, Cusumano ordered Brucculeri to shoot me! Why would he do that? What kind of attitude is that? The only explanation I can come up with is that he lost his head as soon as he realized I was investigating the rape. If the rape story were to come to light, Cusumano would prefer to face the law rather than his family. He wanted me to keep quiet. There’s no other explanation. And his outrageous actions show how unreliable he is, and even how irresponsible he is. Maybe, for the sake of the family, it’s best he remains in prison, without causing any more trouble.”

  “Fine, fine. What are you planning on doing?” Torrisi asked, sounding serious.

  He understood the inspector’s intentions now: He was going to screw Pino over and there was no way to stop him.

  “Me?” Montalbano asked, all innocence. “I don’t plan on doing anything. The best I can do is give you a choice. I’m not going to pile them up; do I make myself clear? Either attempted murder, or rape. One or the other. And that’s already doing a lot. I’ll let you decide.” He looked at his watch. It was six o’clock. “But you have to let me know by eight thirty this evening. As you rightly pointed out, I have been acting outside the law. And so you can understand my urgency to return within its boundaries. But let me make one thing clear. If Cusumano, when he admits to the attempted murder, concocts a story that allows you, the defense, to invoke too many mitigating circumstances, then I’ll bring the rape charges forward.”

  Torrisi raised his hand.

  “What is it?”

  “If there is to be no mention of your investigation concerning the rape, what reason would Cusumano have had in ordering Brucculeri to shoot you?”

  “That issue doesn’t concern me. You can make up whatever reason you want. It’ll have to be a very serious and important reason, though, because I want to see Cusumano …”

  “… locked up,” Torrisi concluded.

  There was nothing left to say. Montalbano opened the window.

  “I had better let in some fresh air. See you soon. It really was a pleasure.”

  He gave the man a cordial smile of dismissal and Torrisi, without saying a word, let himself out.

  Torrisi’s phone call came at eight twenty-five. Even Fazio, who by now knew everything, was waiting in the inspector’s office.

  “Inspector Montalbano? I wanted to inform you that Pino Cusumano is ready to admit he ordered Brucculeri to do what you know.”

  “Very well. Have him come down to the station immediately.”

  “Well, about that, there’s been a slight accident. Unfortunately, the poor boy fell down some stairs.”

  “Was he hurt?”

  “Well, a couple of broken ribs, a fractured nose, he can’t really move one leg

  … We had to call an ambulance.”

  “Where did they take him?”

  “To Montelusa, to Santo Spirito Hospital.”

  They both hung up at the same time. Montalbano turned to Fazio.

  “Did you hear that? The Cuffaros beat the crap out of their boy. He’s going to confess to my attempted murder. He was admitted to Santo Spirito Hospital. Give the headquarters in Montelusa a call and explain what happened. They’ll take care of Pino Cusumano.”

  “And where are you going, sir?”

  “I got hungry all of a sudden. I’m going to eat something. Oh, one more thing: when you get home tell Rosanna I kept my word. Pino will go to jail and there’ll be no need for her to testify. Give her my best.”

  “Will do,” Fazio said, dryly.

  “What? Is something wrong?”

  “What should we do about Rosanna’s revolver?”

  “We’ll write it up as if we found it on the street.”

  “And what should we tell Judge Rosato when he calls again?”

  “That Rosanna turned out to be a pathological liar, a crazy but harmless poor girl.”

  “And what should we do about Dr. Siracusa?”

  “He’ll resurface in a few days as soon as things settle down. And then you’ll pay him a visit to check on his gun collection. Then, as if by chance, you’ll discover the secret door. I’ll tell you all about it when the time comes. That way he’ll get what’s coming to him.”

  Fazio’s face turned even grimmer.

  “So, case closed, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But ignoring all the rules, right, sir?”

  “That’s the same thing Torrisi said—you’re in good company there.”

  “Sir, you’re trying to offend me. Your testy disposition can only mean one thing: you’re feeling guilty.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Sir, we acted like we were in one of those American movies where the sheriff does whatever the hell he wants because, in those parts, everybody follows their own law. But around here we have rules that …”

  “I’m well aware that we have rules! But do you want to know what your rules are like? They’re like the wool sweater Aunt Concettina knitted for me.”

  Fazio looked at him, completely lost.

  “A sweater?”

  “Yes, sir. When I was fifteen, my aunt Concettina knitted me a wool sweater, but she didn’t know how to knit, so some parts were either too loose or too tight, one sleeve was longer than the other, and so on. So, in order to make it fit, I would pull it up on one side, tug it down on the other, tighten it here, and loosen it there. And you know why I could do it? Because the sweater was made of wool, not iron. Understand?”

  “Perfectly. So that’s how you see it?”

  “That’s how I see it.”

  He called Mery at around ten thirty. Montalbano was going to visit her the following Saturday. As they were about to say good-bye, he had an idea.

  “Ah, let me ask you something. I need to find a spot for an eighteen-year-old girl …”

  “What do you mean, ‘find a spot’?”

  “Well, like as a waitress maybe, or as a custodian or a babysitter … She’s clean, pretty, which never hurts, she’s been working since she was little, and everybody she’s worked for has only nice things to say about her.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I’m serious.”

  “She doesn’t have any family in Vigata?”

  “Nobody.”

  �
�How come?”

  “I’ll tell you the whole story when I get there.”

  “So she would be willing to live at her employer’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my God, that’s great! My mother has been desperately looking for someone … Just an hour ago she called to tell me she can’t manage anymore … Listen, on Saturday, when you come, why don’t you bring her with you?”

  He went out to the patio. The night was sweet, the moon was shining, and the waves rolled gently. There wasn’t a soul on the beach. He took off his clothes and ran into the sea for a swim.

  About the Author

  Andrea Camilleri was born in 1925 in Porto Empedocle, Sicily. He won the 2012 CWA International Dagger for The Potter's Field, translated by Stephen Sartarelli.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Originally published in Italy as La prima indagine di Montalbano

  Translated from Italian by Gianluca Rizzo and Dominic Siracusa

  Copyright © 2004 Arnoldo Mondadori Editore S.p.A., Milan, Italy

  English translation © 2013 Arnoldo Mondadori Editore S.p.A., Milan, Italy

  Cover design by Desanguine/Camusso

  Illustration by Andy Bridge

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