* * *
—
The front door at Via La Marmora was open. Inside the doorman’s booth was a shabbily dressed woman of about sixty who, as soon as she saw them, sprang to her feet and came towards them.
“You’re with the police, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Montalbano.
“Oh my Gah, whatta fright! My Gah, my Gah, my Gah! It was just awful! I nearly got a heart attack!” shouted the woman.
Two or three people walking by on the street stopped to see what was happening.
Montalbano took a deep breath and, bringing his mouth almost right up to the woman’s left ear, he howled: “What flooooor?”
The shout did the trick. The woman calmed down enough to say: “Third floor. But the elevator don’t work.”
“What’s your name, signora?” Augello asked as they started climbing the stairs.
“Giusippina Voloi.”
The whole way up the stairs the woman never stopped crying and shrieking.
“My Gah, why! Why do these terrible things always happen to me? Why’s the Lord always put me through these ordeals? An’ just the other day, my brother-in-law slipped an’ fell, an’ last week my sister broke her arm, an’ now ragioniere Catalanotti has to go an’ get killed so that I’m the one that finds him . . .”
Montalbano went up to the lady’s ear again and said: “Oooopen up, pleeeease!!!”
The woman looked at him and shook her head.
“See wha’s happenin’ to me? I left my keys inside. So what are we gonna do now? Ah, I’m such a wreck!”
Montalbano cursed.
The woman fell silent.
“Mimì, see if you can find the building superintendent, who should have an extra key.”
“Of course he’s got one! An’ you’ll definitely find Bruno in the bar next door.”
Mimì ran downstairs in a flurry, and Montalbano sat down on a stair and gestured to the woman to come and sit beside him.
According to the good cop’s manual, this would be the right moment to ask the cleaning lady a whole slew of questions. But he didn’t feel up to it, because he was sure he wouldn’t be able to stand the woman’s whiny, shrill, quavering voice.
And so he just sat there in silence, smoking a cigarette. Then, since the woman wouldn’t stop whimpering without managing to say a word, he sprang to his feet, went down one flight of stairs, and sat down on the same step, but one floor below.
He’d barely taken three drags when Mimì returned, triumphantly holding the keys in view. And so, by the grace of God, they were able to enter the apartment.
“Over here, over here,” said Giusippina, “he’s in the bedroom.”
One look was all it took for Mimì Augello to have to lean against the wall for support, so great was his surprise. Even though the previous night he’d barely gotten a glimpse of the corpse, he felt as if he was now seeing an exact copy of it.
The dead man was all dressed up, in jacket and tie, wearing shiny shoes and a handkerchief in his breast pocket.
If not for the handle of the dagger-shaped letter opener sticking out of his chest near the heart, he could have simply been a well-dressed gentleman resting for a moment on his bed before heading off to a wedding or a baptism.
As Montalbano was bending down to look at the dead man’s face, Mimì went up to him and whispered: “He looks to me like a spitting image of our cadaver.”
The dead man was about fifty years old and well shaven, with his eyes closed in such a way that he appeared to be sleeping. His face was handsome and untroubled, and he looked as if he was having a wonderful dream.
Montalbano noticed at once that there was too little blood on the man’s shirt and jacket, which seemed rather strange to him.
He turned to Augello.
“Mimì, give Fazio a ring. Tell him to blow off the fucking demo and come here. Then summon the circus.”
As Mimì was leaving, Montalbano noticed that Giusippina was no longer in the room. But he could hear her whimpering in the distance. Following the sound of her voice, he came to a bathroom.
He was immediately assailed by a cloud of scent so sickly sweet and piercing that he started sneezing. Giusippina had not only drowned herself in perfume, but was now, between whimpers, in the process of dolling herself up.
Seeing him enter, the woman excused herself.
“My dear Inspector, now that the newsmen and cameramen are gonna be here shortly . . . a woman’s gotta present herself in the proper fashion. Just think, a little while ago my cousin saw her picture in the newspapers after a terrible car accident that killed two people, and there she was, poor thing, passing by, looking like somebody’s maid!”
“I understand,” said the inspector. “Listen, I need to ask you a few questions. Where can we go to talk?”
“In the living room. Just follow me.”
“First of all,” Montalbano began, sitting down on the couch, “I would like to know the dead man’s first and last names, age, and profession.”
At the sound of the words “dead man,” Giusippina resumed her irritating litany of whimpers, but Montalbano interrupted her at once, among other reasons because an overpowering scent of perfume had filled the room and he could barely breathe.
“That’s enough!” he shouted.
The woman fell immediately silent, then said, all in one breath: “Carmelo Catalanotti, born and raised in Vigàta, about fifty years old, let’s say, and profession . . .”
The woman fell silent.
“Profession . . . ?” Montalbano repeated.
“Well, that’s just it, Inspector. He didn’t really seem to do anything. Round about ten o’clock in the morning he would go down to the Café Bonifacio and sit at a table. He would stay there till twelve-thirty or so, then come home an’ eat whatever I made for him, an’ which he always complimented, an’ then he would nap for a couple of hours, an’ afterwards he would go out, an’ after that I have no idea what he did. An’ sometimes he would go away for a few days.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“No, sir, I don’t, and I’m no busybody.”
“But,” said Montalbano, feeling a little awkward, “how did he make his living?”
“I know he had a few properties an’ maybe, just maybe,” the woman ventured, “he did some kind of trafficking.”
“Please be more precise.”
“But . . . I don’t know what to say. When he was at the café, always at the same table, every so often somebody would come up to him, sit down an’ talk to him, an’ then leave. Then somebody else would arrive, they’d talk an’ talk for a while, an’ then that person would leave, too.”
“But how do you know this if you worked only part-time? What did you do, follow him into the café?”
“No, Inspector, it was my cousin Amalia who told me all this. She’s got a little bakery right in front of the Café Bonifacio.”
“Was he married?”
“No, sir. His mother and father are dead, an’ he didn’t have any brothers or sisters.”
“Did he have a girlfriend?”
“Not even.”
“But did he bring any women home with him?”
“That he certainly did. I never met any of the sluts, but the next morning I always realized that they’d been there, from all the wet towels. An’ sometimes they’d forget, I dunno, a lipstick, or another time, a pair of panties . . .”
“Okay, okay,” said Montalbano, cutting her off. “What was he like personally? What kind of character?”
“He was sweet as honey, Inspector. But, sometimes, when he got mad, he became a little devil. It was scary.”
Mimì returned.
“I’ve alerted everyone. And Fazio’s on his way. Have you finished with the signora?”
“Yes,” sa
id Montalbano.
“So what do you say we go and have some coffee while waiting for the circus?”
“Good idea,” said the inspector. Then, turning to Giusippina: “You, however, mustn’t move from here.”
“So who’s goin’ anywhere? I’m supposed to be watchin’ the place,” said the woman, adjusting her hair in front of a mirror.
The men started down the stairs, but while descending the last flight they heard some animated shouting.
“What’s going on?” asked the inspector.
“You wait here. I’ll go and see,” replied Mimì.
He returned almost immediately.
“The entrance hall is full of people. Apparently the doorman spread the word. We’d better not let them see us.”
They went back to the apartment and knocked on the door. Giusippina opened up.
“Hey! Why’d you come back?”
Montalbano didn’t answer the question but merely asked: “Giusippì, think you could make us some coffee?”
“Sure! No trouble at all! An’ I make damn good coffee, too! C’mon in!”
They sat down in the living room. Augello leaned over to the inspector with a conspiratorial air and asked softly:
“So what do we do now?”
“What do we do? We wait for our coffee and the circus to arrive.”
“No!” Augello retorted. “I was referring to our cadaver.”
“Man, what a pain in the ass! Anyway, what do you mean ‘our cadaver’? You discovered him, and you can keep him. He’s all yours!”
“So much for friendship!”
Giusippina came in with the coffee. She set two cups down on the coffee table and went back out.
Montalbano took a first sip and literally spit it out onto the carpet.
“This is just hot piss!” he exclaimed.
Mimì merely started drinking his calmly. Then he clicked his tongue and said: “Tastes fine to me.”
Montalbano didn’t have time to reply before there was some loud knocking at the door.
“Open up! Police!”
Mimì got up to open the door, with Giusippina following behind. Montalbano, too, had stood up and now saw a woman he didn’t know coming towards him.
She was about thirty years old, tall and slender, with tight, curly hair cut short. Her eyes looked like two long fissures arising from a perfect nose. As soon as he saw her, the inspector felt a sort of shooting pain in his stomach.
“You’re Montalbano, aren’t you?” she said to him, holding her hand out. “I’m Antonia Nicoletti, chief of Forensics.”
“Since when?” the inspector asked, feeling a bit tongue-tied.
“Since last week.”
Meanwhile, Mimì, who’d led his just-arrived colleagues into the bedroom, returned in a hurry to introduce himself to Antonia.
“I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting you. I’m Inspector Augello, my compliments.” And as he was saying this, he gallantly took the woman’s hand and kissed it. Then he said: “May I have the honor of showing you into the other room?” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
Antonia didn’t move.
She looked at Montalbano with her two green fissures and said: “Aren’t you coming?”
“No, I’d rather wait here. I’d just get in the way.”
Only then did she remove Mimì’s arm from her shoulder and say: “Okay, let’s go.”
* * *
—
The doorbell rang, and this time Montalbano went to open. Before him stood Dr. Pasquano.
“You’re a little late.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the forensics team are already here and working, so you’ll have to wait. If you like you can come into the living room with me and drink some excellent coffee.”
“Sure, why not?” said Pasquano.
Montalbano led the way and then went into the kitchen, where Giusippina was. When he returned, he saw the doctor sitting in a chair and fussing about.
Pasquano was holding a medical bag, which he set down on his lap, opened up, and started searching, fumbling through scalpels, scissors, gauze, and various medications before finally pulling out a small, waxed-paper bag from which he extracted a totally squashed cannolo. He didn’t lose heart, however, and, maneuvering with one finger, restored it to its original form.
He then brought the finger to his lips and licked it. “Would you believe I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning?”
“No,” said Montalbano.
3
The doctor did not retort, but only finished eating his cannolo and then, looking at Montalbano, asked: “Why is it you haven’t told me anything yet about this corpse?”
“Because I feel a little uneasy about it,” the inspector confessed. “There’s something that doesn’t add up.”
“Explain.”
“I’d rather you have a look at him first.”
“How was he killed?” asked Pasquano.
“Stabbed in the heart with a letter opener shaped like a dagger. Or so it seems. Only the handle of the weapon is sticking out.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that it’s exactly like a drawing in a horror comic. The dead guy’s lying there, all dressed up, in jacket and tie, even shoes. We realize he’s dead only because he’s got a blade stuck into his heart, otherwise he looks merely asleep. So my impression is one of, well, fakery. Theater.”
Antonia appeared in the doorway.
“Ah, Dr. Pasquano. You’re already here? If you want, you can get to work now.”
Pasquano wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, grabbed his medical bag, and went out.
Antonia sat down in the chair the doctor had vacated.
“No coffee for me?”
Montalbano sprang to his feet, went into the kitchen, told Giusippina to make more coffee, and returned in a jiffy.
When he sat back down, he moved his chair a little closer to Antonia.
“Why aren’t you in the other room with your men?” she asked.
“They know perfectly well what they need to do. As soon as they’re done taking pictures and looking around, we’ll pack up and go.”
She waited a moment and then said: “In my opinion, this case is going to be a tough nut for you to crack.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something about it that doesn’t seem to make sense.”
I agree, thought Montalbano. But he said: “Namely?”
“I don’t know, I just have this impression that it’s faked. As if it was staged.”
Giusippina, preceded by the sickly sweet scent of her perfume, set a cup of coffee down in front of Antonia, who started sipping it.
“Where were you working before you came here?” the inspector asked.
“In Calabria.”
“And was your transfer to Vigàta a promotion or a punishment?”
“A layover.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I wasn’t getting along with my colleagues, and so they found a temporary solution for me. I’ll soon be going to Ancona. But it’s a long story . . .”
“Feel like telling it to me over dinner?” asked Montalbano, not believing what he’d just said.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t go out to dinner with strangers.”
“But I’m not a stranger, I’m a colleague!” Montalbano insisted.
“Then I’m sorry, but I don’t go out to dinner with colleagues.”
Montalbano didn’t know what else to say.
At that moment Pasquano returned.
“At first glance, I have to say I feel like I’m in a ’Murcan movie. It looks like the man was killed by a stab wound to the heart, but appearances are often deceptive.”
“But when, in your opinion, was he killed?”
Pasquano opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. He shook his head.
“I can’t say anything before the autopsy.”
He took his leave of Antonia with a bow, and was about to go out when Augello suddenly appeared in the doorway. The doctor pushed him aside with a thrust of the shoulder and continued on his way without even saying hello.
Augello gave him a dirty look, but then his expression changed at the sight of the girl. Putting on his best smile, he said: “Antonia, your men are asking for you. They’ve finished.”
She stood up and headed for the bedroom.
Mimì didn’t take his eyes off her, then came over to Montalbano and, without saying a word, patted him twice on the shoulder.
“Let’s hope a rash of killings breaks out in Vigàta, so we get to see this Antonia more often,” he said, smiling.
Montalbano bristled at these words.
“No need for any ‘rash,’ Mimì. All we need is for someone to find your cadaver in order to see her again.”
Mimì quickly deflated and dropped heavily into a chair.
Montalbano stood up.
“I’m going back to the station. You wait here until the prosecutor arrives, whenever he decides to come. Give my regards to Antonia.”
He went out of the apartment and was standing on the landing, waiting for the elevator, which was working again, when the door opened and Fazio appeared before him.
“Go into the apartment and have a look at the body.”
“Will you wait for me?”
“No.”
He got into the elevator and went down.
In the entrance hall, he found himself facing some forty-odd people—newsmen, rubberneckers, photographers, and TV cameramen—making a tremendous racket.
“What happened?”
“How was he killed?”
“Have you found any clues?”
Montalbano shook his arms in the air, then used them to carve a path through the crowd and finally walked away without answering any of their questions.
The Sicilian Method Page 3