As he entered Catalanotti’s apartment, he called out loudly: “It’s me.”
Like a husband coming home after work.
There was no answer. He noticed a light was on in the study. He left the bottles in the kitchen and headed for the study.
Antonia was sitting at the desk with her glasses on, in front of some sheets of paper scattered across the desktop.
Montalbano bent down to kiss her on the lips, but she turned away and offered her cheek. Another go-round on the roller coaster!
“Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“I brought some caponata that’s—”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, cutting him off. Then: “Why are you so late?”
“I ran into Mimì Augello by chance and he made me waste a lot of time. Just think, he wanted to tell me—”
“Grab a chair and come over here beside me,” said Antonia, paying no attention to what he was telling her.
Montalbano obeyed.
“Find anything interesting?” he asked.
“Yes. And I’d like to talk about it with you.”
“Okay,” said the inspector, “but I need to drink something first. You want anything?”
“No.”
He went into the kitchen, uncorked the bottle of wine, looked longingly at the caponata, filled his glass, and brought it with him into the study.
As soon as he set it down on the desk, Antonia, without taking her eyes off what she was reading, reached out with one hand, grabbed the glass, and drank it down in one gulp.
Montalbano got back up and, without saying a word, went back into the kitchen with the empty glass and this time filled two.
The folder that Antonia opened for him contained a typewritten page that featured not, however, a series of questions and answers, but a sort of monologue instead. There was also a photograph of the full figure of a very thin man with a head that looked like a skull. On another sheet of paper, written in Catalanotti’s hand, were the words:
Hannibal D’Amico, municipal bailiff, particularly neurotic. When properly provoked, he reacts unpredictably and uncontrollably. Probably too dangerous to deal with.
On the bottom right, two initials: HD.
“I wonder what these two letters mean?” asked Antonia.
“Maybe they’re the initials of this Hannibal guy,” replied the inspector.
“But what need was there to write his initials if he’s got the whole name at the top?”
Montalbano recalled that he’d also seen initials in the documents he’d looked at the first time around. He stood up.
“Where are you going?” asked Antonia.
“I need to check something. I’ll be right back.”
He went into the bedroom and took out the two folders called “Maria” and “Giacomo,” respectively. They both had the same initials on the bottom right: DC, which clearly didn’t correspond with either of their names.
So what could it mean, then? Despite the fact that he hadn’t eaten, despite the continuous ups and downs of his ride on Antonia’s roller coaster, and despite, let’s admit it, his increasing age, a light came on in his brain again: DC: Dangerous Corner!
He dashed back into the study.
“Antonia, HD doesn’t stand for Hannibal D’Amico, but for Happy Days.”
“What days do you mean?”
“It’s the title of a play that Catalanotti produced.”
“Oh, of course! Beckett. And so?”
“So we have to check all the most recent audition reports bearing the letters DC, the show he was preparing: Dangerous Corner.”
“I don’t know it,” said Antonia.
“Let me tell you the plot,” said Montalbano.
And, thanks to the fact that he hadn’t given in and put on his new clothes but was wearing his normal trousers, he was able to pull out the sheet of paper on which he’d written his summary of the play. He began reading.
“What’s that you’re reading?”
“I wrote a sort of synopsis of it.”
Taking the sheet out of his hands, Antonia said: “I’d rather read it myself.”
Montalbano didn’t breathe a word.
14
Moments later, Antonia said: “So, what now?”
“Now we have to change our method.”
Without saying anything, Antonia stood up and grabbed a few folders. Montalbano took the rest and they went into the bedroom to put them all back and begin selecting all the others that bore the initials DC. This effort took them about half an hour. They returned to the study with a dozen folders under their arms.
Before starting to leaf through them, Antonia grabbed one of the two glasses and drank down the wine. Montalbano did the same. She then opened the first folder but then closed it almost at once and sat there, immobile, staring into space.
“What is it?” asked the inspector.
“Intermission,” she said. Then, without saying anything else, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
So, are you there? Straight from the still half-open moment?
The net had only one hole in it. Your entry?
There is no end to my shock, to my silencing it.
Listen
How fast your heart beats for me.
“Let’s get up.”
“Come on, please wait. Let’s just stay this way another two minutes.”
“No. We’ve wasted too much time. I’m going.”
Montalbano felt hurt. Or, rather, he wanted to feel hurt, but then told himself that the moments he was living were so wonderful that for no reason in the world would he ever ruin them with an unhappy word. And so he got up and followed her into the bathroom. They got dressed as best they could. Antonia took the first folder in hand and asked with a smile: “And now, Inspector, I await your orders. Tell me what this new method is.”
Montalbano kissed her and began to speak.
“I could be wrong, but I am more and more convinced that there is a close connection between Catalanotti’s murder and the production of Dangerous Corner. That’s why we’ve taken only the reports related to that play. We have to locate a dozen or so actors, or so-called, who were going to play the parts of characters in some way ambiguous or decidedly guilty of a crime.”
“Explain what you mean.”
“In my opinion, we should use Catalanotti’s observations as our guide, especially concerning two characters: Olwen, who turns out in the end to be the real killer, having committed the act during a sexual assault on her person; and Gordon, who, though married to Betty, is also in love with Martin. And I also wouldn’t exclude two minor but highly complex characters, Stanton and Betty herself.”
“What fun!” said Antonia. “I feel like I’m in some kind of Agatha Christie story: Call it ‘Death on the Stage.’”
Then, as she was reading one report, Antonia’s voice became fainter and fainter until it turned into a kind of murmur.
“What’s that?” asked Montalbano.
Antonia didn’t answer. The sheet of paper slipped out of her hand and onto the floor. Montalbano realized she had suddenly fallen asleep. And so he got up from the sofa, delicately took her almost in his arms, and laid her out comfortably. He sat down in one of the desk chairs and just stayed that way, staring at her, spellbound. Then he himself began to feel tired, laid one arm down on the desk, rested his forehead on it, and slowly drifted off to sleep.
* * *
—
They woke up to the ringing of Catalanotti’s alarm clock, which he’d last set at 6:45.
“What a shame!” said Antonia. “I was having a very revealing dream.”
“About the two of us?” the inspector asked, chuckling.
“What’s left to reveal about us? I was dreaming about �
�Death on the Stage.’”
“Whose death, Catalanotti’s?”
“No, no. Even though I’d never seen him in person, I’m sure the dead man wasn’t him, even though he was dressed like him.”
“So tell me about it, don’t be shy.”
“Okay, just five minutes. Then we really have to leave before the doorman opens the building.”
“Okay, promise.”
Antonia told him she’d dreamt of a small theater that was all gilded and upholstered in velvet, and on the stage was a closed casket. She’d immediately imagined she was about to witness a magician’s performance, but then the casket opened and a human form slowly began to take shape.
“But didn’t you already say that there was a dead man?”
“Yes, but at first it wasn’t clear. I was sure he was going to stand up, but in the end he didn’t. After a while I realized, I don’t remember how, that he was dead.”
“And how did you realize that?”
“I’ll try to explain, because it was very strange. I was the only person who realized he was dead. Everyone else in the audience remained perfectly calm. The man lying on the casket was all dressed up: black suit, tie, shiny shoes, and though I couldn’t see his face, from my place in the audience I could see a bloodstain on his shirt.”
Montalbano leapt to his feet.
“It sounds like you dreamt about Augello’s cadaver!”
Antonia gawked at him.
“What cadaver? What’s Augello got to do with this?”
“I’ll explain.”
“No, for now we’re going to get dressed and out of this place.”
* * *
—
Fifteen minutes later they were sitting and eating breakfast at a typical neighborhood café. Montalbano told her the whole story, not neglecting to mention that he’d also finally got hold of the keys to the apartment the day before.
“I want to see it,” said Antonia.
Montalbano said okay, then made a timid attempt at inviting her out for lunch at Enzo’s, but failed miserably. They left it that they would be in touch in the afternoon and decide when to go to Via Biancamano.
There was no time to go home, change clothes, and shave, so the inspector went directly to the office looking the way he did.
The moment he sat down there was a knock on the door and Fazio came in.
“Good morning, Chief. I’ve got the artist’s reconstruction that Di Marzio made.”
He set it down on the table beside the photo of Lo Bello.
“What do you think? Do they look enough alike?”
“Splendid!” said Montalbano, putting the image in his jacket pocket. “Any other news?”
“For now, none.”
At that moment Mimì Augello appeared.
“Sorry, Salvo, I just wanted to let you know I took an initiative.”
“What kind of initiative?”
“I rang Anita Pastore and called her in for three o’clock this afternoon.”
“Well done. But now I’ve got stuff to do. I’ll see you later.”
Despite the fact that he’d eaten two brioches in the café, he felt a lot more hungry than sleepy. Irresistibly hungry. And he had a vision: the bottle of caponata on the kitchen table in Catalanotti’s apartment.
He got in his car and drove to Via La Marmora.
“Good morning, Inspector,” said Bruno the Bear. “Why so early today?”
“I have to get some important documents,” said Montalbano, racing past the doorman’s booth.
When he was inside Catalanotti’s apartment, a problem occurred to him. How was he going to hide the bottle of caponata from the doorman? He thought about it for a few moments and came to the conclusion that the only solution was to eat it then and there. So he grabbed a plate and a fork, poured all the caponata out of the bottle, and got down to work. When he was done, he conscientiously set about washing the dishes. He cleaned and dried all the glasses before putting them back in the credenza.
His conscience was now clean, and he could go home and, as they say, sleep the sleep of the just.
* * *
—
The caponata, eaten so early in the morning, didn’t sit well in his stomach. And so, when he woke up after one p.m., he decided it wouldn’t be such a good idea to go to Enzo’s. Feeling a little muddleheaded from sleeping off schedule, he stayed in the shower forever and wasted even more time goofing off in the bathroom, trying out the different samples the salesgirl had given him but too afraid to open the large tubes of cream that had cost him an arm and a leg. He decided to break in a new suit not by putting on the whole thing, but by donning the trousers and complementing them with . . . let’s call it an older jacket. When he looked at himself in the mirror, it seemed a passable combination.
Though he hadn’t eaten, it was now well into the afternoon, and so he rang Antonia, as agreed. But she didn’t answer.
At ten minutes to three, he arrived at the office.
Mimì came in and informed him that Signora Pastore would be there momentarily.
“Call Fazio,” Montalbano said to him. “I want him to be present.”
He had just enough time to explain to Fazio who Anita Pastore was and why they’d called her in, when the telephone rang and Catarella said: “Chief, ’ere’s a lady ’ere ’oo’s some kinda lady pastor.”
“Show her in.”
Anita Pastore looked exactly the way Enzo had described her: done up and dolled up and sporting an air that seemed to say “don’t touch me or I might fall apart.”
Fazio ceded his place opposite the desk to her.
Signora Pastore immediately said in a shrill, resentful voice, “I don’t understand why I was—”
“Quite simple, signora,” Montalbano interrupted her. “You’re here because we want to know about your frequent dealings with Carmelo Catalanotti, who, as you will have noticed, was murdered.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t do it,” Signora Anita snarled.
She was a real pain in the ass, this lady.
“And I believe you. But I’d like to hear from you yourself what kind of relationship you had with him. You can respond freely, since this is just an informal conversation.”
“So you called me in to the police station for an informal conversation? In that case we could have had a little chat in the bar right here across the street.”
“We can make it more official, if you prefer.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means that you will choose a lawyer, then be summoned by the prosecutor, and he and I together will subject you to a rigorous interrogation. I should warn you in advance, however, that the Catalanotti case has been attracting a lot of morbid interest and that in the event that there were any leaks to the press, I wouldn’t be able to guarantee the maintenance of investigative secrecy. There’s always a chance your name and photo will end up in the papers.”
Upon hearing these words, Signora Anita’s attitude changed. She settled better into her chair, adjusted her hair slightly, and asked: “Do you want to know if our relationship was romantic in nature?”
“You tell us, signora.”
“The answer is no. Far from it.”
“So what kind of relationship was it?”
“It was a strange sort of work relationship.”
Mimì cut in ironically: “I never knew that Catalanotti dealt in chocolate.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then please go on, signora.”
“Well, I met Catalanotti about three months ago, when he was introduced to me by a girlfriend of mine. When, during the course of a conversation over dinner, he learned about my family’s chocolate factory, he immediately overwhelmed me with questions. It was his intense curiosity that aroused my own.”
“Explain what you mean,” said the inspector.
“I sensed that his interest was genuine. He asked me out and I accepted.”
The woman paused and then resumed speaking.
“Then our meetings became a habit. I’m not married, have no children, not many friends, and a lot of free time. I hardly ever talk about myself, and Carmelo had a gift for making me feel relaxed. Our dinners became almost regular appointments.”
“So, it wasn’t just a work relationship, but one of friendship as well?”
“Actual friendship I really wouldn’t say. I don’t know anything about Carmelo’s life. We spoke almost exclusively about me, and essentially about my work. Carmelo wanted to know all about the dynamics of the factory, my relationships with my brothers, our employees, and our distributors. He even wanted to know about the everyday goings-on, and how things went from week to week.”
“Did you ever wonder why he was so interested?”
“Yes, at first I thought my brother Paolo was right. He’s the oldest, and is always thinking that everyone wants to cheat him. He suspected that Carmelo maybe wanted to steal some recipes or other business secrets . . .”
“And was he really like that?”
“No. Carmelo was attracted by the family dynamics, if you can call it that. He was curious about our work methods, how we shared responsibilities, what kinds of frictions and disagreements developed . . .”
“I’m sorry, but what was the point? Why all this interest?”
“Because he wanted to write a novel about a family business.”
“Did he take notes?” Montalbano asked, remembering the folders.
“No,” said Anita, “but he promised he would let me read a rough draft of the novel, which made me feel very proud. While waiting I said nothing to anyone about it.”
“Excuse me, but you speak of a family business. Who else is involved in it? Is it just you and your brother Paolo?”
“Up until a couple of years ago, my brother Giovanni was also involved. But now there’s just Paolo and me left. Giovanni can’t be a part of anything anymore. He’s dead.”
The Sicilian Method Page 17