The Sicilian Method

by Andrea Camilleri

  Without saying a word, Margherita stood up and followed him out.

  Nico remained seated.

  “Now, do you want to tell me what really happened?” Montalbano asked him.

  And Nico spoke.

  “Inspector, Margherita and I have been together for two years. We wanted to get married right away, but we were never able to find even the flimsiest jobs that might allow us to raise a family. I have a university degree and earn a little cash unloading crates of fish at the docks. Margherita also quickly got a degree, but she’s in the same fix as me. How are we going to get on in life if there’s no work? It’s getting harder and harder for me to bring home the little we need to eat and still have the strength to start over again the next day. Luckily, at least I don’t have to pay for the apartment.”

  The inspector—who, faced with what he was hearing, could only feel ashamed at the fucked-up world that he, too, had handed down to this kid—decided to change the subject.

  “Tell me about Lo Bello,” he said.

  “After I started going out with Margherita, Tano almost immediately started tormenting his daughter. He wanted her to leave me and find somebody who could promise her some kind of future. Their arguments got more and more heated, to the point that a couple of times Tano actually raised a hand against her. So I finally decided to go and talk to Tano, but after just a few words he wouldn’t listen to reason and said that if Margherita didn’t leave me immediately, he would throw her out of the house. He kept his word: Margherita stayed with me, and he threw her out. But then, when Margherita moved in with me, Tano sort of lost his mind. Then one morning as I was coming out of my building I saw him standing there with a gun in his hand. Realizing what he was about to do, I made a move to go back inside, but he didn’t give me the time. He said, ‘This’ll help you to understand that you’re not gonna see my daughter no more,’ then he fired and ran away. What could I do? Margherita made me swear that I would never implicate her father. So I did what she asked of me.”

  Montalbano remained silent.

  His silence disturbed Nico.

  “Look, Inspector, I told you the truth this time.”

  “I know,” said Montalbano. “But I was trying to think of a way to leave you and Margherita out of this. I’m gonna need some time. You’re a good kid, Nico. You should all go home now and take advantage of the fact that Tano’s away. Spend some time together in peace and quiet, and you, Nico, try to calm everyone down.”

  The young man stood up.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, sir.”

  “Never mind about that.” Montalbano patted him on the shoulder, and the lad went out.

  Fazio came in. “All done,” he said.

  “There’s something I wanted to tell you,” said the inspector. “Keep those verbal transcripts on hold for now.”

  “Why? What do you want to do?”

  “I want to keep Margherita’s and Nico’s names from appearing as witnesses to the shooting. I’m trying to figure out how to proceed.”

  “That’s not gonna be easy, Chief.”

  “I know, and what I’m afraid of most is that if Nico claims that he never saw his attacker, Tano Lo Bello could actually say, just to hurt the kid, that not only did Nico get a good look at him, but he even spoke to Nico.”

  “And how do you think you’re gonna get Tano to say what you want him to say?”

  “I’m not even thinking about that. The only hope would be to threaten him with an increased sentence if he doesn’t do something. Tell you what. While we’re waiting for me to come up with an idea, let’s keep him on ice all night, and maybe that’ll give him a chance to think about how badly he’s fucked up. Then tomorrow morning I’ll go and talk to him. You, in the meanwhile, do me a favor and go to Lo Bello’s house and confiscate his revolver.”

  As Fazio was leaving the office, Montalbano realized that he had no idea whatsoever how to resolve the situation. He only felt he owed something to the two kids, to whom he’d bequeathed a fucked-up world. In one way or another, he had to think of a solution.

  He glanced at his watch. It was late. He called Catarella, who materialized a couple of seconds later.

  “Yer orders, sah.”

  “Close the door.”

  “An’ lack it, Chief?”

  “Yeah. Now come closer.”

  Catarella, who’d realized that he was about to be entrusted with a personal task, started turkey-strutting as he always did whenever Montalbano asked for his help: legs stiff as a puppet’s, arms stretched downwards and held slightly away from the body, hands with fingers slightly apart like webbed feet, eyes bugged out, face red as a bell pepper, teeth clenched.

  “I need for you to do me a favor, but you mustn’t tell anyone about it.”

  Catarella brought the index and middle fingers of his right hand to his lips and kissed them front and back.

  “I’s silent as the grave, Chief, an’ ’a’ss a slalom oat’.”

  “Before five minutes are up, you absolutely must find the address of the new chief of Forensics.”

  “She’s a woman, Chief.”

  “So? Does the fact that she’s a woman somehow make it more difficult?”

  “Nah, Chief, I jess wannit a let yi’ know ’at she’s a woman o’ the female pirsuasion an’ ’ey say she’s goo’ lookin’, too.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Montalbano, cutting things short. “Just find me that address.”

  Catarella went out. The inspector walked over to the window, opened it, and fired up a cigarette. He hadn’t yet smoked half of it when the telephone rang.

  “Chief, Chief, I talked wit’ Cicco de Cicco. You wan’ me to tell it t’yiz o’er the phone, or shou’ I come in poisson?”

  “Come in person.”

  Catarella materialized with a scrap of paper in his hand.

  “I writ it down ’ere. Ya wan’ me to read it?”

  “No, thanks. You can go now.”

  But Catarella in the meantime had turned into some kind of Egyptian mummy, and it took him a good five minutes to reach the door, open it, and close it behind him.

  Montalbano got up, took the keys to Via Biancamano out of the drawer, put them in his pocket, and left the building.

  * * *

  —

  Before entering Montelusa he pulled over for a minute to look at the scrap of paper Catarella had given him. It wasn’t a residential address but rather a hotel that luckily wasn’t very far away. And so at eight o’clock sharp he was able to enter the lobby of the small but well-kept hotel.

  “Could you please tell Signorina Nicoletti that Inspector Montalbano is waiting for her?”

  The desk manager picked up the phone, spoke a few words, and then said: “She’ll be right down.”

  Montalbano remained standing and studied a poster for the Valley of the Temples. He felt troubled but didn’t know why. Then all at once he understood: If Antonia had taken up residence in a hotel, it meant she wouldn’t be staying in Montelusa for very long.

  First one, then a hundred, then a thousand thoughts flooded his brain.

  Then one rose to the surface from the very depths of his body: He should request a transfer to Ancona. But would they ever grant him this on the eve, or almost, of his retirement? Or would he have to resign?

  At any rate, all these thoughts twisted his heart into a knot. Ever so slowly, a wave of melancholy engulfed him, but luckily at a crucial moment he heard Antonia’s voice, and suddenly every concern, every dark thought vanished as if by magic in the light of her smile.

  “Ciao. I never doubted for a moment that you would manage to find my address.”

  Montalbano noticed she was carrying a small suitcase, and, like an idiot, he panicked and asked: “What, are you leaving already?”

  “Why would I be leaving?” said the woman. �
��I just brought some tools for taking samples. Isn’t that what we’re going there to do?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Montalbano, relieved.

  Once they were outside the hotel, the inspector tried to kiss her, but Antonia pulled away and said: “Not here.”

  As they were heading to his car, Montalbano asked: “Wouldn’t it be better if we went out to eat first?”

  “All right,” Antonia consented. “But let’s make it quick.”

  “Do you know any restaurants in the neighborhood?”

  “Yes,” she said. “There’s one nearby. We can walk there.”

  Montalbano took the little suitcase out of her hand, and less than ten minutes later they were sitting in a glittery new restaurant. They were the only customers.

  “But how’s the food here?” the inspector asked, feeling doubtful.

  “It sucks, but the service is quick. This shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”

  They ordered steaks and salad.

  As soon as the waiter left, Antonia got up slightly from her chair and kissed Montalbano on the lips. He held her there, keeping his hands on her cheeks, and was just returning her kiss when his cell phone rang.

  It was Livia.

  He didn’t answer at first. Getting up, he excused himself to Antonia and went outside. Only then did he open communications.

  As soon as he said “Hello,” he was immediately assailed by an angry Livia.

  “Do you mind telling me what’s become of you? You said you would call, but there hasn’t been a peep out of you! What the hell is up with you? Would you please explain it to me once and for all?”

  “This isn’t the right time.”

  “No, actually it is. I’m sick and tired of this. If there’s anything wrong, have the courage to tell me openly.”

  “I said this isn’t the right time. I’m with other people. I haven’t any time to waste.”

  “So you’re telling me that talking to me is a waste of time?”

  “I repeat: I can’t talk right now.”

  “All right,” Livia conceded. “Then tell me when I can call back.”

  “At the moment I really can’t say.”

  “You know what I say? I say that since you can’t talk, I’ll do the talking. I’m tired of waiting around for your phone calls, your visits, or any kind of promise at all from you. All I ever do is wait . . . and wait . . . I’ve been waiting all my life, suspended between your work and what is supposed to happen at some future date that never arrives. Do you think it’s normal that you haven’t tried to get in touch with me for days? That you don’t ask me how I am, what I’m doing, how I feel? Salvo, there’s only one thing that could explain your behavior: You don’t love me anymore. Or at least not enough to do anything for my sake. And so now I’m fed up with always giving priority to what’s best for you. I want to think about myself. I’m sorry. Maybe it’s not right to tell you these things over the phone, but I’m really at the end of my rope. As far as I’m concerned, it’s over between us.”

  They both remained silent for ten long seconds.

  Then Livia, almost incredulous, asked: “Haven’t you got anything to say?”

  “No,” said Montalbano, hanging up.

  He didn’t go back into the restaurant right away, because he needed to brace his whole body against a wall. He stayed that way for several minutes, feeling completely empty. He lit a cigarette, but the taste disgusted him and he threw it away at once Then he took a deep breath and went inside.

  As soon as he sat down, Antonia looked at him in silence and then said: “Bad news?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  At that moment the steaks arrived, but Montalbano no longer felt the least bit hungry.

  Antonia realized something was wrong.

  “This meat is disgusting,” she said. “Do you mind if we leave?”

  Montalbano paid and they went out. They walked to the car without talking.

  At last they pulled up outside the entrance to Via Biancamano.

  “There’s a slight problem,” said the inspector. “You know that mistress of Mimì’s that I mentioned to you? I really want to avoid running into her.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. I’ll go on ahead and leave the main door open for you. Just count to a hundred and then come in.”

  Antonia got out, stuck the key in the front door, and disappeared.

  When he got to a hundred, Montalbano brusquely opened the car door, which promptly got stuck against the sidewalk, leaving only the narrowest of fissures, through which he would never fit.

  Cursing the saints, he grabbed the door with both hands to try to close it, but was unable to. For whatever reason, it seemed to have become cemented to the paving stone. He opened the door on the other side, got out, walked around the car, and tried to shut the goddamn door from the outside. This time he finally succeeded. He circled around the car again, got back in from the passenger’s side, started the engine, and realized that he had barely a few centimeters in which to maneuver between the car in front and the car behind.

  It took him a good five minutes to move the car a little farther away from the sidewalk. At last he got out and crossed the street. He stopped outside the front door to the building, which, in the meantime, for whatever reason, was no longer open. He started ringing, but nobody answered. He’d wasted too much time.

  The only hope was to call her on the phone. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

  “What on earth happened to you?” Antonia asked.

  “I had a little problem!”

  “Another bad-news phone call?” asked Antonia.

  “Are you going to open the door for me or not?”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Finally inside, the inspector raced up the stairs and catapulted into the apartment.

  16

  When he closed the door, the darkness in the room was complete.

  “Before turning the lights on, let’s make sure all the shutters are firmly closed,” Antonia’s voice said in the dark.

  Montalbano went and checked the only window in the room.

  “This one’s sealed tight,” he said. And he turned the light on.

  They said nothing, but only looked each other in the eye and felt the need to embrace. Then Antonia stepped back and said: “Let’s go.”

  They inspected the whole apartment from top to bottom. It had clearly been unoccupied for a while. There was one room that struck them in particular: The walls were all lined with bookshelves made of wooden planks, except that on the shelves were not books but hundreds of seashells that ranged from gigantic to an infinity of tiny ones.

  Not that he knew the least thing about the subject, but Montalbano had the strong impression that it was a valuable collection. Which was why Aurisicchio wanted only the head of the real estate agency to have a set of keys.

  “Let’s go back into the bedroom,” said Antonia.

  It was the first one on the right, and corresponded, as Mimì had said, exactly with the bedroom of Genoveffa, aka Geneviève.

  As soon as they went in, the inspector closed the shutters. They turned on the light and were finally able to see the bedroom of Mimì Augello’s cadaver.

  The furnishings consisted of a pair of chairs and a double bed with two mattresses on it, covered by a sheet. There was also one pillow.

  Antonia set her little suitcase down on a nightstand and said to the inspector: “Sit down somewhere and let me work.”

  Montalbano sat down in the nearest chair and began to watch her.

  She moved with a natural elegance that enchanted him.

  The first thing she pulled out of her case was a sort of magnifying glass with a little light inside, and she used this to examine the bedsheet centimeter by square centimeter. Then, setting the magnifying gla
ss aside, she took out another tool that looked like a telescope. She worked in silence, methodical and precise.

  A short while later she put down the telescope and took out a small sort of scraper and a little transparent plastic envelope. She ran the tool ever so lightly over the fabric, then put whatever substances had stuck to the blade into the envelope.

  After about half an hour of this silent labor, Antonia stopped to examine part of the sheet that was under the pillow. She took up her magnifying glass again, looked very closely at the fabric, and finally turned and said to the inspector: “There’s a tiny drop of something here that may well be blood. But with the tools I’ve got with me at the moment, I’m unable to study it properly. What should I do? Think it’s okay to cut off a part of the sheet?”

  “Of course it is,” said Montalbano. “There are very few other people who know about Augello’s cadaver.”

  Antonia pulled a small pair of scissors out of the case, cut out a little piece of sheet, and put it in another plastic envelope.

  “Okay, I’m done,” she said to the inspector.

  “So, what can you tell me?”

  “Well, to begin, there’s a total anomaly: a corpse lying on a sheet and pillow like this is definitely going to leave an impression. Here there’s some imprint, but not enough to be made by the weight of a dead body that was set down on it. It should have left a deep furrow, a much more visible concavity.”

  “But several days have already gone by . . .” Montalbano commented.

  “Of course, but, believe me, it should have left a much clearer sign. Here it’s barely visible.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “Well, right now, without further study, I can’t say. I need to examine the samples I took in the lab.”

  “So what do we do now?” asked the inspector, feeling a little disappointed.

  “Now, if you want, we can go back to Via La Marmora and finish working on those folders.”

  Montalbano looked at his watch. Not yet ten o’clock . . .

  “Listen,” he said, “all right, but first let’s stop somewhere and eat something.”