The Sicilian Method

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Hello,” he said, this time in a clear voice. “How is it you’re so—?”

  “I’m sorry, you’re right. It’s probably too early to call, but I’ve been working all night.”

  “You worked all through the night? Where?”

  “After you took me back to the hotel I wasn’t sleepy, so I went to the lab and analyzed the samples.”

  “So have you got any news? If you like, I can come to you and we can have breakfast together. That way you can tell me everything,” said Montalbano, taking off in fifth gear.

  “No, I’m sorry, but I need to get some sleep.”

  “Then tell me now,” said the inspector, shifting down to third.

  “There are no organic traces.”

  “What are you saying? What about that little bloodstain?”

  “Special effects.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s fake blood. Artificial. Made of a chemical compound used for special effects in movies.”

  Montalbano was momentarily confused.

  “What about the other samples?”

  “Nothing of importance. Just blends of esters, alcohols, saturated acids . . .”

  “Meaning?” Montalbano repeated.

  “Wax.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Wax, Salvo. Common wax.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Could it possibly be from candles that were placed around the body?”

  “No, I really don’t think so. They were all tiny little scales of wax, pale pink, blue, and black . . .”

  Montalbano remained silent. He was truly stunned.

  “Well, since you have nothing to say,” said Antonia, “I’m going to bed.”

  “Thanks. But when can we . . .”

  Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .

  She’d already hung up.

  What could this new complication mean?

  He didn’t feel like thinking about it anymore, and put the question off for later. The important thing he had to do right away was what Antonia herself had suggested: go and talk to the boss of the real estate agency.

  * * *

  —

  As soon as he saw the inspector come in with his arms full of folders, Catarella raced out of his closet and relieved him of his burden.

  “Fazio and Augello in?”

  “Yeah, Chief, ’ey’re onna premisses,” said Catarella, setting the folders down on the desk.

  “Send ’em both to me.”

  Five minutes later, the meeting began in Montalbano’s office.

  “So these are the famous folders?” asked Mimì.

  “Yes,” replied Montalbano. “They are the product of a long, careful evaluation we’ve been doing—”

  “We?” Mimì interrupted him.

  “That I’ve been doing,” the inspector corrected himself. “Anyway, here are the folders I’ve set aside. And here are the profiles of those who showed some psychological or psychic anomalies, or a natural inclination to all kinds of transgression. That is, those most likely to have rebelled against Catalanotti’s demands. Is all that clear?”

  “Quite clear,” said Fazio.

  “In each folder you’ll also find a photo taken, in my opinion, without the subject knowing. But good old Catalanotti didn’t make our job any easier, leaving out the surnames of the auditioners, as well as their addresses and phone numbers. Start with the second folder, however, because I’m already quite familiar with the first one. So your task will be to see if you can perform the miracle of identifying them. Now I’ve got something else to do. Fazio, do you have the keys to the holding cell?”

  “Yessir, I do.”

  “Gimme ’em.”

  Fazio pulled them out and handed them over. Montalbano got up.

  “I’ll see you guys in five minutes,” he said.

  He went out, walked down to the end of the corridor, opened the door to the holding cell, and closed it behind him.

  Tano Lo Bello was sitting on a straw mattress, elbows propped on his knees and head in his hands. Montalbano remained standing in front of him. Tano raised his head. He no longer had those animal eyes of the day before. He now looked like a beaten dog. They looked each other in the eye for a moment, then Montalbano pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket and held it in front of Tano’s face.

  “Now listen closely. If you agree to my offer, this piece of paper will remain a piece of paper in my pocket. But if you don’t agree, this piece of paper will turn into a little envelope. And do you know what’s in the envelope?”

  “No, sir.”

  “There’s a good dose of cocaine. And do you know where we found this little envelope?”

  “No, sir,” replied the ogre, who by now seemed almost tame.

  “We found it in your pocket, together with another ten or so identical envelopes. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir. I got it.”

  “Do I need to go on?”

  “No, sir. Just tell me your offer.”

  “It’s quite simple: Nico and your daughter must be left out of the story of the shooting.”

  “Explain what you mean.”

  “Nico has always maintained that he never saw your face as you were shooting. You must confirm his testimony. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly clear. And what do I get in exchange?”

  “In exchange, your assault on a police officer will be dismissed, we’ll pretend we never found your drugs, and you’ll only be charged with attempted murder. In other words, you get a few years less in jail. Need time to think it over?”

  “No, sir,” said the ogre.

  “Good-bye, then,” said Montalbano.

  He opened the door of the holding cell, went out, and locked it behind him. He felt ashamed of himself for having resorted to blackmail. But he had no other choice. He went back to his office. He turned to Fazio.

  “Do you remember that I told you to keep Nico’s and Margherita’s depositions in a drawer?”

  “Yeah, Chief.”

  “Well, now make them disappear. Nico never saw the face of the man who shot him.”

  Fazio understood everything at once.

  “But can we trust Tano?” he asked while taking the keys Montalbano was handing back to him.

  “Yes. Do me a favor: Let the Lo Bello family know that they needn’t worry any longer. And I’ll see you again in a couple of hours.”

  He went out. Before reaching the door, however, he was stopped by Catarella.

  “Ahh, Chief, Chief, Dacter Pasquano’s onna line wantin’ a talk t’yiz all oigent-like.”

  Matre santa! He’d completely forgotten about the autopsy! He grabbed the receiver out of the switchboard operator’s hand but only had time to say “Hello” before he was assailed by a deluge of expletives and insults.

  “Has your head gone completely up your ass, you old fart? Is your memory completely gone? Can’t you see you just can’t cut it anymore, with all those years piling up on you? Why, I’ve been wondering the last few days, has he not been busting my chops to know the findings from Catalanotti’s autopsy? Or would you rather I spoke to Catarella about it? Maybe he’s more likely to solve the case? All these questions and not a single answer? Maybe you can help me . . .”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Dr. Pasquano, but haven’t you heard the news?”

  “What news?”

  “They’ve been reporting, on the TV, on the radio, that there have been some cases of severe poisoning stemming from a batch of cannoli ricotta gone bad, and so I was afraid to contact you.”

  “Would you please just go fuck yourself?”

  “Doctor, I apologize for going missing. You’re right, I’m just a poor old fart. Now speak.”

  “Well, liste
n carefully, because the situation’s an odd one, to say the least. At first glance, it looks like the cause of death was a fatal stab wound with a letter opener. Except that, when I looked at the wound to the heart, I realized that there was another very serious lesion there, inflicted just prior to the other one.”

  Montalbano balked.

  “Do you mean to tell me that he was stabbed twice?”

  “No. I didn’t say another stab wound. I beg you to activate that small bit of brain you’ve still got left. I repeat—listen very carefully. I mentioned a wound to the heart, caused by the letter opener; the grave lesion I was referring to was caused instead by a heart attack. Therefore at the moment of the stabbing, the man was already dead.”

  Montalbano was so bewildered that he couldn’t say a word.

  Pasquano went on. “At this point you should be asking me: But how did you figure that out? And I would answer: Since the man’s blood was no longer circulating, there was no infiltration from the skin laceration—that is, the one caused by the letter opener. And, given your inability to take part in this conversation, I would also add that the heart attack was caused by an excess of sexual stimulants. That’s probably the only aspect of this whole discussion you can grasp. And now listen up: Seeing that you’re still in a catatonic state, I suggest you set the receiver down now, so we can end this fine conversation.”

  Like an automaton, Montalbano obeyed, and then just stood there staring at Catarella.

  “Ya feel okay, Chief?”

  Five more seconds of silence, then the inspector returned to reality.

  “I feel fine, fine,” he said. And he headed for his car.

  * * *

  —

  The real estate agency, according to Fazio’s information, was located near the end of the main corso. The only problem was that, halfway there, he was stopped by a traffic cop who knew him.

  “Inspector, I’m sorry, but the street is momentarily closed, because a manhole cover just blew.”

  “And so?”

  “And so you’ll have to go all the way around.”

  Cursing the saints, he put the car in reverse, and when he reached the first cross street, he turned right, then turned left at the first opportunity. Now he found himself in a rather narrow little street, in the middle of which a small van sat immobile. He honked, but to no avail. There was nobody inside the van. He waited for a few more minutes, as a long line of cars began to form behind him. And soon a concert of car horns, shouts, and curses was struck up.

  To his left was a small church with its main doors wide open. Moments later a man came out, cupped his hands to his mouth, and said: “Just be patient for five more minutes while we load the saint.”

  Montalbano decided that his only option was to get out of the car, and so he did. At that moment two men came out of the church carrying a life-size statue of a saint as a third person steadied the statue from behind.

  Once they reached the van, they set the saint gently down on the ground.

  Montalbano grew curious and asked one of them:

  “What are you guys doing?”

  “We’re taking St. Anthony the Abbot to get repaired.”

  “Why? What happened to him?”

  “A lit torch fell and melted the saint’s right hand, as you can see.”

  “What do you mean, melted?”

  “It melted! He’s made of wax.”

  Hearing this, Montalbano froze.

  Meanwhile, the three men, with great effort, had succeeded in loading the saint on top of the van and were busy tying him down with elastic straps.

  Montalbano recovered his senses.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but where are you taking him to be repaired?”

  “To Fela. There’s a waxworks there that makes statues.”

  The van finally drove off, but the chorus of curses and car horns resumed even louder than before. Indeed, the inspector didn’t realize that he was standing as still as a lamppost in the middle of the street. Then he felt someone grab him by the arm and shake him violently.

  “Hey! You gonna wake up or what?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he replied confusedly.

  He got back in his car and started driving. After just a few yards, however, he pulled over to the sidewalk, stopped, and got out.

  He was unable to drive.

  So there was a wax-statue factory in Fela?

  “. . . Just blends of esters, alcohols, saturated acids . . .”

  “Meaning?” Montalbano repeated.

  “Wax.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Wax, Salvo. Common wax.”

  He sat down in the first free chair he found in a bar.

  “What can I get for you?” asked the waiter.

  “Please bring me a strong coffee. Very strong,” said the inspector.

  * * *

  —

  The Casamica real estate agency consisted of a rather large room with two desks in it. One was empty, and at the other sat a well-dressed man of about fifty, talking on the telephone. On the walls hung hundreds of color photos of apartments and homes, each with its respective floor plan beside it, and beneath each photo was a small sign with the word BARGAIN! on it. The man on the phone signaled to Montalbano to have a seat in the chair opposite his desk. While the man kept on talking, the inspector started looking around. The empty desk was in perfect order. Apparently its occupant was late to work or out with a client.

  The man ended his phone conversation, smiled at the inspector, and held out his hand.

  “Hello, I’m Michele Tudesco, the owner of this agency. What can I do for you?”

  With the question of the waxen saint firmly lodged in one half of Montalbano’s brain, he decided it was best to get straight to the point. He weighed his options.

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano, police,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said the owner, “I didn’t recognize you.”

  “Not a problem. I need some information from you concerning the apartment belonging to Signor Aurisicchio in Via Biancamano.”

  Michele Tudesco looked confused.

  “But I gave the keys to one of your men just the other day.”

  “Yes, in fact, I’ve got them right here in my pocket.”

  He pulled them out and set them down on the desk.

  “But I don’t understand why—” Tudesco began.

  Montalbano interrupted him and began to improvise.

  “Look, I’m here because there’ve been two reports to the police.”

  “Two reports? About what?”

  “Signora Genoveffa Recchia, who owns the apartment just above Aurisicchio’s, which she knows is currently uninhabited, heard some strange noises from below for several nights in a row, including some muffled cries of a woman’s voice.”

  “But when are you talking about? I know nothing about this. I’m just back from vacation.”

  “Please let me finish. We’ll try to clear everything up afterwards. I wanted first to talk to you about the second report, which is considerably more serious. But I need to know something first: Have you been in that apartment?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “Have you seen the room with the seashell collection?”

  “Obviously, yes, it’s very valuable. That’s why Aurisicchio asked me always to be present when potential buyers visited the place.”

  “Anyway,” the inspector continued, “something aroused my suspicion. And so I photographed the collection and sent the photos to the owner, who immediately noticed that a good fifteen or so of the most valuable shells were missing and so officially reported a burglary.”

  Tudesco turned as pale as a corpse, opened and closed his mouth a few times, then managed to say: “But are you sure that . . . that . . . the door wasn�
��t forced?”

  “Absolutely certain. There was no sign of a break-in.”

  At this point a female voice behind them called out: “Good morning, everyone!”

  Montalbano turned around, and for a moment his blood stopped coursing through his veins. The girl standing in the doorway, smiling, was none other than Maria del Castello, the Maria of Catalanotti’s first folder! The Maria of the evening of commemoration at Trinacriarte!

  “Hello, Inspector,” the young woman said to Montalbano. Then she went and sat at the empty desk and got down to work.

  “And therefore,” the inspector continued as if he hadn’t recognized the girl, but raising his voice a little so that she, too, could hear him, “it’s clear that someone got hold of the keys to Aurisicchio’s apartment in order to steal those shells.”

  While speaking he was watching her out of the corner of his eye. Upon hearing the words “keys” and “Aurisicchio,” he saw her sit straight up in her chair and turn three-quarters towards them, as if to hear them better.

  “So if it wasn’t you who did it,” Montalbano went on, “it could have been someone else who took the keys when you were out. Mind telling me where you kept them?”

  “Right here, in this drawer,” said Tudesco, opening the first drawer on the left side of his desk.

  “Was it locked?”

  “Of course it was locked.”

  “Then please do me a favor. Take these keys,” said Montalbano, handing him the set, “put them in the drawer, and then lock the drawer.”

  Tudesco did as he was asked. Montalbano got up, went and stood in front of the drawer, and then, turning to Maria, who by now was completely turned towards them and watching the scene, said: “Have you by any chance got a hairpin?”

  “Sure,” said Maria, sticking a hand in her hair and taking one out.

  “Could you do me a favor? Please come here beside me.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Try and see if you can pick this lock with your hairpin.”

  “But I’ve never . . .”