“We didn’t do it.”
“I know.”
Peppe looked stunned.
“But you’re fucked anyway. And you know why the Flying Squad had no choice but to issue a warrant for you and the rest of your gang? Because Pasquale Cirrinciò lost his wallet at the supermarket.”
“Goddamn mother fuck!” Peppe Nasca exploded.
And he cut loose with a coda of curses, damnations, and blasphemies. The inspector let him get it out of his system.
“And there’s worse,” Montalbano finally said.
“What could be worse than that?”
“The moment you guys go behind bars, your prison mates will regale you with boos and Bronx cheers. You’ve lost face. You’re a bunch of clowns and fuckups. You’re going to jail for something you didn’t do. Typical losers.”
Peppe Nasca was an intelligent man. And he showed this by the question he asked.
“Would you please explain to me why you’re so convinced it wasn’t us?”
The inspector didn’t answer, but only opened a drawer on the left-hand side of his desk, took out a cassette tape, and showed it to Peppe.
“See this? This is a recording from a bugging device.”
“Does it involve me?”
“Yes. It was made at your house, on the night of the twenty-seventh. All four of your voices are recorded. I had you guys put under surveillance. In it, you can be heard planning the supermarket heist. But for the following night. Some people a little sharper than you guys beat you to it.”
He put the cassette back in the drawer.
“That’s how I’m so sure you guys didn’t do it.”
“But then all you gotta do is play the tape for the Flying Squad and they’ll realize we had nothing to do with it.”
Imagine the look on their faces if he played the tape for them! It contained a special performance of Beethoven’s First Symphony that Livia had recorded in Genoa.
“Peppe, try to think for a second. The tape might exonerate you, or it might constitute further proof against you.”
“Please explain what you mean.”
“There’s no date on the tape recording. Only I can make that claim. And if I suddenly decided to claim that the bugged conversation took place on the twenty-sixth, the night before the burglary, you guys would end up in jail and the smarter guys would be free to enjoy their money in peace.”
“And why would you ever do something like that?”
“I’m not saying I would. It’s just a possibility. In short, if I play this tape, not for the Flying Squad, but for some of your friends, I’ll disgrace you forever in their eyes. Nobody’ll ever want to buy your stolen goods from you. Nobody’ll want to lend you a hand. You won’t have any accomplices. Your career as a thief would be over. Follow?”
“Yeah.”
“So you have no choice but to do what I ask of you.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to offer you a way out.”
“All right, so tell me what it is.”
Montalbano told him.
It took him two hours to convince Peppe Nasca that there was no other solution. Then Montalbano handed Peppe back to Fazio.
“Still don’t tell the Flying Squad anything.”
He went out of the office. It was two o’clock, and the streets were almost empty. He went into a phone booth, dialed a Montelusa number, and pinched his nose with his free hand.
“Hello? Is this the Flying Squad office? You’re making a mistake. That supermarket was robbed by a gang from Caltanissetta, the one headed by Filippo Trigàli. And don’t ask who this is or I’ll hang up. I can even tell you where the loot is, ’cause it’s still in the truck. It’s in the warehouse of the Benincasa firm, along the Montelusa-Trapani road, in the Melluso district. But you better get there fast, ’cause I think they plan to take the stuff away tonight in another truck.”
He hung up. To avoid any unfortunate encounters with the Montelusa police, he decided it was best to keep Pasquale at his house, perhaps without handcuffs, until nightfall. Then they would go together to Adelina’s. And he would savor the arancini—not only for their heavenly goodness, but also because he would feel perfectly at peace with his conscience as a cop.
AS ALICE DID
The worst thing that could happen (and inevitably did happen at more or less regular intervals) to Salvo Montalbano, in his capacity as the Chief Inspector of the Vigàta Police Commissariat, was to be given the chore of signing papers. These hated papers consisted of reports, briefings, memos, surveys, and bureaucratic minutes first simply requested and later menacingly demanded by the “offices in charge.” At times Montalbano would suffer a strange paralysis in his right hand that prevented him not only from writing up such documents (in which case Mimì Augello took care of them), but even from putting his signature on them.
“Your initials, at least!” Fazio would plead.
Nothing doing. His hand refused to function.
And so the papers would pile up on Fazio’s desk, the stacks growing taller by the day, until they grew so tall that, with the slightest draft, they would totter and fall over, fluttering down to the floor. The folders, as they opened, would briefly create a lovely effect of snowfall. When this happened, Fazio, with saintly patience, would pick the papers up one by one, put them back in order, create a stack that he could carry in his arms, and, kicking his superior’s office door open, he would lay his burden down on the desk without saying a word.
Montalbano would then start yelling that he didn’t want to be disturbed and, amidst a flurry of curses, would begin his drudgery.
One morning Mimì Augello, on his way to Montalbano’s office, didn’t run into anyone who could have warned him that the inspector was signing papers and not to be disturbed, and so he walked right into the room, hoping Salvo might console him over a recent disappointment. As soon as he entered, he had the impression the office was empty, and was about to leave when the angry voice of the inspector, hidden behind the stacks of paper, stopped him in his tracks.
“Who’s that?”
“It’s Mimì. But I don’t want to disturb you, I’ll come back later.”
“Mimì, you’re a disturbance no matter when you come. Now or later makes no difference. Grab a chair and sit down.”
Mimì sat down.
“Well?” said the inspector after some ten minutes.
“Listen,” said Augello, “I don’t really feel like talking to you if I can’t see you. Let’s forget about it.”
And he started to stand up. Montalbano must have heard the sound of the chair moving, because his voice immediately grew even angrier.
“I said to sit down.”
He didn’t want Mimì to slip away. He needed him there so he could vent his spleen while he was signing papers and the ache in his hand grew worse and worse.
“So, tell me what’s happening.”
By now it was too late to back out. Mimì cleared his throat.
“We weren’t able to catch Tarantino.”
“Got away again?”
“Got away again.”
As if the window had suddenly opened and a powerful gust of wind had blown in, the papers scattered everywhere. But the window was closed, and it was the inspector, now visible to Mimì’s frightened eyes, who had scattered them.
“What the fuck! What the motherfucking fuck!”
Montalbano seemed blind with rage. He stood up, started pacing back and forth across the room, and stuck a cigarette between his lips. Mimì handed him a box of matches, Montalbano fired up the cigarette, threw the still-burning match onto the floor, and a few sheets of paper immediately caught fire as if they’d been waiting only for that all their lives. They were very light, onionskin paper. Both Mimì and Montalbano broke out into a kind of American Indian dance, trying to stamp
out the fire with their feet, but then, seeing that it was a losing proposition, Mimì grabbed a bottle of mineral water that was on his boss’s table and emptied it onto the flames. Once the fire was out, they both realized they couldn’t remain in the now unusable office.
“Let’s go have a coffee,” the inspector suggested, his anger momentarily subdued. “But first go and tell Fazio about the damage.”
It took them half an hour to have their coffee. When they returned, the office was in perfect order. All that remained was a slight burning smell. The papers were all gone.
“Fazio!”
“At your service, Chief.”
“What happened to all the papers?”
“I’m putting them back in order in my office. They’re soaking wet, on top of everything else, and so I’m also drying them out. So cheer up, you can forget about signing them for today.”
Visibly reassured, the inspector turned to Mimì and smiled.
“So, my friend, you got screwed again, eh?”
This time it was Mimì whose face darkened.
“That man is a devil.”
Giovanni Tarantino, sought by the law for the past couple of years for fraud, bad checks, and forged bills, was a distinguished-looking fellow of about forty with a rather open and cordial manner who inspired sympathy and trust. So much so that during her deposition against Tarantino, the widow Percolla, whom he’d fleeced for over two hundred million lire, couldn’t help but repeat disconsolately:
“But he was so distinguished!”
As time went by, capturing the fugitive Tarantino had become a sort of point of honor for Mimì Augello. Over the past two years he’d burst into Tarantino’s home no less than eight times, sure of nabbing him by surprise, and each time there was neither hide nor hair of the swindler.
“But why have you got it in your head that Tarantino’s going to see his wife?”
Mimì answered with another question.
“But have you ever seen Signora Tarantino? Her name’s Giulia.”
“No, I don’t know Giulia Tarantino. What’s she like?”
“She’s beautiful,” Mimì said decisively, knowing a thing or two about women. “But not only beautiful. She belongs to that category of women that, around here, they used to call ‘women for bedding.’ She has a way of looking at you, of giving you her hand, of crossing her legs, that gets your blood pumping. She lets you know that, under the covers, or on top of the covers, for that matter, she can catch fire as quickly as that paper did just now.”
“Is that why you always go and search the place at night?”
“You’re wrong, Salvo. And you know I’m telling you the truth. I’m convinced that woman is tickled pink that I can never manage to nab her husband.”
“Well, that’s understandable, isn’t it?”
“In part, yes. But from the way she looks at me as I’m about to leave, I can tell she’s also delighted that I, as a man, as Mimì Augello—not as a cop—have been defeated.”
“So you’re turning the whole thing into a personal matter?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Ugh!”
“What’s that supposed to mean: ‘ugh’?”
“I mean that that’s the best way to end up doing something stupid, in our line of work. How old is this Giulia?”
“She must be just a little over thirty.”
“But you still haven’t told me why you’re so sure the guy goes to see his wife every so often.”
“I thought I’d given you a good idea why. She’s not the kind of woman who can go for very long without a man. But she’s not a flirt, mind you. And her neighbors say she hardly ever goes out or has family or friends over. She has everything she needs delivered to her at home. Oh, but I forgot to mention: Every Sunday morning she goes to the ten o’clock Mass.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday, isn’t it? Let’s do this: Let’s meet at the Caffè Castiglione at a quarter to ten, and you can point her out to me when she passes by. You’ve piqued my curiosity.”
She was more than beautiful. Montalbano watched her attentively as she walked towards the church, well dressed but tastefully so, with nothing too ostentatious. She held her head high, responding with a slight nod to a few rare greetings. There was no affectation in her gestures; everything about her was natural and spontaneous. She must have recognized Mimì Augello standing there stiff as a poker beside Montalbano. She changed her route, moving from the middle of the street towards the sidewalk where the two men were standing and, now right in front of them, she responded to Mimì’s awkward greeting with her usual nod of the head. But this time a hint of a smile played on her lips. It was, beyond the shadow of a doubt, a mocking, teasing sneer. And she went on her way.
“Did you see that?” Mimì asked, pale with rage.
“I did,” said Montalbano. “I saw enough to call you out of bounds. From this moment on, you’re off the case.”
“Why?”
“Because by this point that lady’s got you in the palm of her hand. She gets your blood boiling and you’re no longer able to tell what’s what. And now we’re going back to the office, and you’re going to give me a report on your visits to the Tarantino home. And the address, too.”
At number 35 Via Giovanni Verga, a road on the rural side of town, stood a small, two-story house, recently renovated. Behind it passed Vicolo Capuana, which was too narrow for cars. The plate on the intercom said: G. TARANTINO. Montalbano buzzed. Three minutes went by with no reply. The inspector rang again, and this time a woman’s voice answered.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Inspector Montalbano.”
A brief pause, then:
“Inspector, it’s ten p.m. on a Sunday night, and it’s not polite to disturb people at this hour. Do you have a warrant?”
“For what?”
“A search warrant.”
“But I don’t want to search anything! I just want to have a little chat with you.”
“Are you the gentleman who was with Inspector Augello this morning?”
A keen observer, Signora Giulia Tarantino.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m so sorry, Inspector, but I was in the shower. Could you wait five minutes? I’ll be quick.”
“You can take your time, ma’am.”
Less than five minutes later, there was a buzz and the door unlocked with a click. Montalbano went in and found himself in a large entrance hall with two doors on the left, one on the right, and, in the middle, a broad staircase leading upstairs.
“Please come in.”
Signora Giulia was fully dressed.
The inspector came in, looking her up and down. She seemed serious, composed, and not the least bit worried.
“Will this take a long time?” she asked.
“That’s up to you,” Montalbano said, playing tough.
“We’d better go sit in the living room,” the woman said.
Turning her back to him, she started climbing the stairs, with the inspector following behind her. They came out in a large, spacious room with modern but reasonably tasteful furnishings. The woman gestured for the inspector to sit on the sofa and sat down herself in an armchair with, beside it, a small table holding an imposing twenties-style telephone clearly made in Hong Kong or someplace similar. Giulia Tarantino lifted the receiver from the golden forks and set it down on the tabletop.
“That way nobody will disturb us.”
“Thank you for the courtesy,” said Montalbano.
He sat there without speaking for a good minute under the questioning but always beautiful eyes of Signora Tarantino, then took the plunge.
“It’s very quiet here.”
Giulia seemed momentarily puzzled by the observation.
“It’s true there aren’t many cars on this street.”
Montalbano fell silent for another whole minute.
“Do you own this house?”
“Yes, my husband bought it for me three years ago.”
“Do you own any other property?”
“No.”
“How long has it been since you last saw your husband?”
“Over two years, ever since he went into hiding.”
“Aren’t you concerned for his well-being?”
“Why should I be?”
“Well, to go for that long without any news . . .”
“Inspector, I said I haven’t seen him for two years, not that I hadn’t heard from him. He calls me on the phone every now and then. Which you should already know, since my phone is tapped. I figured it out, you know.”
This time the pause lasted two minutes.
“How strange!” the inspector said suddenly.
“What’s strange?” asked the woman, immediately on the defensive.
“The layout of your house.”
“What’s so strange about it?”
“Well, for example, the living room is up here, on the second floor.”
“Where do you think it should be?”
“On the ground floor. Which is where your bedroom must be, am I right?”
“Yes, that’s right. Why, is that not allowed?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t allowed, I was just making an observation.”
Another silence.
“All right, then,” said Montalbano, standing up. “I’ll be on my way.”
Signora Giulia likewise stood up, apparently bewildered by the cop’s behavior. Before heading for the stairway, Montalbano saw her put the phone back on the hook. When they got downstairs, before the woman was about to open the front door, the inspector said softly:
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
Signora Giulia turned and looked at him, now smiling.
“Do you really have to go, Inspector, or do you just want to play cat and mouse? At any rate, follow me.”
She opened the door on the right, showing him into a spacious bedroom, it too furnished rather tastefully. On one of the two bedside tables there was a book and a normal telephone. That must have been the side she slept on. She pointed to a door on the left, next to a large mirror.
Montalbano's First Case and Other Stories Page 23