Montalbano's First Case and Other Stories
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Her uncle treated her rudely, but was also a little fond of her and didn’t demand, say, that she wash a pan five times over. And every now and then he would give her some money to go into town and buy something she liked.
“Now I want you to tell me what happened. Do you feel up to it?”
“All right.”
As she was about to start talking, Galluzzo appeared in the doorway.
“Chief, we opened the room. You want to go and have a look? I’ll stay here.”
As Grazia had said, the room was outfitted to look like an office. There was a desk, two armchairs, a few chairs, and a filing cabinet. On the wall behind the desk was a safe that looked rather solid.
“Is it locked?” Montalbano asked Fazio.
“Yeah.”
The inspector opened the French door, which was protected by an iron rod. It gave onto the external staircase the girl had mentioned. Clients could come inside without having to go through the front door.
“Tell you what. Open the filing cabinet; I’m sure it contains the names of Zio Gerlando’s clients.”
“Galluzzo told me he lent money.”
“Write down four or five names, no more. Then put everything back in place. It has to look like we never set foot in here.”
“You think the case will be assigned to the Flying Squad?”
“Of course, don’t you? Speaking of which, did you make those calls?”
“All of ’em. But it’ll be another half hour before any of ’em get here.”
In the kitchen, Galluzzo and Grazia were talking up a storm. They fell silent as soon as the inspector came in.
“Can I stay?” Galluzzo asked.
“Sure. But let’s pick up where we left off.”
As he did every night, at ten o’clock sharp, Zio Gerlando turned off the television, even at the tragic climax of a miniseries, and went upstairs to bed. This was also a specific signal for Grazia. She cleaned up the kitchen, washing the things that had been used for dinner, then got undressed in the downstairs bathroom and retired to her bedroom.
“Wait a second,” said the inspector. “Who locked the front door?”
“My uncle did, before coming in to eat. He always did it that way. He would lock the door and then hang the keys from a nail beside it.”
Montalbano looked at Galluzzo.
“The keys are still there. And there’s no sign of a break-in. So he probably used duplicate keys to get in.”
“Why are you speaking in the singular? The gunman might not have been alone.”
“No, Chief.”
“He was alone,” the girl confirmed.
Grazia said she’d fallen asleep immediately, but then was woken up by a loud noise she didn’t understand. She pricked up her ears but, hearing no other sound, she convinced herself that the noise had come from outside, where it was open country. But no sooner had she closed her eyes again than she heard loud noises coming from her uncle’s bedroom. She immediately thought that he must not be feeling well, since this had happened before.
“What do you mean?”
Her uncle loved to eat. One time he’d eaten three quarters of a suckling goat. During the night he’d got up to go down to the kitchen and take a little bicarbonate of soda, but hadn’t made it there, falling down in the throes of a violent dizzy spell.
“What did you do this time?”
She got up, slipped on her dressing gown, and ran up the stairs in her bare feet. The light was on in the bedroom. The first thing she saw was her uncle sitting up in bed, shoulders against the headboard. She approached him from the side, calling him, but he didn’t respond. Only then did she notice the blood on his lips and the stain on his chest. She turned suddenly around and saw a figure of a man running out the door. Then she remembered that her uncle kept a revolver in the drawer of the nightstand, and so she grabbed it, ran after the man, and shot at him from the top of the stair as he was about to go out through the front door and escape. She gave chase, but couldn’t see anything outside. It was too dark. She’d only heard the sound of a small motorbike. So she went back upstairs to the bedroom, knowing there wasn’t anything more to be done for her uncle. Dropping the revolver to the floor, she went back downstairs to call the police.
Grazia had started trembling again, swaying like a tree in the wind. Galluzzo stroked her hair again.
“It all tallies,” he said. “Even the bloodstain.”
“What bloodstain?”
“The one in front of the house. I saw it with my pocket flashlight. Now that the sun’s up, you can see it for yourself. It could only be the killer’s blood. The girl must have hit him square in the back.”
At that moment Grazia gave an animal-like scream, thrust her head backwards, and fainted.
2
Two days earlier, Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi had gone over the instructions repeatedly for him.
“Now, I mean it, Montalbano, don’t forget that your responsibility is one of temporary command and nothing more.”
“I don’t quite understand, sir.”
“Jesus Christ! I’ve already said it at least three times! If you are summoned to the scene of a crime, you mustn’t do more than take temporary command while you wait for those assigned the investigation to arrive. No one should move.”
“Do I have to say it?”
“Say what?”
“Police! Nobody move!”
The commissioner gave him a suspicious look. The inspector was standing in front of his desk, body leaning slightly forward, face expressing only a humble yearning to understand.
“Do whatever you think best!”
So now “those assigned the investigation” were about to arrive and he, Montalbano, had no desire to see them. He went into Grazia’s bedroom. The girl had pulled herself together a little and was lying, fully dressed, on the bed.
Galluzzo was sitting in a chair.
“I’m going to go,” said Montalbano.
The girl shot to her feet.
“What? Is it over?”
“No, it hasn’t even begun. Galluzzo, come with me.”
From the living room, the inspector called Fazio. Gallo was asleep, sunk deep into the armchair. The inspector gave him a glancing kick in the calf.
“What is it? What happened?”
“Nothing, Gallo. Go start up the car, we’re heading back.”
“Did you call me?” Fazio shouted from the top of the stairs.
“Just to tell you I’m leaving. You wait here for the others.”
Heading for the door, he took Galluzzo’s arm.
“Would you explain to me why you’re so interested in the niece?”
Galluzzo blushed.
“I feel sorry for her. She’s just a kid, all alone and dejected.”
Outside it was light.
“Show me where you saw the bloodstain.”
Galluzzo looked down at the ground and looked puzzled. Then he smiled.
“It’s right under your car.”
He signaled to Gallo to back up, and the stain emerged. Luckily the tires hadn’t run over it. Montalbano crouched down for a better look, and then touched it with his forefinger. It was blood, no doubt about it.
“Put something around this to protect it. Otherwise when all those assholes arrive from Montelusa, they’ll turn it into dust. You stay here with . . . with Fazio. See you later.”
“Thanks,” said Galluzzo.
He had Gallo get out in front of the station, slid over into the driver’s seat, and continued on home. As he was shaving, he thought again of the dead man’s bed. If both places had been slept in, this meant that someone was lying beside Gerlando Piccolo either before or during the killing. So, aside from Grazia the niece, who had entered the room after the deed, there must be another eyewitness to the mu
rder. He’d forgotten to ask the niece what she knew about Zio Gerlando’s nocturnal encounters. Grave mistake, which he would never have made if he hadn’t already been certain that the case would be handled by “those assigned the investigation.” Let those assholes deal with it.
When Fazio straggled in wearing a dark expression, it was already time for lunch.
“Where’s Galluzzo?”
“Well, after they sealed the place off, Galluzzo called up his wife and told her the niece didn’t have anywhere to go. He asked if he could take her home with him, and his wife said okay. And then he called a doctor, since after Prosecutor Tommaseo and Inspector Gribaudo were done questioning her, the poor kid couldn’t think straight anymore. They’re going to continue the interrogation tomorrow.”
“Are they going to take her to Montelusa?”
Fazio looked embarrassed.
“No, they’re bringing her here. Gribaudo told me to ask you to get a room ready for him.”
“So get one ready for him.”
“Where? We don’t even have room for—”
“No, no, no! Stop right there. Have you forgotten the proverb? ‘A house is as big as its master wishes.’ Prepare the little room next to the bathroom.”
“But it’s hardly any bigger than a broom closet! And there are papers scattered all over the place!”
“Just make a little space for them in there, okay? Listen, tell me something. Did they ask Grazia whether she had an explanation for why both sides of the bed had been slept on?”
Fazio started laughing.
“Chief, you know what Tommaseo’s like, don’t you? In his opinion—and these are his exact words—we are looking at ‘a classic crime hatched in murky homosexual circles.’ In plain speech: Gerlando Piccolo brought someone home, probably an immigrant of color, and after having relations, the guy shot him and robbed him.”
“Was Gribaudo of the same opinion?”
“Inspector Gribaudo says it doesn’t matter whether the person sleeping with him was male or female, immigrant or no; what matters, according to him, is that the person was definitely an accomplice. That is, after having relations, he left the door open to the murderer and thief.”
“And what about Grazia?”
“The girl says that sometimes, when making his bed, she would realize that her uncle had had company. There were also noises that would come from her uncle’s room at night that didn’t leave any room for doubt. She also didn’t have any doubt that they were women, not men. But she claimed that never in a million years would he have had anyone come through the front door. The women that came to see him would always come in from the external staircase. The uncle would leave the French door to his office open, and the deal was done. When they were finished, the visitor would leave through the same door. And the uncle would put the iron rod back in place.”
“Exactly the way we found it ourselves.”
“Right. But Grazia also said something else.”
“What?”
“That the fact that both places in the bed looked used didn’t necessarily mean her uncle had had company. The guy ate like a pig and there was hardly a night when he wasn’t unwell with indigestion and heartburn. So he would thrash about in bed, going from one side to the other.”
“Just like me last night,” said the inspector.
“Because of what you ate?”
“Because of what I’d been reading.”
“Just to cover all the bases,” Fazio went on, “Tommaseo and Gribaudo advised Dr. Arquà to have the lab carefully examine the other side of the bed.”
“And what did Arquà say?”
“He got pissed off. He said he didn’t need any advice. At any rate, they were clearly leaning in one direction: that of a robbery that ended badly, in a homicide.”
They exchanged a glance and smiled. They understood each other perfectly. That direction was a dead-end road full of cracks and potholes.
Back at the station after eating at the Trattoria San Calogero and taking the customary meditative-digestive stroll to the end of the jetty, the inspector was finally able to talk to Galluzzo.
“How’s Grazia?”
“She’s sleeping. The doctor gave her a shot. He says she’ll be all right when she wakes up. My wife also feels sorry for the kid.”
“What time did Gribaudo order her to appear?”
“Nine o’clock tomorrow morning, here.”
“But doesn’t the girl have anyone—any relatives, any friends?”
“Nobody, Chief. Based on what she told me, the Piccolos practically kept her chained up. Only after her aunt died did she have a little more freedom, but only in a manner of speaking. Her uncle would allow her to go into town once a week, and the most she could ever stay out was two hours.”
“What’s she going to do when this is all over?”
“No idea. When Gribaudo told her she would have to live somewhere else for a few days, she went nuts. She didn’t want to move. It took some doing just to convince her to come with me.”
“Listen, just out of curiosity, did you ask her about the revolver?”
“I don’t understand, Chief.”
“Well, a girl like that . . . by the way, exactly how old is she?”
“Just turned eighteen.”
“She looks a bit younger. Anyway, as I was saying, doesn’t it seem a little strange to you that a young girl who’s woken up in the middle of the night and finds herself faced with a stranger who has just murdered her uncle would have the courage and composure to open a drawer, grab a gun, and start shooting?”
“Of course it’s strange.”
“And so?”
“You know, Chief, I asked her the exact same question. And her answer was that, first, she’s never scared of anyone or anything. And second, it was her uncle Gerlando himself who taught her how to use a gun. And he would have her practice every now and then.”
“Apparently Piccolo, who was a bloodsucker, a loan shark in common parlance, was afraid that one of his victims might want to take revenge. He was covering his ass. And his niece could help him protect himself.”
“That revolver wasn’t the only weapon in the house, either.”
“Oh no?”
“No. Remember that armchair Gallo was sleeping in? There was a rifle behind it, and the guy kept a Beretta in a drawer of his desk. At Gribaudo’s request, Grazia showed us how she handled a pistol. She cocked it like it was nothing.”
Around six p.m. the situation suddenly changed.
“Chief? Iss Dacter Latte wit’ a ess at the end an’ ’e wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson. Whattya wan’ me to do?”
Dr. Lattes was the chief of the commissioner’s cabinet, nicknamed Lattes e Mieles because he was unctuous, obsequious, and perfectly capable of smiling affectionately while twisting the knife in your back.
“Carissimo! Dear, dear Montalbano, how are you? And the family?”
“We’re all fine, thanks.”
“I wanted to tell you, on the commissioner’s behalf, that you’re going to have to handle this Piccolo murder case yourself. It seems to me a pretty routine case, after all, no?”
Depending on your perspective. For the murder victim Gerlando Piccolo, to take one example, you couldn’t exactly define the case in those terms.
“Highly routine, doctor. A routine robbery that turned into a routine murder.”
“Quite right! That’s exactly what I meant.”
“Excuse me for being so bold as to . . .”
Montalbano congratulated himself. This was precisely the right tone to use to get Lattes to talk.
“Go ahead and be as bold as you like, my friend.”
“Why can’t Inspector Gribaudo handle the case anymore?”
Lattes lowered his voice to a circumspect whisper.
“Forgive me for prying, but ‘distracted’ from what?”
“From the Laguardia case,” Dr. Lattes sighed, hanging up.
Alessia Laguardia, a good-looking, discreet woman of thirty, plied her trade in Montelusa at the highest levels, paying house calls or receiving clients in her secluded house built up against a Greek temple, illegally of course, with a view of the “great African sea,” as Pirandello, who was from the area, once called it. In this same house, a week earlier, Alessia had been found dead, with her throat slashed and some sixty stab wounds. Up to that point it could be considered a routine murder, to use Dr. Lattes’s terminology. But then police found a notebook that the killer had looked for in vain, in which were kept, in perfect order—it was said—the ever-so-secret telephone numbers and names of some of the most prominent male inhabitants of Montelusa and its province: politicians, businessmen, professors, magistrates, and even, apparently, a monsignor with a reputation for sainthood. The sort of thing over which you could get your hide thrashed, if you didn’t proceed with extreme caution. And apparently His Honor the commissioner wanted to keep his hide intact.
“Fazio! Galluzzo!”
They both came running.
“I just got a call from Lattes. We have to handle the Piccolo murder case ourselves.”
Fazio made a gesture of contentment; Galluzzo sighed and said:
“That’s a relief!”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the chief of the Flying Squad got off on the wrong foot with Grazia. That’s all the poor kid needs, is to be pursued by a rabid dog like Gribaudo,” Galluzzo concluded.
“All right, then, listen up . . . Jesus Christ!”
Fazio and Galluzzo both gave a start at the sudden, loud curse.
“Would somebody please do me the favor of telling me where the fuck Mimì has disappeared to? The guy hasn’t shown up all day! Do you two have any news of him?”
“No,” the two said in unison.
“Catarella!”
Catarella arrived like a rocket, miscalculated the turn he had to make to come through the doorway, and very nearly broke his nose against the jamb. He was shaken.